Last night as I searched Netflix for something to watch, I stumbled upon a film entitled, "Lost in Austen."
It is a clever little comedy about a young British woman's obsession with Pride and Prejudice. The gal, Amanda Price, compares all suitors to Darcy and retreats to her dog-eared copy of P&P and a glass of wine when in need of comfort. As a quirky twist of fate/fantasy would have it, Elizabeth Bennet finds a portal to our world that opens up into Amanda's bathroom, and you can imagine how the rest of the film unfolds. I certainly won't spoil it for you here!
Watching "Lost in Austen" last night made me think about my own love of Austen and P&P (which I have taught each Spring for the last five years). I marvel at the book on so many levels, not the least of which is how on earth Jane managed to write such a cleverly plotted novel without the aid of a computer which would have allowed her to cut and paste. As a writer, I am awed by her ability to create such lengthy and intricate works in longhand...not to mention by candlelight!!!
Mostly, I am amazed at how well she knew people and how clearly she could observe them and then render them on the page. She must have felt, in some ways, like an outsider as she was always watching and assessing in her brilliant mind. Perhaps, it was both a gift and a handicap because the love that she described in her stories was never hers to experience in life. Although, the 2007 film, "Becoming Jane" does try to suggest that Austen had an aborted romance with a young man named Tom Lefroy, there really isn't proof to substantiate that. We are left imagining that she knew what love should feel like, even if she was never lucky enough to feel it herself.
I wonder sometimes about my own introspective nature which can cause me to review my life rather than merely living it. While it is a trait that allows me to think deeply and empathize with others, it can also hold me back from being a fully engaged participant in my own life. My interest in yoga is in part due to the fact that it forces me to be fully present in the moment, and in my body,...breath by breath.
To me, the thing that most captivates us about P&P is the exploration of love. All humans crave companionship; we are seeking our other halves. Austen describes the process so cleverly that we feel lucky to have her as our guide. Darcy and Elizabeth don't love each other immediately; rather, they grow to love each other in spite of their flaws (his pride/her prejudice). While other couples (like Jane and Bingley) seem to fall in love more easily, we feel that they are somehow less complex creatures and that those of us who are intricate individuals have lots of murky water to navigate as we find our way towards each other. When love between Darcy and Elizabeth is finally realized, the reader feels relief and jubilation: we trust that they will be together forever. Luckily for us, there was no sequel where Elizabeth ran off with the stable boy or Darcy got one of the young chambermaids pregnant. No, Darcy and Elizabeth will be in love for all time....and we are all the better for it!
One of the funny elements that the film explored was this idea that Darcy, in all his sulky, brooding arrogance, is attractive to women. Honestly, last night's Darcy and Colin Firth (in my favorite film adaptation of P&P) both scowl and glare for the majority of the movie. Are we women really drawn to angry, humorless men? I don't think so. But Darcy's seriousness is appealing; he is a man not a boy, and that is immediately apparent. Also, I think, there is a female fantasy that we will bring joy to this sad, serious man. We want to be the one that makes him laugh, that puts a smile on his face, that loosens him up. He is mysterious...like a package wrapped in plain paper that we know hides a treasure. Of course, it didn't hurt that Darcy was also tall, dark and handsome as are most heroes in literature and lore. In fact, I'll admit that I wouldn't mind a TDH hero of my own at the moment...even if his dark hair is now grey or completely gone :)
I can't end this exploration of Austen's appeal without mentioning one of my very favorite feel-good films: the 2004 Bollywood adaptation of P&P, "Bride and Prejudice." Complete with kitschy costumes, exotic locales, and full-blown musical numbers, "Bride and Prejudice" is a hilarious take on P&P and shows how totally universal Austen's stories are. Warning: You cannot watch this movie and still be in a bad mood!
One final thought: Though Jane Bennet is described as beautiful and good, most women readers identify with Elizabeth who is clever and headstrong. While Lizzy can make mistakes and misjudge people, she can also face the truth even when it is unpleasant. She has an inner strength which is laudable and a confidence that most women envy. When Darcy first insults her at the ball by saying that "she is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt {him}," Lizzy doesn't burst into tears or run screaming from the room. Instead, she walks over to her friends and tells "the story with great spirit... for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous."
Bravo, Lizzy!! Let us all learn to channel our inner Elizabeth Bennet, to be confident in our own skin, to
be wise and witty women who never settle for mediocrity when true love is possible!
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Saturday, September 3, 2011
How Do We Remember People We Have Lost?
Tomorrow, I will attend Esther's wedding. I will be there, and her mother, Naomi, will not.
Esther is Naomi's oldest child, her only daughter, and I know that Naomi would have given anything to be with Esther on this important day. Naomi lost her brave battle against breast cancer about 9 or 10 years ago, but it doesn't feel as if she has been gone for that long.
I remember when I first met Naomi. She and her husband Jay were hosting a young couple's group at their home and Esther and Craig were toddlers running around and Naomi looked so glamorous and comfortable as a hostess; I was mesmerized. Later, when her son Craig and my oldest son, Josh, became best friends, she and I became incredibly close. Our families would gather for dinner at one of our homes at least once a week. Naomi was a unique soul; she was a talented singer and there was always something a bit theatrical about her. She was incredibly stylish and loved the world of fashion and glamour. Yet, she was also incredibly down to earth and amazingly real. She was an intensely loyal friend and those moments are some of the ones that stand out the most to me.
