Book Club with Elizabeth Kostova

I've been tinkering with this post for awhile, but I'm tired of tinkering. I'll just post it as-is.

Let me begin by saying that Elizabeth Kostova is delightful. For a bestselling author, she is remarkably down-to-earth, a funny and engaging personality who, I must say, bears only a passing resemblance to her photo on the book jacket (she's much prettier in person). One expects a measure either of condescension or self-deprecation from a literary celebrity, but Elizabeth displays neither.

Kim's book club read The Historian back in September and extended an invitation to their discussion to Elizabeth, which she graciously accepted; she recently moved to Asheville, where she has family ties, and her kids now attend our school.

There were about twenty in attendance, half of whom were not book club regulars, merely teachers who'd read the book and were crashing the party, like me. We politely nibbled cannoli and sipped red wine until the moment came to settle into our seats and begin. Dr. Sgro introduced Elizabeth, who made a few remarks and then read from the introductory chapter of The Historian.

After her reading, she commented that she'd rewritten the introduction at least a hundred times, and, although I shouldn't combine this second, unrelated independent clause with the first, I must say that I feel completely comfortable calling her Elizabeth. By the way, Elizabeth was the name of the real Vlad Tepes's wife.

I'm not a vampire fanatic, but, after playing Jonathan Harker in a college production of Dracula, I became interested in the vampire legend and read Bram Stoker's Dracula (which was disappointing for some reason) and the Anne Rice novels (which I loved). I bought The Historian in hardcover after reading a review, just after its release, and I fell in love with it. Or rather, I fell in love with Helen Rossi.

I have a long history of falling for fictional heroines, and I don't mean just the Clarissa Harlowes and Elizabeth Bennets. When I was about six, I fairly pined for Trixie, Speed Racer's cartoon girlfriend, so it's easy to imagine the effect the full-blown characterization of Helen Rossi had on me. It helped, of course, that she was pursuing Dracula through history, and her eastern-European background was nothing but good. Her dark hair, her accent, her reticence, her intellect, even her chain smoking, for God's sake. I was helpless in her fictional clutches.

And the strangest thing of all was that her creator was sitting right in front of me. Helen Rossi existed nowhere except in the imagination of this woman drinking tea in the wingback chair.

She took questions, most of which she graciously answered as though she'd never been asked them before. I was surprised that there were more inquiries about the writing process itself than about the novel, but, then again, it was a bevy of teachers asking the questions. I asked whether her narrator had ever had a name, and she said no. She also told a remarkable story of journeying to the monastery at Lake Snagov in the company of a 20-20 film crew. It was the first time she'd visited the site of Vlad Tepes's final resting place, and despite the sophomoric enthusiasm of the crew, she did manage to have a private moment at the tomb itself, a moment, she said, of unexpected emotion. Her skill as a raconteur is impressive.

At one point, she rummaged through a large bag she'd brought and said, provocatively, "I have a few things for show-and-tell."

She produced a copy of The Historian in Hungarian, the literary reception of which she said she was particularly proud. She also passed around the galley proof (how trusting can one be?) of her next novel, to be released, I believe, in January. She didn't swear us to secrecy, but I'll limit myself to saying that her next work is about a pathological crime against a famous work of art, and the word "swan" figures in the title.

She was delightful, as I've said, and if her next work is anything like her first, we all have something to look forward to. Did I really just end a sentence with a preposition?

Asheville Bard-A-Thon

A few weekends ago, North Carolina Stage Company, the only professional theater company in Asheville, hosted its annual fundraiser, the Bard-A-Thon, and I participated for the first time. It's basically a 48-hour Shakespeare marathon, during which twelve of the Bard's plays are read aloud by volunteers. Readers procure pledges from friends, family, and coworkers based on how many plays they read. I raised about $70, which, considering that I read one small but juicy part (the Dauphin in Henry V), worked out to about $2 per line. Not bad.

Many of the young, unencumbered (viz. not middle-aged, no kids) participants stayed for the entire 48 hours, wolfing down pizza and Red Bull, grabbing 20-minute naps on bean bag chairs between soliloquies. It's not the most sterling Shakespeare ever presented, but, by God, it's the most passionate. I saw, in my brief time there, a number of mousy librarian types whom I feel certain were rising to the absolute pinnacle of their extroversion by volunteering to read.

It's also a lesson in democracy. Anybody can read any part, as long as they show up at 9am on a certain day to claim roles. A reader can claim two lead roles, no more, and readers jump in regularly to fill in for unclaimed, minor roles, which are legion. There is an audience, but it's usually filled with sleeping actors and mothers of readers. Really.

What is really cool is that the entire event is webcast live with comments posted in real time from viewers. I watched II Henry IV, for awhile, and it was addictive, mostly because of the banter, the seditious remarks after certain ambiguous lines. For instance, Charlie, co-owner

and director of NC Stage, who served as the ubiquitous "stage manager" and Master of Ceremonies, at one point commented: "OK, the stage directions read Enter Henry V in nightgown with a page. I'm not sure what that's all about." That broke 'em up for awhile, I assure you.

I can't wait to do it again next year, and I'm already musing over which role I want to tackle.

Henry Plantagenet? Hotspur? Sir Toby Belch? Jack Falstaff? Mercutio?

Memory Map

A large chunk of my 8th-grade curriculum is geography, and, as a part of that, my students learn to map the world . . . from memory.



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It may sound like boasting (but I assure you it's not) to say that learning simply to identify every country on earth is a fairly straightforward act of accumulative memorization, and the students accomplish this within a couple of months. To map from memory the entire globe is a much more difficult task, involving areas and functions of the brain that often go unused in traditional geography exercises.




I love the Memory Map because it is so good for so many different types of learners. Those kids who excel at rote memorization learn the countries quickly, but it is the kids with good spatial skills (skills often neglected in traditional classrooms) who are good at visualizing the relative locations of countries. And the left-brained, artistic kids turn out true works of art. Check out this compass rose from a girl who loves ballroom dancing (I encourage them to personalize their compass roses):














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The first step, after memorizing the countries, is to create the grid, which we do as a class. It requires precise measurements and careful pencil and ink work. We all carefully check our work on the grid as we progress, because the grid is crucial: mess up the grid and an accurate map is impossible.

By the way, we use the equirectangular projection which is a better projection for this type of mapping. It is a more accurate projection than the familiar Mercator projection, but people unfamiliar with the equirectangular projection tend to think something is wrong with the maps. Africa, South America, and Australia, in particular, appear thin and stretched, and Greenland is not the usual bloated juggernaut looming in the north Atlantic.



Once the grid is correct and inked in, the students add the continent outlines. We originally tried to do this from memory as well, but, like the grid itself, accurate continent outlines are absolutely required for an accurate map. So we allow the students to transfer the outlines from another, smaller outline map, which is not an easy task. Constant reference to the lines of latitude and longitude is important.

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See the map below?










This looks like an auspicious beginning. The Americas, Greenland, Africa, the ghost of Europe waiting to be inked in. The problem is that this student drew Africa 30 degrees too far east. That's a longitudinal error of nearly 2100 miles at the equator, which Africa straddles.



Poor girl, she had to begin again from scratch.

Once the continents are inked, the students have fifteen sessions to complete the maps (a session is one 40-minute class period). They pencil in, from memory, the country outlines, focusing on one small part of the world at a time, then check it against an atlas. The correct borders they may ink in, the rest are erased and redrawn the next day.



The next step is to label and color in the countries. Fitting all the labels onto the map is very difficult, and I must admit that we do not require every single country to be labeled. The Balkans are hard enough to squeeze in: how in the world could a student label San Marino, Liechtenstein, and Andorra on a 20" x 30" map? Still, it requires planning and a steady hand with the pen.



















Finally, they personalize their maps, adding a custom compass rose and embellishments. A sea monster of some sort has become traditional.



As the project progresses, students move slowly from self-doubt to quiet pride to blazing confidence. As one student put it, after finishing Africa, "I'm officially in love with my map."


