Not For Everyone

Before it was named as one of The New York Times 5 best non-fiction books of 2008, I was intrigued by this book because of its subject matter. I doubt I could have read it a year ago. Surely I would have put it down after a few pages, had I even been willing to pick it up in the first place.

The book is Nothing To Be Frightened Of by Julian Barnes, a writer I have inexplicably read nothing by. One of his novels sits on my bookshelf, but how it got there is anybody's guess. I'll be reading this novel soon because this guy's hilarious.

Barnes muses about death and dying in Nothing to Be Frightened Of. Despite the book's title, death frightens the bejeezus out of him. Barnes examines how other writers/philosophers/thinkers have viewed the act of dying, and what, if anything, awaits in the hereafter. He considers the deaths of his grandparents and parents. He tries to think about his own extinction, over and over again in 200-plus pages, but the nothingness of it all unnerves him.

Barnes grapples with growing older and what inevitably follows by remembering his close relatives in their dotage and decline, a look-see into his own awaiting fate. His use of the phrase "rickety-gnashered" to describe an elderly person's teeth had me hooked on page one. The book is full of pithy comments and leans toward an absurdist view of the world, a view I feel fairly comfortable with. Although I don't think Barnes has quite enough material to justify a full-length book (he repeats himself a lot, basically turning over and over the same stone and observing it in minute detail), he writes about memory and story-telling in, for me, compelling ways. His basic tenet that memory is as rickety a structure as a set of aged and decaying teeth, and therefore unreliable, is countered by the notion that one can reconstruct the past through re-imagining it. Barnes is after all a novelist, and hopes that his stories, though made up, reveal some basic truths about life.

My personal travels through the world of serious illness have actually made death-gazing somewhat easier for me. I've looked into the yawning pit that awaits us all and become somewhat more comfortable living with the idea of my/our inevitable fate. Not that I support it or look forward to it in any way. It's still an unglamorous and unfortunate end to a marvelous piece of work. My thinking about death has followed an evolutionary spiral resulting in abstract acceptance or at least resignation. A year ago, two years ago, even three, I wasn't so sanguine. Nor was I even looking in that direction.

In short, if you have the stomach to meditate a bit on death and dying, I recommend Nothing To Be Frightened Of. Maybe the author's repetitiveness is a deliberate literary device. Maybe we need to be repeatedly knocked over the head with sentences at once blunt and finely edged to make any dent at all in our inability or unwillingness to consider our own demise.

Word on the Lake

I'm a house guest at a roomy cottage on the shore of Lake Naomi, which I can see from where I sit. Frozen swirls of gray tone, slightly menacing, make me content to remain indoors sipping tea and indulging in a string of lazy activities. Not activities exactly, because there's little action of any sort. Slogs and sloths come to mind, but they at least purposefully albeit very slowly, go about their business, which is survival. We should be so challenged. Shall I knit another row or two? Perhaps read a few more pages in Nothing To Be Frightened Of, a book best digested in small chunks because its theme is the certainty of extinction and how one might process the troubling notion? Have yet another cup of tea, or merely exist zen-like as the day fades? Think about dinner; think about it some more. Will there be dinner? Observe the dogs chasing dream rabbits while the wind chimes taunt, bet you can't name this tune. It's like a morgue in here, or a library. Fellow do-nothingers lounge around turning pages, processing a thought here and there, tapping into the oblivion groove. All of a sudden it's 4 pm and no one can account for where the day has gone, let alone explain the sentence they've just read. The sun slips from the sky, and a laptop glows white, a modern fire pit emitting no heat. A word sits frozen on the lake, then flaps off into the night, unread.

Better With Butter

This is a fluff piece.

I grew up with butter, not margarine. My mother loved butter so much, she would sometimes slice a chunk off the stick and pop it in her mouth. My husband grew up with margarine. It took a few years to work out the details of this culinary divide, but butter naturally won.

A recent article about the chosen fat in The New York Times says nothing beats butter when it comes to baking cookies and other yummies. I know this to be true. What I didn't know was the science behind my favorite fat.

Careful attention to butter's properties will result in better baked products. I've been doing all the right things over the years but frankly, I didn't know the secret to my success. Better brush up on your butter management skills if you want your time and money investment to pay off.

The good news is, most sweet eaters could care less about flake factor, and sugar trumps flavor every time. I don't know if I could tell the difference between a cookie baked with margarine and one made with a pedigreed butter. Even if I could, I wouldn't turn up my nose at a home-baked or bakery cookie, although I admit to being a food snob. I refuse to eat packaged cookies.

In my kitchen you'll only find butter, cholesterol be damned. As for the product "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" all I can only say is, oh, really?

My Readers Recommend ...

Since my post about book disappointments, reader recommendations have been appearing in my email box. For those of you looking for a good read, I thought I'd list some of the books here.

