Letters from a Traveling Kate.
Showing posts with label anecdote of note. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anecdote of note. Show all posts
an evening with the bennions
K: No, that was the one about the Irish eating their children.
J: Eugh!
K: He was a satirist.
M: Meaning he wrote satire, not that he was part goat.
D: Satirist vs. satyr-ous? Have you thought about this one before?
M: I work with eighth-graders. It actually comes up all the time.
♥
My father has a special place in his heart for some real good pastry. To this day, he and Lucie lament the demise of the old ZCMI bakery. On Sunday-afternoon visits, the conversation turns to cream and custard as they fondly reminisce napoleons gone by, eulogizing choux secrets lost.
It was another blow when Marie Callender ceased to make her famous Boston Cream Pie. A layered confection, this "pie" is essentially stacks of pudding and cake encircled by piecrust, iced in chocolate and lavished with cream. It was my father's very favorite. Driving past exit 316, Dad shakes his head sadly. "I'd say let's stop and pick up dessert, but since they don't have Boston Cream any more..." He trails off. "It's just not worth it."
It would seem that entropy takes its toll upon the world, and that the art of the pastry deteriorates further and further. However, life changed for the better when a pastry shop opened up downtown. The owner is an implant from the Old World, a Poland-trained baker who excels at desserts, assembling gorgeous little intricacies of cream and sugar that are enjoyed by snowbirds and locals alike.
The prospect of swan-shaped cream puffs and chocolate cannoli cheered my father immensely. Dad took to chatting with "our friend, the Polish baker," occasionally picking up eclairs to take to Lucie. One day he came home with a box and a grin. "Look."
A circle of rich brown, framed with thick cream and piecrust. He carefully removed a piece, revealing layers of cake and vanilla pudding.
"Boston Cream Pie. I bought the whole thing."
In a world of change, where quality and taste are so often met with disappointment, sometimes there are tender mercies: coincidences and moments that make life that much sweeter. I guess God speaks to us in ways we can understand. So much the better if they involve dessert.
It was another blow when Marie Callender ceased to make her famous Boston Cream Pie. A layered confection, this "pie" is essentially stacks of pudding and cake encircled by piecrust, iced in chocolate and lavished with cream. It was my father's very favorite. Driving past exit 316, Dad shakes his head sadly. "I'd say let's stop and pick up dessert, but since they don't have Boston Cream any more..." He trails off. "It's just not worth it."
It would seem that entropy takes its toll upon the world, and that the art of the pastry deteriorates further and further. However, life changed for the better when a pastry shop opened up downtown. The owner is an implant from the Old World, a Poland-trained baker who excels at desserts, assembling gorgeous little intricacies of cream and sugar that are enjoyed by snowbirds and locals alike.
The prospect of swan-shaped cream puffs and chocolate cannoli cheered my father immensely. Dad took to chatting with "our friend, the Polish baker," occasionally picking up eclairs to take to Lucie. One day he came home with a box and a grin. "Look."
A circle of rich brown, framed with thick cream and piecrust. He carefully removed a piece, revealing layers of cake and vanilla pudding.
"Boston Cream Pie. I bought the whole thing."
In a world of change, where quality and taste are so often met with disappointment, sometimes there are tender mercies: coincidences and moments that make life that much sweeter. I guess God speaks to us in ways we can understand. So much the better if they involve dessert.
an evening with the petersons
R: They all but drowned me in that pool they had, in that house in Ventura.
L: Ventura! Ventura! They never lived in Ventura!
R: Sure they did, that house was in Ventura. Justin was born there, remember?
L: Ventura is right on the beach! No way that house was there. We visited them in it. They never lived in Ventura. Ach! Du lieber!
R: Here's the phone. Dial Linda. Dial it. I bet you I'm right.
L: What are you going to bet?
R: A whole... quarter.
L: You're on. Katie, get on the other phone. He'll lie.
R: Dan! Oh, watching the game. Bet on the Steelers. Oh, I bet a hundred bucks. Well, with Lucie. Yep. Hey, when you lived in California and were the president of Six Flags, what city did you live in? Newhall!!!
L: Ha!
R: Newhall! Oh, that's right. Well, where was Kindra born then? VALENCIA.
L: I told you it wasn't Ventura.
R: All right. Well, pass the phone to Linda. Here's Lucie.