Rest assured that many, if not most, of these maps end up framed in a place of pride in the student's home. And freshmen who return the following year to visit the middle school gush about their newfound global savvy; suddenly, the nightly news and NPR are relevant. They may not remember precisely the shape of Kyrgyzstan, but they sure as hell can tell you where it is and what borders it.
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One small thread in the tapestry of wisdom.

An Arabic Breakfast

I've never been a huge fan of breakfast. As a Southerner I'm partial to grits and redeye gravy with biscuits and eggs, of course, but in our household breakfast is usually some overly saccharine combination of cereal, waffles, muffins, cinnamon toast: we've got two boys who love sugar like mother's milk. So it generally happens that I don't eat breakfast at all. Maybe a piece of toast with my coffee.

There is an exception, however.

Gubran , my ex-brother-in-law, is a Christian Arab Israeli. Raised Baptist, racially an Arab, a citizen of Israel, he used to joke that he came to the States to escape the fact that there was "something for everyone to hate" back home. He also happens to be one of the most breathtaking cooks I've ever come across. It's not just that he was my introduction to middle-eastern food (although he was); he could make anything, and it was all arrestingly delicious. I'm half convinced that Kim married me to be within reach of Gubran's baba gannoush, garlic shrimp, avocado salad, and grouper Marsala. If you don't believe me, just ask Katherine.

Intoxicated by the new flavors and textures of Arabic cuisine, I was hungry (pun intended) to learn everything I could about these exotic and delicious dishes from Gubran, and he was happy to oblige. Over a number of years, Kim and I (and often Katherine) happily ate our way through Gubran's repertoire. Back home, my versions never came close to his, but I was hailed as a genius by friends who had never had proper Arabic food.

Among the many, many wonderful foods we discovered, few have given me more pleasure than those that make up a typical breakfast in the Levant, and I think the beauty of an Arabic breakfast lies in its clean simplicity. Now, I do not claim to be in any way an expert, but my version includes manakeesh, lebneh, avocado salad, tomatoes, and boiled eggs, all served with pita.

My manakeesh is made of pita heavily smeared with a mixture of zaatar and olive oil and broiled until crispy. Zaatar is a spice mixture composed primarily of wild thyme, with sumac and sesame seeds added. It has a clean, sharp flavor that stays on the tongue for a long time.

To make lebneh, plain yogurt (ideally full-fat and made from goat's milk, but even no-fat cow's- milk yogurt makes a passable lebneh) is hung overnight in a cheesecloth from the faucet over the sink. Given twelve hours or so, the yogurt will weep out a lot of its moisture, leaving behind a sharp, soft yogurt cheese. To be honest, I plop my yogurt into a colander lined with pedestrian coffee filters, even though using a cheesecloth sounds so romantic somehow. Once it's as thick as you like, the lebneh is put into a dish and garnished with olive oil (and green onions, if you're me).

The avocado salad is the glory of the meal, although it's not strictly traditional; according to Claudia Roden, it is a fairly recent Israeli contribution. Diced avocados, chopped green onions, salt, lemon juice, and olive oil. That's it. You would not believe how wonderful it tastes scooped up into pita at 7:30am with a strong cup of coffee.

The meal is rounded out with tomato wedges and halved boiled eggs. It sounds unbelievably dull, but I have never had a more deeply satisfying morning repast.

Arabia Felix

It's been awhile since I've made middle-eastern food, but Kim bought a leg o' lamb at Sam's last week, and it's been taunting me from the fridge. What the hell else are you going to make with that?



Shishlik, known to most Americans as shish kebab, is simply cubed lamb skewered and grilled, but, in order to be really good, the lamb (usually from the leg) needs a good trimming. There's a ton of fat and silverskin on the leg, and trimming it is tedious work, but worth it. I spent at least two hours huddled over the cutting board. I dumped the cubes into a plastic bag and marinated it overnight in lots of parsley (tames the wild, gamey flavor of lamb), green onions, and olive oil.

I also made hummus, baba gannoush, pita, rice, tahini sauce, and grilled red onions. For my take on making pita and baba gannoush, you can refer to my earlier post. The hummus was so-so, and I'm convinced that it's due to the particular flavor of lemons this time of year. The baba was fabulous; I grilled the eggplant forever, and it took on that strong smoky flavor that makes for great baba. Plus tons of garlic.
















The kebabs were good, a touch overcooked. Lamb really is at its best rare, but mine was medium-rare. Oh well. Nobody seemed to mind terribly.

Disney

We've just returned from a week in Florida, three days of which we spent at Disney. I hadn't been to Disney since the mid-1980's, when I spent a day or two there with college friends. At that time, Epcot was brand spanking new; their "Living Seas" aquarium was the largest saltwater tank on the planet, and I remember waiting hours to get in.


Times have changed.

We went to Epcot first, primarily because of my memories of really cutting-edge exhibits and attractions. Even though they've "updated" many of the attractions since my last visit, the whole place felt dated. The aquarium, renamed something I can't remember, was sad. It's no longer even billed as an aquarium, but as a "Finding Nemo" ride, which was not even mildly interesting. The tanks themselves were cloudy, the fish seemed listless, and the place smelled vaguely stale. The only highlight of Epcot was the World Showcase, where I listened to a Beatles tribute band (they sounded good but looked all wrong) while sipping an $8.00 Harp from the nearby pub.

Day two found us at the Magic Kingdom, which was much better. Space Mountain continues to thrill, and the updated Pirates of the Caribbean was as good as ever.


Our last day we visited Animal Kingdom. I have to admit that I thought it would be the weakest of the three we visited, but it was fabulous, far and away the best of our days at Disney. As we approached each new section, I was struck by the incredible attention to detail. The landscaping, the architecture, the lettering on the signs; I walked about in a daze, transported to 1920's East Africa or 1960's Burma, and Kim thought I was daft. On several occasions Kim had to call my attention to the vacancy in front of me in line, since I was enthralled with the woodwork or period lamps or flora braided about the Tibetan prayer flags.


You've got to hand it to the Disney Imagineers, whose job, I guess, is to transport you to the chosen time and place.

In this photo, there are, of course, the African dancers, gyrating to what are certainly authentic rhythms and instruments. But look closely above the dancers' heads. Click to enlarge the photo, if you need to. You can see the run-down power lines jerry-rigged to the crumbling baked-mud walls. Even better, you can make out the cheap plastic cassette player and basket of laundry perched atop the balcony wall. Brilliant.


I told Kim I could come back to Animal Kingdom by myself just to spend hours looking at all the beautiful buildings and landscaping, and I mean it. It was, finally, the beauty of the place that so moved me. I cannot wait to return.

Fish Tacos

I loved the idea of fish tacos long before I actually tried them for the first time.

For this first foray into Baja surfer cuisine, I knew I had to make slaw, guacamole, salsa, and the fish.

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First, the slaw, which was pretty simple. I shredded about one-quarter of a head of regular cabbage, although I suspect Napa cabbage might be better. I added cilantro, lime juice, salt, and a swirl of olive oil, then let it stew in the fridge. For regular slaw, I like to soak the shredded cabbage in heavily salted water for 30 minutes or so, which softens it. For fish tacos, however, I figured it needed the crunch and aggressive flavor of unsalted cabbage.

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Quick tangential thought: I am in awe of whomever first combined these disparate ingredients into classic fish tacos. I would love to meet the person who looked down at a plate of grilled fish fillets wrapped in soft corn tortillas and thought, "It needs cabbage." That thought would never have occurred to me. Inspired.

I really like my own guacamole. I muddled crushed garlic, salt, cilantro, and lime juice to a paste, then mashed an avocado into it. Sometimes I'll add a tiny dollop of mayo and a dash of Worcestershire, then salt and more lime juice. The only thing that keeps the finished guac from oxidizing while it sits is to press plastic wrap right down onto the surface and flatten it out, effectively cutting off its air source. While a big avocado pit looks cool nestled in the guacamole, it really does nothing to arrest the browning, in spite of what your mamacita done told you.

