For those who have been on a cruise before, you probably remember being assigned to a particular time and table for dinner. You may have wondered (depending on your personality) whether you had been one of the lucky couples to get a table for two, or whether you’d have to put your chummy face on and eat at the same table as 2-8 other strangers. We’ve taken 2 cruises (1 to Alaska, 1 to the Caribbean), and on both, the lavish dinners lost their appeal after a night or 2, and we soon preferred to nab dinner from the sushi carts or the pizza buffets on board. However, it’s hard to pass up the curiosity of seeing who your dining mates might be, or the notion of a meal with 4 actual courses. Lobster risotto? Crème brulee? Although the idea of it usually ends of being more elegant than the actual mass-meal that’s dished out by the hundreds, it just seems like something one has to do once or twice on board.
A week before Esposo and I were going to run off and take our marriage vows at an as-yet-to-be-determined time and places in Las Vegas, we took a short-notice cruise to Grand Turk and the Bahamas. I guess you could call it a honeymoon, though I prefer to think of it as a pre-moon. The first night we were getting our bearings, but we did find out that we were assigned to a dinner table with 3 other couples. It went by in a blur of very small talk and distraction, but by the second night, we had a better idea of the arrangement.
The first couple was from Georgia—the type that drives everyone who isn’t like them right up the wall. Bragging about their 100 acres of land, rabidly conservative, fake-baked, the wife dripping with gold and diamonds. They, predictably, immediately chose the best spot of the table for themselves—the window seats. The 2nd couple stayed well away from the 1st, and being savvy about these things, quickly sat at the places furthest away from them—the 2 aisle seats. Esposo and I sat down next to them, with 2 empty seats spacing us from the GA couple. Finally, the 4th couple arrived—late, carefree, laughing—and sat down with only a barely-perceptible moment’s hesitation in the two remaining spots.
The GA couple did not act intimate with each other at all. Instead, they were entirely concerned with trying to engage the rest of us with fake smiles, and garner adoration with their tales of other cruises, their land, their SUV, their golf, their well-oiled view of the world. I couldn’t help but inwardly chuckle at how easy it is to be a big fish in a small pond, and I whispered about the wife’s over-the-top ring to Esposo. After Esposo glanced at it, she hid it under the table for the rest of the meal.
The 2nd couple was from Kansas City, had married late in life, and had no children. Insular and shy, they were quiet and mild-mannered. I liked them immediately, and found the husband particularly entertaining, as he regaled Esposo and me with tales of his former travels. Although his wife had certainly heard the tales before, she listened with rapt attention and unquestioning worship in her eyes. When we told them that we were about to get married, they shared their own story of their courthouse marriage with us. Apparently, after they took their vows, a young county clerk had run up to them, shaken their hands, and exclaimed, “I think it’s great that people of your age can still find love and get married!” The wife was all of in her late-30’s, the husband about 50. The husband joked, “My goodness kid, what do you mean? Do you think it’s all over at age 22 if you haven’t found someone yet?!” These two odd characters had found a refuge in the other, and obviously preferred to stay in it as much as possible.
The remaining couple was somewhere in the middle—literally and figuratively—of the obnoxious ostentation of the 1st and the shrinking exclusiveness of the 2nd. They were originally from Mexico, lived in LA now and had a whopping 4 daughters at home for the week alone, all of whom were teenagers. Although they had a few stray grays in their hair, their demeanor was youthful and refreshingly laidback. I suppose having 4 daughters would have to mellow a person, as a sheer coping/survival mechanism. The husband did not speak perfect English, and had a wrinkled, suntanned face that was aged beyond his years, with teeth that were charmingly imperfect and brown, but he was quick to give radiant smiles and laughs. The wife was gregarious and well-poised to keep the GA couple occupied while the rest of chatted in peace. Whereas the 1st couple seemed mistrusting and paranoid and the 2nd couple reserved, this 3rd couple seemed generous and self-assured with each other and others.
The entire dinner remains a fascination in my mind. I tend to get so engrossed in observing others that I always forget to wonder how others might be observing me in turn. Yet, here Esposo and I were—two people who had not planned on getting married, to each other or anyone else, who had only in the past several months had a major change of heart about marriage and decided to make the commitment, take the plunge (and we’re glad we did)—amongst 3 other couples much more experienced at marriage, all of whom couldn’t have been more different from each other. I couldn’t help but wonder which couple our love and relationship might resemble down the road. Now, just a bit over 2 years later, I think about how our relationship has transformed since then, so that we probably will never be like any of them. Yet, I think of each relationship as an option on that "set menu" the ship's chefs put together each night, a possible choice set before us within the confines of the purely circumstantial.
Like the cruise menus, love and marriages have many courses. If we remain lingering too long over one course, our relationship might starve, so we must always make room for change. Sometimes there is choice as to what we might order. Other times, the menu is a set of options, none of which might be appealing to us.
