K: Did you know that sharks eat their own siblings in utero?!
K: What?
K: YES. A shark will have two wombs, and one shark fetus eats all the other shark feti in its womb. Then two are born.
K: That's... I was reading about wax museums, and you had to bring up Shark Cannibalism.
K: Wax museums are just as if not more creepy than sharks eating their siblings.
K: You know, you're right.
Letters from a Traveling Kate.
Showing posts with label miscellany. Show all posts
Showing posts with label miscellany. 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.
west
Then, the other night, I had an epiphany. Debating idioms, someone told me, "We say it differently back East. You come from the West."
And a voice inside me said, yes.
I come from Uintah cattle-ranches and immigrant football clubs.
I come from potato farmers and Mexican polygamist-colonists.
I am the product of fat handcart girls and hard-headed Danes, generations of half-mad people carving out a living in the blizzarding desert.
I come from ideals of freedom and diversity and friendliness. I come from ruggedly beautiful country.
I come from the place that people risk their lives to come to, where dreams shine brighter than the journey and are sometimes never realized.
I am from the West, the American West. And, for the first time in my life, I am happy to be so.
Where I'm from isn't who I am. But, at the same time, it is. I had to come to Wyoming to brush the Western chip off my shoulder and learn to love my big-sky, laborious heritage.
Still spitting politics. Still feminizing. Still me. But I'm now more at ease with my roots and myself. And it's a good place to be.
love, 208
In other words, I won the roommate lottery.
Life is better with this varied crew, this assembly of dear characters, and the peace in my heart that comes from being among friends. I love these girls. And as they scatter, as twenty-somethings will, I wish them all the utmost well.
♥
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.
a lament to borders
The place was profoundly changed: cluttered with noisy signs, dumped and dismantled, disheveled and ravaged by the bargain-mongering crowd. My brother filled his arms with works of Middle East analysis and wandered sadly and aimlessly, trying to decide which few to take home. I sat by the quickly-emptying shelves and considered the place, its former peace destroyed.
A Borders is just a Borders. It is a corporation--a bland, commercial, semi-highbrow national bookstore. I know that now. But to me growing up, struggling with wintry homogeneity and redneck local politics, the place was more than that. It was a sanctuary of liberal culture, a veritable haven for a teenager tired of the cold.
What a treat it was to escape here--to leave the smog and slush and same behind in a temple of friendly modernity. To enter that place mid Logan's long winter lifted a great weight off my shoulders. Here, perusing coffee table art books, listening to jazz samples, or devouring novels whole, I was at peace. An evening at Borders was my favorite treat--to forget my own life for a few blessed hours and linger in the best that the world had to offer, warming my hands and soothing my soul in its worldly glow. For me, Borders was a bright reminder of the richness of the first world: a cathedral to the intelligence and diversity of humankind. It gave me hope for a life deep with art and with wit.
Now, I realized from my spot on the floor, 200 such hospitable havens are closing. I can no longer escape my own culture with this one. Seeing my bookstore gutted and trashed and considering Cache life without syndicated warmth made me sad. Babylon needs a temple, I thought to myself. Perhaps Zion needs a Borders.
A Borders is just a Borders. It is a corporation--a bland, commercial, semi-highbrow national bookstore. I know that now. But to me growing up, struggling with wintry homogeneity and redneck local politics, the place was more than that. It was a sanctuary of liberal culture, a veritable haven for a teenager tired of the cold.
What a treat it was to escape here--to leave the smog and slush and same behind in a temple of friendly modernity. To enter that place mid Logan's long winter lifted a great weight off my shoulders. Here, perusing coffee table art books, listening to jazz samples, or devouring novels whole, I was at peace. An evening at Borders was my favorite treat--to forget my own life for a few blessed hours and linger in the best that the world had to offer, warming my hands and soothing my soul in its worldly glow. For me, Borders was a bright reminder of the richness of the first world: a cathedral to the intelligence and diversity of humankind. It gave me hope for a life deep with art and with wit.
Now, I realized from my spot on the floor, 200 such hospitable havens are closing. I can no longer escape my own culture with this one. Seeing my bookstore gutted and trashed and considering Cache life without syndicated warmth made me sad. Babylon needs a temple, I thought to myself. Perhaps Zion needs a Borders.
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.
courage
I would like to talk about bravery.
It is brave to take a commandment given to a generation and apply it specifically, at great sacrifice, to your own life.
It is brave to save money for something your entire life and watch the years grow closer.