The salsa was likewise simple.

I thawed flash-frozen tilapia fillets and pan-fried them in a touch of butter and oil. It took less than five minutes, and the flavor was fabulous.

Kim usually has an unerring palate and a keen sense of what flavors and textures will work well together. There are occasional lapses, of course, as in her adding dried cranberries to salmagundy and grapes to chicken salad (I know I just pissed off most of the female population out there - I'm thinking specifically of you, Katherine, for some reason. Sure, I understand the sweet/savory contrast, but I don't like it personally. Fruity chicken salad is one of the few "girlie" foods that I just do not like). With tacos in general, Kim's flaw, in my opinion, is that she does not like corn tortillas. For me, the earthy, grainy (Kim would say mushy, gritty) texture of a corn tortilla is the perfect complement to the creaminess of the fish and guacamole tucked inside.

We used flour tortillas because Kim dislikes corn tortillas more than I dislike flour ones.

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And I have to say, they were delicious. Kim even gave the ultimate approval comment: "This would be good for when we have people over." Yes, I'll be making these again soon. Maybe we'll give you a call . . .

Big Snow

Ever since moving to western North Carolina about 15 years ago, I've heard over and over the lament, "It never snows anymore like it used to!" Crabby locals, in-the-know tourists, jaded transplants: they all think they're the first to notice the precipitous drop in snowfall totals over the past couple of decades.

Me, too. It does seem like it's been awhile since we've had a big snow. As a teacher, I look forward to at least a couple of days off from school due to inclement weather each year, and I'm rarely disappointed. We'll get anywhere from a dusting to two or three inches several times a year, and the schools will be closed, or at least delayed by two hours.

Yesterday, however, the big storm mushroomed up and curled up around the southern US like a cat bedding down for the night. Rain at first, then sleet, then gigantic fat flakes that melted upon contact. The temperature finally tipped below freezing, and the white stuff began to stick. For awhile, it was pouring down, obscuring the far side of our valley as the light faded.

What a beautiful sight. Is there anything more deeply satisfying than watching a heavy snowstorm while inside a warm, dry house? I think it answers some primal instinct in us, some visceral urge to nest up and hunker down. For me, one of the most delicious feelings comes from crawling into a tent (and sleeping bag) in a cold drizzle, and I felt that way Sunday night.

All told, we got about six inches here in Swannanoa, but certain locations within 30 miles got nearly a foot, just like the old days.

I hope the oldtimers are happy. I know I was.

Inauguration

(WARNING - GEEKWAD ETYMOLOGY/HISTORY AHEAD)


We watched the Inauguration today, of course, and a number of thoughts were buzzing around my head as we watched and cheered. I'm sure these thoughts are not unique to me, but I'd like to share.



First, the word itself, inauguration. I love this word. It goes back to the Roman Republic, when a "fortuneteller" of sorts, known as an "augur" in Latin, would be consulted whenever an important decision needed to be reached. The augur would actually watch a flight of birds to determine the will of the gods. If things looked good, it was considered auspicious, a word that itself ultimately shares a common proto-Indo-European root with the word augur. If you're an etymology geek like me, you may recognize the root "avi" ("bird", "flight") in the constructions of augur and auspicious.


Now, we no longer watch the flight patterns of birds or examine the liver of a sacrificed animal (no, really - it's called hepatomancy) before making momentous decisions, but I love the idea that our own Republic still hearkens back, once each four years, to the idea of "bringing in something auspicious."


I can't help taking pleasure in the thought that the linguistic connection between the Inauguration and what is basically sorcery would make many Christian fundamentalists shudder. OK, now that I've established myself as a total mooncalf, I'll move on to . . .


Second, the much-touted "peaceful transfer of power." As Americans, I think we take this for granted, since it's the only domestic experience we've ever had. When George Washington marched his Continental Army toward Philadelphia in 1783, after the British surrender at Yorktown, the entire world assumed he was moving to consolidate his grip on power. Nobody was naive enough to believe that he would actually surrender power to Congress. Even George III observed, as the world held its breath, that Washington was a better man than he, if Washington could do this thing.


As we all know, Washington resigned his commission, voluntarily relinquishing his appointed power. Astonishing. No military ruler had done that in a thousand years, maybe more. A veritable Cincinnatus.


And so it's gone in the 200-plus years since then. Every four (or eight) years, there is this uniquely American ritual, in which the President peacefully surrenders power to his democratically-elected successor. No revolutions. No coups d'etat. No strong-arm generals suspending habeas corpus.


This is truly what makes me proud to be an American.

A Christmas Carol, Redux

I'd been waiting for nearly a year to be involved again in A Christmas Carol, performed by the Montford Park Players at the Asheville Community Theater. I had so much fun as the narrator Charles Dickens in last year's production, and I couldn't wait to (hopefully) reprise my role. Auditions were announced, but the director, CJ Breland, was too busy to listen to me read. She said simply, "Oh, Dickens is yours, if you want it."

Well, of course, I wanted it. Upon asking about others involved in the show, however, I picked up the juicy tidbit that she had not yet cast anyone as Fred, Scrooge's nephew.

In the past decade of teaching, I have always read A Christmas Carol (an abridged version) to my students, and I have always had a soft spot in my heart for Fred. He is easily the most compelling character in the novel: unsinkable, optimistic, extroverted, in short, Fred is everything that we wish we were. There is something so very moving, yet sad, about his relentless pursuit of Scrooge's good will.

Anyway, CJ let me read for Fred and decided, in her wisdom, that I might be good for the part. I was thrilled.

Rehearsals were much more condensed than last year, but the time I spent with cast and crew was delightful. The Montford Park Players is the most accepting and supportive group I've ever been involved with, even though the majority of the Christmas Carol cast are not involved with the summer Shakespeare series. I'm not sure why that would be.

I'm posting here a few rehearsal photos that may be of interest.

Marley's Ghost warns Scrooge.

The pawnshop scene, Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

The men's dressing room on opening night. Scrooge (Mike Vaniman, again) is seated, wearing braces. Fezziwig (Tim Reid) in blue, with glasses. The Ghost of Christmas Present (Nathan Adams) is wearing the tophat.

Yours Truly

Offstage shot of the Cratchit family.

The lovely Paola as Martha Cratchit.

Trackrock Gap

Just after Christmas, Kim and I and the boys were driving home from Atlanta, and we passed through my old college stomping grounds near Young Harris, Georgia, right on the North Carolina border. I hadn't been there in decades, but I thought my boys might enjoy and benefit from a visit to Trackrock Gap.

Trackrock Gap is the site of paleo-Indian petroglyphs carved into soapstone boulders right off the side of a rural road:

Over the years, vandals (including the original 1830's-era "archeologists") have defaced the stones, even carting off entire sections. Thus, the iron cages surrounding them today.

The historical marker at the sight isn't much help. It explains that the petroglyphs could be anywhere from 8000 to 500 years old, and that the meaning of the symbols is anyone's guess. I can remember quite clearly, however, visiting the rocks on numerous occasions in college, and having no trouble whatsoever deciphering the most common figure, pictured at the beginning of this post (go ahead, scroll back up and make your own guess).

Now, I'm not trying to be prurient, but the carving is obviously a rendering of a part of the female anatomy. The pudendum, as footnotes in polite editions of Chaucer explain. I told Kim my theory, but she wasn't convinced. It was then I noticed the stack of explanatory brochures, which had not existed when I was in college. They were marginally more helpful than the historical marker, but at least they ventured upon guesses of the meanings of the petroglyphs. Sure enough, the predominant carving was listed as a symbol of female fertility.

I should have been an archaeologist.

A Christmas Tradition

Holidays, it seems, are all about traditions. The foods we eat, the rituals we practice, the places we visit: these all become sanctified by repetition. Last Christmas, I was surprised to learn of the old German tradition of hiding a pickle ornament (yes, a pickle ornament) among the branches of the Tannenbaum. The child who finds it, venerable tradition states, receives an extra gift.