I remember one summer, I came down with a terrible stomach virus and I started feeling faint. All three kids were home and Emily was probably under two. My parents were out of town, my husband was at work and planned on attending a work-related party that evening which he said he wouldn't be able to miss. I felt so frightened that I would pass out and the kids would be unattended. As soon as Naomi answered her phone, as soon as I heard her chipper voice, I felt safe. She said she'd be right over, and she took all three kids plus her three kids to the pool for the day. That night, she brought them back and ordered pizza and got everyone fed. She certainly didn't feel that she had done anything extraordinary; but the truth was, I felt loved and safe that day in the way that only those who really know and love us can make us feel.
Each year on my birthday, Naomi would set a date to take me to Neiman Marcus. Honestly, it was probably the only time all year that I would go there. Naomi knew the women who worked the makeup counters, and she would have them treat me like I was a visiting queen. Naomi loved makeup and knew everything about the fancy brands. She would have them give me a makeover, and then she would treat me to a few of the products as my birthday gift. Then, we would go upstairs to the cafe and have a very grown up ladies' lunch. I cherished those annual outings and looked so forward to them each year. Naomi knew how to make a person feel special.
Something happened to our friendship though as the years went on. As my marriage darkened, I found her unwilling or unable to explore the sad bold truth about my life. Naomi always wanted to see life's glitter; she never wanted to look too closely at the dust underneath. Maybe this was a survival mechanism for her. She had difficult, narcissistic parents who had not completely protected their three daughters. As the oldest sister, Naomi felt the brunt of much of that I think.
Then, when she was diagnosed with cancer, she fought like crazy to shield her own three young children from the terrible reality. I completely understood that fierce maternal desire, but it extended beyond her kids to other relationships as well, and I found it hard to have real talks with her. Sometimes, she seemed secretive; other times, she seemed in denial. I blame her for neither; she was just trying to survive. The problem was, my marriage was filled with secrets and denial, and I was trying desperately to brave my way into a new more honest place. Naomi couldn't go there with me, so we drifted apart.
She had been in remission for several years, and I had not heard that she had taken a turn for the worse. We had spent most of that summer in Cape Cod, and when we returned, Josh and Craig were leaving to go to a Maccabi youth group event out of town. Jay came over to pick something up that Craig had left at our house, and when I answered the door, he looked terrible. "She's in the hospital," he said "and you need to go see her tomorrow." I was shocked at his insistency and knew that things were so much worse than I could've imagined.
The next morning on my way to the hospital, I stopped at the drugstore and bought every fashion magazine they had. Clutching the Vogue, Harper's Bazaar and other periodicals in my hands, I got off the elevator on Naomi's floor. The nurse directed me to a room, but when I peeked in the door, I was sure that they had made a mistake. The woman sleeping in the bed must have weighed 80 pounds and looked so frail and so unlike my vibrant friend that I would never have recognized her. The nurse saw me hesitate at the door and gently pushed me into the room. "Go on in," she said. "She'll wake up."
Naomi opened her eyes and smiled at me."You're back," she said. To this day, I get teary-eyed when I remember that moment. I guess she meant that I was back from the Cape, but what I heard was: Now you're back with me, you're back in my life.
I put the magazines on the window sill feeling silly for having brought them. This was not a woman who was going to leisurely page through a copy of Vogue turning down the corners to mark things to buy.
We talked about our kids. I tried very hard to be strong; I tried not to cry. "They say things are getting better," she said. "I'll be out of here soon." She died that night.
Tomorrow, I will feel Naomi's presence as I watch her beautiful daughter walk down the aisle. I will sense her as I see her handsome, happy sons take part in the wedding. I will celebrate the moment as she would want us all to--filled with an overwhelming sense of joy and gratitude.
Esther is Naomi's oldest child, her only daughter, and I know that Naomi would have given anything to be with Esther on this important day. Naomi lost her brave battle against breast cancer about 9 or 10 years ago, but it doesn't feel as if she has been gone for that long.
I remember when I first met Naomi. She and her husband Jay were hosting a young couple's group at their home and Esther and Craig were toddlers running around and Naomi looked so glamorous and comfortable as a hostess; I was mesmerized. Later, when her son Craig and my oldest son, Josh, became best friends, she and I became incredibly close. Our families would gather for dinner at one of our homes at least once a week. Naomi was a unique soul; she was a talented singer and there was always something a bit theatrical about her. She was incredibly stylish and loved the world of fashion and glamour. Yet, she was also incredibly down to earth and amazingly real. She was an intensely loyal friend and those moments are some of the ones that stand out the most to me.