L: LIN. Well, we're arguing and Katie is laughing herself sick over here watching us. Is he not the most stubborn damn Viking you ever met in your life? Yep. Okay. Buh-bye. *Click.* Newhall!
R: Well, I can't be right all the time.
L: Just ninety percent. Seventy-one-years of this, I tell you what.
K: At least you got a quarter out of it.
R: I haven't got a quarter! Not a cent.
L: Ach! Du lieber!
R: She won't give me my allowance.
L: Du bist... full of Scheiß.
L: Ventura! Ventura! They never lived in Ventura!
R: Sure they did, that house was in Ventura. Justin was born there, remember?
L: Ventura is right on the beach! No way that house was there. We visited them in it. They never lived in Ventura. Ach! Du lieber!
R: Here's the phone. Dial Linda. Dial it. I bet you I'm right.
L: What are you going to bet?
R: A whole... quarter.
L: You're on. Katie, get on the other phone. He'll lie.
R: Dan! Oh, watching the game. Bet on the Steelers. Oh, I bet a hundred bucks. Well, with Lucie. Yep. Hey, when you lived in California and were the president of Six Flags, what city did you live in? Newhall!!!
L: Ha!
R: Newhall! Oh, that's right. Well, where was Kindra born then? VALENCIA.
L: I told you it wasn't Ventura.
R: All right. Well, pass the phone to Linda. Here's Lucie.
L: LIN. Well, we're arguing and Katie is laughing herself sick over here watching us. Is he not the most stubborn damn Viking you ever met in your life? Yep. Okay. Buh-bye. *Click.* Newhall!
R: Well, I can't be right all the time.
L: Just ninety percent. Seventy-one-years of this, I tell you what.
K: At least you got a quarter out of it.
R: I haven't got a quarter! Not a cent.
L: Ach! Du lieber!
R: She won't give me my allowance.
L: Du bist... full of Scheiß.
praise
Whenever I go to a concert (and I mean a proper, concert-hall, classical music sort of concert), I have to close my eyes. I'm easily distracted by the sight of glitter reflecting stage lights or someone chest-breathing. In order to hear the music, I have to stop watching and listen.
It usually works. I can feel the air warm with sound, swirling and ringing. It is So Beautiful. A group of angels here, singing to God. Sound eternal.
Sometimes, though, I peek to watch the conductor's hands. If she is a good conductor, an expressive one, I can see his hands sculpting the sound, stirring it, coaxing it forth. Guiding hands, reverent and expressive, moving and breathing with the sound. They are also a symbol, those hands. There is so much love and hard work and life in those hands. An imperfect, human vessel for something as glorious as the music it's bringing forth. Such is our life--spots of eternal beauty out of the flesh and bone.
It usually works. I can feel the air warm with sound, swirling and ringing. It is So Beautiful. A group of angels here, singing to God. Sound eternal.
Sometimes, though, I peek to watch the conductor's hands. If she is a good conductor, an expressive one, I can see his hands sculpting the sound, stirring it, coaxing it forth. Guiding hands, reverent and expressive, moving and breathing with the sound. They are also a symbol, those hands. There is so much love and hard work and life in those hands. An imperfect, human vessel for something as glorious as the music it's bringing forth. Such is our life--spots of eternal beauty out of the flesh and bone.
a quest
I have lately become obsessed with TimTams.
A TimTam, for those who don't know, is magic in cookie form. Layers of cookie and frosting and chocolate, the size of a credit card, eaten plain or used as a milk straw. Australia carries them in eight flavors. Missionaries slam them dozens at a time. They are Simply Wonderful.
I was beyond chagrined when my grocery store abruptly stopped carrying them, especially when the discovery of said cessation took place at 5:00 AM after an all-night not-quite fifteen-page paper on Korean economic development. Apparently they are "kind of seasonal." Minor meltdown occurred.
During finals week, I tried another store. I got smart this time and called ahead.
Employee: "You've reached ___'s, how may I help you?"
Me: "Yes, do you have TimTams? You know, the cookie?"
Her: "Let me check."
*PAUSE*
She Returns (a little too quickly): "Why yes! Aisle 17."
Five minutes later, I am so there. Aisle 17 proves to be baking goods--not a cookie in sight. I reach the end of the aisle and double back to no avail. There is, however, a gleaming display of tin pans. You know, for cooking?
I was not a happy camper. But in face of such trials, what do you think I did? I drove 138 miles to the nearest Pepperidge Farm factory and stocked up. Totally worth it.