Sometimes, you can hit the sushi cart or pizza buffet, and refuse to keep sitting at the more conventional table that’s been assigned to you, where the dishes are served by the hundreds.
If this is totally corny…I’ve succeeded in writing a good Valentine’s Day note :)
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
New Resolve
Well, a new decade does seem to call for a reaching into the depths and finding new personal resolve.
As I was doing yoga to my favorite kundalini DVD on the morning of New Year's Day (what better way to start off the new year?), I thought about how yoga teaches self-compassion as well as broad compassion for all living things. And it makes perfect sense--if you cannot be compassionate towards yourself, how can you really be compassionate to others?
Therefore, I've decided that all new year's resolutions must be made out of compassion--to self and others. Too often we overlook being compassionate to ourselves. Too often our goals and resolutions are atonements or self-punishments inflicted out of guilt or obligation.
Wouldn't commitments to exercise, diet, health, saving more money, working harder--whatever--have a better chance of actualization if they were made out of love and compassion to ourselves, not out of a sense of "should" or "have to?"
This year, I've resolved to be kinder to myself by focusing more on myself than others. I've resolved to let go of the guilt and pressure I so easily allow others to lay upon me. I've resolved to be better at saying "no" to people. I've resolved to turn my sights inward for awhile, and focus more on self, home, and family. To develop a more clear path and to not be so paralyzed by fear and the "what ifs" surrounding my son's life. I've resolved to be much more courageous than I have been, and to meet my obstacles instead of trying to avoid them. I've resolved to take better care of myself--to get that tooth fixed, to get that eye exam, to get that other pesky health problem treated the right way.
In short, it's time to focus on me and make sure my own needs, and those of my immediate family, are taken care of.
As I was doing yoga to my favorite kundalini DVD on the morning of New Year's Day (what better way to start off the new year?), I thought about how yoga teaches self-compassion as well as broad compassion for all living things. And it makes perfect sense--if you cannot be compassionate towards yourself, how can you really be compassionate to others?
Therefore, I've decided that all new year's resolutions must be made out of compassion--to self and others. Too often we overlook being compassionate to ourselves. Too often our goals and resolutions are atonements or self-punishments inflicted out of guilt or obligation.
Wouldn't commitments to exercise, diet, health, saving more money, working harder--whatever--have a better chance of actualization if they were made out of love and compassion to ourselves, not out of a sense of "should" or "have to?"
This year, I've resolved to be kinder to myself by focusing more on myself than others. I've resolved to let go of the guilt and pressure I so easily allow others to lay upon me. I've resolved to be better at saying "no" to people. I've resolved to turn my sights inward for awhile, and focus more on self, home, and family. To develop a more clear path and to not be so paralyzed by fear and the "what ifs" surrounding my son's life. I've resolved to be much more courageous than I have been, and to meet my obstacles instead of trying to avoid them. I've resolved to take better care of myself--to get that tooth fixed, to get that eye exam, to get that other pesky health problem treated the right way.
In short, it's time to focus on me and make sure my own needs, and those of my immediate family, are taken care of.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
FilmFestivus: Movies for the Rest of Us
Aka, Criticizing the Critics
I had a wonderful, warm, elderly, well-respected, much-journeyed South Asian history professor who used to say "thank God the world isn't really like what the economists think it's like."
I would also like to thank goodness that movies aren't really what the critics say they are. It does me in every time--a movie intrigues me, so I read reviews for a better understanding of it. For a long time, it wasn't a problem--I mostly agreed with the critics, and knowing plots and spoilers beforehand only enhanced my understanding of the film versus detracting from it.
However, for about the past 2 years or so, I've been astounded by the mediocrity, cynicism, and sycophantism I see in many reviews. I expect the professionals to help me decide whether I want to see a given movie--but I need to cease the practice, at least until after I've seen the film. Yes, I am breaking with the critics until further notice.
I can pinpoint the time that I started disagreeing with mainstream reviews: it was in 2006, when The Illusionist and The Prestige both came out at the same time. Two movies about magicians, both amazing and memorable films. I daresay The Prestige holds up a little better on subsequent viewings, yet The Illusionist got the lion's share of accolades (Paul Giamatti and Ed Norton being more of the "it" actors at the time than Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman, who were more of the new kids on the block). Not to mention, The Prestige is based on an adult English fantasy/sci-fi novel, which made it more prone to niche film than the universal love story of The Illusionist.
The same year, Lady in the Water came out. Unique and ethereal, yet skewered in near totality by film critics. It was not a coincidence that M. Night Shyamalan, darling child who also did Sixth Sense, fell out of good favor with critics after not only getting on Disney's bad side over the film, but blatantly poking fun at them in Lady in the Water.
