Switching the Soundtrack Around

When I was a small girl, my sisters and I took turns having “sleepovers” at Grandma Jean’s house. This was a treat, when we’d get pampered and bathed in one-on-one attention. Literally bathed – Grandma Jean had a big, deep tub with bubble bath and bath oil beads. Her bathroom smelled like Camay soap, and she had a mirrored tray crowded with fancy perfume bottles in exotic shapes, some of them with puffy atomizers we could squeeze for a spritz of scent. Sometimes our grandmother took us to the beauty parlor, where we got “nailish,” – nail polish – and all the old ladies would coo over how cute we were, and give us sloppy lipstick kisses.

I was the youngest of the four girls, and while spending the night at my grandmother’s was a treat, it was also a little scary to be so far from my own house. To make me feel more at home when bedtime came around, Grandma Jean would busy herself outside my bedroom door with noisy activities – I don’t remember what, but it might have involved clattering dishes as she washed them, or listening to the radio. She was trying to simulate the comforting sounds of a household full of family – that background noise that provides the soundtrack to so many young lives.

It’s like hearing your parents talking in the front seat of the car, while you doze in the back. Or like listening to adults clink glasses and laugh downstairs at a party, when you’re already tucked into your bed. Or hearing your older sisters giggle and chat in the cockpit of the boat while you rock gently in your bunk below. You might not understand exactly what’s being said, or even what’s going on, but there’s a certain quality to those muted voices that makes you feel safe and easy.

Over the recent Thanksgiving holiday, I remembered those voices when I heard my own kids rattling around the house, gathered together with friends home from college. I’d be reading in the living room, and hear their laughter and conversation while they made cupcakes in the kitchen. Or I’d be making dinner, and hear them singing together, then playing the piano, then talking two rooms away. It was that same soundtrack of muted conversation and activity that I didn’t quite understand when I was small—this time with younger voices.

It was the sound of home.

Performance Art

I love that I am surrounded by art.

Recently, it was performance art, courtesy of my friend, Melissa Leebaert. Bold woman that she is, she put herself out there on stage, bravely looking at her experience of young love--in front of God and everybody.

Melissa was one of three artists performing last Monday night at the Capitol Hill Arts Workshop, as part of a showcase following the DC Solo Performance and Presentation Lab (taught by Laura Zam). The genre is a sort of story-telling session for grown-ups. Think This American Life (my favorite radio show). It also seems a little like blogging on stage (except there’s a lot more rehearsal involved).

Rob Cork went first. A self-proclaimed space geek, he took the audience from his third grade classroom, where he was inspired by a visiting NASA scientist; through Trekkie fandom; to the crushing loss of the Space Shuttle Challenger and on through his continuing fascination with space travel. Sylvia Meinert, a German world traveler, danced her way through a comic look at language and culture, her search for common ground, and a wry take on the politically correct.

But it was Melissa’s story that moved me most.

It helped that this story happened to take place in an exotic locale – Australia – and involved a wealthy man, and topless sunbathing by the pool, and lunches with ladies who had lovely accents and probably perfect manicures as well. Melissa nailed each of these elements and more, lounging by the imaginary pool and mimicking that peculiar Euro-English-worldly accent of the globe-trotting elite, pedaling an invisible bicycle down High Street and cruising behind the wheel of a new jag. With no props.

Okay, not all of us get to jet around the world on the arm of a wealthy Australian (and re-enact the dream). But I think that’s one of the elements that made the story work – the contrast between what seemed so exotic, in some ways, and the story’s center, which had nothing to do with glamour and wealth. Melissa told a simple tale about love and longing and vulnerability—with a healthy dose of adventure and independence, because that is who she is.

This is art: telling a story that is uniquely our own, yet resonates with others.

And I got to sit in on it.

Ain't art great?!?

Schooled in Shakespeare

For most of my life I’ve been one of the many people put off by Shakespeare’s twisted old English, a tangle of unfamiliar words coming so quickly from the stage that I don’t have time to unwind them and get their meaning. Did people really talk like this? Or did Shakespeare deliberately obscure his meaning? All the words seem switched in order, with oddities dropped in here and there to further confuse me. I know if I study the play before I hit the theater, things will be clearer but I rarely feel up to the effort.

