Shoes for Fuse

Dear Fuse#8,
I found a photo of shoes for you to wear to the Newbery Award banquet. They would be a stunning accompaniment to your red dress:


Shoes by Sword and Stone

Eight Facts Meme

HipWriterMama, Camille and MSMac tagged me for this 8 Facts Meme.

Here are the rules: Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.

1) From grades 1-8, I had long hair, worn in braids (except for intermediate school), and from grade 3 on, I wore heavy, ugly glasses. On the first day of 9th grade, I walked into high school with short hair and contact lenses. No one recognized me. No one. However, I went into a vinyl record store that weekend, and the woman who worked there (and had seen me a total of 3 times) said, “Hey! You got your hair cut. It looks good.”

2) I don’t lie to children, and I have a hard time lying to adults. While I could lie convincingly to save someone’s life, the best I can do in most circumstances is stay quiet and not volunteer information.

3) I have accidentally “outed” two people. Both of them were forgiving, and even bemused. Whew. I am not good at keeping everyone’s secrets in order. I get cross when I’m told to keep something secret, and do, only to find out later that the person who told me the secret has told everyone else—and forgot to tell me that the secret wasn’t a secret anymore.

4) I grew up with a Jewish father and a Mennonite mother. As a teenager, I toyed with the idea of becoming a Wiccan. I was baptized Mennonite when I was 19, and became Roman Catholic when I was 30. I’m 35 now, and I still don’t feel I belong anywhere. I’m starting to suspect that’s the human condition.

5) I am very, very sensitive. Over time, I’ve learned to mask the sensitivity to a certain extent, but I still get my feelings hurt easily. I don’t expect anyone to tip-toe around my feelings (hence the various emotional disguises), but it still surprises me sometimes how easily I get upset. I appreciate the “Yea rahs!” I get in the comments section. I don’t interpret those comments as critical analyses of my writings but as the vital cheering section that provides external validation. Speaking of which…

6) Sometimes I get jealous when I see other blogs with double-digit comments.

7) The week after I gave birth via caesarian surgery, my relatives went home, and I broke out in hives. They burned, they itched, and if I didn’t scratch them, the heat from the itch grew worse. The only two ways I could deal with the hives would be to ice them or to scald them in the shower. After the hives finally abated, my daughter and I developed thrush. Memo to all current and future pregnant women: if you go on antibiotics during or after the labor you will need the healthy bacteria to balance out your system. I think all the antibiotics and medicines I had in the hospital severely knocked my immunities for a loop. I can’t think of that time without scratching.

8) I’m fascinated by skin-conditions. Sometimes I think I missed my calling as a dermatologist. Then again, it could just be my primal grooming tendencies rearing up.

People I'm tagging:
Lady K
Friday
LoneStarMa
ABCGirl
Philip the Pun
Yorkshire Pudding
Brad the Gorilla
Tony Dowler
Neil Gaiman (come on Neil!)

Make the law happy

Today's Unshelved comic strip rings a particularly sonorous bell with grownups who work with children.

Penny Esmarkus, nemesis of Garrulous MacKenzie

As promised, I now present to you my interview with Penny Esmarkus. When I asked Esmarkus for a picture of herself, she emailed me this Queen of Sheba icon:


Penny Esmarkus is a children’s book historian, author and critic of epic proportions. Her book reviews have been featured in Parent Ranting magazine ever since its inception. Her article, “Twenty Books You Should Have Read (But Couldn’t Because They Were Never Published, Thanks to a Certain Prat)” won the prestigious Puyallup Prize in 2003.

Esmarkus was born and raised in a small town outside of New York City, but now considers the entire world her home. When people inevitably ask about her ethnic heritage, Esmarkus replies, “I’m a mish-mosh.” However, she told Saints and Spinners that she is quite proud of the Ethiopian Jewish background on her mother’s side and has an obsession with the Queen of Sheba.

Saints and Spinners: What do you do for a living?
Penny Esmarkus: I write articles, review books, and speak to schools and libraries. On the side, I play electric balalaika for a rock and roll klezmer cover-band called Tsibile Pupik (Yiddish for "Onion Bellybutton"). Our band sounds a lot like Firewater. If Tom Waits decided to team up with the Pogues and form a klezmer band, they’d have Firewater. However, most of my friends prefer Tsibile Pupik because I'm in the band.

S&S: You said in an earlier email that you don’t blog, but that you read a lot of blogs in the kidlitosphere. Which blog do you love so much that you would take it to the prom, marry it, etc?
PE: I’d have to choose Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast. Those folks are amazing! Truly, I can’t even do one impossible thing before I’ve had my gluten-free toaster-waffle, strawberry-mint salad, two cups of milky-sweet coffee, a cardamom-vanilla almond-milk protein shake, and (only on Tuesdays) bacon. I love bacon.