Unfortunately, Shyamalan has not been able to work his way back into their good graces yet. His latest US film, The Happening, did not receive many reviewers' blessings. Yet, being a Shyamalan fan, I saw The Happening with an open mind and was thoroughly chilled and thrilled by the possibility of eco-terror (not those who spraypaint SUVs mind you--no, this movie is about Mother Nature herself using her army of foliage to drive humankind to mass suicide). The movie struck a fear nerve in me more than most traditional ghost-and-slash horror movies can. Horror is all about finding new possibilities and avenues of fear--and the very timely The Happening, released in the middle of global climate change debate, certainly makes on think about the full range and wrath of environmental rebellion.
2007 was a rather unremarkable year for movies (with Juno garnering the bulk of praise--while a reasonably good movie, it is telling that no others stand out from that year), so fast-forward to 2008, the year of Slumdog Millionaire. I wasn't in a hurry to see it, knowing I would probably find it a turn-off, but you would've thought its cinematic mastery was on par with Citizen Kane according to the reviews. Yet, when I finally saw it, my worst fears about it came true--it was just another movie juxtaposing the immense poverty of India's slums with the fabulous wealth of the nouveau riche there...it was horrifically graphic, and showed the poor as brutish, brutal people prone to criminalism.
Now up to the present--2009 releases. We saw 2 movies based on sheer acclaim--Where the Wild Things Are and Paranormal Activity. Both soul-crushingly boring. In fact, I was incredulous that the movie that got lower marks than the previous two, Julie Julia, turned out to be my favorite in-theater film of the year. It is still hard to understand the unconvincing criticism of Julie Julia--how could anyone fail to be won over by Julia Child's beautiful success story? Fail to empathize with Julie's cubicle angst and quarter-life crisis?
Let's not forget the candy-colored nightmare that was Up. I mean, really--has no one seen the Czech movie Autumn Spring that deals with the problems of aging, and involves an elderly man flying away in a hot air balloon for one last adventure?! Up was Pixar's ingration to its new owner, Disney, in order to atone for its more original, early movies like Monsters, Inc. Unfortunately, Up had all the tilt-a-whirl sickeningly feel that screams "Disney," complete with the obligatory slams on diversity and contemporary society. Existing in a vacuum as much as any Disney film (did the old man not have any friends, family, social interaction, etc?!--the movie led you to believe this man lived a completely solitary existence, with the young boy conveniently walking in to his wide-open life), it screeched over those heart strings in unabashedly maudlin manipulation as only Disney can. Up was not even tailored towards children--its ridiculously false nostalgia was obviously subtly aimed at the parents of the poor tykes who got dragged along to it. Yet Up is hailed by most critics as one of the best, if not the best, movies of the year. Why? Because it is safe...no reviewer risk-taking needed.
I had been waiting for months to see Nine (which was released 2 days ago), yet our plans to see it yesterday were nearly derailed--not by the falling snow, but by poor reviews. We almost followed the herd to see Avatar instead, or worried that maybe we'd be more chic to see Sherlock Holmes. But, forming a new FilmFestivus resolution (see below), we stuck to our guns and saw Nine. Thank God--the critics were once again wrong, (although I must admit, even by the comments of the everyday moviegoer, we who liked Nine are still in the minority).
The old ladies tittering next to us complained ceaselessly about all the cigarette smoking (the movie took place in Rome in the mid-60's people!!!!), sex, and lingerie in the film, almost earning a seat-kicking from Esposo and me. Yet we loved it--it was over-the-top, outrageous, and utterly moving and honest and captured some interesting social mores of the time. The comments of the critics, once again, were so off-base that I wondered to myself about a few of the writers, "have these people lived at all?"
What can be said about those who critique for a living? After all, there is a fine line between critique and criticism, easily crossed when it's all too easy to leave the vision and creative process to others. Why is it so easy to descend into cynicism? My tentative hypothesis is that some critics are too timid to be honest with their own life experiences. Maybe they are so used to watching other people's lives on screen that they do not remember to summon their own. Maybe critics in general (not just of movies) are too comfortable with and accustomed to watching others pour their hearts, minds, and labor into works.
And with this, I declare the start of my own personal FilmFestivus: Movies for the Rest of Us.
I had a wonderful, warm, elderly, well-respected, much-journeyed South Asian history professor who used to say "thank God the world isn't really like what the economists think it's like."
I would also like to thank goodness that movies aren't really what the critics say they are. It does me in every time--a movie intrigues me, so I read reviews for a better understanding of it. For a long time, it wasn't a problem--I mostly agreed with the critics, and knowing plots and spoilers beforehand only enhanced my understanding of the film versus detracting from it.
However, for about the past 2 years or so, I've been astounded by the mediocrity, cynicism, and sycophantism I see in many reviews. I expect the professionals to help me decide whether I want to see a given movie--but I need to cease the practice, at least until after I've seen the film. Yes, I am breaking with the critics until further notice.
