The idea began one night at the kibbutz. I don't remember what we were talking about, or what we were all doing there - watching an episode of Northern Exposure on DVD? Hanging out post-Yiddish class? Sitting around on our laptops, doing work? It could've been any of those things, but Debs began talking about an idea for a potluck party.
Debs, I should mention, has been doing a lot of procrasti-cooking lately. This is what happens when your thesis is due in a week. Debs has come up with more delicious creations in the last month than I've come up with in the last year. She's permanently corrupted my arteries by bringing her friends Butter and Heavy Cream into the world of mushrooms and kale. Every time she cooks something delicious, I propose that we get married. It's gotten to the point where she gets insulted if I *don't* ask her to marry me.
Debs's idea was simple: everyone brings a dish inspired by a piece of literature. In addition to the dish, one must also bring the book, poem, or passage that mentions the dish. I squealed, and immediately started coming up with ideas.
Two days later, I got the invitation. This morning, I figured out what to make.
The summer before college, I read Crescent, by Diana Abu-Jaber. The novel is first and foremost a love story, but it's partially set in an Iranian cafe in Los Angeles. The scenes in the cafe's kitchen (the protagonist is the chef) are rich, colorful, often downright sensual. I finished the book in a couple of days. After I read the last pages, I hugged it (as I often do, with especially good books), put it down, and walked into the kitchen.
I haven't left since. Those who know me as a cook often assume my culinary education began in toddlerhood, as my mother passed secret recipes down from some ancient oral tradition while I peeled potatoes. In reality, my mother's and my cooking aren't much alike. Sure, we both like good food, but our palates differ. She's all earth - nuts, stewed fruit with meat, pecan pie and roasted beets. I'm more about richness and vinegar, the contrast between cheese and pickles, tough greens cooked in butter, cucumber salad brined in rice vinegar and soy sauce, macaroni and cheese with caramelized onions and smoked paprika. This is because I only started cooking right before I left home. Most of what I've learned from my mother has been things I've asked since I left.
Despite all of that, I ended up bringing as simple and earthy a dish to the potluck as I could possibly make - mjeddrah, a simple, peasant dish of lentils, onions and rice. A little butter, a little cumin, a little bouillon to give it some oomph, a quick side of cucumbers, mint and yogurt. I packaged it up with an excerpt from the book and brought it to Deb's house.
Some dishes that appeared at the party:
Lentils with fried onions from Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies (there were actually two of this dish!)
Cupcakes from Laura Numeroff's If You Give A Cat a Cupcake
Wine, cheese, bread and candy from Jack Kerouac's Dharma Bums
Pomegranates from the myth of Persephone and Demeter
A rich meat and potato stew from J R R Tolkien's Lord of the Rings Trilogy
Sweet potatoes from Ralph Ellison's The Invisible Man
Cheese sandwiches from Margaret Atwood's The Edible Woman
Madelines from Proust's Remembrance of Things Past
Sour pickles, Strawberry Jam and Frankfurters from Norton Juster's The Phantom Tollbooth
Delightful, no? We ate, and ate, and when we could eat no more, we read the passages we'd brought to one another. When I left, around midnight, I felt the best kinds of full.
1/23/2010
Seattle 92, or The Sprinter Tries a 5k
I've started writing short stories. I haven't written any since high school, but a few months ago, I tried to write a poem that turned into a short story by accident, and decided to keep working on it. I find prose kind of scary, for some reason. Maybe it's because I'm not an endurance person. I mean, I compete in poetry slams that only allow me three minutes on stage. When I did sports as a kid, I played softball, which stops and starts every five minutes. I'm a sprinter. The first time I had to write a ten page paper in college, I froze around page eight. (On the other hand, I once had a professor demand a three-page paper, and threatened to fail anyone who went over the limit. Some of my classmates had panic attacks. I had a picnic.)
So, this fiction thing is weird, despite the fact that I love reading short stories. (I don't do it nearly often enough.) It occurs to me that I don't have to learn how to write short stories the same way I learned how to write poetry (by writing and writing and stubbornly refusing to learn any of the basics of craft until I'd been writing seriously for six years). Maybe I should do some research on how to write prose, figure out how it works.
I'm still doing the 365 poems project, because, hey, I'm not a quitter. But maybe this short story bit will go somewhere. Here's an excerpt from the draft I'm working on now:
So, this fiction thing is weird, despite the fact that I love reading short stories. (I don't do it nearly often enough.) It occurs to me that I don't have to learn how to write short stories the same way I learned how to write poetry (by writing and writing and stubbornly refusing to learn any of the basics of craft until I'd been writing seriously for six years). Maybe I should do some research on how to write prose, figure out how it works.
