Sushi Feast

Mama Fish Head made sushi last night — from scratch. It was as far as I know her first attempt at crafting this most exotic if foods (in the eyes of most Minnesotans at least). The result was quite simply excellent and delectable. It was deliciously paired with a Kloster Eberbach 2001 Steinberger Reisling which the fellow at Haskell's recommended very enthusiastically. Evidently "2001 was an awesome year in Germany," at least where wines are concerned.

And today, when I got to take a freshly sliced roll of leftovers to work for my lunch, it was difficult to contain myself. I really wanted to stand up in my cubicle and wave my arms in the air crying, "I am feasting upon delectable homemade sushi, you suckers!" But really, what would that have accomplished?

Quieting

I reread Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver and I am still recovering. I know it didn't hit me this hard the last time because until I reached a few pivotal moments I wasn't sure I had read it before. I remember enjoying it but inexplicably unable to keep it and Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich straight. I think this is the first time I've read a book where all the major points of my life have been reimagined and fictionalized. Is the oldest sister experience so universal? The plot was different enough from my life but the emotional experience rang true every time resolving in ways that kept me up until 3a.m. waking my husband with almost silent racking sobs.

This intense experiencing of a book/movie/poetry/play was a regular occurrence until mid-college when body sobbing was no longer cleansing. That's not to say I haven't wracked my body sobbing, but it's been mainly reserved for the death of a loved one and I never feel finished or cleansed. I miss feeling the world around me so completely. I miss the abandon with which I would throw myself into the heartbreaks of the world and my own. I miss that magical sensitive self and wonder if she was a sacrifice to growing-up or if I will see glimpses of her again as I continue to heal from private wounds. Perhaps the latter.

At any rate I think it's time to go into a contemplative ghost period. In casual conversation I've been babbling about things I didn't intend to mention just to fill in the silence my social awkwardness inspires in people. I find when I am saying a whole lot of nothing it's time to listen to silence and let the world pass through me as if I were just an outline. Meanwhile my substance quiets and heals and waits for something meaningful to say.

At the game

The Boy attended his first Sporting Event yesterday. My big little brother's high school baseball team is in the playoffs, and we went to see them play. He got to see his strapping young uncle get a solid base hit, and make a great catch in deep center field. It was a fine example of the sport all around, and they won 2-0, moving a step closer to the State Tournament.

Of course, the real highlight had nothing to do with Sport (or perhaps everything to do with it): the bleachers full of tanned teenaged girls in tank tops screaming my brother's name when he got up to bat. That sort of thing really makes the trip worth it.

Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer

The other day I was flipping through a notebook from college, seeing how many pages I had used up taking notes (not very many). But then I got to reading what notes there were, and inspired by what I read (yeah, I know: by my own class notes) I pulled this book off the shelf and read it over again.

I have read all three of Krakauer's full length books, and this is, without qualification, my favourite. The journey of Chris McCandless fascinated me from the moment I read the book's cover, and he has never entirely left my thoughts since.

For those of you who have not read the book, you should. At the risk of courting a charge of pretension (not that it would be a first) I would say that Into the Wild is an important book. Certainly it was important for me when I first read it, and it held up very well through a second reading.

The book opens with the discovery of a young man's body by moose hunters in Alaska. Krakauer, initially commissioned by Outside magazine and then driven further by his own fascination with the story, traces the journey of this Chris McCandless from his privileged life in suburban Virginia to his lonely death in the Alaskan bush, with as much detail as he can discover of the in-between. It is not a journey you will easily forget.

In the years since I first read it, this book has continued to be active in my mind, and the questions it raised are still there as I search for the answers in my own soul.

Son calls father

My son called me at work today.

Now, given that he is 16 months old, I should probably note that he did technically call me, not by himself. I answered the phone in my cubicle, and my wife said simply: "Your son wants to talk to you."

Apparently what he actually wanted to do was listen to me, and I obliged him, chatting brightly to the expectant silence at the other end of the line. I asked him about his day, what new things he had learned or discovered, whether he had eaten anything. After a few minutes of this my wife came on the other extension. She explained that stretched as tall as he could, reached the phone cord and pull it off the hook onto the floor. This feat accomplished, he held the handset in both hands, looked at my wife eagerly and said "Da?" repeatedly until she dialled me up and put him on the line.