S&S: Moving on to the literary portion of this interview… You and Garrulous MacKenzie are long-time adversaries. Why is that so, and why did you write a foreword for MacKenzie’s book, I’m Afraid it Won’t Pass the Censors?
PE:The reason why I wrote a foreword for I’m Afraid It Won’t Pass the Censors is simple: Garrulous asked me to write it. “It won’t be flattering,” I warned. “It’ll sell more copies that way,” Garrulous replied. Garrulous and I are literary rivals, much like Germaine Greer and Janet Todd. In the beginning, we would meet for lunch to discuss the books that Garrulous was publishing. Garrulous would tell me how the books originally started out and then how the authors changed the stories after receiving input. I could understand the changes for Make Way For Ducklings (formerly “puggles,” which are baby echidnas) and Angus Lost where Angus the Scottie dog was originally a platypus. However, when I found out that Garrulous was responsible for the travesty we know as The Giving Tree, I was incensed. I’ll admit it—I was the one who hurled the first apple from the fruit-basket. Garrulous had to go to the emergency room. While we are still on speaking terms (I did pay the hospital bill, after all), to this day, no restaurant will allow us to occupy the same room.

S&S: Who are the three living authors whom you’d like to have over for coffee, tea, or champagne cocktails?
PE: I’d definitely have my colleague Leonard Marcus as a guest. Leonard is almost as knowledgeable in the children’s literature field as I am, and is as mellow and gracious as I am high-strung and snippy. We’re invited to many of the same parties, but for some reason, we always just miss each other. The second person I’d invite would be Young Adult author Robin Brande. This summer, Robin is coming out with her first book. Trust me, she is the Next Big Thing (no thanks to Garrulous, who wanted to change the title of Evolution, Me and Other Freaks of Nature to Zank Hyssop and the Outer Space Zombie Invasion). The third author I'd invite would be Sherman Alexie. I have always had a crush on Sherman Alexie.

S&S: I have one last question before we head to the Pivot questionaire. What’s the one thing that most people don’t know about you?
PE: Everyone knows that I love shoes. That’s nothing special. The woman who loves her shoes is a cliché. What they don’t know is that I never own more than three pairs of shoes at any given time. When I find a new pair of shoes I cannot live without, I have to give away one of my previously acquired pairs. I usually give them away to strangers, but every now and then I give a pair to a friend of mine in the hopes that we can trade again one day. The Gospel According to Larry inspired me to maintain this practice.

And now for the Pivot questionaire:

1) What is your favorite word? Crunchy.

2) What is your least favorite word? Moist.

3) What turns you on creatively, spiritually, emotionally? Sipping Lapsang Souchong tea while receiving a foot-rub, a shoulder massage and a manicure all at once. I love Lapsang Souchong tea. If Darjeeling is the champagne of teas, then Lapsang Souchong is its single-malt whisky.

4) What turns you off? The Giving Tree, Love You Forever, and The Rainbow Fish. If not for the tampering of Garrulous MacKenzie, these books would be cultural treasures.

5) What is your favorite curse word? “Pontius Pilate” and (Marcus Licinius) “Crassus.” I like my expletives to have historical context flavored by ancient Rome.

6) What sound or noise do you love? I'm a big fan of the timur komuz and the kyl kayak, two instruments used prolifically in folk music from Kyrgyzstan. I'd like to use these instruments in Tsibile Pupik.

7) What sound or noise do you hate? Garrulous MacKenzie's cackle. The laugh itself is nothing special, but whenever I hear it, I know that MacKenzie has triumphed in our latest literary skirmish. Crassus!

8) What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? I have always secretly believed that I should write and record a few pop-music songs. If Madonna can actually find a publisher for her children’s books, then surely I should be able to do the same with my pop-songs. My anti-war ditty, “Black, Black, Black is the Gold Oozing From My Pores” is just as pedantic, self-serving and mediocre as The English Roses, if not more so.

9) What profession would you like not to do? I would not like to be a school-teacher for the simple reason that I would not be able to keep my job. The first time someone in my class tried to bully someone else, I would knock the teeth out of the bully’s head, reshape his or her nose and banish the bully from the classroom via the window. In a school setting, there would be too much temptation toward violence on the job. Who needs it?

10) If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? “Those are great shoes. Are they Manolo Blahniks? Purple is one of my favorite colors. May I try on your shoes? I just know we’re the same size. By the way, Garrulous MacKenzie has been held up in Customs and will not be joining us for Afternoon Tea today. However, Frida Kahlo, Aphra Behn and the Queen of Sheba can't wait to meet you.”

Callalilies for HipWriterMama

HipWriterMama, you wanted to see the callalilies in my front yard. Here they are:


Here are the callalilies in the context of the South garden:


Behind the sweet-pea tent, there are seven sunflower plants growing. I planted two different kinds of sunflowers, but I suspect that only one kind is growing.(The race is on, Jules!) To the right of the tent, we've got cucumbers and winter squash growing in the front, strawberries in the middle, climbing nasturtiums under the tent to the right, and rhubarb in the back. The copper tape around the base of the callalilies seems to be effective in repelling slugs.

My last gratuitious garden photo is a composite of the East garden:


Thanks for indulging me. Now, please read Saturday's post and let me know if there are any questions you'd like me to ask Penny Esmarkus, children's book historian extraordinaire.