Except that it is not an old German tradition at all, but more of an urban legend of quite recent vintage. I suspect that some merchant found himself inexplicably loaded down with 40,000 glass pickle ornaments and thought, "What the hell am I going to do with these?" Thus, a tradition was born.

And while such Christmas trappings as the yule log, the bedecked tree, and even the date of Christmas itself have their roots ultimately in misty pre-Christian (that is, pagan) antiquity, many of the traditions surrounding Christmas are of fairly recent establishment. I think Dickens' A Christmas Carol went a long way toward forming the idea of how Christmas should be celebrated.

All of this is my way of rationalizing the beginning of a new holiday tradition in the Broshar household. We've baked tons of cookies in years past, usually with a bevy of kids sprinkling flour with abandon, a tradition started by Kim's mother Sheila. This year, however, we began the tradition of decorating a spindly hemlock tree in a remote part of Buncombe county before returning to the house for the annual holiday bakefest.

The tree is just off the BryanTrail in the Greybeard area above Montreat. We've hiked there as a family for years, and we've always stopped with pleasure at the unremarkable little tree, notable only for a little angel ornament and a rusty bell hanging from its branches. They were set there, no doubt, years ago on a momentary whim by some passing hiker.

We invited a group of friends and their children for the day. We met at the Montreat Gate and proceeded to the trailhead, where we set off to the tree (we still don't have a name for the tree, but I'm sure something will evolve). 

The hike was fairly uneventful, except for some momentary confusion over where one of the groups of kids had gotten to (they were with me, playing in the creek, when the main body of hikers passed by). 

Montreat Creek looked great, thanks to all of the recent rain.

We arrived in good order and decorated our little wilderness Christmas tree. I already have visions of some ecoterrorist writing a bitter letter to the editor of the Black Mountain News, castigating us for poisoning the tree with non-organic, non-biodegradable decorations. With my luck, the only baby Panda ever to wander into north America will choke to death on a ceramic angel from our tree.

It didn't take us long; we didn't overburden the tree. 

When it was done, we took some group pictures and headed back to the house.

Once home, the flour flew, as did the sprinkles, colored sugar, chocolate chips, well, you get the idea.

In the end, we had produced dozens of sugar, molasses, gingerbread, and oatmeal-raisin chocolate chip cookies, some to eat over the holidays, some to share. Each family took home a tin or two.

I think this holiday tradition is a keeper.

Et in Terra Pax

Asheville Holiday Parade

I love walking in the Asheville Holiday Parade, which, this year, was actually held the last weekend in November. About thirty Montford Park Players met at the theater to get into costume, then were shuttled to the staging area, where we waited nearly an hour for the parade to begin. Asheville is such a wonderful town, and it feels really good to be somehow included in the life of the city.

All told, the parade route is roughly a mile long, winding its way through the heart of the downtown district. We simply waved and handed out advertisements for A Christmas Carol. The photos of me in my Elizabethan get-up were taken by my wife Kim.

I feel compelled to include one more shot; this is Mandy, whose skirt slid unexpectedly to the ground while she was dressing before the parade. I'm  so glad my camera was handy. The expression of surprise, I assure you, is authentic.

Crooked Island

I love the place name Crooked Island. It sounds so, I don't know, swashbuckling. I'm not exactly sure what swashbuckling means, but I feel fairly certain that Crooked Island has seen its share of buckled swashes.

It's a remote stretch of beach in the Florida panhandle, within the boundaries of Tyndall Air Force Base, accessible only by boat. Nobody, with the exception of a few fishermen and the occasional accidental tourist (like me) goes there. The highest point of the island is maybe two feet above sea level, and the rest is gauged depending upon how the tide is making: at high tide, the island easily covers only 1/3 of its low-tide self.

What is fabulous about Crooked Island is that it's so damn low; the changing tides are constantly remaking its beauty.

The shelling is spectacular as well, since the island acts as a sieve for the water rushing in and out every six hours. Lots of active marine life too. Can you make out the tide creeping in behind this oblivious crab? Little does he suspect . . .

Actually, he probably does.

I've taken far too long getting this post up and running. I'll finish it by indicating how we ended our day at Crooked Island.

"Well, the frost is on the pumpkin . . . "

Jeez, I lived right smack in the heart of picture-perfect New England for four years. Way up in the Berkshires, about thirty miles from Stockbridge, of Norman Rockwell and James Taylor fame. Who would have imagined an archetypal New England morning in October in North Carolina?

Yet, there it was this morning as the diffused light began to grow. Not just frost on the pumpkin, but honest-to-goodness snow. The trees were white, the ground was white, and our pumpkins were, well, dusted, as you can see. It was beautiful, and all the more so because it was unexpected. A half-mile down our road, the ground was clear. Our secluded little valley apparently pleased the snow gods, and we got an inch or so. It doesn't usually snow here until late December or January, but it makes me happy for some unaccountable reason, even though we didn't miss school.

Roasted Cauliflower

Ah, cauliflower.

I think cauliflower is one of the most neglected members of the vegetable family. My family didn't eat it at all when I was growing up, but I have come to love it in the past few years.

Now, boiled or steamed cauliflower leaves me underwhelmed, but in its roasted incarnation (is that a mixed metaphor, or what?), it deserves to be much more widely appreciated. Roasted cauliflower bears little resemblance to its more aqueous manifestation.

I simply toss fresh cauliflower florets with olive oil, a healthy squeeze of lemon, and a dusting of Cajun seasoning (Zatarain's, my favorite), then roast it in a 400-degree oven for 20-25 minutes, stirring it around once in awhile. It caramelizes beautifully, becoming what the cookbooks call "crisp-tender," and taking on a nutty, spicy flavor that pairs with just about anything except tiramisu. My boys usually squeeze on more lemon juice, but, rest assured, it does not taste anything like the other "skunky" boiled cruciferous vegetables you've had.

Really, I cannot recommend it highly enough.

Prandeamus igitur!

Pizza

I make really good pizza. The shameful truth, however, is that it's not terribly difficult to make great pizza.

The crust, of course, is key. There is some debate about which type of flour to use. Some say a low-protein flour is critical, others claim a high-protein flour is what's called for. I cannot really tell the difference. The crust pictured below was made with expensive Italian OO flour I bought from King Arthur. It has a ridiculously low protein count and is milled extra-fine. What really made the difference, however, was the addition of a dough relaxer, which makes the dough very easy to work with.

My dough contains only flour, yeast, salt, and water (and, of course, the dough relaxer). I mix it in a food processor and let it proof for about 4 hours. I then punch it down and stick it in the fridge overnight for a long, slow rise. The next day, I simply punch it down and let it come up to room temperature before shaping and baking it.

My sauce is simple, as well. I soften a couple of thinly-sliced garlic cloves in olive oil, being careful only to warm the garlic. Then I add a 14.5-oz. can of whole tomatoes that I've pulsed in the food processor until smooth. A small pinch of sugar, a pinch of salt, and a pinch of crushed oregano rounds it out. It takes only about 20 minutes to simmer it down to sauce consistency.

As far as toppings go, brevity is the soul of, uh, pizza: a bit of sauce, some fresh mozzarella, maybe some Italian sausage (which my boys love), and fifteen minutes later, the best pizza in Swannanoa, maybe the best in east Asheville.

Mangia!

Late Summer Blues

A great, late-summer photo of Henry at the beach. I hope to post again very soon. I need to post again very soon.

Where did the summer go?

Sumer is Icumen In

With the glorious weather that arrived today, after a couple of miserably wet and cold days, it seemed appropriate to make some summer food. So we had our friend Bess and her family over for burgers, potato salad, roasted corn salad, and cold beer. What a satisfying repast for a halcyon Saturday afternoon.

The beef comes from the family of a student of mine; her family has a few cows (they're not farmers) that they cull from once in awhile, and I am the periodic beneficiary of their generosity. It comes wrapped in butcher paper, stamped with the local processor's seal. It is fabulous, not to mention free-range and organic, if that is important to you. Fatty, but not too fatty, rich, flavorful, and, well, beefy.