It is hard being away from family all day as I am. It is suddenly that much harder now that he actually misses me when I am absent. It is both touching and devastating, depending on which end of the day I am on.

Ducks in the yard

Spring is really springing this week. Today my wife and son walked down to meet me on my way home from the Job. Free from my cubicle for the rest of the day, a cool breeze on my face and the warm rays of the sun upon my back, it was a very nearly perfect afternoon.

Just a few blocks from our apartment is a house whose yard is a sort of best-effort inner city version of a "wild space" which, to be fair, is a pretty good effort. Most of the yard is taken up with a large multi-tiered pond, ringed with rough blocks of limestone, surrounded by cattails, small trees, and marsh grass.

The house was recently on the market, and the new owners have been there only since last summer sometime, I think. As we walked by this beautiful spring afternoon, a middle-aged woman emerged into the yard carrying a rake and said, loudly and (to me) somewhat disconcertingly: "Okay, ducks, what are going to do now?" Before I had time to wonder why she was thus declaiming, a pair of Mallards flew up out of the pond and went winging off over the interstate just behind the house.

The woman then turned to us conspiratorially and said, "The ducks just won't stay out of my yard."

I just smiled at her. I wanted to say very carefully: "You have a freaking duck pond in you yard. What part of this is surprising or confusing for you?" But I didn't want to seem hostile, or smarter than her.

The boy is too much of me

The Boy takes after me more than I can begin to explain.

Let me just say this for the benefit of those who know me well, then I will attempt to explain:

The Boy twirled today.

That's right, he just started walking yestreday, and tonight he made this beautiful, smooth, controlled and completely random 360º as he strolled along the edge of the coffee table. Wow.

In case you don't know, I twirl. Not so much of late, because life hasn't made me feel so twirly these days, but historically I am known to twirl quite a bit for someone of my age and lifestyle choice. Some have even gone so far as to claim that I flit, the veracity of which I can neither confirm nor deny at this time.

And now my first-born son, who already looks more like his father than can possibly be permitted, is twirling with some of his first steps? It is quite too much to be borne, not just by me his overwhelmed proud papa, but by the world, which did nothing, nothing at all to deserve another creature like me. I have to keep reminding myself: he is his own person. He will have his own things. He will not be another you. I hope this is true. He can look like me, and stuff like that. That's pretty cool. He can have some of my more desirable personality traits; I'm okay with that. But Lord, a twirler? It is too much...

Traci DePree

Well I've done it. I've read not one, but two Christian novels by Traci DePree — a can of peas and dandelions in a jelly jar. If I came upon a third I'd probably read that too. While the writing started out immature, by the second book of the Lake Emily series she had found her voice and rhythm. It was not saccharine like a Chicken Soup story and the deus ex machina was only slightly convenient. The vignettes and plot lines are wholly plausible. While her multiple characters seem to be fixated on avoiding "self-pity" the lack of sex scenes is refreshing and the awkward prayers endearing. I cried healthy cries (a lot), laughed a bit, smiled with comfort and was inspired to tackle the dishes. There's my confession: I read a Christian novel and I liked it.

The Hamlet by William Faulkner

I just finished my first Faulkner novel The Hamlet. I just didn't enjoy it. Between his use of subtlety, euphemism and symbolism I never felt I knew exactly what was going on. I felt like this fluid writing was describing a panorama of culture, scene and plot. But I was looking through a cardboard tube and try as I might could not get the whole picture. Now I am comfortable with the surreal and postmodern, Shakespeare and Austen but I cannot fathom the point Faulkner was trying to make with this book. I'm sure if it were explained to me I would have enjoyed it more.

The Barn at the End of the World by Mary Rose O'Reilly

I truly sank in and savored this book. It explored the author's experience (and my pet interest) of practicing Buddhism as a way to practice Christianity in the barn, monastery or wherever you happen to be. It helped me to quiet my "what next?" brainstorming and listen. It was most satisfying to read of a spiritual journey where the author is not in the end docile. O'Reilly is as feisty and testy when she ends the book as when you meet her, and yet genuine spiritual growth is evident. Something in my questing soul was answered when I read this book.

The Zahir by Paulo Coelho

I have long wanted to read Paulo Coelho and I was not disappointed. At times I felt I was reading a book of magical realism like Nick Bantock. In the end it is a book about the nature of love and the stories we tell to obscure its true meaning. It is written conversationally with the gloss of popular culture and the mists of mysticism. I throughly enjoyed it and will now have to add Kazakhstan to my travel wish list.