I can pinpoint the time that I started disagreeing with mainstream reviews: it was in 2006, when The Illusionist and The Prestige both came out at the same time. Two movies about magicians, both amazing and memorable films. I daresay The Prestige holds up a little better on subsequent viewings, yet The Illusionist got the lion's share of accolades (Paul Giamatti and Ed Norton being more of the "it" actors at the time than Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman, who were more of the new kids on the block). Not to mention, The Prestige is based on an adult English fantasy/sci-fi novel, which made it more prone to niche film than the universal love story of The Illusionist.
The same year, Lady in the Water came out. Unique and ethereal, yet skewered in near totality by film critics. It was not a coincidence that M. Night Shyamalan, darling child who also did Sixth Sense, fell out of good favor with critics after not only getting on Disney's bad side over the film, but blatantly poking fun at them in Lady in the Water.
Unfortunately, Shyamalan has not been able to work his way back into their good graces yet. His latest US film, The Happening, did not receive many reviewers' blessings. Yet, being a Shyamalan fan, I saw The Happening with an open mind and was thoroughly chilled and thrilled by the possibility of eco-terror (not those who spraypaint SUVs mind you--no, this movie is about Mother Nature herself using her army of foliage to drive humankind to mass suicide). The movie struck a fear nerve in me more than most traditional ghost-and-slash horror movies can. Horror is all about finding new possibilities and avenues of fear--and the very timely The Happening, released in the middle of global climate change debate, certainly makes on think about the full range and wrath of environmental rebellion.
2007 was a rather unremarkable year for movies (with Juno garnering the bulk of praise--while a reasonably good movie, it is telling that no others stand out from that year), so fast-forward to 2008, the year of Slumdog Millionaire. I wasn't in a hurry to see it, knowing I would probably find it a turn-off, but you would've thought its cinematic mastery was on par with Citizen Kane according to the reviews. Yet, when I finally saw it, my worst fears about it came true--it was just another movie juxtaposing the immense poverty of India's slums with the fabulous wealth of the nouveau riche there...it was horrifically graphic, and showed the poor as brutish, brutal people prone to criminalism.
Now up to the present--2009 releases. We saw 2 movies based on sheer acclaim--Where the Wild Things Are and Paranormal Activity. Both soul-crushingly boring. In fact, I was incredulous that the movie that got lower marks than the previous two, Julie Julia, turned out to be my favorite in-theater film of the year. It is still hard to understand the unconvincing criticism of Julie Julia--how could anyone fail to be won over by Julia Child's beautiful success story? Fail to empathize with Julie's cubicle angst and quarter-life crisis?
Let's not forget the candy-colored nightmare that was Up. I mean, really--has no one seen the Czech movie Autumn Spring that deals with the problems of aging, and involves an elderly man flying away in a hot air balloon for one last adventure?! Up was Pixar's ingration to its new owner, Disney, in order to atone for its more original, early movies like Monsters, Inc. Unfortunately, Up had all the tilt-a-whirl sickeningly feel that screams "Disney," complete with the obligatory slams on diversity and contemporary society. Existing in a vacuum as much as any Disney film (did the old man not have any friends, family, social interaction, etc?!--the movie led you to believe this man lived a completely solitary existence, with the young boy conveniently walking in to his wide-open life), it screeched over those heart strings in unabashedly maudlin manipulation as only Disney can. Up was not even tailored towards children--its ridiculously false nostalgia was obviously subtly aimed at the parents of the poor tykes who got dragged along to it. Yet Up is hailed by most critics as one of the best, if not the best, movies of the year. Why? Because it is safe...no reviewer risk-taking needed.
I had been waiting for months to see Nine (which was released 2 days ago), yet our plans to see it yesterday were nearly derailed--not by the falling snow, but by poor reviews. We almost followed the herd to see Avatar instead, or worried that maybe we'd be more chic to see Sherlock Holmes. But, forming a new FilmFestivus resolution (see below), we stuck to our guns and saw Nine. Thank God--the critics were once again wrong, (although I must admit, even by the comments of the everyday moviegoer, we who liked Nine are still in the minority).
The old ladies tittering next to us complained ceaselessly about all the cigarette smoking (the movie took place in Rome in the mid-60's people!!!!), sex, and lingerie in the film, almost earning a seat-kicking from Esposo and me. Yet we loved it--it was over-the-top, outrageous, and utterly moving and honest and captured some interesting social mores of the time. The comments of the critics, once again, were so off-base that I wondered to myself about a few of the writers, "have these people lived at all?"