I also made a standard potato salad, which turned out well. It's hard to beat the classic recipes for potato salad: red potatoes, cider vinegar, red onion, parsley, celery, salt, pepper, and mayonnaise. I did add a bit of lemon juice, a shot of hot sauce (Frank's, my favorite), and a dusting of Zatarain's Creole Seasoning.

In addition, I made a roasted corn salad. I cut the kernels from five or so fresh ears of corn (white and yellow) and pan-roasted them with a bit of red onion until they carmelized. Once it cooled, I added fresh red onion (although scallions are better), a ton of cilantro, diced tomatoes, avocado, lime juice, a touch of olive oil, and salt. Delicious, though it's always a bit sweet to my taste this early in the season.

The burgers looked so good that our friend Bess, who is a vegetarian, ate half a burger on the sly.

Don't tell her I told you.

Salmagundy

In the spirit of the 18th Century, which I love with all my soul, I've posted a photo of our supper tonight. Oh, not the boys: they had waffles. For Kim and me, I put together a salad that resembles salmagundy, the word for a chef's salad two-hundred years ago.

Romaine, green onions, tomatoes, ham, fresh croutons, green peas, parmesan cheese, boiled egg. It was all doused liberally with a good, basic French (i.e. Italian) dressing. Of course, Kim worked her usual funky voodoo on her portion: she added almonds and dried cranberries, both additions that I consider gilding the lily.

It is surprising to realize that this type of salad was common, even popular, a couple of hundred years ago, but it was. Peruse any 18th-century menu (certainly a common pasttime in 21st-century America), and you'll be sure to find salmagundy, although it was most likely dressed with just salt, maybe some oil. In a way, that seems more appropriate to the fresh ingredients that go into this salad, but I prefer our version, enjoyed on the porch amid our spectacular spring weather.

Catfish

I love this picture. I took it early one morning as I was helping prepare breakfast while my family was on Spring Break at Folly Beach, SC. You can tell from the Hopperesque shadows that it was very early, and the fruit was so beautifully fresh. Lovely.





Anyway, I wanted to write a quick post about the favorite food of every Southerner, fried catfish. At least for me, fried catfish is at the top of my "last meal" list. Sure, I know it's not terribly healthy, but is there anything more satisfying than the crunchy crust, the creamy flesh, the sharp bite of the lemon juice? For me, the perfect sides are rice and sliced tomatoes, with plenty of lemon slices for squeezing.




To paraphrase Ben Franklin, I believe fried catfish is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

Prandeamus

A few photos of recent meals. We've been on a red meat kick the past few weeks, for some reason. Maybe I'm anemic. Our house is usually a poultry fest.







Slow-braised brisket. Fresh brisket, not corned, and I made a fabulous gravy for the rice from the drippings. My boys devoured it all. I think the best marinade is Stubb's Beef Marinade, which is easy to find because it features a black cowboy on the label. Not something you see every day.





















Finally, a grilled London Broil that turned out well. Slice it THIN. Can you tell that our favorite sides are rice and broccoli?

Arroz con Grandules

(Once again, my formatting and spacing is wonky. Sorry. It's not intentional)

Over the Christmas holiday, we invited to our house a part of the Ortiz clan, a Puerto Rican family from Orlando. Our good friend Morgan married into the family, and they visit regularly. For this particular visit, there were only six of them in attendance, as opposed to the usual dozen or so.



Silly me, I thought I'd make some cheap yellow rice from a mix to go with my roasted pork. My boys love it, but, then again, they're not Hispanic.



Grizell (the mamacita) showed up with a bag of rice-making ingredients and her pan. Not just any pan, but her cazuela. The only pan she would ever deign to make rice in. I quickly disposed of my yellow rice and mamacita set to work.



I cannot even remember everything that went into the pot, but bacon figured prominently. I also remember Sazon, recaito, a can of pigeon peas (which Puerto Ricans call grandules; in the Dominican Republic, they're habichuelas, I think), rice, water, and cilantro. It cooked for awhile, filling my kitchen with a wonderful aroma.

And here is Pedro (Grizell's partner), the papacito, with Grizell in the background. I really hope I'm using these Spanish terms correctly.

A shot of the whole crowd.

They also brought a great flan, which didn't last long. Feliz Navidad!

A Christmas Carol

Back in October, on a whim, I went to an audition for A Christmas Carol. A local theater group, the Montford Park Players, puts on Asheville's traditional version of the Dickens' story every year and has been doing so for three decades. Their mainstay is Shakespeare, which they produce in the summer in a lovely outdoor amphitheater close by Riverside Cemetery, where O. Henry and Thomas Wolfe are buried, but A Christmas Carol is their perennial holiday offering, performed at Asheville Community Theater. The Montford Park Players have the distinction of being the longest continually-running Shakespeare Festival in North Carolina.



So I walked into my first audition in twenty years.





My first show ever, Peter Pan, was at the Alliance Theater in Atlanta in about 1977; the Alliance was the only professional theater in Atlanta at the time. I was twelve or so, and played Nibs, one of the Lost Boys, and I had procured the part by walking into my first audition ever. My father drove me down and waited in the house (theaterspeak for where the audience sits) until it was actually my turn to read. He stood up and left, telling me later that he was too nervous to watch. Keep in mind that, at that point, I had no experience whatsoever. I don't know that I had even been inside a theater. I'm not sure what possessed me to try out, but I did.


The pool of potential candidates was initially around 200. There are six Lost Boys, Michael, and Peter, so the number of roles available was only eight. I got a first callback, then a second, joining an ever smaller group of young teens. Finally a third callback, and then the instructions not to cut my hair or change my appearance in any way until I heard whether I had a part.


Weeks passed, weeks. Finally the phone call came, letting me know that I had been selected, although I felt that I had been anointed somehow. Selected. You know, chosen. It was a professional show, and I got paid the grand sum of $25 per week, a small fortune to me (maybe I'll tell you later what exactly became of that money - an interesting story).


It was any 12 year-old's dream. There were professional sets (cool as hell, so much fun to play on between matinees and evening shows), professional custom-made costumes, sounds, lights, real honest-to-goodness professional actors in the principal roles (Penny Fuller was Peter - look her up), and, oh my God, flying.


As you are probably aware, a production of Peter Pan involves flying. At the time, THE fly guy in America was Peter Foy, who made a living traveling the world rigging productions of Peter Pan for flight. He came to rig our show, too, and to teach the flyers how to fly. It was a simple pendulum system. The flyer wears a body harness under his/her costume, to which a thin wire can be clipped at the upper back. The wire runs up into the fly space, through a pulley over to offstage, and through another pulley down to where the stagehands can pull on the rope attached to the wire. The wings-side wire is counterweighted with weights that are a bit less than the weight of the flyer, so the stagehands need only exert a few pounds of pull to lift the actor into the air. An actor standing directly underneath the pulley will rise straight up, but an actor on stage left will rise and swing over to stage right, landing gently when the stagehand lowers him or her.


Needless to say, this took quite a bit of choreography. Unfortunately, I was NOT in one of the roles which flies, so I mostly looked on in smoldering anger at the lucky flyers. Then, one Saturday between matinee and evening show, we were all given the gift of flight; flights were rigged for all of the interested non-flying cast. For a few brief seconds, we left the earth to soar from one side of the stage to the other. The body harness was weightless, and it truly felt like flying. To this day, thirty years later, I can still feel the giddiness, the exuberance of human flight. But, I am afraid, I digress.


I did lots of theater in high school and college, but marriage and children take a serious bite out of the time available for such luxuries as nightly rehearsals for a show. So, as a result, it had been over twenty years since my last audition.


I read three or four roles for CJ Breland, the director, pulling out all the stops. I really wanted a part. Then I went home to wait for the e-mail, which came a week after CJ said she'd notify us. I was ecstatic to learn that I'd landed the role of Charles Dickens, the narrator in our adaptation.