It is brave to stand in front of hundreds and say that such a decree is right; to follow the instructions given in one letter.
It is brave to turn from your crying mother as friends and leaders and family all disappear, and you walk into that strange place alone.
It is brave to risk failure or illness or breaking a rule to stigma and heartache.
It is brave to wear a label, setting you apart and marking you for the reaction of the world in its entirety. It is brave to wear your belief on your shirt pocket.
It is brave to give every thought, every minute, to service, and smile throughout.
It is brave to walk alone where you never have before, to consort only with strangers and share with them that which is sacred.
It is brave to give up your favorite things for God.
It is brave,
it is brave,
it is brave.
My brother is brave. Many of you are brave, brave for this thing which some of you have done or are doing or will do at some point in the future.
I don't know that I am that brave.
It is brave to take a commandment given to a generation and apply it specifically, at great sacrifice, to your own life.
It is brave to save money for something your entire life and watch the years grow closer.
It is brave to stand in front of hundreds and say that such a decree is right; to follow the instructions given in one letter.
It is brave to turn from your crying mother as friends and leaders and family all disappear, and you walk into that strange place alone.
It is brave to risk failure or illness or breaking a rule to stigma and heartache.
It is brave to wear a label, setting you apart and marking you for the reaction of the world in its entirety. It is brave to wear your belief on your shirt pocket.
It is brave to give every thought, every minute, to service, and smile throughout.
It is brave to walk alone where you never have before, to consort only with strangers and share with them that which is sacred.
It is brave to give up your favorite things for God.
It is brave,
it is brave,
it is brave.
My brother is brave. Many of you are brave, brave for this thing which some of you have done or are doing or will do at some point in the future.
I don't know that I am that brave.
my man shakespeare
In the time of sewage thrown out of windows, London had it RIGHT.
For all our Mets and pyrotechnics and decadent stagecraft, the cradle of Anglo society 400 years ago is where it's at. You could sit and stand and watch the spit fly as actual humanity unfolded on the stage mere feet from you. Guilt and rage and fire and love and jealousy--the whole gamut of human emotion expressed in the strongest prose ever written, framed by applause and cheers and the clang of swords.
C'est AWESOME.
For all our Mets and pyrotechnics and decadent stagecraft, the cradle of Anglo society 400 years ago is where it's at. You could sit and stand and watch the spit fly as actual humanity unfolded on the stage mere feet from you. Guilt and rage and fire and love and jealousy--the whole gamut of human emotion expressed in the strongest prose ever written, framed by applause and cheers and the clang of swords.
C'est AWESOME.
don't be pasty!
As a blue-eyed half-ginger with a genetic propensity for skin cancer, I am concerned.
I live by a pool. This is a thing I very much enjoy. Alarming to me, however, is the perpetual toasting of epidermis going on in the surrounding lounge chairs. Girls and boys lay out for hours on end, not just soaking up but cooking themselves in the midday offshoots of that burning radiative ball of chemicals inhabiting our sky.
All the racist imperialist preoccupation-with-whiteness legacy is a bad thing, and I am happy to see it out of vogue in my neighborhood at least. But it seems now scorching oneself is the color of choice.
I may just be bitter. At Girls' Camp as a teenager, I lost the Tannest Legs Competitions without fail, as my stems were so pale as to have a bluish sheen. My largely Scandinavian ancestry has doomed me to glow in the dark. I wear gloves, glasses, and a big hat out to garden and burn within fifteen minutes of sun exposure.
But my parents are already having tumors removed and going in for laserage regularly. They never laid out. I don't think tanning beds existed when they grew up and yet here we are.
So please, do not UV-light yourself. Do not treat the poolside like a rotisserie oven. Do not cake your skin with bronzer or self-tan. Embrace your natural complexion, whether it be cream or ebony or bronze or brown. Rock what you've got and say no to tanorexia.
(Also, I am not a meat pie. Nor am I a nipple patch. Please don't call me 'pasty.')
I live by a pool. This is a thing I very much enjoy. Alarming to me, however, is the perpetual toasting of epidermis going on in the surrounding lounge chairs. Girls and boys lay out for hours on end, not just soaking up but cooking themselves in the midday offshoots of that burning radiative ball of chemicals inhabiting our sky.
All the racist imperialist preoccupation-with-whiteness legacy is a bad thing, and I am happy to see it out of vogue in my neighborhood at least. But it seems now scorching oneself is the color of choice.