I'm Afraid It Won't Pass the Censors

I'll bet you didn't know that Garrulous MacKenzie, the editor of the Children's Books That Never Were series, wrote a memoir not too long ago. It's called I'm Afraid It Won't Pass the Censors: The Autobiograpy of a Lily-Livered Editor. Even though the biography won a prestigious CABBY award and currently makes its rounds during "Banned Books Week," finding an actual copy if the book is relatively difficult. I myself have never read it. However, I do know that the book exists because it has its own card catalog entry.*



Here is the hard-cover editor of the book:


It's a bit odd that Penny Esmarkus, the world-reknowned children's book historian and critic for Parent Ranting** magazine, consented to write the foreword for MacKenzie's autobiography. Their rivalry in the publishing industry is legendary. I am so inspired by 7Imps' author and blogger interviews that I plan to contact Esmarkus and ask her to consent to an interview for Saints and Spinners. Wish me luck.

05/27/07 Update: Success! This morning, I got an email from Esmarkus herself. She said that she would be thrilled to do an interview, complete with Pivot questionaire. I sent her the list of questions, and expect to have the interview posted this week.

*I suppose you suspect me of using the Card Catalog generator
**Proud sponsor of The Three Martini Playdate support groups worldwide

Poetry Friday: Emily and Elvis

My graduate school professor for my class on public libraries was the director of the Fairfax County Library System. He dressed in pressed grey suits and spoke with a mellow Virginia accent. He was a big fan of Elvis Presley. Every week, at the beginning of each class, he asked us to tell him about any Elvis sightings we had encountered. At first, I thought he was asking us to tell him if we'd seen Elvis standing in line for french-fries at one of the cafeterias or checking out a copy of Leaves of Grass in the main campus library. While our professor would have been thrilled had we actually seen The King in person, we were actually looking for Elvis in the media. Over the semester, I realized that my professor was teaching us to look for things with our librarian peripheral vision. Soon, I was finding Elvis everywhere. A few years ago, I sent him via email a copy of the poem, "Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven," by Hans Ostrom. So far, the poem is my favorite of all my Elvis sightings.

Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven

They call each other E. Elvis picks
wildflowers near the river and brings
them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him.
In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports
Levis and western blouses with rhinestones.
Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers
and T-shirts, a letterman's jacket from Tupelo High.
They take long walks and often hold hands.
She prefers they remain just friends. Forever.
Emily's poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs,
electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard Nixon.
The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile.
Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon
he will play guitar and sing "I Taste a Liquor
Never Brewed" to the tune of "Love Me Tender."
Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone
in their cabins later, they'll listen to the river
and nap. They will not think of Amherst
or Las Vegas. They know why God made them roommates.
It's because America was their hometown.
It's because God is a thing without feathers.
It's because God wears blue suede shoes.

Copyright 2000 by Hans Ostrom

You can find the rest of the Poetry Friday roundup at a wrung sponge. If you have a poem of your own, please feel free to participate. Poetry Friday is not a "members only" gig. Consider yourselves officially invited now and in the future.

Edit 06/08/2007: Hans Ostrom says, The poem is included in THE COAST STARLIGHT: COLLECTED POEMS 1976-2006 (Indianapolis, 2006)--in case you know of libraries, librarians, or bookstores that might want to order a copy. It's available from Amazon and B & N but also from Ingram and Baker & Taylor, the distributors libraries use.

I'm off to order a copy right now.

Cucumber Thief

I'm a fan of setting out signs in the garden.

I don't know how long ago this event happened, but I think I was 5 or 6 years old:

One summer, when my family visited my grandparents in Northern Indiana, I discovered a playmate my age who lived across the alley. She lived next door to a man who grew vegetables. One day, he gave us a cucumber from his vegetable patch. I thought it was the tastiest, most refreshing treat I'd ever had (besides ice-cream cones). Soon after, my friend and I began to steal cucumbers from the patch. The first time the man next door caught us, I yelled that I could take cucumbers from the garden because I was from West Virginia. Nobody besides myself had any idea what West Virginia had to do with anything. However, in West Virginia, I went berry-picking so many times that I thought anything edible that grew in the wild was up for grabs. Still, that was no reasonable rationalization for continuing to steal cucumbers. The man next door finally confronted my mother about my petty theft.

Yes, she was furious. My mother thinks she spanked me, but I don't remember anything but the yelling. My friend was off-limits,* I had to bring flowers to the man next door and tell him I was sorry, and I had to listen repeatedly about how wretched I was. I certainly felt wretched for having been caught, but it took awhile before I truly realized what a bad thing I had done. Years afterward, the man next door would see me and ask me (while laughing) whether I was still stealing cucumbers. By then, I had the decency to feel mortified.

These days, we're growing cucumbers of our own. Whenever we talk about the vegetables and berries we hope will grow in our garden, Lucia says, "We're going to eat them!" There is marvel and glee in her voice. Yesterday, she got to eat the first strawberry growing behind the cucumber patch. Next month, we should have sweet-peas to eat. Meanwhile, the cucumbers and winter squash will continue to grow. Someday, if all goes well, we'll have blueberries, red raspberries, huckleberries and blueberries in our front yard. In the back yard, we have potatoes in the ground with plans for carrots and chard. Bede took our small pumpkin that was beginning to rot, and buried it in the ground. Maybe we'll have pumpkins this Fall. Maybe not.