Rehearsals were spread over about four weeks, in the evenings, and I had a blast. I'd forgotten how much fun it was to be around theater types, you know, liberal Democrats with an extremely creative flair and an eccentric sensibility.


We performed four times and received warm, sometimes enthusiastic responses. Here I am with Mandy, who played Mrs. Dickens, the invented "assistant" narrator.


















Here is Mike Vaniman backstage, who played, for the umpteenth time, Ebenezer Scrooge. He was excellent.















A picture taken surreptitiously from offstage, just before I was to enter.
















Finally, the ghost of Christmas Present (Jeremy), in a pensive mood in the green room.











I really hope to audition for this summer's Shakespeare productions. The Montford Park Players will be presenting Antony and Cleopatra and As You Like It, neither of which is among my favorites, but it has always been a secret, burning desire to do Shakespeare. I hope to make that dream become a reality this summer. Stay tuned.

Salsa Fresca

OK, salsa.

Kim and I could only abide one commercial salsa, Tostitos Restaurant Style, which Tostitos inconveniently and, I might add, without consulting me, discontinued.

It was quite good. Every other jarred salsa we tried was thick and sweet, tasting too much of high fructose corn syrup. But the Restaurant Style was thin and sharp and tomatoey. It was just the bite that black beans and rice or quesadillas needed, but it was, alas, gone. There was the obligatory consumer campaign to have it reinstated, but, really, how effective are those campaigns? I'm not hopeful that we'll see it back on the market anytime soon.

In the wake of Restaurant Style's passing, I discovered that making really good salsa is pretty damn simple. I consulted some recipes I found and then sort of found the common denominators that go into the recipes I thought sounded good. I threw it all into the food processor and pulsed my way to salsa Valhalla (I was going to say "salsa Heaven" but that would be SO cliched).

For mine, I dump into the food processor:

1 14.5-oz. can whole peeled tomatoes, undrained

1/2 roughly chopped onion

1 small handfull cilantro

a healthy pinch of cumin

the juice of one lime

salt

Pulse it until it's as chunky or smooth as you like it. Put on your sombrero.

Do a little baile

Make a little amor

Get down esta noche

Virginia Creeper

(OK, before you start reading this, please note that I cannot for the life of me figure out how the spacing works on this blog. I've been tweaking for well over an hour, and I still cannot get things to line up as I would like them to. Please bear that in mind as you continue).

It's been over a week since we met friends and family at Roan Mountain, Tennessee, for a weekend of eating, drinking, and biking. I do believe that we hit the leaves at their absolute most brilliant peak, in spite of predictions of a drab, dull display.

Roan Mountain State Park is a huge park, encompassing a campground, RV sites, cabins, and, of course, Roan Mountain, a high bald crossed by the AT. The cabins are comfortable and functional; their greatest asset is their setting:

We arrived Friday evening (as a group, we used up six cabins), and, after a convivial supper of penne pasta with pesto, grilled chicken and veggies, and my homemade bread (oh, and a vat or two of good red wine), we all retired to our respective cabins, fired up the wood stoves, and turned in. The next morning, we gathered for breakfast and then drove to Damascus, Virginia, the unofficial headquarters for the Virginia Creeper (not to mention the AT). This sleepy, quaint mountain town in south-western Virginia hosts Trail Days, the largest celebration of the Appalachian Trail, when the population swells from just over a thousand to well over 30,000 for the weekend. Luckily, we weren't there on that particular weekend

The Virginia Creeper is a spectacular 34-mile trail running from White Top Mountain to Abingdon, built atop an abandoned railbed. The original steam train that ran lumber and minerals down from the mountains to Abingdon was narrow gauge and very slow, hence the name Creeper. Since it is built on an old railbed, the grade is never more than about 6% and generally runs alongside the mountain stream that flows into and through Damascus. Damascus sits at the midpoint of the trail; it is also at the trail's lowest point. That is, the trail ascends about 17 miles from Damascus to Abingdon in one direction and about 17 miles from Damascus to White Top Mountain in the other direction. The shuttles take bikers to the top of White Top, from which they ride back down into Damascus.

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OK, so let's put this into perspective. Once the shuttle drops you off at White Top, you have a 17-mile downhill bike ride on a gentle path that runs over old trestles and along mountain streams. The AT follows the Creeper for the last few miles, so the only possible complaint a rider can have is the bitch of having to swerve to avoid those pesky through-hikers. Who do they think they are? Get a bike, for the love of God!

Here's the trailhead at White Top Mountain:

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And here's me pre-ride with my four year-old Henry (can you tell he's camera shy?):

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Within the first few hundred yards, the trail is in the woods. How beautiful (and easy, I might add) is this?

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I lose track of how many trestles the trail includes, but there are legion, and they are all pretty impressive. Here's the first; at midpoint, the biker is well over a hundred feet in the air:

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Anyway, it is a delightful ride, especially when the weather is as perfect as it was last weekend. In addition to the woodlands, the trail also traverses pretty fields. Here's Kim checking on Ellie:

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That evening, we all gathered back at the cabins for barbecue and slaw from Luella's in Asheville.

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It was a great weekend. On Sunday the families all drifted away in little groups, but we decided to go up Roan. Up top, at Carver's Gap, which straddles the NC-TN state line, the temperature was just above freezing and foggy. No, make that misty; it was truly on the very edge of snowing. We did not get to enjoy the stunning view from the top due to the weather, but it was cooler that way. When Roan Bald is socked in, I almost feel as though William Wallace might come striding out of the mist. Cold, soggy, windy, primeval. Here's my father-in-law near the top. Just try to picture him in a kilt. On second thought, don't.

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Excursion

This past weekend, we ventured out into the great beyond. Asheville is blessed with a myriad of gorgeous outdoor destinations, as the New York Times recognized (did you read that, Laura Rebecca?). Asheville also ranks right up at the top by almost any quality-of-life standard. Sure, you might be disappointed if your standard includes the haute cuisine of 17th-century Papua New Guinea or the availability of lessons in the Xhosa language, but, if you want great tapas, a community drum circle to make Robert Bly proud, or some of the best microbrew in the nation, Asheville will not let you down.

We (my wife Kim, my boys Ben and Henry, and I) met our good friend Bess with her two kids, Ellie and Asa, at the West End Bakery, a funky, friendly breakfast spot in west Asheville to fortify ourselves for the excursion. Local sausage on cathead biscuits, organic white hominy grits, free-trade coffee - yep, it was politically correct, environmentally friendly, and downright delicious.

After noshing, we headed out to Bent Creek, an experimental forest that welcomes hikers and bikers. The weather was stunning, everything one could ask for. Ben and I rode our bikes (Ben is still in the newbie stage of mountain biking - he kept complaining that the gravel road was too bumpy) while the others walked out to Lake Powhattan.

The disabled have all the luck.

At this point, I have to quote W. B. Yeats, who beat me to the description of our day, the bastard. Just plug in the past tense for all the verbs.

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine and fifty swans.

W. B. Yeats, Wild Swans at Coole

Not that there is any obligation on my part to cite Yeats according to the MLA; the poem is in the public domain. I just feel it important to give a nod to the greatest modern poet in English.

Finally we looped back around to the trailhead and watched the real bikers push the last few yards home

Autumnus

As you should already know, I'm a big fan of autumn. The crisp air, the halcyon views, all of Creation seeming to kneel quietly before the impending arrival of Winter. Even the word is cool: autumn. That noble "-mn" ending, the"t" with a "u" on either side. So cool. Everything just seems more ponderous somehow at this time of year.

And what a kick-ass time to make great food! Oh sure, I know we're all weight-conscious, fretting over every mouthful of saturated fat and salt, but the autumn screams out for hearty, cream-based concoctions and roasted red meats. I'm certain that it's hard-wired into our genes. Our caveman ancestors must have craved fat as the weather cooled, knowing that the Lean Months were rapidly approaching.