I'm still doing the 365 poems project, because, hey, I'm not a quitter. But maybe this short story bit will go somewhere. Here's an excerpt from the draft I'm working on now:
Jenny Silverman stood on the back porch of the student co-op kitchen, crying onion tears into a bar mop. She scooped up some snow from the railing and pressed it against each eye, shuddering as the beginning winds of a Nor’easter snaked through her jeans and the long johns underneath. She was so not cut out for this – for Vermont, or a northeast winter, or cooking. She hated the constant process of layering and unlayering her clothes as she walked from one blistering steam-heated building to another. She most hated her roommate’s cheerfulness. Nora seemed not only not to mind the cold and dark, but to actually revel in it.
At the first sign of flurries in November, Nora had gleefully begun knitting Jenny a full winter set – hat, mittens and scarf. Nora was a champion knitter, and was famous for once having excused herself from class to get more yarn in the middle of a lecture.
“No offense or anything,” Nora had said, taking measurements of Jenny’s head as she tried to focus on Principles of Macroeconomics, “but I’m just going to assume that you didn’t bring any useful winter stuff from Los Angeles.” She finished the hat in two days, and despite her resentment at being treated like an ignorant warm-weather wuss, Jenny wore it every day. Nora had thoughtfully made ear flaps, and left ample room for what she affectionately called Jenny’s Jewfro.
1/20/2010
Seattle 91, or another poem draft
2010 poem-a-day project #19
the forgotten song of the quebecois canoe
for A.C.E. Bauer, with love.
(though the 'you' is not you)
when you arrived
on this dirt patch stone hill
of moss and shedding evergreens,
you came by water.
generations of your children caught frogs
in the pucky kneecap of the lake,
pricked their feet on sharp grass,
popped bubbles of spruce sap,
watched blueberries rise
from the ashes
of careless campground wildfire.
you played Risk, Jenga, Mille Borne, Monopoly.
even the adults read comic books.
when they finally chopped down
enough trees to carve a car path,
you didn't have to name it anything more
than "the road."
every day was a talent show;
who knew your father could make such bread,
your mother, so keen with a woodstove?
where else could you appreciate
the cousin who used a jacknife
like an extension of his own thumb,
your sister, effortlessly rising from the foamy wake
on splintered water skis two sizes too big,
your own penchant for making fires?
and do you remember
how you pressed your lips
to the spruce tree by the porch
when no one was looking?
how you promised to return,
your sticky sap-stung lips
parting to breathe water
and pine.
the forgotten song of the quebecois canoe
for A.C.E. Bauer, with love.
(though the 'you' is not you)
when you arrived
on this dirt patch stone hill
of moss and shedding evergreens,
you came by water.
generations of your children caught frogs
in the pucky kneecap of the lake,
pricked their feet on sharp grass,
popped bubbles of spruce sap,
watched blueberries rise
from the ashes
of careless campground wildfire.
you played Risk, Jenga, Mille Borne, Monopoly.
even the adults read comic books.
when they finally chopped down
enough trees to carve a car path,
you didn't have to name it anything more
than "the road."
every day was a talent show;
who knew your father could make such bread,
your mother, so keen with a woodstove?
where else could you appreciate
the cousin who used a jacknife
like an extension of his own thumb,
your sister, effortlessly rising from the foamy wake
on splintered water skis two sizes too big,
your own penchant for making fires?
and do you remember
how you pressed your lips
to the spruce tree by the porch
when no one was looking?
how you promised to return,
your sticky sap-stung lips
parting to breathe water
and pine.
1/16/2010
Seattle 90, or A Poem Draft
(italics indicate lines to be sung)
Pie Jesu domine…
The first time I sang
about Jesus
was in middle school.
The choir was half Jewish.
Some kids dropped out before the concert
because their parents told them to,
some of their own volition, and some
because they wanted an excuse
to stop singing.
I was going to join them,
make a statement,
but my family knows less about picket lines
than the works of Palestrina,
and said no.
Music is holy.
Learn make your peace with it.
It was never about the lyrics. I know more
of the Latin Mass than half the Catholics
I grew up with, and it never seemed wrong.
Singing in a choir is the closest
I've ever come
to flying.
If given that chance,
would you stop to question
the makeup of your wings?
I've stood in grand cathedrals
built on the ashes of Jewish towns,
and felt forgiveness spread
across my shoulders
when I hear those arched ceilings
cradle the offerings of our voices.
My grandfather, a Holocaust survivor,
fills the house with Bach, Beethoven, Schubert and Brahms.
Freude, schöner Götterfunken Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
He doesn’t call this forgiveness.
He calls it human; a recognition
of something that exists above us.