Labyrinth by Kate Mosse

I picked up the book hoping for a feminine version of The Da Vinci Code and got much more. Immediately it was apparent this was a more intelligent book with a different, but no less mysterious/mystical, subject matter. Mosse hovered between thriller and literature. There were the thriller plot devices but woven in with real skill and thought to the consequences. Unlike The Da Vinci Code I was not disgusted with the ending, but found I had spent my time pleasantly and picked up something new about the langue d'oc.

Life with Mother by Clarence Day

Life with Mother does not remind me of my grandmother, but I enjoyed it none the less. The essays are similar to those in Life with Father, some making me laugh out loud, however they tend to be more descriptive, longer, and less focused. This unedited feel can be attributed to the fact that some were published posthumously.

The House on the Point, by Benjamin Hoff

Benjamin Hoff, who wrote The Tao of Pooh (which I liked) and The Te of Piglet (which I did not), has set out to rewrite his beloved Hardy Boys. I must begin by saying I have never read a Hardy Boys novel, only a couple of Nancy Drews, so perhaps this book is not meant for me anyway. Actually I enjoyed the story; not having read the original it was based on, The House on the Cliff, I think the reworking worked. However some of the lingo from the 40's and 50's is a bit unnatural to read and clusters around certain scenes rather than organically sprinkled throughout. His lists of items included in various kits are a bit tedious. Another minor annoyance is his tendency toward being pedantic and bemoaning the ills of an unenlightened society (which is why I did not like The Te of Piglet). He simply cannot resist trying to teach us a lesson and includes a 25 page essay on "The Art of Seeing" which I skipped because my @** was twitching. These annoyances oddly enough did not actually detract from the story. They simply highlighted Hoff's inexperience with period fiction.

Jon Nicholson, "A Lil Sump'm Sump'm"

Please regard this album cover.


There are definite impressions made, are there not? You expect a particular sound on this album, based on what you are presented with on this cover. At least I did. I expected, to be quite specific, redneck rap, another Bubba Sparxxx perhaps, white Southern hip-hop from the hills, that sort of thing.

I did not expect, nor was I emotionally prepared for, pop standards. If you are familiar with Michael MacDonald, former Doobie Brother and AT&T shill, you will have a very good idea of the overall sound of this album: jazzy, free-wheeling, with a saxophone on every single track.

That being said, however, the album is pretty enjoyable. Nicholson's lyrics range from quaint to downright cheesy, and it is not my typical first second or fifth choice of musical styles. But the final track, "Grandma" -- with backing vocals by Big & Rich -- is a special treat.

Doing no longer

Since I was pregnant I've been agonizing over something nameless. Even when I escaped the dreaded bout of post-partum depression (I think partly because I was fulfilling one of my true vocations) there was still a struggle muddling my happiness. Reading Parker Palmer's Let Your Life Speak today while my baby slept beside me, I finally had a moment of clarity.

Since Aidan's birth I've been trying to establish goals, guidelines, figuring out reasonable expectations of myself (and my husband). I was constantly tempted to compare myself with my idea of pioneer women as well as getting overwhelmed with interior design ideas. All the while trying to live by affirming beliefs about breastfeeding, attachment parenting, and spiritual/natural living. Essentially my unnamed struggle was between Doing and Being. I'm rebellious by nature and have always resisted labels put on me like dramatic, emotive, perky, muppet-like, a tease etc. What I was blind to were the labels I was creating for myself: strong woman, progressive catholic, musician, actor, feminist. It makes casual conversation less personal, less time-consuming if we can flash those titles into someone else's mind. But as my life changes there are labels I can't deny like wife and stay-at-home mom that don't create an accurate picture of my life in my own mind or anyone else's. This is not an original epiphany, but it is my current experience — the interior work of being right now blows away all those doing labels. When people ask how I'm doing I'm flummoxed because the answer isn't very interesting/telling — I did laundry or dishes (but I'm not a very good housekeeper) — I am doing some singing but that's not going to fill a Christmas card, neither is my husband's job switch from the romance of bookselling to something with more financial security. The struggle has been how to describe our being with a doing vocabulary and it has finally sunk in that I don't have to. I am still gifted and using my gifts but (and this goes beyond getting a paycheck) I can no longer hide behind labels to define my being.