I remember one summer, I came down with a terrible stomach virus and I started feeling faint. All three kids were home and Emily was probably under two. My parents were out of town, my husband was at work and planned on attending a work-related party that evening which he said he wouldn't be able to miss. I felt so frightened that I would pass out and the kids would be unattended. As soon as Naomi answered her phone, as soon as I heard her chipper voice, I felt safe. She said she'd be right over, and she took all three kids plus her three kids to the pool for the day. That night, she brought them back and ordered pizza and got everyone fed. She certainly didn't feel that she had done anything extraordinary; but the truth was, I felt loved and safe that day in the way that only those who really know and love us can make us feel.
Each year on my birthday, Naomi would set a date to take me to Neiman Marcus. Honestly, it was probably the only time all year that I would go there. Naomi knew the women who worked the makeup counters, and she would have them treat me like I was a visiting queen. Naomi loved makeup and knew everything about the fancy brands. She would have them give me a makeover, and then she would treat me to a few of the products as my birthday gift. Then, we would go upstairs to the cafe and have a very grown up ladies' lunch. I cherished those annual outings and looked so forward to them each year. Naomi knew how to make a person feel special.
Something happened to our friendship though as the years went on. As my marriage darkened, I found her unwilling or unable to explore the sad bold truth about my life. Naomi always wanted to see life's glitter; she never wanted to look too closely at the dust underneath. Maybe this was a survival mechanism for her. She had difficult, narcissistic parents who had not completely protected their three daughters. As the oldest sister, Naomi felt the brunt of much of that I think.
Then, when she was diagnosed with cancer, she fought like crazy to shield her own three young children from the terrible reality. I completely understood that fierce maternal desire, but it extended beyond her kids to other relationships as well, and I found it hard to have real talks with her. Sometimes, she seemed secretive; other times, she seemed in denial. I blame her for neither; she was just trying to survive. The problem was, my marriage was filled with secrets and denial, and I was trying desperately to brave my way into a new more honest place. Naomi couldn't go there with me, so we drifted apart.
She had been in remission for several years, and I had not heard that she had taken a turn for the worse. We had spent most of that summer in Cape Cod, and when we returned, Josh and Craig were leaving to go to a Maccabi youth group event out of town. Jay came over to pick something up that Craig had left at our house, and when I answered the door, he looked terrible. "She's in the hospital," he said "and you need to go see her tomorrow." I was shocked at his insistency and knew that things were so much worse than I could've imagined.
The next morning on my way to the hospital, I stopped at the drugstore and bought every fashion magazine they had. Clutching the Vogue, Harper's Bazaar and other periodicals in my hands, I got off the elevator on Naomi's floor. The nurse directed me to a room, but when I peeked in the door, I was sure that they had made a mistake. The woman sleeping in the bed must have weighed 80 pounds and looked so frail and so unlike my vibrant friend that I would never have recognized her. The nurse saw me hesitate at the door and gently pushed me into the room. "Go on in," she said. "She'll wake up."
Naomi opened her eyes and smiled at me."You're back," she said. To this day, I get teary-eyed when I remember that moment. I guess she meant that I was back from the Cape, but what I heard was: Now you're back with me, you're back in my life.
I put the magazines on the window sill feeling silly for having brought them. This was not a woman who was going to leisurely page through a copy of Vogue turning down the corners to mark things to buy.
We talked about our kids. I tried very hard to be strong; I tried not to cry. "They say things are getting better," she said. "I'll be out of here soon." She died that night.
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| Josh and Craig (about 20 years ago)!! |
Sunday, August 28, 2011
How can we learn to be resilient?
Wednesday night the phone rang and it was Emily. I had spoken to her earlier that day. It had been the first day of her sophomore year of college, her first day of classes at UT. She had found out the night before that she'd gotten into the sorority she'd wanted. It seemed things were working out incredibly well for her, and I had taken a deep mom sigh of relief and gratitude.
Then, Wednesday night, the phone rang. She was in the emergency room. She had fainted and fallen and needed stitches and knocked out part of her front teeth. We later found out that a third tooth was loose as well. The doctor was doing a Cat Scan to determine whether or not she had had a concussion.
When I first heard her voice, I thought she was playing a prank on me. After all, we'd just spoken a few hours earlier and she and her big brothers are notoriously famous for telling me false awful news to hear (what they would deem) my classic "Jewish Mother Style" overreactions. Her friend had to take the phone to convince me that she was really in the emergency room. For the remainder of the night, I mainly communicated with her friends through multiple texts and calls since her lips were so swollen that it was hard for her to talk.
Emily has amazing friends, and luckily, several of them (Mikey, Scarlet & Rachel) were in Austin and were able to race to her side. They kept her company and advocated on her behalf. It became apparent to all of them that Emily was not being given quick and appropriate treatment. Perhaps it was because they were not accompanied by an adult. Perhaps it was because the hospital staff assumed, since the accident happened at a party in a college town, that Emily had been drinking.
When the results from the blood tests they administered came back, it was clear that Emily had fainted from dehydration NOT inebriation. In fact, her blood alcohol level was ZERO! It was a freak accident. She had been in the sun. She had not been staying hydrated. She had not eaten much that day, and she fainted onto a very hard concrete surface without any sort of warning or time to brace herself for the fall.
Wednesday night, feeling too far away and helpless, I called the only adult I knew in Austin, a dear family friend, and secured the name of their family dentist. She offered to go to the hospital, but at that point, the results of the Cat Scan had shown that Emily did not have a concussion and they were going to release her.