"Some things, darling, you just can't live without.”
I was four when he began to teach me music;
twelve, before he mentioned G-d.
I’ve sung in churches
and Christmas concerts.
I’ve sung praise hymns
and Vespers. I know more
songs about Jesus than I do
about any of my own religion’s heroes.
And I know peace.
It was never about the words.
Deine Zauber binden wieder Was die Mode streng geteilt;
Alle Menschen werden Brüder, Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.
Pie Jesu domine…
The first time I sang
about Jesus
was in middle school.
The choir was half Jewish.
Some kids dropped out before the concert
because their parents told them to,
some of their own volition, and some
because they wanted an excuse
to stop singing.
I was going to join them,
make a statement,
but my family knows less about picket lines
than the works of Palestrina,
and said no.
Music is holy.
Learn make your peace with it.
It was never about the lyrics. I know more
of the Latin Mass than half the Catholics
I grew up with, and it never seemed wrong.
Singing in a choir is the closest
I've ever come
to flying.
If given that chance,
would you stop to question
the makeup of your wings?
I've stood in grand cathedrals
built on the ashes of Jewish towns,
and felt forgiveness spread
across my shoulders
when I hear those arched ceilings
cradle the offerings of our voices.
My grandfather, a Holocaust survivor,
fills the house with Bach, Beethoven, Schubert and Brahms.
Freude, schöner Götterfunken Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
He doesn’t call this forgiveness.
He calls it human; a recognition
of something that exists above us.
"Some things, darling, you just can't live without.”
I was four when he began to teach me music;
twelve, before he mentioned G-d.
I’ve sung in churches
and Christmas concerts.
I’ve sung praise hymns
and Vespers. I know more
songs about Jesus than I do
about any of my own religion’s heroes.
And I know peace.
It was never about the words.
Deine Zauber binden wieder Was die Mode streng geteilt;
Alle Menschen werden Brüder, Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.
1/12/2010
Seattle 89.5 - Relevant Stuff that I Did Not Write
All by Themselves
As the Ravenna Kibbutz parts ways with Moishe House, the neighborhood cooperative looks to the future
By Leyna Krow
As the Ravenna Kibbutz parts ways with Moishe House, the neighborhood cooperative looks to the future
By Leyna Krow
The Ravenna Kibbutz benefit party, featuring dancing, food, and cocktails, will take place at 8 p.m., Sat., Jan. 30 at Ravenna Kibbutz House Gimmel, 6211 23rd Ave. NE, Seattle.
On the evening of Dec. 26, 15 Ravenna Kibbutz residents and regulars gathered in the living room of House Aleph to reflect on the impact the Moishe House organization, which has helped to fund the Ravenna Kibbutz since it first opened in 2007, has had on their home lives, social lives, and Jewish lives.
“I really had a hard time connecting to Judaism before I moved to Seattle. This is the first time I’m been able to find a community that I relate to,” said Mai Li Pittard after recounting the first time she attended a Moishe House-sponsored event at the Kibbutz.
This was not just idle nostalgia, but rather, a eulogy of sorts. As of the beginning of January, the Ravenna Kibbutz is no longer an affiliate of Moishe House.
Moishe House has provided both essential funds as well as programming direction and support to the Kibbutz for the last two years. Parting ways with the Oakland, Calif.-based organization will mark a major sea change for the Kibbutz...
See the rest of the article article here, on Jew-ish dot com.1/11/2010
1/05/2010
Seattle 88, or Poem for My Mother's Birthday
How to Finish a Really Good Book
when you've got ten pages to go,
slow down.
breathe
in between
each paragraph.
at seven pages,
stop trying to guess the ending.
at four,
do not answer the phone.
at three, stop.
go back a chapter.
read it again, with a pencil.
leave a trail of asterisks
and reminders to quote.
when the last paragraph is in sight,
pray for an epilogue.
regard the final words
like your five-year-old daughter
climbing into the school bus
without looking back.
close the book
before the page gets wet.
hold it against you.
cross your arms over it.
trace the spine with your smallest finger.
tell the library you lost it,
and pass it on.
when you've got ten pages to go,
slow down.
breathe
in between
each paragraph.
at seven pages,
stop trying to guess the ending.
at four,
do not answer the phone.
at three, stop.
go back a chapter.
read it again, with a pencil.
leave a trail of asterisks
and reminders to quote.
when the last paragraph is in sight,
pray for an epilogue.
regard the final words
like your five-year-old daughter
climbing into the school bus
without looking back.
close the book
before the page gets wet.
hold it against you.
cross your arms over it.
trace the spine with your smallest finger.
tell the library you lost it,
and pass it on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)