When I was a child longing for snow, I would pretend that frost was a thin dusting of the white stuff. Now I see frost for what it is — a frozen exhalation, a definitive end to fall. But I am still amazed by the transformation of water into ice, still dazzled by its ordinary beauty.
It may be December, but November weather is upon us. Not too late to think about these lines from Maurice Sendak’s charming poem “Chicken Soup with Rice”:
“In November’s gusty gale, I will flop my flippy tale.
I’ll spout hot soup, I’ll be a whale.
Spouting once, spouting twice, spouting chicken soup with rice.”
Today I hear the wind chimes clattering; they are the treble notes above the bass roar that is the wind. There is such commotion outside that it’s hard to think about leaving the house.
I would rather think about reading “Chicken Soup with Rice” to the girls when they were young, their scent warm from the bath, their footed p.j.s on, each of them clamoring for “their month.”
That’s what will keep me warm when I head outside.
Our youngest daughter, Celia, was born 16 years ago today, and by preschool she was already exhibiting a sense of style, a certain flair. She did not inherit these traits; they are her own through and through.
Celia loves to shop — and I shop as little as possible. In the last year we have reached a tentative truce. She shops with friends and easily doubles or triples the amount of time I spend in stores. But sometimes we shop together. And then the fun begins.
“Oh no, Mom,” she says when she sees me eying something for myself. “Why do you always pick out the most shapeless dress?” Sometimes her only comment is a single arched eyebrow. I am relearning through Celia to put the fun back in fashion.
A youngest daughter is a link to the future, a push to the present. She is a sweet reminder of youth.
Happy birthday, Celia!
A holiday is like a wave; it races up from afar, engulfs and buoys us, then retreats. When family is scattered, traveling is the best way to stay close. So we traveled, and we celebrated, together. Now the wave has receded. We are all home.
But we have the memories of being together. The yellow building on the right is where we went for lunch on Saturday, just the five of us, sitting at a tiny table meant for four in a cramped place that accommodates 30 at the very most. It reminded me of our dinner table on a good night: the inside jokes, the rolling of eyes, the togetherness. I miss it already.
Suzanne lends me the book Refuge by Terry Tempest Williams to read this weekend. I am drawn into William’s tale of grief and renewal and into her landscape of Utah and the Great Salt Lake.
Reading this book, especially these lines, leads me back to my own thoughts of home and land:
“A blank spot on the map is an invitation to encounter the natural world, where one’s character will be shaped by the landscape. … The landscapes we know and return to become places of solace. We are drawn to them because of the stories they tell, because of the memories they hold, or simply because of the sheer beauty that calls us back again and again.”
I don’t remember exactly when I first heard this day described as Black Friday, but it couldn’t have been more than 10 years ago. Since then the commercial has steadily encroached on the celebratory to the point where sales start only a couple of hours after the dishes are dried and the leftovers put away.
Don’t get me wrong: I like bargains. And this day has always been the traditional start of the Christmas season. But the marketplace rules us so much anyway that I resent its claiming any more turf.
So when others were out scoring bargains I was sleeping. And now that the day is more than half over I’m just writing a post.
It’s a freaky Friday.
We’ve never been a family that goes around the table and says what each is thankful for. But if we were, I would say today that I am thankful to have all these people I love under one roof: my parents and husband and children, my brother and sister, my nieces. A few people are missing, but all in all a good turnout.
So pass the turkey and the stuffing and the pumpkin pie. Family is the bounty that blesses us best.
Like everything else, cooking has its seasons. Fall is the time for hearty soups and stews, for roasts and root vegetables and, of course, for pie. I’ve never been too interested in the fillings; for me, the point of the pie is the crust.
I use Crisco. No butter. No margarine. And when in doubt, I use more Crisco. I sift two cups of flour with one teaspoon of salt, then cut in three-fourths cup (or slightly more) of Crisco. Once that’s blended into a pebbly mixture, I add six to eight tablespoons of ice-cold water and lightly stir (just until blended) with a fork.
At this point I barely touch the stuff — I just quickly turn it out onto a floured board, roll, shape and slide into the pie pan. The more I fiddle with it, the tougher it gets.
Pie crust, like so many things in life, is best approached with a full heart and a light hand.
Just as we gravitate to candidates or causes because we already know and like what they have to offer us, so too do we choose books because we expect them to reflect a world view — or a hunch — we already have.
And so it is with The Shallows by Nicholas Carr. I remember reading a review of this book when it came out a few months ago and wanting to buy it immediately. But I forgot the title and the author. This is a telling fact. Because the subtitle of the book is What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains.
I was hoping to find in this book an explanation for why it seems more difficult for me to concentrate, why I interrupt my reading or writing constantly throughout the day to check e-mail or Google a word. And I’m finding that and so much more.
“Our use of the Internet involves many paradoxes, but the one that promises to have the greatest long-term influence over how we think is this one: the Net seizes our attention only to scatter it.” Carr cites brain studies and other research to support his claims. He provides an intellectual history of the reading brain. And he reaches this conclusion: “The mind of the experienced book reader is a calm mind, not a buzzing one.”
So it may be that I chose this book because I knew it would support a theory about the world I already have. But even so, this once-calm but now-buzzing brain thinks Carr is onto something.
The most poetic of weathers has visited us this morning, the kiss of cloud on earth, that which comes in on little cat feet (as in the short, oft-anthologized poem by Carl Sandburg) — I’m talking fog, of course.
No fun to drive in but so nice to wake up to, fog makes the real world go away. It softens the edges of landscapes, blurs them, smudges them deftly into each other. It’s funny how I can remember foggy weather that happened decades ago: an entire week of mild misty early winter days in Chicago. A hike in the Rockies when I thought we’d lost our way. The glorious summer on a mountaintop in Arkansas, when we were often unable to “come down the mountain” because we were totally socked in by the stuff.
A light fog is fine walking weather. Not so thick as to obscure the path ahead, but soft enough to embrace it.