Emily's best friend, Rachel, stayed in Emily's apt. with her all night. I left for Austin the next day after working out coverage for my classes (thanks to my colleagues in the English Dept.). I checked in at the hotel and then went straight to the dentist's office. Let me take this opportunity to give a HUGE shout out to the inventor of GPS. I am a nervous driver and directionally challenged, so I would never have found my way around Austin without the comforting crooning of Bertha my portable GPS (God's Personal Substitute? ).
Emily spent about three+ hours at the dentist's that day and it is only the first of what will be many visits. He stabilized one tooth, started root canal on another and put a white compound over the teeth to protect them and to restore a more normal appearance. I was so grateful that he and his lovely staff stayed after hours to care for her and so appreciative that our friend had steered us to such a capable and kind dentist.
After running to CVS to pick up her pain meds, Emily and I checked into the hotel where we cocooned ourselves away in rm. 4029 for two nights. We watched tv, ordered lots of SOFT room service meals and let her body heal. The only time we left the hotel was late Friday night because Emily wanted to show me the views of the lit up Tower and Capitol. She wasn't too keen on being seen, but she was determined to share that special view with me.
I'm pretty sure that my 19 year old self would not have left the hotel-- no matter how stellar the view. I would've been feeling sorry for myself and self-conscious and that would have consumed me. But Emily is a much tougher more resilient version of me. Is it because she grew up defending herself against two strong older brothers? Is it because she weathered a divorce and has had to learn how to deal with a difficult father? Or was it just something special in her DNA? After all, when she was just a tiny two year old, my father said "Emily is the only girl I know who was born a broad!"
On Saturday morning, we left the hotel and ran some errands that she needed and after two stops she started feeling a little faint, so she stayed in the air-conditioned car while I shopped for groceries. Back at her apt., she got settled in while I cooked some Jewish Penicillin (homemade Chicken Noodle Soup) and made her a Cookies 'n Cream Milkshake in the new bright pink blender we'd bought that morning. Later that night, Rachel came over and joined us for a pasta dinner made with teeny tiny pasta shapes that Emily could push to the back of her mouth to chew. As we talked about the accident, I found out that even in the ER, Emily had been making jokes with her friends and trying to get them to stop worrying.
Several times this weekend, Emily opened her swollen lips to remind me,"It could've been a lot worse!"
I am so proud of my beautiful, brave, resilient daughter. She will be fine, and she will endure the annoying and uncomfortable aspects of her recovery with her usual powerful grace.
I could wish for Emily, and all of our daughters and sons, a life free of accident or trauma, but I'm afraid that life does not exist for any of us. So, I wish for all of them, for all of us, the gift of a resilient spirit. I love you, Emily!!
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| Photo taken by Emily on her computer and posted with her permission :) |
Saturday, August 20, 2011
How do you make the quintessential comfort food?
OKAY all you foodies out there--this is the Mac 'n Cheese Post. Yippee !!
I was not always a Mac and Cheese aficionado. In fact, when the kids were small, I made my share of Kraft or Velveeta boxed macaroni dishes. At some point, as I became more interested in cooking, I graduated to my quickie version of macaroni and cheese, but it never felt quite right. I would take shredded cheddar and mozzarella cheeses and cooked pasta and microwave them together. The cheeses got melty but never creamy and the kids liked it, but I felt like it fell far short of the mark.
Then, a few months ago, I began experimenting with my own version of this classic dish. I've made it many times this summer and each time it is admittedly a bit different. For the purposes of this post, I've actually measured out the ingredients and attempted to create a prototype dish that could be easily replicated. As I walk you through the steps, I will let you know where substitutions are possible and as always, feel free to make this recipe your own!
Ingredients:
5 cups raw broccoli florets (This is my attempt at making this VERY indulgent dish a bit healthier. I acknowledge that it is a bit like adding fresh raspberries to a brownie sundae--so feel free to omit if you prefer your comfort food sans veggies.)
2 tbsps olive oil
7 tbsp unsalted butter
1 14.5 oz. box whole wheat pasta (Yes..I'm sneaking in one other healthy element by using whole wheat pasta. I don't think it changes the flavor and it ups the fiber significantly).
4 -5 thick slices of rustic Italian bread (or about 4-5 cups of Panko bread crumbs)
5 oz. Gorgonzola cheese--crumbled (Omit if you're cooking for small kids who won't appreciate the added bite the Gorgonzola brings to this dish).
1/2 cup flour
4 oz. shredded Parmesan cheese
2 cups shredded Mozzarella cheese
4 cups shredded Sharp Cheddar cheese
3 cups whole or 2% milk
1/4 cup Half & Half (optional)
Salt and Pepper
4-5 cloves garlic--grated
STEPS:
1. First start boiling a large pot of water and preheat oven to 350-
2. Cut bread into chunks and put into food processor to make homemade breadcrumbs.
3. In a large skillet melt 3 tablespoons of the butter with 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Add salt and pepper to taste. Add crushed/grated garlic. When this is well-mixed, add breadcrumbs and saute until slightly browned (they will brown more deeply in the oven later).