The first strawberry

I told HipWriterMama that my "goal for success" for the next 30 days was to walk for 30 minutes a day, but I'm going to have to amend that plan to include 30 minutes of exercise a day. Yesterday afternoon, I overturned grass and dirt in the front-yard for 3 hours. Then, I watered the soil, sprinkled a wealth of wildflower seeds on the dirt, raked them over, and hoped for the best. I am sore all over... again. At Bede's request, I am leaving enough lawn for us to have room for a picnic and a space for Lucia to run around.

In case it wasn't obvious before, I am a big fan of The Secret Garden (with the exception of the ending, when the focus suddenly shifts from Mary Lennox to her cousin Colin).

PM Addendum: My mom just told me that the man (from whom my friend and I stole cucumbers) said that we smashed the cucumbers, and he didn't mind the theft as much as the waste. I cannot begin to tell you how offended I am. We were thieves, not vandals. My friend had a vegetable peeler in her shed, and we used it. Other than the times I smashed the chemistry bottles of the 8 year old boy upon whom I had a crush,** and tore the paper flag belonging to the same boy, I was not a vandal.


*My friend was off-limits only for the day, though I'm sure my mother wanted to institute a lifetime ban.
**I was five years old. The crush was not requited.

Games we play

Check out HipWriterMama's post about the Magic 8 Ball. It made me reminisce about all the terrible things my brothers put each other through with fortune-telling devices. Those terrible things usually involved icky-girls and embarrassing situations involving excess of body hair. Afterward, you can check out 20Q. Then, we can play a rousing game of "Would You Rather..." in the comments section.

In the meantime, I'm off to bed...

Carnival of Children's Literature #14: Fiesta!

Hurrah for Susan Thomsen of Chicken Spaghetti! She put together the 14th Carnival of Children's Literature: The Fiesta Edition. The theme is multiculturalism (oops, I interpreted "fiesta" as a party and submitted an entry in which someone's party got ruined), and there are lots of goodies to enjoy.

Hexadecimal color codes

I recently found a site for Hexadecimal color codes that I actually like in terms of the subtleties in hues. It's helpful for blog tweaking, especially when I'm trying to find just the right shade of white for the background: mint cream, coconut, titanium white, lavender blush, white smoke... oh the possibilies! Currently, the background is "papaya whip."

Disney (TM) can just deal with it

Video: Hijacked Disney Characters Explain Copyright

I wasn't able to watch the entire 10 minute film through because the spliced clips of different characters explaining copyright laws and fair use policies made my teeth rattle in my skull. Still, I'm passing along the article and link to you because copyright, fair use and public domain issues are important to me. You've probably noticed that I stretch the "fair use" clause quite a bit for my children's book parodies. My blog has a Creative Commons license, too. As long as you're not making a profit off of my work (though really, someone should), you're welcome to use the items knocking around in my virtual treasure-chest of stories and songs.

Fiacre in the garden

St. Fiacre is the patron saint of gardeners.* He was an Irish monk from the 7th century AD. He had an extensive knowledge of healing herbs, and throngs of admirers came to learn from him. However, Fiacre wanted to be left alone and fled to France to pursue peace and quiet. St. Faro, the bishop of Meaux, granted Fiacre land for a hermitage near a spring, and said that Fiacre could have as much land as he could entrench in one day. The next day, Fiacre dragged his spade behind him to claim the land he wanted. Everywhere his spade touched, the land was entrenched as if a crew of workers had dug up shrubs and overturned the earth.

When the bishop witnessed the creation of Fiacre’s garden spot, he proclaimed it a miracle. However, a local woman claimed Fiacre used sorcery. While the legend says that henceforth Fiacre excluded all women from his monastery on pain of infirmity to limb, exclusion of women from monasteries was standard practice among the Irish foundations.

I’m thinking of putting a St. Fiacre statue in my garden** (with the idea that, after he died, Fiacre got over his alleged grudge against women). St. Frances and Blessed Virgin Mary statues abound in gardens, and while I’m initially inclined to go with a Mary statue, I’d like something distinctively evocative of living plants and creatures. In Robert Lawson’s Rabbit Hill, the humans place a statue of St. Frances in the garden for the bunnies along with a sign that says, “There is enough for all.” (Yes, in literature, bunnies can read.) However, the St. Fiacre statues often have bunnies sitting by the feet. I like bunnies almost as much as I like bats.

Speaking of things I don’t want sitting by my feet:



In the latest chapter of the War on Slugs, I’ve placed copper tape around the callalilies. The slugs are supposed to get enough of an electric shock that they’ll be repelled and slither away. If it works, copper tape seems to be the humane route to go. Previously, I tried to get the slugs so drunk on cheap beer that they’d just fall into the beer bowl and drown, but I think they just leaned over the sides and took little sips before chomping down on the fresh, crunchy bar-snacks.

*He is also the patron saint of cab-drivers because the Hotel de St. Fiacre in 17th century Paris hired out coaches, and people referred to the coaches as “fiacres.”

**Bede says we need to save our money, so I'm not adding statuary to our garden any time soon... unless Yorkshire Pudding sends me a gnome with the express purpose of harassing slugs. Yikes.