The nice thing about pork is that it's so much leaner than it used to be in my youth. My mother would serve a pork roast, swimming in heady amounts of delicious fat, dressed in mustard sauce. In those days, her mustard sauce was made from French's yellow, not some Maille Dijon blend, and it was wonderful. But today's pork is just as satisfying as it was in the 60's and 70's. Here, for instance, is a pork tenderloin that I grilled slowly just a few days ago:



















I also feel obligated, although I'm veering off topic, to supply some images of the felafel I made recently. Here it is cooking:












And below are all of the accoutrement, as it were, that accompany felafel, at least in our house.










A bowl of salad for stuffing into the pita, the fabulous Arabic pickles (see post below), and the pitcher of tahini sauce, which is indispensable to good felafel. I really like a good dousing of hot sauce as well. The pumpkin is merely decorative.

Crowder Peas

I've been reading Laura Rebecca's food blog Laura Rebecca's Kitchen for some months now, and I get pissy and impatient when she hasn't written in awhile. But, of course, I'm guilty of the same lapses, not that I have any sort of audience whatsoever (I'm not sure that my wife has even read the few entries on this blog, although I pointed it out to her with my eyebrows raised hopefully).

The reason I started doing this was to have a creative outlet. As an English teacher, I know that the best writing is produced for an audience, something most middle-school students lack. Here, I have an audience, although it's quite (OK, extremely) small. So, I'm determined to continue, daily if possible.

When I was a kid, my mother, who was a true Cracker raised in the swamps of northern Florida, would make field peas with snaps. She referred to this dish as Crowder peas. They were laboriously shelled into a bowl and then simmered forever (with bacon grease, I suspect) with a few small pieces of the snapped beans. They were fabulous. I've seen frozen "Field Peas With Snaps" in Ingles (THE grocery store in western North Carolina), and they're pretty good. I can just make out the haunting flavor I remember from my childhood, especially when they're smothered in butter. But it's nothing like the, well, I don't have a word to describe the earthy, soul-warming legumes of my youth.

She also made what she called creamed corn, but which bore no resemblance whatsoever to any creamed corn I've ever come across. Most creamed corn I've tried in the past twenty years is thick and sickly sweet, cloying and tasting, frankly, of vomit. No, really.

She would cut the kernels from fresh ears and then cook them in a skillet in a puddle of bacon grease with a little salt. I haven't made this, but my sister's version is every bit as good as our mother's. And the result was a glorious mouthfull, salty, chewy, creamy.

Another recipe I'd love to have from my mother (God rest her soul) is that for her cornpone. She would mix cornmeal with an egg and some milk and pour it into a hissing hot, oiled cast-iron skillet (her mother's cast-iron skillet no less, which I now have; it's well over 100 years old). No leavening at all, mind you. After baking, it would emerge, flat, dense, and chewy, and it would keep for days, cold on the back of the stove but still toothy and satisfying.

And her pot roast. Oh, I'll save you the trouble of reading about her pot roast. It wouldn't be fair to share an account of that chuck roast, salted and put into (guess what?) a skillet with just a bit of water, covered with foil and baked "until it's done," as she used to say when pressed.

Thanks for your patience as I dreamily remember the culinary ebenezers of my life. As I remember other exceptional foods my mother made for me, I'll share.

For now, my secret hope is that Laura Rebecca will read my blog and contact me, begging for some Southern recipe.

Redeye gravy? Yep, I can make it.

Croutons and Swastikas

Did that title get your attention? I had planned to do a short blog about my use of leftover bread (yawn), but, at school today (I teach 8th-grade English and Social Studies) we had a speaker who put the croutons out of my mind.

Actually, since I've already uploaded the photos, I'll quickly post a couple from the crouton-making process before I launch into the speaker, although it makes me feel cheap, tawdry, and selfish.













Here's a bag of leftover bread (see the post below if you're interested in my bread-making) straight from the freezer. I cube the bread and then freeze it right away. I used to toast it in the oven first, but I've found that the croutons made from untoasted bread have a marvelous chew.


I pan-fry them at very high heat in a bit of olive oil until they're nicely browned, then I add kosher salt, pepper, and a dusting of parmesan cheese off heat.













The hardest part of making these croutons is refraining from snacking on them while waiting for the salad to be assembled.


Now that those photos are out of the way, I'll move on to the speaker.


His name is Dr. Erich Wellisch (a Ph.D in chemistry), and he lives here in Asheville, a very spry 87 year-old. He is Jewish, born and raised outside St. Polten, Austria in 1920; he managed, against all odds, to secure a passport to travel to the US in 1939. Once in the States, he joined the US Army and returned to Europe, where he helped liberate Buchenwald. He toured Dresden shortly after the firebombing, and he was present at the surrender of Brest. He was the "Forrest Gump" of World War II.


The students were interested, but I think it was the adults who were most riveted to this speaking relic, this man in flesh before us who had experienced firsthand the most cataclysmic upheavals of the 20th century. His account of Kristallnacht in St. Polten was fascinating in a way that reading Anne Frank's diary (which my students are doing right now) somehow is not. I think the difference was in his actual presence before us, as opposed to the chilling whispers of Anne Frank's ghost. He is a witness in the truest sense of the word.


And then he quite simply compressed time.


Try to picture a bowed, very short old man, leaning over his satchel, fumbling inside, peering myopically through his thick glasses. His eyebrows rise, and he tugs from the satchel a red bundle, which he clumsily unfolds and spreads across the table in front of him. A Nazi flag. The original Nazi flag which once flew over the submarine base at Brest. An audible gasp (from the teachers) went up.


















And then he brought out the thing that floored me: his original passport, issued by the Nazi-controlled Austrian government in 1939.

















After the kids had seen it, I whisked it away to the workroom to take photos.

Here is his photo page. It's hard to reconcile the bent old man who stood in front of me with the passport photo of a young, handsome 19 year-old.





I think what so astonished me was the swastika, stamped officially, the symbol of institutionalized hatred. You will, no doubt, notice the large, red "J" stamped prominently on the first page of the passport in this final photo, indelibly identifying Dr. Wellisch as a Jew. He said that that mark basically nullified him, that it let other countries know that he was below humanity.




God preserve us.

Salam

I was up early with my boys, which was the perfect excuse to begin preparing the feast. After taking stock of what I needed, I discovered that I was out of yeast to make the pita bread - quick, to the store! The pita was my first task, since the dough would need time to proof. I mix and "knead" all of my doughs using a food processor, although the purists would object. If done correctly, it works beautifully. I have found that when kneading by hand, I always add way too much flour to the dough as I go, since, in spite of everything said in the recipes, the dough never stops sticking to my hands, the countertop, my clothes, my hair, etc.

After mixing, the pita dough proofs for about four hours. I have to write the time on the plastic wrap or I'll forget and the dough will overproof:

After the proofing, I punch down and divide the dough into as many pieces as I need. Much depends on how big I want my pitas. Flattened out, the dough rests under a flour sacking for about 20 minutes.

A final tweaking with the rolling pin, then onto the hot (500 degrees) baking stone. Six minutes on one side, one minute on the other, and it's done.

I've decided on shawarma, made from chicken and beef. Sliced the chicken breasts and meat (sirloin steaks - I don't know what cut to use, so sirloin seems a good, middle-of-the-road choice) thin, about three pounds total, added two large white onions sliced into half-moons, and tons of spices. Cumin, salt, coriander, allspice, cayenne, curry, and tons of "shawarma spice," whatever that is. Probably turmeric and curry. Oh, and I added a crushed clove of garlic and a fair amount of sumac. A bit of water and the juice of two lemons, then I mixed it thoroughly with my hands. What a delightful smell! I'll bake it for a couple hours, uncovering it after the first. Here it is in raw form.


