4. Water should be boiling, so salt the water generously and add your pasta...stirring occasionally so it doesn't stick.
5. When the pasta is almost done (al dente) add the broccoli to the same water and they will cook together.
6. In another pot, melt 1/2 stick of butter with 1/2 cup flour. You are creating a roux so you want to cook off the flour-y taste so it will be a flavorful thickener for your cheese sauce.
7. Next, you are basically creating a Béchamel sauce by slowly whisking the milk into the flour/butter mixture. Béchamel is the classic white sauce--sort of the blank canvas for lots of other sauces like the cheese sauce we are making for our Mac n Cheese. Start out with one cup of the milk and as it begins to blend with your roux, you can add the rest of the milk in 1/2 cup increments.
8. Make sure your pasta doesn't overcook! When the broccoli is vibrant green and softening and the pasta is chewy (not hard) drain out the excess liquid.
9. Add the cheeses one at a time and stir constantly to fully incorporate each.
--2 oz. Parmesean
--5 oz. Gorgonzola
--2 cups Mozzarella
--4 cups Sharp Cheddar
Add salt and pepper to taste to the cheese mixture. Look how yummy and thick this sauce is. If it looks too thick, this is a good time to add the optional 1/4 cup half and half.
10. YOU'RE ALMOST THERE!!! Now add the pasta/broccoli mixture to the cheese sauce. Use butter-flavored cooking spray to coat a 9x13 Pyrex pan and fill with mixture. Finally, mix remaining 2 oz. Parmesan cheese into sautéed breadcrumbs and then spread breadcrumbs over the cheesy pasta.
11. Bake in 350 oven for about 25-30 minutes until breadcrumb topping is toasty brown and cheese mixture is bubbly.
12. Serve with a light salad or vegetable soup for a delicious weeknight meal or serve as a wonderful accompaniment to a larger meal.
HAPPY EATING!!!
I was not always a Mac and Cheese aficionado. In fact, when the kids were small, I made my share of Kraft or Velveeta boxed macaroni dishes. At some point, as I became more interested in cooking, I graduated to my quickie version of macaroni and cheese, but it never felt quite right. I would take shredded cheddar and mozzarella cheeses and cooked pasta and microwave them together. The cheeses got melty but never creamy and the kids liked it, but I felt like it fell far short of the mark.
Then, a few months ago, I began experimenting with my own version of this classic dish. I've made it many times this summer and each time it is admittedly a bit different. For the purposes of this post, I've actually measured out the ingredients and attempted to create a prototype dish that could be easily replicated. As I walk you through the steps, I will let you know where substitutions are possible and as always, feel free to make this recipe your own!
Ingredients:
5 cups raw broccoli florets (This is my attempt at making this VERY indulgent dish a bit healthier. I acknowledge that it is a bit like adding fresh raspberries to a brownie sundae--so feel free to omit if you prefer your comfort food sans veggies.)
2 tbsps olive oil
7 tbsp unsalted butter
1 14.5 oz. box whole wheat pasta (Yes..I'm sneaking in one other healthy element by using whole wheat pasta. I don't think it changes the flavor and it ups the fiber significantly).
4 -5 thick slices of rustic Italian bread (or about 4-5 cups of Panko bread crumbs)
5 oz. Gorgonzola cheese--crumbled (Omit if you're cooking for small kids who won't appreciate the added bite the Gorgonzola brings to this dish).
1/2 cup flour
4 oz. shredded Parmesan cheese
2 cups shredded Mozzarella cheese
4 cups shredded Sharp Cheddar cheese
3 cups whole or 2% milk
1/4 cup Half & Half (optional)
Salt and Pepper
4-5 cloves garlic--grated
STEPS:
1. First start boiling a large pot of water and preheat oven to 350-
2. Cut bread into chunks and put into food processor to make homemade breadcrumbs.
3. In a large skillet melt 3 tablespoons of the butter with 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Add salt and pepper to taste. Add crushed/grated garlic. When this is well-mixed, add breadcrumbs and saute until slightly browned (they will brown more deeply in the oven later).
5. When the pasta is almost done (al dente) add the broccoli to the same water and they will cook together.
7. Next, you are basically creating a Béchamel sauce by slowly whisking the milk into the flour/butter mixture. Béchamel is the classic white sauce--sort of the blank canvas for lots of other sauces like the cheese sauce we are making for our Mac n Cheese. Start out with one cup of the milk and as it begins to blend with your roux, you can add the rest of the milk in 1/2 cup increments.
8. Make sure your pasta doesn't overcook! When the broccoli is vibrant green and softening and the pasta is chewy (not hard) drain out the excess liquid.
9. Add the cheeses one at a time and stir constantly to fully incorporate each.
--2 oz. Parmesean
--5 oz. Gorgonzola
--2 cups Mozzarella
--4 cups Sharp Cheddar
10. YOU'RE ALMOST THERE!!! Now add the pasta/broccoli mixture to the cheese sauce. Use butter-flavored cooking spray to coat a 9x13 Pyrex pan and fill with mixture. Finally, mix remaining 2 oz. Parmesan cheese into sautéed breadcrumbs and then spread breadcrumbs over the cheesy pasta.