What can be said about those who critique for a living? After all, there is a fine line between critique and criticism, easily crossed when it's all too easy to leave the vision and creative process to others. Why is it so easy to descend into cynicism? My tentative hypothesis is that some critics are too timid to be honest with their own life experiences. Maybe they are so used to watching other people's lives on screen that they do not remember to summon their own. Maybe critics in general (not just of movies) are too comfortable with and accustomed to watching others pour their hearts, minds, and labor into works.
And with this, I declare the start of my own personal FilmFestivus: Movies for the Rest of Us.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Beautiful Disaster: Don Quixote's Thanksgiving
The nightmare before Christmas isn't Halloween afterall--it's Thanksgiving!
Thanksgiving has always been my least favorite holiday. My memories of it are not exactly radiant--a cold, usually gray time of year in WI, but usually before the magical glow of first snow. As a child, I inwardly grumbled about how vastly inferior a holiday Thanksgiving was compared to the Christmas around the corner due to the glaring absence of presents. In my family, Thanksgiving was a tedious, quiet holiday.
Once I left home for college, I started contriving all sorts of ways to stop celebrating Thanksgiving with my family. I would see them in a month, anyway, and I resented aunts and uncles who came to holidays to get their family card punched and fall into silence for the rest of the year.
I started out by being overseas, and ultimately evolved into the tradition of celebrating the holidays with friends. In my mind, this made the event about people who wanted to be together, not who were obligated to be together.
Then, last year something happened: my son was due to have his second open-heart surgery the day before Thanksgiving, and we were to spend the holiday in the incredibly difficult immediate recovery period in the pediatric intensive care unit.
That event changed everything...I decided that never again would I feel sorry for myself on a holiday. I wouldn't take them, or any day, for granted anymore...if we were merely spending them outside the hospital, that was more than enough. And this year, an exceptional number of heart families I know were spending Thanksgiving in the hospital, some in dire circumstances, and I wondered how we could be so fortunate.
This year, I spent most of November reflecting on all there is in my life to be thankful for. It felt good--in fact, I can't recall a better November. But then, the day itself actually arrived, and I found myself and my son sick and running to the airport first thing in the morning on two hours of sleep. I almost got into an accident, my husband went out of state to visit his family, my son went to his grandparents' house, and my host ended up in the ER with her daughter...things were strained with my best friend, who'd just arrived from DC, and there was a meltdown of conflicting schedules and exhaustion. After 8 hours of driving, I ended up having to return home and completely missed out on Thanksgiving dinner.
I realized that I had measured having a "normal" Thanksgiving this year by whether we would be in the hospital or not. I thought I was returning to "normalcy," but how short memory is! There was never any normalcy to the holidays--not the ones I experienced anyway. Normalcy is actually what is abnormal for me.
Time and time again, I try to be something I'm not, live a life that is not mine, without remembering that I have been called to live an extraordinary experience. Why do I sometimes continue to try to reject was God has given me, and trade it for the mundane?
The holidays are the perfect time to allow oneself to be distracted from the prize by an iconic Rockwellian image, which makes us wish for what we think we should have versus the greater experience that God has given us.
This year, Thanksgiving was good preparatory training for Christmas. My eyes are set back on the goal, and my armor has been reinforced against drama.
What I can take away from this November, though, is the practice of lasting gratitude. In the coming years, it won't matter at all how we celebrate the actual day, because that's not that point of the holiday anyway. It is, afterall, just a gateway holiday to the coming winter celebrations.
Thanksgiving has always been my least favorite holiday. My memories of it are not exactly radiant--a cold, usually gray time of year in WI, but usually before the magical glow of first snow. As a child, I inwardly grumbled about how vastly inferior a holiday Thanksgiving was compared to the Christmas around the corner due to the glaring absence of presents. In my family, Thanksgiving was a tedious, quiet holiday.
Once I left home for college, I started contriving all sorts of ways to stop celebrating Thanksgiving with my family. I would see them in a month, anyway, and I resented aunts and uncles who came to holidays to get their family card punched and fall into silence for the rest of the year.
I started out by being overseas, and ultimately evolved into the tradition of celebrating the holidays with friends. In my mind, this made the event about people who wanted to be together, not who were obligated to be together.
Then, last year something happened: my son was due to have his second open-heart surgery the day before Thanksgiving, and we were to spend the holiday in the incredibly difficult immediate recovery period in the pediatric intensive care unit.
That event changed everything...I decided that never again would I feel sorry for myself on a holiday. I wouldn't take them, or any day, for granted anymore...if we were merely spending them outside the hospital, that was more than enough. And this year, an exceptional number of heart families I know were spending Thanksgiving in the hospital, some in dire circumstances, and I wondered how we could be so fortunate.