A wee break

Above the tidepools on a beach in Western Washington, circa 1995

I'm taking a few days off to gather new material for the blog. If you want reading material, please check out the links to the fine blogs on the sidebar. Also, if you feel like reading the S & S archives and commenting, please do. All comments will be forwarded directly to my inbox.

Princess finger-puppet

I have a new princess finger-puppet! I'm always searching for finger-puppets that represent people of color other than Caucasian. I especially want multicultural girl finger-puppets to represent the heroines of the fairytales I tell. Self-esteem starts young, and it can be quite disheartening when the general run of princess dolls have light-skin tones.

My new finger-puppet's name is Almira, which means "princess" in Arabic. Keep a lookout for her future appearances in storytimes.

Tweaking the blog

I'm tweaking. Tweaking is the indoor version of "digging and delving." Let me know if certain aspects of the blog are difficult to see. I want the color contrasts to be subtle yet viewable.

Homefront

I've recovered from Lucia's birthday party, and am happy to report that all of my garden plants are still intact. Yesterday, Bede dug a spot for my blueberry and red raspberry bushes. Today, I weeded extensively in the back yard (North) and the West side of our house, planted some new shade and part-shade plants, and dug out a lot of broken glass. Our neighborhood has experienced a lot of crime over the past decades and is in recovery mode now. Our neighbors who have lived here for several generations are concerned about gentrification. I don't want gentrification, but I do want beautification. I pick up a lot of discarded bottles, cans and candy-wrappers on our street. Every time I dig in the yard, I gather large glass shards that have worked its way up from the soil. I feel committed to staying in this neighborhood-- I did plant rhubarb after all-- but there are times when I'm wistful for a setting with fewer issues.

We live in a multicultural neighborhood, and that's the kind of setting in which I want my daughter to grow up. Still, our neighborhood is considered to be "in transition." Many of us have had things stolen from yards, cars broken into, or houses robbed. Some of us have had to deal with other crimes, too. Bede, Lucia and I can take walks in the evening and feel reasonably secure about our safety (as much as anyone can), but Lucia is not allowed to play alone in the front-yard. At one point, some of our neighbors had children, but they've all moved away.

Why do we stay?

1) We bought our house during the 3 seconds that it was a buyer's market in Seattle. At this point, we could easily sell our quirky little house, but we wouldn't be able to afford anything else in the city.
2) We can walk to the library, grocery stores, coffee-shops and other small businesses. We live on a street that has a direct bus-line to Downtown, and most of the time, we need only one car.
4) There is a plethora of Ethiopian restaurants in the area. I grew up in the Washington D.C. Metropolitan area and Ethiopian food was a staple in our family.
5) It takes five years just begin to get settled into one place.

Lemony snippets

Fifteen minutes before the first guests arrived

Here is some reading and viewing material you can peruse while I'm recovering from Lucia's 4th birthday party:

1) Cliques, Friendship and Self-Esteem from Vivian at HipWriterMama

2) A plethora of kangaroo jokes from Lucas, the god-son (corrected from "son") of Adrienne at What Adrienne Thinks About That

3) Musings on Maternal Judgement from my favorite Texan, LoneStarMa, at Lone Star Ma Blog

4) Fancy Girls As Far as the Eye Can See: author Robin Brande attends the Eclipse Prom of Stephenie Meyers

5) Video: MotherReader's and her husband's humorous film-noir called You Pay Your Dues (screenplay by Robin Brande!), made for the 48 Hour Film Project

7) The Goddess of Clarity has a television. I don't. The GoC watches the Oscars and Presidental speeches so I don't have to, and then writes about them. Very handy.

8) Fuse #8 reviews The Snow Baby: The Arctic Childhood of Admiral Robert E. Peary's Daring Daughter, by Katherine Kirkpatrick

9) Matthew Baldwin of Defective Yeti describes the Care and Feeding of Your Game Group. I'm not a big fan of games for two reasons: (1) Competition makes me edgy and I end up despising everyone in the room (2) Bede is a big gamer, and I like it that we have some hobby-interests that don't overlap. Still, in the right setting, I could be persuaded to play some board-games or story-based role-playing games.

10) Video: John Green's earthy edition of Children's Books That Never Were, although he doesn't know he is one of the guest participants in the series--Everyone Poops (In My Pants). I'm a new fan of Brotherhood 2.0 and I'm working to catch up. Hank Green is my favorite of the two brothers because of his silly songs like "Helena, Montana" and "Will You Miss Me When I'm Gone (From Your Pants)?"

11) Jen Robinson's Sunday Afternoon Visits for May 13 (leading to more reading)

The Casual Gourmet's Guide to Farm-Fresh Cats

By special request from Tadmack and Kelly Fineman, here is Children's Books that Never Were, Part 8:


From the editor:

Dear Mr. Santoro,

I just read the partial for your cookbook manuscript called The Casual Gourmet's Guide to Farm-Fresh Cats. I attempted to cook and serve some of the recipes to my staff, but they refused even to taste the dishes I created. The problem, I think, is that we live in the city, and only have access to the canned varieties of the required ingredients. I’ve asked vendors at the farmer’s market if they could bring in some fresh supplies, but so far, I’ve had no luck. Despite these setbacks, I have a good feeling about pitching your manuscript at the next monthly meeting. Maybe if you include some illustrations of the various dishes, we could expand the appeal of the book beyond its core niche audience.