A TimTam, for those who don't know, is magic in cookie form. Layers of cookie and frosting and chocolate, the size of a credit card, eaten plain or used as a milk straw. Australia carries them in eight flavors. Missionaries slam them dozens at a time. They are Simply Wonderful.
I was beyond chagrined when my grocery store abruptly stopped carrying them, especially when the discovery of said cessation took place at 5:00 AM after an all-night not-quite fifteen-page paper on Korean economic development. Apparently they are "kind of seasonal." Minor meltdown occurred.
During finals week, I tried another store. I got smart this time and called ahead.
Employee: "You've reached ___'s, how may I help you?"
Me: "Yes, do you have TimTams? You know, the cookie?"
Her: "Let me check."
*PAUSE*
She Returns (a little too quickly): "Why yes! Aisle 17."
Five minutes later, I am so there. Aisle 17 proves to be baking goods--not a cookie in sight. I reach the end of the aisle and double back to no avail. There is, however, a gleaming display of tin pans. You know, for cooking?
I was not a happy camper. But in face of such trials, what do you think I did? I drove 138 miles to the nearest Pepperidge Farm factory and stocked up. Totally worth it.
the end
It's a sunny Saturday morning, and I'm in the basement of the Economics building. Fellow students slouch by in basketball shorts or sweats, no makeup on their sullen faces. Crumpled casualties of cramming lie everywhere, sprawled and unmoving in their own notes.
I squat on the floor with my textbook besides a ashen-faced junior. She is eating junky vending machine fare, her free hand twitching as she mutters equations between each grim bite. (I don't judge--I myself had four Oreos for breakfast). Shrill laughter rings from the hysterical study group down the hall and the junior flinches at the sound. My iPod batteries are long dead, but I put my headphones in anyway. I try to focus because my test is in twenty minutes, and it's worth thirty percent of my grade.
Finals are terrible.
I squat on the floor with my textbook besides a ashen-faced junior. She is eating junky vending machine fare, her free hand twitching as she mutters equations between each grim bite. (I don't judge--I myself had four Oreos for breakfast). Shrill laughter rings from the hysterical study group down the hall and the junior flinches at the sound. My iPod batteries are long dead, but I put my headphones in anyway. I try to focus because my test is in twenty minutes, and it's worth thirty percent of my grade.
Finals are terrible.
shuai ge
I went and visited my great-grandparents on Sunday. As I sat on their
couch and listened to the Extended Family Update, a pair of skate shoes
in the other room caught my eye. I wondered who had left them there.
"Grandpa, are those shoes yours?"
He was slightly affronted. "Of course!" he said. Who else could they
belong to? He slowly stood, shuffled over to get them, and put them on
his diabetic feet.
On closer inspection they proved to be Unlimited brand, black and white
and gold, with blinging rhinos on the side. "Seventeen dollars, down from
seventy!" Grandpa said proudly. I whistled. He had always been a styling
guy. Even now at ninety his taste was impeccable, if a little more urban.
couch and listened to the Extended Family Update, a pair of skate shoes
in the other room caught my eye. I wondered who had left them there.
"Grandpa, are those shoes yours?"
He was slightly affronted. "Of course!" he said. Who else could they
belong to? He slowly stood, shuffled over to get them, and put them on
his diabetic feet.
On closer inspection they proved to be Unlimited brand, black and white
and gold, with blinging rhinos on the side. "Seventeen dollars, down from
seventy!" Grandpa said proudly. I whistled. He had always been a styling
guy. Even now at ninety his taste was impeccable, if a little more urban.
homegrown crises
So, I walked into my house the other weekend to surprise 50% of my
fam, at least, when I was met with an overwhelming number of
pumpkins and bags upon bags of the harvest. Jack-o-lanterns and
Georgia giants crowded the entryway, while sacks of midnight-picked
tomatoes, cukes, squashes, zucchini, and peppers filled a good 25 square
feet of kitchen floor. This besides the garageful of lemon cucumbers * and
the cold storageful of squashes.
What happened? you may ask. What could have brought about such a
garish display of produce? The answer is: mein vader. He gardened a
stunning near half acre this summer, leading to one crisis after another:
the Green Bean Crisis, the Zucchini Crisis, the Crookneck Squash Crisis,
et cetera, culminating in the Current Grande Crisis requiring purchase of
an ICEBOX. (Not to mention the dual Raspberry Crisis that at last count
resulted in 30 batches of freezer jam-no joke.) Our neighbors avoid us.