This year, I spent most of November reflecting on all there is in my life to be thankful for. It felt good--in fact, I can't recall a better November. But then, the day itself actually arrived, and I found myself and my son sick and running to the airport first thing in the morning on two hours of sleep. I almost got into an accident, my husband went out of state to visit his family, my son went to his grandparents' house, and my host ended up in the ER with her daughter...things were strained with my best friend, who'd just arrived from DC, and there was a meltdown of conflicting schedules and exhaustion. After 8 hours of driving, I ended up having to return home and completely missed out on Thanksgiving dinner.
I realized that I had measured having a "normal" Thanksgiving this year by whether we would be in the hospital or not. I thought I was returning to "normalcy," but how short memory is! There was never any normalcy to the holidays--not the ones I experienced anyway. Normalcy is actually what is abnormal for me.
Time and time again, I try to be something I'm not, live a life that is not mine, without remembering that I have been called to live an extraordinary experience. Why do I sometimes continue to try to reject was God has given me, and trade it for the mundane?
The holidays are the perfect time to allow oneself to be distracted from the prize by an iconic Rockwellian image, which makes us wish for what we think we should have versus the greater experience that God has given us.
This year, Thanksgiving was good preparatory training for Christmas. My eyes are set back on the goal, and my armor has been reinforced against drama.
What I can take away from this November, though, is the practice of lasting gratitude. In the coming years, it won't matter at all how we celebrate the actual day, because that's not that point of the holiday anyway. It is, afterall, just a gateway holiday to the coming winter celebrations.
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Perfect Balance, the Golden Mean
A strange story, how Esposo and I ran into each other, and it all began with Lake Michigan's left bank.
Before we ever met, the stage was set when we were children.
Esposo is from a neighboring state, but his uncle also happened to marry a Milwaukee girl and the pair moved to Port Washington--a small city half an hour up the lakeshore from the big city. When Esposo was a child, his parents would bring him on family vacations from Iowa to play on the beaches adjacent to Port Washington.
My father has roots in Port Washington, and I was also taken on weekend trips to play on these beaches.
Esposo and I have pictures, playing as children with our respective families, on the exact same beaches--him a few years older than me and trailing his dad as they tight-roped the places where wave meets sand, me a 4 year old in a green and yellow swimsuit building a sand castle.
We played on the same beaches, 20 years before Esposo would be offered his choice of 2 job locations and choose Milwaukee based on his childhood memories of the place and his uncle's residence here, and we would meet and fall in love.
Sometimes I like to imagine that my 4 year old self looked a bit up the beach and asked the boy Esposo to build sandcastles with me.
Instead, I did 20 years later.
Before we ever met, the stage was set when we were children.
Esposo is from a neighboring state, but his uncle also happened to marry a Milwaukee girl and the pair moved to Port Washington--a small city half an hour up the lakeshore from the big city. When Esposo was a child, his parents would bring him on family vacations from Iowa to play on the beaches adjacent to Port Washington.
My father has roots in Port Washington, and I was also taken on weekend trips to play on these beaches.
Esposo and I have pictures, playing as children with our respective families, on the exact same beaches--him a few years older than me and trailing his dad as they tight-roped the places where wave meets sand, me a 4 year old in a green and yellow swimsuit building a sand castle.
We played on the same beaches, 20 years before Esposo would be offered his choice of 2 job locations and choose Milwaukee based on his childhood memories of the place and his uncle's residence here, and we would meet and fall in love.
Sometimes I like to imagine that my 4 year old self looked a bit up the beach and asked the boy Esposo to build sandcastles with me.
Instead, I did 20 years later.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
A Stretch of Shoreline
Walking on the Lake Michigan shoreline on a Sunday morning
I met a young man dressed in black
with a pale white face like a mask
a mime either pretending sorrow, or unable to pretend joy anymore.
He looked away, shrugged to the side, cast his glance downward.
Taking a piece of driftwood, he scratched words into the sand
And disappeared where forest met beach.
Approaching his words, I read
“No one cares about me” and
“I’m all alone.”
As the waves at my feet licked his words away
And swallowed them into quiet eternity,
I desperately scanned the edge of forest
But I was alone
and powerless to salvage his shipwrecked words.
I met a young man dressed in black
with a pale white face like a mask
a mime either pretending sorrow, or unable to pretend joy anymore.
He looked away, shrugged to the side, cast his glance downward.
Taking a piece of driftwood, he scratched words into the sand
And disappeared where forest met beach.
Approaching his words, I read
“No one cares about me” and
“I’m all alone.”
As the waves at my feet licked his words away
And swallowed them into quiet eternity,
I desperately scanned the edge of forest
But I was alone
and powerless to salvage his shipwrecked words.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Is Italian the Lingua Franca of Heaven?!
Aka random food diary post.
Every time I make risotto, I wonder how my Italian ancestors had the patience. Then I marvel at how I (most impatient person in the history of risotto makers) have the patience, and I chalk it up to the fact that there must be something indescribably comforting about standing over a hot stove and stirring.