11. Bake in 350 oven for about 25-30 minutes until breadcrumb topping is toasty brown and cheese mixture is bubbly.
12. Serve with a light salad or vegetable soup for a delicious weeknight meal or serve as a wonderful accompaniment to a larger meal.
HAPPY EATING!!!
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Why do we get so excited about new beginnings?
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| Emily leaving for UT today with her car stuffed to the max! |
No surprise that as a teacher, I am still excited about the newness of the school year: new students, new ideas, new opportunities, and YES...lots of new school supplies for me!
Judaism has a built-in system of cleansing around this same time of year. The High Holidays are a time of reflection and ultimately redemption. We ask forgiveness for our sins as we begin again. The custom of Taschlich is an especially evocative and physical representation of the human need for fresh starts.
Taschlich--which literally means "to cast away"--is based on the following verses from the Book of Micah:
"And you will cast into the depths of the sea
all their sins..."
During Taschlich, Jews are asked to gather near a body of water on the first day of Rosh Hashanah. Some Jews symbolically cast crumbs into the water to represent the sins they are casting away and the forgiveness they are seeking.
I am no biblical scholar, but I am moved by the humanness of this idea. Obviously, Judaism is not the only religion to find healing in cleansing (by water or by fire). There are numerous examples from a wide range of traditions.
The actor and screenwriter Zach Braff was quoted as saying that he "always liked the story of Noah's Ark and the idea of starting anew by rescuing the things you like and leaving the rest behind." Ultimately, we are all tempted by the desire for reinvention. We want to purge everything that is undesirable from our lives and start fresh. It is easy with school supplies: throw out the old, half-used bic pens and buy a fresh bag; it is not so easy with the more complex parts of our lives. Sometimes, purging is not a viable option. Sometimes, we need to make do with what we have and learn to deal. Sometimes, often, moving on is messy and filled with compromise.
However, this love of new beginnings is such a fundamentally human desire. We need to honor its appeal and recognize that we need to step back periodically and reassess the things that we carry. We are weighed down literally and figuratively; we carry memories of bad relationships, clothes two sizes too small, regrets for the roads not taken, furniture that has seen better days, books we will never reread, stories we tell ourselves about who we might have been.
I am excited for Emily as she begins this new chapter of her life at UT; I am proud of all that she has accomplished to get there and optimistic that she is going to continue moving her life in amazing new directions. And I am reminded that I am ready for some new beginnings as well. I do not yet know what shape they will take, but I am certain that I need to purge my excess baggage in order to make room for the new. It feels like the right time to "cast away" the things that I no longer need or want, and I am excited to see what wondrous things appear to fill up the empty spaces in my life.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
What is the appeal of memoir?
I have been fascinated by the genre of memoir for quite some time. In fact, I teach a seminar on memoir for high school seniors. This summer, I read three new memoirs and took a course on memoir writing to help me move forward with the writing of my own memoir.
For the last several years, memoir has been the hot genre; I tell my students that it is the literary equivalent of reality tv. We have voyeuristic tendencies; we want to know what goes on behind closed doors. That desire is human but not always noble. It has lead to a climate in which paparazzi run rampant in search of unflattering portrayals of cultural icons, and certain teens living on the Jersey Shore have become famous for nothing other than loud mouths, unbridled partying and shameless promiscuity.
Have some writers jumped on the memoir bandwagon for the wrong reasons? Absolutely. Do some memoirs feel like unedited therapy sessions endlessly listing lurid disclosures? Some do, but not the good ones.
A good memoir, albeit a great one, tells a story of a life...or part of a life...and in the process of the telling creates a sense of meaning beyond the story itself. Like great fiction, memoir should feel that it adds up to more than the sum of its parts.
In William Zinsser's collection of essays by writers writing about their memoirs, Inventing the Truth,
he discusses the difference between good and bad memoirs. "A good memoir requires two elements--one of art, the other of craft. The first element is integrity of intention. Memoir is the best search mechanism that writers are given. Memoir is how we try to make sense of who we are, who we once were, and what values and heritage shaped us. If a writer seriously embarks on that quest, readers will be nourished by the journey, bringing along many associations with quests of their own."
We don't necessarily read memoirs to learn how to live, but we may gain insight into our own lives by reading a talented and insightful writer's story.
As far as the element that Zinsser calls "craft" is concerned, a memoir is never merely a cataloging of memories. Zinsser continues: "Memoir writers must manufacture a text, imposing narrative order on a jumble of half-remembered events. With that feat of manipulation they arrive at a truth that is theirs alone, not quite like that of anybody else who was present at the same events."
Ultimately, that is what makes memoir fascinating to read; it is a life, or part of a life, seen through one unique narrative lens. The element that most distinguishes great memoir for me, besides the ones that Zinsser has delineated, is the element of reflection. I am hungry for those moments in a memoir when the writer has allowed the raw experience to marinate a while and has arrived at some understanding of the meaning behind the mayhem.