My niece Rebecca suggests a short story collection by Elizabeth McCracken, Here's Your Hat What's Your Hurry. Niagara Falls All Over Again, by the same author, is a novel she hasn't read but heard is "terrific." Allegedly, the book pokes fun at Iowa, which is where Rebecca has lived for the past year or so.

My friend Emma, also a fan of Zadie Smith's White Teeth, says Small Island by Andrea Levy explores a similar theme. Here are some of Emma's other recommendations:
Harbour by Lorraine Adams
Blindness by Jose Saramago (which I read in a book group way back when)
The Book Thief by Markus Zusack (on my bookshelf)
The Sisters by Mary Lovell
Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky (which I read and enjoyed)

My college roommate Judy liked The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, which I've meant to read but just haven't gotten my hands on it yet.

I wrote down the name of a book recommended by my friend Patty last week, but can't seem to locate it. However, another book she suggested a while back is When the Ground Turns in Its Sleep by Sylvia Sellers-Garcia.

Happy reading!

Lobster Bisque and the Angry Angry Sea

My friend Jim is visiting from Florida, and yesterday he asked me if I've ever written about him. Jim, this one's for you.

It was back in the bad old Brooklyn days that I got to know Jim and his wife Karen. They'd moved into the brownstone next door the same day we'd moved into ours. It was Jim who "invented" Block Island, taking full credit not just for turning us on to a beautiful vacation spot, but for the explosion of the island's popularity back in the 80's. Jim has invented a number of wonderful things, including our dogs. I'll save that tale for another day.

The only way to get to Block Island is by boat or by airplane. We used to drive up from New York to either New London, CT or Point Judith, RI to catch the ferry. Point Judith is a small seedy town that hasn't changed in the 20 years we've been sailing to Block Island. It's only a 30 minute drive from where we now live, so my husband and I have had a chance to go there numerous times to enjoy a bowl of chowda and pick up some fresh seafood. When Jim suggested we go out for lunch today, Point Judith was the obvious auld-lang-syne choice.

Not much is open in Point Judith in December. The fudge and taffy shacks are shuttered. The old-style motel is particularly forlorn. Fishing boats come and go, and a couple of wind-blown eateries churn out typical seaside fare.

We went to Champlin's, a two-story glorified clam shack. Jim chose the white clam chowder, and I had the lobster bisque. The chowder, which we learned was made with non-dairy creamer, was mediocre, but my bisque was nonpareil.

The sea put on a provocative floor show while we dined. The previous day's storm was just winding down, and the water in the channel and the sea beyond was as moody and restless as a teenaged boy. We watched the Block Island ferry navigate out to open waters, shoved and slapped by frosty waves. I've been on that boat in heavy seas and it's not for the queasy. Most passengers drape themselves over lower-deck benches, their groans echoed in the sturm and drang of the straining ship. It's an interminable hour of bilious bobbing, with Block Island hovering on the horizon, a destination at once longed for and loathed.

Later in the afternoon, my stomach churned like the waters off Point Judith. Jim, though he'd been disappointed with his bowl of soup, was fine. Maybe I should have played it safe and gone with the chowder, even if it was made with a scoop of scary chemicals.

The Book Worm Turns

Because I love to read, many people ask me to recommend books for them. Usually I have one or two up my sleeve that I’m excited about and would like to share with others. Lately though I seem to be in a literary doldrums. I pick up books, put them down, pick them up again and muddle through. I’m currently reading The City of Fallen Angels by John Berendt. At two or three pages a night, it’s been a slow go.

Maybe I need to join a book group. I haven’t been in one for years. My favorite book group goes back to my Costa Rica days. We always seemed to read something compelling, or at least worth discussing for 30 minutes until we veered off into children, school issues, husbands. The wife of the U.S. ambassador was in our group, and it was always a treat when she was hosting due to the posh surroundings, serious furnishings and wine delivered on silver trays.

One of the first things I did when I returned to the States was join a book group. It did not go well. There’s an article about book groups gone sour in The Sunday New York Times called “Fought Over Any Good Books Lately?" Since I’ve been in four groups in my six years in Rhode Island, I fancy myself a bit of an expert on this subject. I’m kind of surprised they didn’t call and ask for a pithy quote.

My local New Neighbors Club sponsored two book groups. I decided to try the morning group because I’m a morning person, my eyes glazing over after 8 pm. I happily read Zadie Smith’s White Teeth for my first meeting. When I arrived at the gathering I was shocked to see so many cars. I was used to book groups with ten or twelve people in them. Some 30 women had showed up to discuss White Teeth. I was a bit intimidated.

What I soon realized though was that most of the women had come for breakfast and to socialize. This became even more apparent when we sat down to talk about the book. We arranged ourselves in a giant circle, and one by one, people shared their thoughts about White Teeth. I thought this would take forever, but I was wrong. Most people hadn’t finished the book or even read it at all, and so had very little to say. The few comments offered were for the most part negative.