I may just be bitter. At Girls' Camp as a teenager, I lost the Tannest Legs Competitions without fail, as my stems were so pale as to have a bluish sheen. My largely Scandinavian ancestry has doomed me to glow in the dark. I wear gloves, glasses, and a big hat out to garden and burn within fifteen minutes of sun exposure.
But my parents are already having tumors removed and going in for laserage regularly. They never laid out. I don't think tanning beds existed when they grew up and yet here we are.
So please, do not UV-light yourself. Do not treat the poolside like a rotisserie oven. Do not cake your skin with bronzer or self-tan. Embrace your natural complexion, whether it be cream or ebony or bronze or brown. Rock what you've got and say no to tanorexia.
(Also, I am not a meat pie. Nor am I a nipple patch. Please don't call me 'pasty.')
vai vai vai
You have not seen heartbreak until you have watched a World Cup match with the Brazilian Student Association.
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.
a plea for sanity
With soccer recently becoming more chic, and the Beckhams in America and whatnot, an alarming trend of ignorance is surfacing.
Picture this: I am buying a churro from a Brazilian kid at the farmer's market. Now, I am no expert, but I was raised by three stark raving soccer fanatics and the kid, probably nine or ten, is wearing Dinho's national jersey. So I start talking.
"Oh hey, isn't Ronaldinho at Milan now?"
Blank stare.
"Yeah, he was with Barcelona for a while, right?"
Continuation of the blank stare.
"Ronaldinho?" I gesture at my back. "Your shirt?"
The kid blinks and hands me my churro.
Weird, I think. Oh well. Maybe he doesn't speak English. But then I mention Rooney's injury to an MU kit, or Milan's latest victory to a guy in stripes. Blank stare and blank stare, respectively. Your jersey? Soccer? Blank stares all around.
America, this has got to stop. It's like the Chinese character tattoo thing all over again. I say to you, DO NOT PUT SOMETHING ON YOUR BACK UNLESS YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS.
I suggest mandating a series of simple questions before allowing American buyers to purchase an international kit. For example: "What is stoppage time?" "Who won the last World Cup?" Or "Name five teams. Go ahead. I dare you. You have the whole rest of the world to chose from."
This could be followed by a brief disclaimer: "I acknowledge that by purchasing said jersey, I realize that this player will most likely be traded next season, rendering this shirt irrelevant. I also realize that if I wear Celtic, Rangers, or FK Partizan paraphernalia into the wrong bar, I could end up dead." I feel that this would go a long way towards alleviating the problem.
Perhaps I'll just grit my teeth and deal with it. Maybe I could learn the rules of that other football and join my cohorts at the stadium. But with World Cup on its way and globalization here to stay, I encourage my fellow countrymen to educate themselves. You might like what you find.
Picture this: I am buying a churro from a Brazilian kid at the farmer's market. Now, I am no expert, but I was raised by three stark raving soccer fanatics and the kid, probably nine or ten, is wearing Dinho's national jersey. So I start talking.
"Oh hey, isn't Ronaldinho at Milan now?"
Blank stare.
"Yeah, he was with Barcelona for a while, right?"
Continuation of the blank stare.
"Ronaldinho?" I gesture at my back. "Your shirt?"
The kid blinks and hands me my churro.
Weird, I think. Oh well. Maybe he doesn't speak English. But then I mention Rooney's injury to an MU kit, or Milan's latest victory to a guy in stripes. Blank stare and blank stare, respectively. Your jersey? Soccer? Blank stares all around.
America, this has got to stop. It's like the Chinese character tattoo thing all over again. I say to you, DO NOT PUT SOMETHING ON YOUR BACK UNLESS YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS.
I suggest mandating a series of simple questions before allowing American buyers to purchase an international kit. For example: "What is stoppage time?" "Who won the last World Cup?" Or "Name five teams. Go ahead. I dare you. You have the whole rest of the world to chose from."
This could be followed by a brief disclaimer: "I acknowledge that by purchasing said jersey, I realize that this player will most likely be traded next season, rendering this shirt irrelevant. I also realize that if I wear Celtic, Rangers, or FK Partizan paraphernalia into the wrong bar, I could end up dead." I feel that this would go a long way towards alleviating the problem.
Perhaps I'll just grit my teeth and deal with it. Maybe I could learn the rules of that other football and join my cohorts at the stadium. But with World Cup on its way and globalization here to stay, I encourage my fellow countrymen to educate themselves. You might like what you find.
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