Although I have other points of origin making up my heritage, I've always felt most connected, by far, to my Italian side. To begin with, they were the branch of my family that I grew up around, that I spent the most time with. I was my great-grandmother's unabashed favorite, and some of my earliest memories are of the aroma of her home-baked Italian cookies (the very same aroma that gives my brain a punch back in time when I walk into Sciortino's Bakery). Italian cuisine is among my favorite, if not my absolute favorite, and Italian language is the most beautiful human sound to my ears. I rent Italian movies just to hear the language--I turn off the subtitles and attempt to understand it as best as I can. Then there's what esposo refers to as my "Italian temperament," which I probably shouldn't say too much about, lest I fall into the realm of stereotypes. Suffice to say, unemotional, dispassionate, stoic type I am not...and I live for the finer things in life, like my loved ones, loads of olive oil, and the beauty of the natural world :)
And, of all the places I'd like to go, Italy has moved to the top of the list. I've always wanted to go there, but I feel the pull more and more. I've already been to the other places my family came from--Ireland and Poland. The closest I've been to Italy is Greece, where my fav cousin lives, which I also long to go back to for the great food and rocky beaches and clear blue water--this time with esposo!
To me, food is very wrapped up one's personal stories--and this is the wrapping Italian cooking has for me. In my last post, I mentioned getting 95% of my recipes (excluding the ones I've come up with on my own, of course) from Eating Well. Well, last night I tried one that falls into the 5% category: A Sanford D'Amato creation. According to my grandmother, our family and D'Amato's family were friends in past generations, both being of Milwaukee's east side/Riverwest Italian American community. However, those days are long gone--most likely due to the Americanization pressures placed on immigrants for most of the 20th century, and let's face it--white flight had something to do with it too.
Mr D'Amato is one of Milwaukee's premier chefs, and is renowned nationally as well. He has 2 very well-respected restaurants that I know of in the city. His recipes have been appearing lately in the Sunday edition of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, but they've been a little too involved for a parent of a 1-yr old toddler. A daring, toddling infant makes having several open pans on the hot stove, and knives of all sorts out on the counter, rather nerve-racking.
Not to mention,, I'm frankly a bit jealous of him--each of his recipes has appeared with a description of his travels in Italy--the bikes along the sun-kissed coast with his wife, the tiny roadside cafes filled with untold cullinary surprises--Mr D'Amato, you're killin' me!
It's obvious D'Amato, like yours truly, enjoys the good things life has to offer--like any good chef worth his salt (pun intended). That much is obvious from merely glancing at his recipes--not just by the ingredients (9 tablespoons olive oil!?!) and structure alone, but by the very technique, the very construction of each dish.
Yesterday, I set out to prove that I too can make one of his recipes. The one I chose was like nothing I'd ever heard of before: Adriatic Shrimp Soup with Chickpeas and Saffron. I mean, seriously--get a load of that recipe! I was so bedazzled by the sound of it that I paid little attention to what the grocery bill might cost...until I started shopping, that is. Quite the expensive pot of soup, but was it worth it? Oh, yes. And 1 bowl plus crusty bread is enough to fill me up--so really, we will be getting about 8 meals out of it.
I have to admit that I cheated a bit. I knew rapini would be hard to find this time of year, but I at least expected to find mustard greens to use as a substitute. No such luck--I ended up having to go with dandelion greens, which turned out to be a fine choice, adding the bitter contrast to the sweet shrimp and savory fennel bulb. I also bought a cheap knock-off of Sambuca, as esposo hates anise (though I love it)--I wasn't about to spend $28 on an entire bottle of the stuff when all we needed was a couple tablespoons. My budget also only allowed for cheaper powdered Spanish saffron as opposed to the golden threads, and to save time I bought canned chickpeas instead of soaking dry ones overnight. As for the dry white wine--it can be hard to find a white wine dry enough for some recipes (without settling for the same old buttery Chardonnays and citrusy Sauvignon Blancs), so I always go with a dry white bordeaux in these situations, and it hasn't disappointed me yet.
Then, what I really splurged on was the shrimp. Being a vegetarian, and only eating seafood once every couple weeks or so, I feel like I can really afford to spend the extra couple bucks on quality, sustainable meats and seafoods. I went to a local place that I know has exceptional seafood, and bought the fresh, shell-on jumbo shrimp (the recipe calling for peeling the shrimp and steeping the exoskeletons in chicken stock to make the broth).
The result was unbelievable.
The soup practically had me speaking Italian. In my heaven, Italian will be the lingua franca...or at least something as beautiful as Italian. I don't think I can spend eternity speaking English, having to say words like "park" and "eat" and "bake."
No, no...English is not the language of angels.
Every time I make risotto, I wonder how my Italian ancestors had the patience. Then I marvel at how I (most impatient person in the history of risotto makers) have the patience, and I chalk it up to the fact that there must be something indescribably comforting about standing over a hot stove and stirring.