I’d loved the book and felt at once disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm and unsure about what I should talk about when at long last it was my turn. I didn’t want to cast myself as some sort of literary snob (which I am), not at my first meeting anyway. I ended up admitting I’d really liked the book and gave a few reasons why. I tried not to be too insightful, so as not to alienate members of my new social group.

Things went from bad to worse. The following month we gathered to discuss The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk. I had thought the book was cloying, preachy and not worth my time. As we went around the circle, however, it quickly became clear that I was in the minority once again. I’ve made sure not to see the recent movie made from the book, although it’s probably a better movie than book.

I quit this group and drifted in an out of others. I began to think it was me, but I reminded myself that I’d left the Costa Rica book group only because I’d left the country. Interestingly, some of the members of that group still ask me what I’m reading and give me their recommendations. I guess the most important thing about a book group is that the members have similar reading tastes and actually want to discuss the book at hand instead of the new Trader Joe’s that's opened.

I'm looking for a few good readers.

You May Ask Yourself, How Did I Get Here?

I often ask myself this David Byrnesian question.

"Here" in my case is Rhode Island, which bears an uncanny resemblance to the area on Long Island where I grew up. I've spent most of my adult life trying to distance myself from my plain vanilla childhood. It seems all I've done is trade Long for Rhode, vanilla for coffee. Oddly, coffee is the flavor of choice in these here parts.

Let me explain. There was very little diversity in my little town back in the 1960's, early 1970's. I found living there to be incredibly dull and stifling, and couldn't wait to escape. I attended college in Buffalo, New York which broadened my horizons somewhat. Canada was just 20 minutes away, and we often crossed the border for Chinese food. I moved to New York City after I graduated, and hit the diversity jackpot.

My husband and I eventually bought a house in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, which at the time was a predominately black neighborhood. Our block was a melting pot of young, old, gay, straight, black, white, rich, poor. It was a great place for young families trying to avoid the same old same old.

Eleven years and three kids later, we up and moved to Costa Rica. My Sesame Street Spanish didn't get me very far, and I soon realized that our American lifestyle wasn't going to fly in a quasi third world country. I got used to the chaos of electrical, water and telephone outages, severe weather events and wildlife where you least expected it. I coped with the cow paths they called roads, taking pains to avoid the cows. I resigned myself to really bad cheese, terrible bread, and beef so tough you had to cook it for days. In short, I loved it. We lived like kings, albeit kings who lived in a prior century.

Now I'm back to living in a colonial-style house in a wooded setting. The whole lawn thing. Nowhere you can realistically walk to. Predictable, orderly, smooth. My kids plot their escape to college.

And you may ask yourself
Am I right? ...am I wrong?
And you may tell yourself
My god!...what have I done?

Your Holiday Obama Calendar

As a campaign donor, I still receive the mass emails that flow freely from the Obama for America website. I just got one hawking four-year holiday calendars, the proceeds of which go to the Democratic National Committee.

Excuse me while I cringe.

I'm assuming Obama keeps his clothes on in the photos gracing this latest cash cow. There's a price to pay for historical firsts: $49.95 for a front page reprint of the post-election The New York Times; $124.95 if framed. It seems everyone wants to sell a piece of history.

Obamabilia takes many forms: crockery, coins, photos, t-shirts, action toys, and my favorite, a bobblehead for your car's rear dash collection. The DNC may be behind the merchandising curve, but their mailing list is more targeted than a heat-seeking missile. I'm sure they'll sell a lot of calendars.

I'll get over it.

Spamalittle

Every once in a while I check the spam folder on my google mail account. It's never really necessary to look in this folder unless you're worried that legitimate mail has been mistakenly snared. The folder has an auto delete mechanism that dumps the trashy missives after say a week. You can also manually delete junk mail, a strangely satisfying act whereby you click the delete forever button. But everyone knows that spam is immortal and just slips into somebody else's mailbox.

This morning I noticed there are eleven quarantined messages in my spam folder whereas there are usually only two or three. Curious, I decided to take a look at the latest offerings.

Seven messages push Viagra, which like spam, seems to be everywhere. Three hawk faux luxury watches, particularly "Ro1exes." The one that caught my eye though was from Bambi Nubia. Ms. Nubia assures me that no degree and no job are no problem because I can buy prestigious certificates based on my life experience. Finally, my life's work will be recognized. Since "the more degrees you have the better your chances and prospects in life," I really should take advantage of the buy-one-get-one-free special. Anyone, it seems can be an M.D., maven of dreck.

With my purchased credentials, maybe I can get a copywriting gig like Bambi, hawking hope at discount prices. Despair not, all you poor losers out there, have I got a deal for you!

What, you don't like spam?!