Another element of memoir that distinguishes a great book from a lesser one, is the author's voice. When teaching teens to write memoir, I am always surprised that certain students have narrative voices that naturally work for the memoir genre. These students feel comfortable in their own literary skin; they own their own stories and share them honestly.
There is not one right voice, but the voice must feel authentic and unique. The voice should not feel separate from the story, but rather it should feel like an organic part of the whole piece. In other words, the facts, the reflection and the voice that is sharing both of those with the reader should feel melded and married as if they are all integral essential parts of the narrative structure.
The three memoirs I read this summer were:
For the last several years, memoir has been the hot genre; I tell my students that it is the literary equivalent of reality tv. We have voyeuristic tendencies; we want to know what goes on behind closed doors. That desire is human but not always noble. It has lead to a climate in which paparazzi run rampant in search of unflattering portrayals of cultural icons, and certain teens living on the Jersey Shore have become famous for nothing other than loud mouths, unbridled partying and shameless promiscuity.
Have some writers jumped on the memoir bandwagon for the wrong reasons? Absolutely. Do some memoirs feel like unedited therapy sessions endlessly listing lurid disclosures? Some do, but not the good ones.
A good memoir, albeit a great one, tells a story of a life...or part of a life...and in the process of the telling creates a sense of meaning beyond the story itself. Like great fiction, memoir should feel that it adds up to more than the sum of its parts.
In William Zinsser's collection of essays by writers writing about their memoirs, Inventing the Truth,
he discusses the difference between good and bad memoirs. "A good memoir requires two elements--one of art, the other of craft. The first element is integrity of intention. Memoir is the best search mechanism that writers are given. Memoir is how we try to make sense of who we are, who we once were, and what values and heritage shaped us. If a writer seriously embarks on that quest, readers will be nourished by the journey, bringing along many associations with quests of their own."
We don't necessarily read memoirs to learn how to live, but we may gain insight into our own lives by reading a talented and insightful writer's story.
As far as the element that Zinsser calls "craft" is concerned, a memoir is never merely a cataloging of memories. Zinsser continues: "Memoir writers must manufacture a text, imposing narrative order on a jumble of half-remembered events. With that feat of manipulation they arrive at a truth that is theirs alone, not quite like that of anybody else who was present at the same events."
Ultimately, that is what makes memoir fascinating to read; it is a life, or part of a life, seen through one unique narrative lens. The element that most distinguishes great memoir for me, besides the ones that Zinsser has delineated, is the element of reflection. I am hungry for those moments in a memoir when the writer has allowed the raw experience to marinate a while and has arrived at some understanding of the meaning behind the mayhem.
Another element of memoir that distinguishes a great book from a lesser one, is the author's voice. When teaching teens to write memoir, I am always surprised that certain students have narrative voices that naturally work for the memoir genre. These students feel comfortable in their own literary skin; they own their own stories and share them honestly.
There is not one right voice, but the voice must feel authentic and unique. The voice should not feel separate from the story, but rather it should feel like an organic part of the whole piece. In other words, the facts, the reflection and the voice that is sharing both of those with the reader should feel melded and married as if they are all integral essential parts of the narrative structure.
The three memoirs I read this summer were:
*RUNNING WITH SCISSORS--Augusten Burroughs
*THE OTHER WES MOORE--Wes Moore
*SLOW MOTION--Dani Shapiro
*THE OTHER WES MOORE--Wes Moore
*SLOW MOTION--Dani Shapiro
I had seen the movie, "Running with Scissors," but I had never read the book (though it had lived on my bookshelf for many years). I found the story engaging and wildly outrageous, and I felt that Augusten Burroughs was endearingly sympathetic as the narrator of his own crazy story. By the end of the memoir, we know Burroughs is a survivor, and we are relieved because we have been rooting for him all along.
The Wes Moore memoir is a more contrived narrative. The author writes about himself and about another man, who shares the same name, whose life took a very different path. While I enjoyed this book, it did not have the narrative pull or power that many memoirs I've loved have had. Perhaps, the dual focus watered down the impact of each of the two lives that were discussed, making me less invested in either one.
The third memoir, given to me by my friend Beth, was Dani Shapiro's story of her youthful and ill-advised affair and the tragedy that causes her to come to her senses and ultimately reclaim her life. This book had a smaller focus than the other two but was a compelling read because the reader was able to watch the writer emerge from the fog of self denial and uncover the truth. Her self-discovery feels authentic even if we have questioned how she could have fallen asleep at the wheel of her own life. While we may not always sanction or approve of her choices, we understand them.
If you are interested in discovering, or re-discovering, this exciting genre, here are a few interesting titles to get you started:
WITHOUT A MAP--Meredith Hall
THE COLOR OF WATER--James McBride
THE GLASS CASTLE--Jeanette Walls
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A FACE--Lucy Grealy
TRUTH AND BEAUTY--Ann Patchett
THE LIAR'S CLUB--Mary Karr
OPERATING INSTRUCTIONS--Anne Lamott
ANGELA'S ASHES--Frank McCourt
BREAKING APART: A MEMOIR OF DIVORCE-Wendy Swallow
LUCKY--Alice Sebold
AN ITALIAN AFFAIR--Laura Fraser
A ROUND-HEELED WOMAN--Jane Juska
THE ONLY GIRL IN THE CAR--Kathy Dobie
A THOUSAND DAYS IN VENICE--Marlena De Blasi
LIMBO--A. Manette Ansay
FUN HOME--Alison Bechdel
THE KISS--Kathryn Harrison
THE WISHING YEAR--Noelle Oxenhandler
PERFECTION--Julie Metz
EAT,PRAY,LOVE--Elizabeth Gilbert
THE IMPOSTER'S DAUGHTER--Laurie Sandell
TENDER AT THE BONE--Ruth Reichl
HAPPY READING!!!