So this year's Christmas card and hopefully my conversation will reflect this revelation. Let me tell you how I am. I am practicing being responsible, honest, intuitive, and graceful in ways that are challenging. I am beginning to align my head with my heart, "my insides with my outsides" (28 Days). I am not cooped up at home, my talents wasting away. I am vibrantly being, using the gifts I have in nameless ways, because they "must be given" (Palmer). I don't need to prove it by writing a mental resume. It is enough to be.

Life With Father by Clarence Day

In preparing for our latest storytime (for grownups) I reread Life with Father by Clarence Day. It must be read as a product of it's day, late Victorian New York, but even so I had to do very little in-my-head editing. The stories were written by the son for the periodical The New Yorker, appearing in the 1930's. As a child visiting my maternal grandparents I would watch the movie of the same title. It was a favorite there because the 'Father' was so like my own grandfather. Almost all of the stories make me smile, several make me chuckle, and my favorites make me laugh out loud and want to read it again.

Whole Child, Whole Parent by Polly Berrien Berends

This is one of those rare books I will buy whenever I see it (it's out of print) because I know I will want to give it to everyone I know. Even though I have yet to finish it I foresee reading it on a regular basis, even semi-annually. It is wise, non-judging, and true true true.

He is so beautiful it breaks my heart

[After working on this piece in some form or another for the past half-year, I finally offer it to the reading public. I considered back-dating it to sometime when these thoughts mind seem to "fit" into some kind of context, but then I thought, no: it's done, it's new, and you should read it right now. Enjoy.]

I have a son. Not particularly unusual, that, but I do want to make a big deal of it. I love him. I was certain that I would, even though things did not turn out as I had expected.

We had planned on a daughter, or at least I had, since I knew my wife dearly desired a girl for our first-born. She herself is the fourth generation of first-born daughters, and I wanted more than I have ever wanted anything for her to be able to continue that wonderful legacy.

But it was not to be, as she had suspected all along. And so, having planned for eight months or so that it would be a tiny daughter we would be welcoming into our lives, I had absolutely no idea how to react, how to feel, when a little boy emerged at the end of that heartbreakingly-long day.

My first reaction was acute disappointment for my wife's unrealised dream, followed almost immediately by overwhelming guilt for not being able to give her what I thought she wanted most. I was exhausted anyway at this point, so beyond exhausted into some other place that this additional weight of negative emotion was literally incapacitating.

But then I held him.

Those of you who know me will know that I am not the most masculine of men; aside from my natural ability to mimic the sound of flatulence with my armpit and my occasional urge to lie shivering in the woods and slay large gallinaceous birds with my own hands, I am somewhat lacking in stereotypical maleness, at least as commonly defined in this country we call ours. So the desire for a son was not a strong one for me. Yes, I wanted a child (at this point) and children (perhaps one at a time, like an installment plan). I looked forward to teaching them about life and the world and God, sharing with them the things and activities that most bring me joy, and generally sharing and facilitating their respective paths through life. All pretty non-gender-specific dreams. The whole "carrying on the family name" thing was pretty far down on the list of things that ever cross my mind; a quaint and useless fixation at best these days, and especially so for me, given the fact that my surname is an (apparently arbitrary) fabrication of the United States government, or some impatient agent thereof who could not be bothered to ascertain the actual names of yet another clan of Norwegian immigrants.

So I didn't want a son and heir. But there he was, and as I met him for the first time, my emotions were overwhelmingly, well, paternal. I kept saying to myself, over and over again in my head (although I was so tired at that point I could well have been saying it out loud for all I know) "I have a son." I have a son. I have a son.

I love him. I gaze at him now as he lies sleeping and wonder what will become of him, what amazing things he will see and do in his life, almost all of which stretches out into the dizzying distance beyond my poor sight. Will he love me, or resent me? Can I ever hope to be such a father as to deserve such a marvel for my son?

The Italian Secretary by Caleb Carr

This is a good story and an okay pastiche. There is a mildly worrying spiritualism about Holmes that is satisfactorily resolved. Watson is pleasantly sharper on the uptake (the possible result of tea brewed in one of Holmes' beakers?). Mycroft has most troublingly lost his aura of omnipotence; despite mentions of his genius, he is not much quicker than Watson and certainly no match for his brother. However the most telling point besides language nuances is the author's modern willingness to detail violence and perversity in Watson's voice. If you don't expect Doyle you'll enjoy the read.