I grilled the eggplant, made the tahini sauce, and finally cooked the mejudarra. Mejudarra is composed of only three ingredients, lentils, rice, and onions (I'm not counting the oil and salt). It is supposedly the "mess of pottage" for which Esau sold his birthright to Jacob in the Old Testament, and it is surprisingly good for a four thousand year-old recipe. Rice and lentils is a classic combination, but it is the onions, cooked forever at low heat until they carmelize, that bring this dish together and really give it authority.

A whole mess o' onions becomes . . .

. . . carmelized glory.

Is there anything more delicious than slowly carmelized onions? I honestly believe you could proudly serve a Swanson's TV dinner (meatloaf, please) in the Oak Room of the Plaza Hotel as long as it was thoroughly garnished with carmelized onions.

The finished mejudarra is traditionally served with a dollop of yogurt on top, but the yogurt in the fridge had gone the way of the ghost, so I settled for a quick swirl of olive oil.

The grilled eggplant went into the food processor, along with tahini, salt, lemon juice, cumin, and garlic to produce the baba gannoush. Kim tasted it and approved. When it's good, it's great: smoky, tangy, mysterious. The secret to good baba gannoush is to use tons of garlic; it should sting the tongue. Claudia Roden called baba gannoush "vulgularly seductive," and I'm left speechless in the wake of such a perfect description.

I would love to meet Claudia Roden.

Shawarma is often eaten stuffed into pita with thinly sliced pickles and lemons and tahini sauce. The best shawarma pickles, sharply sour and garlicky, come from the Middle East, naturally. I found an eastern European market in Asheville that carries pickles made in Israel, although they are packaged in Cyrillic for what I guess is a Russian market (or perhaps Russian emigres in Israel). You can make out the label in this photo of my son Ben, who happens to love these pickles.

Everyone arrived and the dinner went off without a hitch. Approval all around.

We finished with desert (non-Arabic) and a bit of Arabic coffee. Arabic coffee is very finely ground, like espresso, and mixed with roughly ground cardamom, which gives it a heady aroma and rich flavor. Served quite sweet, it's also very strong, although I've seen Arabs down cup after cup and then go straight to sleep. I love it, but it makes my scalp tingle. One of the joys of Arabic coffee is chewing on the cardamom that collects in the dregs.

As great as the meal and socializing was, the best part is the leftovers. Don't tell our guests, but shawarma served fresh and hot is a pale shadow to what it becomes after a couple days seasoning in the fridge!

And our friends, who always bring great wine, did not disappoint. A screw-top California Shiraz (Twin Fin) that they found for $7.

Salam!

Fattoush, anyone?

Tomorrow night, friends are coming for an Arabic meal, and I've been trying to figure out what to make. Of course, I'll have the old standbys, hummus and tabouli. And I'll make my own pita. If I get ambitious, I'll make baba gannoush, and I'll probably put out some red cabbage and sumac salad. Perhaps fattoush as well, if I don't make tabouli.

But I'm trying to plan the main dish, and I'll have to talk to Kim before I decide; she has an uncanny sense of what works together, expecially considering that our friends always bring really, really good red wine.

The easier things to serve would be falafel or shawarma, but our friends have already tried both. I want to make something new and different. I looked over several recipes for B'stilla, but it's so much work for a dish I've never made, and I have no idea how it might turn out. I've only even eaten B'stilla once, years ago, in the Moroccan restaurant at Epcot, of all places. Unbelievable. Fantastic. And that was before I had really begun to like Middle Eastern food.

So, my guess is that I'll end up making shawarma; it is so very good and fairly straightforward. The point of writing all of this here tonight is to remind myself to take pictures so that I can post them tomorrow after the meal. Check back in a couple of days and perhaps you can share the meal with us, vicariously of course.

And if you ever see B'stilla on the menu in an Arabic restaurant, order a double batch, for God's sake.

Christina's World

Here's a poem I wrote decades ago in college (I can hear you stampeding toward the exit). At the time, I had a print of Christina's World by Wyeth tacked to my dorm room wall, and it served as the inspiration. It was the first of my poems that I really liked. Don't worry, it's short.


She’s only an extension of the
Fallow furrows.
Same reedy hair and ploughed desires:
She’s choking with expectant love.

Might as well say World’s Christina,
For we are one with the earth.
Of course, we’ve gone to the moon, but I point to
Christina and the
Earth on which she sprawls.

On either face, the
Breathless passion,
The same moistened thighs,
Gathering strength,
Waiting for seed.

Bread and Circuses

OK, so with the dramatic change in the weather (see post below), I decided to make bread. Now, I am a man who is fairly good at many things but very good at few. Making bread is one talent I do possess, thanks in large part to a method and recipe I chanced across. Just look at the baguette in this photo. From a Parisian boulangerie? Mais, non! Makes me proud.

So, as a part of the blog learning curve, I took photos of the bread at various stages (actually, taking photos occurred to me only after the loaves were formed and resting in their final proof, so there are no photos of the process before that point - maybe next time). And now I am trying to upload the photos and accompany them with titillating prose, although it looks at this point as though I may be succesful only at the former.

Here is a proofed loaf just after slashing and moments before it hits the baking stone in the oven.



And . . .







. . . here are the finished loaves.









Finally, I have one more photo to share.
Ready?

Use your imagination. Squint. There is a suggestive image in this naughty loaf.

By the way, did you know that the word "lady" comes from the Anglo-Saxon compound "hlafdige" which means "bread-maker"? You may recognize the word "loaf" in the first half of the Old English word.

Bon Appétit!

Apostrophe to Autumn

About this time of year, something magical happens. I hate using such a cliched word as "magical", but I'm at a loss for another, more accurate word; the suddenness of the change really feels that way to me. It usually comes in with a strong cold front, although this year it came with the leftovers of the hurricane that came ashore in Texas. Summer is waning, but the sticky, low-quality atmosphere lingers into September, sometimes October. Visibility is terrible, with our beautiful mountains mere distant hazy guesses, and the air is - well, it's just gross.

We'll get a day or two of rain, sometimes serious rain, but more often just a period of drizzle. And then, it happens. The rain ends in the night, and the next morning - such a morning! Cool, crisp, washed clean. As Byron would say, "Such as Creation's dawn beheld."

Thus begins my favorite season of the year. I love the autumn. I think the Romantic in me comes alive with the change in the weather. Soon, I'll drive over to Riverside Cemetery to commune with the ghosts of Thomas and Ben Wolfe, and, when the weather turns even colder, I'll head to Hendersonville to a butcher who sells suet. The suet is necessary for the English-style pudding I'm planning to make. There are few things more fascinating or moving to me than tasting the results of a long-forgotten recipe, and autumn, more than any other, seems the time of year to contemplate one's own mortality.

Opusculum

I'm feeling like I should put something up here, if for no other reason than to appease the masses who are doubtless puling away while awaiting another missive from me. It would be nice to have something to say.

Have you seen the new movement to question the authorship of Shakespeare? When I say "new" I mean "renewed." It's called, I believe, Reasonable Doubt, and I would link here to the website I visited, except that I don't want to give it any support. I was surprised to see Derek Jacobi's name as one of the signatories - a fabulous Shakespearean actor. He certainly has a right to question the authorship of the plays and sonnets, but the reasons given on the website have all been authoritatively addressed before now; some of the assertions were specious. For instance, most of the assertions (no documentation, no contemporary references, etc.) apply equally well to the several candidates put forth as the true author. The website even claimed that three of Shakespeare's signatures (of the six known) are in a shaky hand, "proof" of his dodgy literacy. True, but the three signatures referred to are from Shakespeare's will, written just a few days before his death in April 1616. It seems reasonable to assume that a man on his deathbed might have palsied handwriting, does it not?

Terra Incognita

OK, this is my first foray into blogging. I've been reading a few blogs, mostly about food or colonial history (or the history of colonial food), and was thinking what a great outlet for expression, even if nobody but my in-laws (or, God forbid, my students) read it. I've been particularly taken by Laura Rebecca's food blog, with its gorgeous pictures and wit. I hope I can identify some area of expertise about which to pontificate, but I'm not hopeful.