Monday, August 1, 2011
What is the secret to a long, happy marriage?
DISCLAIMER #1: Having been married just shy of 20 years...(and not very happily for most of those), I am clearly no expert on marriage. However, it is near the top of my WISH LIST....I want to get a second chance. I want to have the opportunity to do it right! So, I have taken advantage of this visit to my parent's summer cottage in Northern Michigan to interview my mom on her 52 year marriage to my father, to see what I can learn about this mystery called marriage.
DISCLAIMER #2: The photos inside the cottage were taken of framed photographs and they did not turn out as well as I would have liked, but I'm including them anyway!
In the cottage, on the wall of my parent's cozy little bedroom are a series of informal framed 8X10 photos of my parents over the years. They have been coming to this little stretch of beach in a small resort town called Charlevoix for the past 48 years. This wall chronicles those years and their love affair--as well as the fashions and the process of aging. What I see when I look at the wall are two people in love. I don't see parents. I don't see a dancer and a rabbi. Though they are all of those things and many more. But the wall has always showed me my parents as a couple in love and that was something that looked effortless and magical and as necessary as air.
"What does it take," I asked my mother, "to have a happy marriage for all these years?"
Without a second's hesitation, she responded with one word: "MAZEL."
DISCLAIMER #2: The photos inside the cottage were taken of framed photographs and they did not turn out as well as I would have liked, but I'm including them anyway!
In the cottage, on the wall of my parent's cozy little bedroom are a series of informal framed 8X10 photos of my parents over the years. They have been coming to this little stretch of beach in a small resort town called Charlevoix for the past 48 years. This wall chronicles those years and their love affair--as well as the fashions and the process of aging. What I see when I look at the wall are two people in love. I don't see parents. I don't see a dancer and a rabbi. Though they are all of those things and many more. But the wall has always showed me my parents as a couple in love and that was something that looked effortless and magical and as necessary as air.
Without a second's hesitation, she responded with one word: "MAZEL."
For those of you who don't know, mazel means luck. Yikes, I am trying to find out what one can do to have a happy marriage and she is telling me it is out of my hands. I give her a frustrated look and she backtracks. "OK, maybe not just luck, after all, there are elements of choice too. One has to marry someone who is kind, affectionate and smart." But then she takes a breath and corrects herself. "Well, I had to teach daddy to be affectionate; he didn't see mommy and daddy holding hands--like I did. So, I tried to see how he would respond to my affection and playfulness. Once, I wrote "JOAN LOVES SAM" in the snow on his car and waited to see how he reacted. Would he leave it and smile when he looked at it? Wipe it off immediately? Get annoyed?" "What did he do?" I interjected. He left it there, and I knew we could be playful together."
She went on to tell me about another time that, as a young rabbi, he was holding court at a dinner party and she felt sort of forgotten. They were engaged at the time, and she remembers saying to him as they left the party, "I'm not going to live like this. When we are somewhere together, I need to feel that we're connected."
"Was dad angry that you were critical of him?" "No, he said: 'You're absolutely right," and he never did that again."
When I asked mom what the one non-negotiable trait was that dad possessed, she said "intellectual curiosity." "I still get all excited when he points out some article in the New York Times and wants me to read it so that we can discuss it!"
We also talked about the fact that she brings lightness and laughter to his life and inches him away from his serious, workaholic ways. I have always noticed the way they laugh at the same jokes; they both have sharp and quick senses of humor--surely that must have come in handy as they traversed these 52 years.
Two days ago, mom celebrated her 75th birthday. We started out at a NIA exercise class, then she got her hair done, then she went to a lecture by a visiting composer, then we went to dinner, then to ice cream and then --much to my chagrin--ended up at the local Indian-run casino for a few minutes of gambling and trying not to get asphyxiated by the smoke. Dad, like me, hates the casino, but he graciously agreed to accompany my mom and I and her brother and sister-in-law because we all knew it was what mom wanted. He chose not to tell us that he was not feeling well, that he was unsteady on his feet and that it had been getting progressively more difficult to find his balance all evening. By the next afternoon, we were taking him to the hospital by ambulance so that he could be checked out.
I am VERY happy to report that he seems to be getting better and steadier each day; hopefully, this will just be a small easily forgotten blip on their radar screen, but it was memorable for me.
I witnessed my father put my mother's needs (even something as silly as a quickie 20 buck gambling session on her birthday) above his own fears and concerns. Sometimes in a great marriage, you take one for the team. You remember that the needs of your beloved may need to come ahead of your own. Sometimes, you gamble and hope you'll get lucky!
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