Although I have other points of origin making up my heritage, I've always felt most connected, by far, to my Italian side. To begin with, they were the branch of my family that I grew up around, that I spent the most time with. I was my great-grandmother's unabashed favorite, and some of my earliest memories are of the aroma of her home-baked Italian cookies (the very same aroma that gives my brain a punch back in time when I walk into Sciortino's Bakery). Italian cuisine is among my favorite, if not my absolute favorite, and Italian language is the most beautiful human sound to my ears. I rent Italian movies just to hear the language--I turn off the subtitles and attempt to understand it as best as I can. Then there's what esposo refers to as my "Italian temperament," which I probably shouldn't say too much about, lest I fall into the realm of stereotypes. Suffice to say, unemotional, dispassionate, stoic type I am not...and I live for the finer things in life, like my loved ones, loads of olive oil, and the beauty of the natural world :)
And, of all the places I'd like to go, Italy has moved to the top of the list. I've always wanted to go there, but I feel the pull more and more. I've already been to the other places my family came from--Ireland and Poland. The closest I've been to Italy is Greece, where my fav cousin lives, which I also long to go back to for the great food and rocky beaches and clear blue water--this time with esposo!
To me, food is very wrapped up one's personal stories--and this is the wrapping Italian cooking has for me. In my last post, I mentioned getting 95% of my recipes (excluding the ones I've come up with on my own, of course) from Eating Well. Well, last night I tried one that falls into the 5% category: A Sanford D'Amato creation. According to my grandmother, our family and D'Amato's family were friends in past generations, both being of Milwaukee's east side/Riverwest Italian American community. However, those days are long gone--most likely due to the Americanization pressures placed on immigrants for most of the 20th century, and let's face it--white flight had something to do with it too.
Mr D'Amato is one of Milwaukee's premier chefs, and is renowned nationally as well. He has 2 very well-respected restaurants that I know of in the city. His recipes have been appearing lately in the Sunday edition of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, but they've been a little too involved for a parent of a 1-yr old toddler. A daring, toddling infant makes having several open pans on the hot stove, and knives of all sorts out on the counter, rather nerve-racking.
Not to mention,, I'm frankly a bit jealous of him--each of his recipes has appeared with a description of his travels in Italy--the bikes along the sun-kissed coast with his wife, the tiny roadside cafes filled with untold cullinary surprises--Mr D'Amato, you're killin' me!
It's obvious D'Amato, like yours truly, enjoys the good things life has to offer--like any good chef worth his salt (pun intended). That much is obvious from merely glancing at his recipes--not just by the ingredients (9 tablespoons olive oil!?!) and structure alone, but by the very technique, the very construction of each dish.
Yesterday, I set out to prove that I too can make one of his recipes. The one I chose was like nothing I'd ever heard of before: Adriatic Shrimp Soup with Chickpeas and Saffron. I mean, seriously--get a load of that recipe! I was so bedazzled by the sound of it that I paid little attention to what the grocery bill might cost...until I started shopping, that is. Quite the expensive pot of soup, but was it worth it? Oh, yes. And 1 bowl plus crusty bread is enough to fill me up--so really, we will be getting about 8 meals out of it.
I have to admit that I cheated a bit. I knew rapini would be hard to find this time of year, but I at least expected to find mustard greens to use as a substitute. No such luck--I ended up having to go with dandelion greens, which turned out to be a fine choice, adding the bitter contrast to the sweet shrimp and savory fennel bulb. I also bought a cheap knock-off of Sambuca, as esposo hates anise (though I love it)--I wasn't about to spend $28 on an entire bottle of the stuff when all we needed was a couple tablespoons. My budget also only allowed for cheaper powdered Spanish saffron as opposed to the golden threads, and to save time I bought canned chickpeas instead of soaking dry ones overnight. As for the dry white wine--it can be hard to find a white wine dry enough for some recipes (without settling for the same old buttery Chardonnays and citrusy Sauvignon Blancs), so I always go with a dry white bordeaux in these situations, and it hasn't disappointed me yet.
Then, what I really splurged on was the shrimp. Being a vegetarian, and only eating seafood once every couple weeks or so, I feel like I can really afford to spend the extra couple bucks on quality, sustainable meats and seafoods. I went to a local place that I know has exceptional seafood, and bought the fresh, shell-on jumbo shrimp (the recipe calling for peeling the shrimp and steeping the exoskeletons in chicken stock to make the broth).
The result was unbelievable.
The soup practically had me speaking Italian. In my heaven, Italian will be the lingua franca...or at least something as beautiful as Italian. I don't think I can spend eternity speaking English, having to say words like "park" and "eat" and "bake."
No, no...English is not the language of angels.
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