If only I could get my hands on some farm-fresh cats! I may have to do a special order.

Sincerely,
Garrulous MacKenzie
Executive Sub-Junior Editor
SharperRowlings

Robin Brande sent me chocolates today

Every month, author Robin Brande holds a drawing to pick one person who will receive chocolates (or some other treat that won't melt in hot weather). In April, Robin was feeling particularly gregarious, and sent chocolate to a number of lucky recipients. I was one of those people.

Robin, the chocolates came at a time when I really needed a lift. Thank you so much! Of course, I'll have to exercise on the treadmill all the harder to work off the delicious, room-temperature chocolate-flavored butter you sent, but it is a penance I'm glad to undertake.

And yes, I'm sharing with others.

Birthday tears

Briefly happy before setting out for school

I wrote today's post about Lucia's birthday last night. Of course, today is much different from last night. Lucia has had a hard time at school ever since class picture day (the photographer was a bit odd, and the camera flashes were too much). Yesterday, she was so weepy that I had to pick her up early from school. Today, I was the parent helper for all of 90 minutes before I decided to take her home. She just wanted to be held and cuddled, and cried if I wasn't doing it. Up until now, clinginess is not characteristic of Lucia, so something is going on. She may want the coziness she had before she was born, she may feel wigged-out from the change in weather, or there may be something else going on that we just don't know.

Sigh.

In other news, I've done something constructive with the patch of dead lawn we accidentally smooshed last Autumn:



I'll visit blogs later today and comment on the posts. Right now, I'm just beat.

Update: the evening fared much better than the morning.

Stuffed grape leaves and a Nasr-ed-Din story

Lucia’s fourth birthday is today. I asked her what she wanted to bring to class for the special snack, and she said, “Grape leaves.” I made a batch of stuffed grape-leaves from a modified recipe in Claudia Roden’s The New Book of Middle-Eastern Food. The bare-bones, least-you-need-to-know recipe for stuffed grape-leaves is this:

1) Cook 1 1/3 cups rice (I prefer brown).
2) Sprinkle your favorite yummy savory spices and herbs in it, plus a little olive oil and lemon-juice. Toss in a handful of pine-nuts, too, if you have them.
3) Wrap portions of the rice in grape-leaves from a jar pickled in brine.
4) Cover stuffed grape leaves lightly with olive oil and let them mellow for a few days.

You can get fancier than that, if you like. Go wild. Here is a link with photos on how to roll the grape-leaves. I rolled them a bit differently because I was in a hurry and thought I didn't need to consult the directions.

There are three reasons why The New Book of Middle-Eastern Food is my favorite cookbook. The first reason involves the delicious, easy-to-follow recipes: megeddarah (lentils, rice and caramelized onions), spinach pies, dolma (stuffed grape leaves), lahma bi ajeen (meat tarts), and more. Some recipes may take time to make, but they are rarely complicated. Some of the recipes are definitely meant to be made in a community setting: pinching the dough together for a plethora of spinach pies is much more enjoyable when people have conversations.

The second reason why The New Book of Middle-Eastern Food is my favorite cookbook involves the folktales and anecdotes scattered throughout. For example, here is the story called “The Loan of a Cauldron,” taken from Tales of Nasr-ed-Din Khoja, translated by Henry D. Barnham:

One day the Khoja asked a neighbor for the loan of a cauldron. After he had done with it, he put a small saucepan inside and took it back to the owner. When the man saw the small saucepan, he said, “What is this?” and the Khoja answered, “Your cauldron has had a baby.”

“That’s good news!” said the man, and accepted it with pleasure.

Another day the Khoja wanted to borrow the cauldron again and took it home with him.

The owner waited a long time, but he noticed that the cauldron did not come back. Then he went round to the Khoja and knocked at his door. When the Khoja came and asked what he wanted, he answered, “I want that cauldron.”

“Accept my sincere condolences!” said the Khoja, “the cauldron is dead!”

“What!” said his neighbor in the greatest amazement—“dead? Whoever heard of a cauldron dying?”

“Strange!—strange!” replied the Khoja. “You could believe that the cauldron had a baby, and yet you do not believe that it could die!”

You’ll find variations of this story all over the Middle-East, in both Muslim and Jewish cultures. I first learned it as “Yankel the Schnorer (Yiddish for ‘moocher’) and Lazeh the Miser.”

The third reason why The New Book of Middle-Eastern Food is my favorite is because the original edition was a family mainstay. My father's mother cooked from it, my mother cooked from it, and now I cook from it. Someday, Lucia shall cook from it. At least, I presume so, since she likes so many of the things I make from the cookbook.

Happy Birthday, dear Lucia! I hope your classmates at least take a taste of the stuffed grape leaves.

What Books am I Reading?

HipWriterMama tagged me with a pleasantly simple meme regarding the books I'm reading. Here goes:

1) City of Bells--Elizabeth Goudge, first in a trilogy--sequels are Sister of the Angels and The Blue Hills (USA) or Henrietta's House (UK). I like to reread Goudge's novels where children are important characters, even if they aren't the main characters. My mother owns copies of almost all of Goudge's novels. (Thanks, Mom!)