Jay recently texted me thusly: "Yep. That's right. 3 gallons of homemade
salsa. You missed out."
But, in case of zombie apocalypse, nuclear winter, scurvy, or even just
general college student food-mooching, you can bet I'll be scorching it
up to L-town to partake of that gardeny goodness.
*A lemon cucumber, by the way, is the cucumber's short, fat , ugly, yellow
cousin that resembles nothing so much as the eggs of some homely beetle.
It's tasty though.
fam, at least, when I was met with an overwhelming number of
pumpkins and bags upon bags of the harvest. Jack-o-lanterns and
Georgia giants crowded the entryway, while sacks of midnight-picked
tomatoes, cukes, squashes, zucchini, and peppers filled a good 25 square
feet of kitchen floor. This besides the garageful of lemon cucumbers * and
the cold storageful of squashes.
What happened? you may ask. What could have brought about such a
garish display of produce? The answer is: mein vader. He gardened a
stunning near half acre this summer, leading to one crisis after another:
the Green Bean Crisis, the Zucchini Crisis, the Crookneck Squash Crisis,
et cetera, culminating in the Current Grande Crisis requiring purchase of
an ICEBOX. (Not to mention the dual Raspberry Crisis that at last count
resulted in 30 batches of freezer jam-no joke.) Our neighbors avoid us.
Jay recently texted me thusly: "Yep. That's right. 3 gallons of homemade
salsa. You missed out."
But, in case of zombie apocalypse, nuclear winter, scurvy, or even just
general college student food-mooching, you can bet I'll be scorching it
up to L-town to partake of that gardeny goodness.
*A lemon cucumber, by the way, is the cucumber's short, fat , ugly, yellow
cousin that resembles nothing so much as the eggs of some homely beetle.
It's tasty though.
after a fashion
Katie H. once told me I am an old soul. I didn't believe her until I looked
at my wardrobe.
Most of my clothes are older than me. My favorite clothes are older
than my parents.
My friends are quickly learning not to ask where I acquired my outfits
because otherwise they get an anecdote like such:
"This sweater? Oh, my ex-YW's leader's mother, who is in her eighties,
donated it to a nonprofit ward yard sale, and my mom saw it and bought
it for me. It's part Alpaca."
Or this one:
"This dress? Oh, my grandma was remodeling the house of an alcoholic
to resell and she found a bag of clothes in the closet."
at my wardrobe.
Most of my clothes are older than me. My favorite clothes are older
than my parents.
My friends are quickly learning not to ask where I acquired my outfits
because otherwise they get an anecdote like such:
"This sweater? Oh, my ex-YW's leader's mother, who is in her eighties,
donated it to a nonprofit ward yard sale, and my mom saw it and bought
it for me. It's part Alpaca."
Or this one:
"This dress? Oh, my grandma was remodeling the house of an alcoholic
to resell and she found a bag of clothes in the closet."
good eats
Yesterday, after a morning leaving voicemails and firing off petulant electronic pleas for response, and an afternoon vainly attempting to learn all the countries on the African continent, I went to dinner.
The best dinner. At a restaurant owned by the sweetest Sikh couple. (They wear bracelets and don't cut their hair.) Amrik told us, "It's all real Indian food," and predicted April's order.
We ate:
Sizzling, vivid red tandoor chicken with tangy onions.
Plain, garlic, and peshwari naan flatbread.
Hot flavored basmati rice accompanied my fav--the chicken coconut korma: this rich flavorful almost sweet sauce with tender chicken pieces. I thought I might cry.
A sweet, strawberry, and mango lassi. The sweet had rosewater in it. After you swallow you can smell roses.
And then proceeded to roll out the door. Outside, waiting to cross the busy downtown street, I asked my roommate, calorically impassioned, "Why do we eat anything else?! How does other food still even exist?!"
But every culture has its comfort food, its dishes made with love, that mother and grandmothers for centuries have stewed, simmered, and baked in warm kitchens the world over and made you eat a little more of. It's gnocchi and naan and potstickers, empadas and Dutch oven cobbler. Bread pudding and Muslim noodles, Cream of Wheat and calzone. We all have this ancient primordial yearning for it, and recognize it even when its origins are unfamiliar. Because, for so many of us, food is love.
Can you tell it's Fast Sunday?
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