Sunday, April 24, 2011
After the Feast...
"Apprentices have asked me, what is the most exalted peak of cuisine? Is it the freshest ingredients, the most complex flavors? Is it the rustic, or the rare? It is none of these. The peak is neither eating nor cooking, but the giving and sharing of food. Great food should never be taken alone. What pleasure can a man take in fine cuisine unless he invites cherished friends, counts the days until the banquet, and composes an anticipatory poem for his letter of invitation?" —Liang Wei
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Spaghetti and Meatballs
As Mary Helen stirred a pot of spaghetti the other night (apron neatly tied, a stool pushed up to the stove), I had a silly thought. Would she, twenty years from now, still be at that stove, with seven or so children at her feet? While Jack and Frances are backpacking around Europe, discovering themselves and jumping off high places, will Mary Helen have a neat little house next door to Evan and I? Will she be disappointed in Evan and I when we break the news to her that we're hitting the road in an RV for a few years of late-in-life-soul-searching? I can see her shaking her head now.
I say this because she's so sensible, so steady, so mild, so good. Not good in the sense of being without sin, but good in the sense of being good-natured. She's so much more likely to hold it together than the rest of us (in that way, she reminds me so much of my dad). As I followed these thoughts down their course, I ran into the reality that some parts of us are gifted to us at birth in the simple fabric of our being.
As a mother, I am often so hyper-vigilant and anxious that I have a hard time seeing the "gifted" parts of my children and relaxing enough to enjoy them. It is difficult to know our kids in a neutral, accepting way without our own lack of self-acceptance getting in the way.
But I believe that one of our most significant (and pleasurable, if we could just slow down for it) jobs as parents is to celebrate and enjoy what's already there.
I have an image in my mind of one of my more domestically gifted friends sitting by a fire embroidering quietly upon a beautiful piece of fabric. She sews slowly and confidently, without questioning herself too much. She is even able to appreciate the mistakes and irregularities of her work. Her work is easy and beautiful.
I say this because she's so sensible, so steady, so mild, so good. Not good in the sense of being without sin, but good in the sense of being good-natured. She's so much more likely to hold it together than the rest of us (in that way, she reminds me so much of my dad). As I followed these thoughts down their course, I ran into the reality that some parts of us are gifted to us at birth in the simple fabric of our being.
As a mother, I am often so hyper-vigilant and anxious that I have a hard time seeing the "gifted" parts of my children and relaxing enough to enjoy them. It is difficult to know our kids in a neutral, accepting way without our own lack of self-acceptance getting in the way.
But I believe that one of our most significant (and pleasurable, if we could just slow down for it) jobs as parents is to celebrate and enjoy what's already there.
I have an image in my mind of one of my more domestically gifted friends sitting by a fire embroidering quietly upon a beautiful piece of fabric. She sews slowly and confidently, without questioning herself too much. She is even able to appreciate the mistakes and irregularities of her work. Her work is easy and beautiful.
What is grace?
Another (well, let's face it, the only) blog that I follow asked this question this week and I remembered old Granny from Flannery O'Connor's "A Good Man is Hard to Find." I love that granny.
"I wasn't there so I can't say He didn't," The Misfit said. "I wisht I had of been there," he said, hitting the ground with his fist. "It ain't right I wasn't there because if I had of been there I would of known. Listen lady," he said in a high voice, "if I had of been there I would of known and I wouldn't be like I am now." His voice seemed about to crack and the grandmother's head cleared for an instant. She saw the man's face twisted close to her own as if he were going to cry and she murmured, "Why you're one of my babies. You're one of my own children !" She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. The Misfit sprang back as if a snake had bitten him and shot her three times through the chest. Then he put his gun down on the ground and took off his glasses and began to clean them."
"I wasn't there so I can't say He didn't," The Misfit said. "I wisht I had of been there," he said, hitting the ground with his fist. "It ain't right I wasn't there because if I had of been there I would of known. Listen lady," he said in a high voice, "if I had of been there I would of known and I wouldn't be like I am now." His voice seemed about to crack and the grandmother's head cleared for an instant. She saw the man's face twisted close to her own as if he were going to cry and she murmured, "Why you're one of my babies. You're one of my own children !" She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. The Misfit sprang back as if a snake had bitten him and shot her three times through the chest. Then he put his gun down on the ground and took off his glasses and began to clean them."
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
The Biggest Loser
Why hasn't anyone told me about this show? I tuned in accidentally, and within fifteen minutes, I had cried three times. Between watching Moses sacrifice his place for childless April, and watching those former fatties scramble up that sandy hill, I don't need therapy anymore. I'm good. and now, all I can think about is next week's episode, where I plan to eat chocolate chip cookies while watching. I just love the irony of that. So delicious.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)