2) How to Get Suspended and Influence People--Adam Setzer (thanks for the recommendation, Kelly Fineman!)

3) The Big Book of Irony--Jon Winokur

I have plenty more books on my library shelf, but I haven't even opened them yet. If you can believe it, I've checked out An Abundance of Katherines twice from the library and didn't get past the first chapter. I was interested in the book, but I got distracted, and then I had to return it. After watched Brotherhood 2.0, though (thanks for the introduction, Fuse!), I'm looking forward to reading it when it comes my way again.

Now, I tag LoneStarMa, Goddess of Clarity, abcgirl, Yorkshire Pudding, and anyone else who wants to participate in the meme.

Little boxes

As of this week, "Little Boxes," by Malvina Reynolds, is Lucia's favorite song. Reynolds wrote the song in 1962 as a criticism of suburban sprawl and the most mundane aspects of middle class values. Pete Seeger's cover of "Little Boxes" is probably the most popular. Here are Reynolds' lyrics:

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
All go to the university,
And they all get put in boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
And there's doctors and there's lawyers
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf-course,
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children,
And the children go to school.
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
And they all get put in boxes
And they all come out the same.

And the boys go into business,
And marry, and raise a family,
And they all get put in boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.

--Malvina Reynolds

When I play the song on the guitar for Lucia, I'm tempted to make the "little boxes" relevant to the modern-day townhouses popping up all over our neighborhood: "There's a beige one, and a beige one, and a beige one, and a BEIGE one...." However, I suspect that the different colors are what Lucia likes best about the song. Warning: this song is an earworm.* Once you get it stuck in your head, it's hard to change tunes. Speaking of earworms, MotherReader is completely to blame for introducing me to Bowling For Soup's "1985". In her defense, it's a good song. Still, my brain has been chewing on it since March.

While I'm singing "Little Boxes," it's easy to think, "Other people may live in little boxes, but I don't." Hah. Throughout my 35 years, I've blended in sometimes and other times have stuck out. Many of times I've stuck out have been miserable. The one week in 6th grade in which I wore designer jeans like "everyone else's" designer jeans. By the end of the week, there was some whispering and jeering about how I'd worn the same pair of jeans every day (I had). I snidely told them, "No, I have three other pairs of the same kind of jeans in my closet." They believed me. They actually believed me. I had nothing but contempt for them. I also felt a little sorry for myself (as if from a distance) because I'd wanted to blend in so badly.

Times changed. I had peers who thought it was cool to like bands that no one else knew about. Once those bands found commercial success, any one who learned about the bands afterward was just following the mainstream.

Yawn. "Little boxes, little boxes, little boxes all the same." But hey, I'm fine with living in a little box, as long as it's my little box, and I get to decorate it how I like. I guess I'm not heading for the gated community up the hill any time soon.

*I just found out that the Portuguese term for a song getting stuck in one's head is called chiclete de ouvido, or "ear chewing-gum."

Tales from the briar patch

Are you familiar with Julius Lester's retellings of the Uncle Remus stories? If not, you're missing out. Cloudscome of a wrung sponge has a good introduction (and links) to the Brer Rabbit stories of African-American folklore:
Uncle Remus

CBTNW, Part 7: Revenge of the Carrot Seed

The notoriously underappreciated Garrulous MacKenzie has graciously consented to reveal a manuscript that endured substantial editing before publication. The manuscript, plus MacKenzie's letter, comprise this edition of Children's Books That Never Were.


From the editor:

Dear Ruth Krauss and Crockett Johnson,

I am pleased that two masterminds of children’s literature have teamed up to create one book for the youth. I do have some concerns over the text, and am wondering if you inadvertently sent me a rough draft. Mrs. Kraus, I recommend making the text as minimalist as possible. Mr. Johnson, your illustrations are spot-on with the exception of the father smoking a pipe. My “young people” sources say that, in six months, pipes will be obsolete in favor of cigarettes. You don’t want your illustrations to look dated!

Sincerely yours,
Garrulous MacKenzie
Editor-at-Large

The rough draft:

Revenge of the Carrot Seed

A little boy planted a carrot seed.

His mother sipped a martini and said, “I’m afraid carrots only come from the supermarket.”

His father smoked a pipe and said, “I’m afraid carrots only come from a can.”

And his big brother said, “Why would you want to grow your own vegetables? They’re yucky. Have a candy bar instead.”

Every day the boy tended to his garden. Nothing came up. And nothing came up. The boy’s short-sighted, unsupportive, bourgeois family kept saying, “Give up already, kid.”

But every day the boy tended to his garden.

And then one day, a carrot came up.

The carrot was so large that it bounced several times and smashed through the living room window.

This ruined the mother’s and father’s cocktail-party… just as the little boy had known it would.

May Faire celebration

May-pole dance at Lucia's school


Flowers in our hair

THE MAY-POLE
by Robert Herrick

The May-pole is up,
Now give me the cup,
I'll drink to the garlands around it ;
But first unto those
Whose hands did compose
The glory of flowers that crown'd it.

A health to my girls,
Whose husbands may earls
Or lords be, granting my wishes,
And when that ye wed
To the bridal bed,
Then multiply all, like to fishes.


Note to my daughter: please, please wait a good while before you indulge in the 2nd paragraph verse. I'm in no hurry for you to grow up more quickly than you already are.

(Lucia turns 4 on May 10.)

Yet another Giving Tree rant

Today was Grandparents Day (and “special persons" day) at Lucia’s school. Bede took Lucia to the assembly while I went to my doctor’s appointment. Afterward, Bede told me that it was a good thing I hadn’t been there. One of the grades did interpretive dance to The Giving Tree. Lucia’s teacher told Bede, “I just love this story. It’s so sad.” Lucia was peeved when the dancing trees disappeared, and said, “Want the trees to come back!” The trees did return, but only to take a bow (no pun intended).

It’s a good thing I am an open-minded parent who is willing for my child to be introduced to concepts with which I don’t necessarily agree. In case you couldn’t tell, I wrote that last sentence with clenched teeth hidden behind a scowl. Some people might say, “Oh, why are you sad, twisted-minded people getting bent out of shape over The Giving Tree? It’s just a simple children’s story. La, la, la.”

To which I would reply, “Oh, why are you people getting bent out of shape over a little badly written conspiracy novel about Jesus Christ?”

Then, they might retort, “That novel WAS a big deal. After all, it twisted a lot of things about Christ.”

Then, I would say, “Oh yeah? Well, a lot of people equate the tree in The Giving Tree with Christ. But guess what: love is not a quantifiable commodity. If The Giving Tree were truly about Christ and unconditional love, the tree would have grown more apples. By all that is good and holy, the tree wouldn’t have been depleted when the boy picked her apples. When the boy chopped down her branches and trunk, she would have grown anew after three days. If you want apt allegories, make sure your metaphors actually line up.”

The naysayers would then reply, “Oh, Alkelda, I never looked at it that way. You’re right, you’re right, you’re right.”

Then, I would take a bow.

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink

Photo of the House of Glee's wedding feast by C.B. Bell III

Welcome back to Poetry Friday. Here's a poem for the Young Adult literature crowd:

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It may well be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

Update: The Poetry Friday Roundup is here.

Isidore, O Isidore

St. Isidore statue quoting Tolkein

It's one thing to send chain-emails to friends promising good luck if the friends forward the emails on. It's quite another thing to threaten bad luck if the friends delete the emails. In fact, it's a really shoddy. Even people who are free of "magical thinking" understand how ill-wishers can drag their spirits down.

Today, I've got something for everyone. If you just want something to clear the virtual stench of email bullying, say and/or think this:

I absorb the good.
I deflect the bad.
I make my own luck.

Then, delete the email.

If you want a saint to intercede on your behalf, call upon St. Isidore, the top nominee for the patron saint of the internet. Personally, I'd prefer someone who wasn't notorious for converting Jews to Christians by force. No one said saints were perfect, but still: yuck. This is why I prefer many of the apocryphal saints. They've got less historical baggage.

Anyway, here is a little rhyming prayer for St. Isidore's intercession in the realm of negative emails only:

Isidore, O Isidore,
Please, without fail,
Be our guide forevermore:
Banish this email.

Then, delete the email.

The Sidhe in the Cairns

Photograph of a cairn by Tinelot Wittermans

One of my professors in college lead a bi-annual 3-week bicycling trip through Ireland. I would have loved to have gone, but the timing was never right when I plotted out my schedule for the required spring term classes. I enjoyed hearing his stories about the travels, though. He told me that once, he talked with a farmer who carefully mowed around the cairns on his land. The farmer said he mowed around the cairns so as not to disturb the Sidhe who lived within. "Do you believe in the Sidhe?" my professor asked.

"No!" the farmer scoffed. Then, he leaned toward my professor and said quietly, "But that doesn't mean they don't exist."

In search of a wee bungalow

I'd like to help build Lucia a little outdoor playhouse. I don't want anything like this or this, but would prefer to build something more like this (or even simpler). If any of you have any recommendations or experiences to share regarding the building of playhouses, please let me know about them in the comment section. As much as I admire fancy dollhouses, I think outdoor playhouses should be simple and leave much to the imagination. Also, building them shouldn't cost as much as a down-payment on a bathroom renovation. Please. Then again, I'm sure I could happily trade in any house renovation plans for this:


I found the photo here.

"Make Me a Willow [Chair] At Your Gate"

There is a spot in my yard by the front gate where nothing grows to fullness. Every plant I have rooted in the corner has gone belly-up. Even the weeds don't favor the spot. A couple of days ago, I placed a flower pot of new compost in the corner and placed a part-shade plant inside it. I'm not sure, but I think the plant died almost immediately. Several inches away from the spot, the bleeding-heart plant flourishes. (Also, you can see a little bit of moss on the edge near the sidewalk.) On the other side of the fence, our neighbor's part-shade plants are lush from the Puget Sound spring rain.

Yesterday, I gave up on anything of substance growing there. I bought a little willow chair for Lucia and placed it in the corner. It can be her contemplation spot, if she likes.