After seeing Macbeth – finally – I may have to change my mind. This month’s performance of the iconic play, done by the acting troupe at Montgomery Blair High School, was well worth the prep time I took to get to know the story (not much, actually: No Fear Shakespeare, the modern equivalent of Clif Notes, plus a crash course in the story from Clara, who was part of the cast). The tale of raw ambition coupled with doubt and moral struggle so deep it leads to madness truly speaks to the ugly side of our human condition. What could be more relevant in these times of scandal and greed? Does the lure of power ever really change?

Plus. This is one impressive high school drama program. The acting was great, the sets fantastic (arranging the performance Globe Theater-style, with a smaller stage than usual and the audience inches from the actors, was an especially brilliant move and made the experience much more intimate and impactful).

Yes, the cast was all kids—stage crew, too—and they are young. Which adds an intriguing element to the experience: I remember some of the actors from my days as a volunteer in their fourth grade class. But wow, some of them got some chops! Including my lovely daughter, Clara, who turned heads even in her small part(s) as an attendant(s). Seems that once she showed her competence and commitment, she was used again and again to carry baskets of linens or trays of cups across stage, a servant to the Macbeths; she even carried Lady Macbeth from stage when she fainted, and sobbed violently upon the news of King Duncan’s death. Yes, Clara, it was convincing!

Lady Macbeth was truly chilling, and Macbeth's famous monologue right on target: "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" (ah! I thought, this is from Macbeth?!?!) Macduff’s devastation after the death of his family was heart wrenching. The best part, though, was that I know these kids had a blast producing this play – and they get to do another one in the spring. No Shakespeare this time: we’ll get Guys and Dolls.

Can’t wait.

Ode to a Squirrel

They really are beautiful animals. Silky fur, like a cat’s, a melding of individual black and grey hairs that come together in one impossibly smooth coat. Handsomely bushy tail. Delicate features: small, observant eyes, pert little nose always on the alert, sweet little cups for ears. I got a close-up look at one this morning.

Because, after weeks of autumn squirrel frenzy, tearing around the yard, going over the fence a few times in pursuit, yanking the leash during walks, my dog, Nala, finally caught a squirrel.

I must have been on the phone when it happened—I heard the squealing sounds outside my office window, but dismissed them as squirrels scolding Nala for the constant chase she gave them. By the time I went downstairs for a late breakfast I’d forgotten about the noises. Not for long: when I looked out the kitchen window, there was Nala, standing over a dead squirrel in the back yard.

What to do? Let her eat it? Isn’t that the natural order of things? But Nala didn’t look as though she knew what to do with her prize. Besides, for a dog accustomed to dry kibble, raw squirrel meat might have made her sick. I looked on her jowls for traces of blood and fur – none. Maybe she hadn’t even thought to eat it? It looked intact. Was it even dead?

And what about scolding her? If it is in the dog’s nature to chase and kill squirrels, that hardly seemed fair. But I didn’t feel right about praising her, either, since more dead squirrels are not where I’d like to go with this. So I just brought her in the house. My spontaneous “oh, no,” and “oh, dear,” uttered to no one in particular, were enough to make her cower as if she’d been a very bad girl, and come obediently, leaving her squirrel behind.

Back outside I poked the squirrel with my foot to be sure it was dead, then picked it up by the tail, using a plastic bag like a glove. (My mother always told me not to handle dead animals.) It was much heavier than I thought it would be. And more beautiful, even in death, sleek and whole and perfect. Except for some wet fur where the dog must have mouthed it, it seemed untouched. Its eyes were glazed, definitely dead, but it was still warm, maybe from sitting in the sun.

I put the body in another bag, intending to throw it out with the trash tonight – but as it settled against the plastic I thought no, that doesn’t seem right. So I dug a hole in the garden and buried it there, placing a trash can on top so Nala wouldn’t dig it up again.

When we went back outside later in the day, something seemed to have shifted in the yard. The squirrel noises were different. More high-pitched. Did they miss their mate? There were more birds around. Did they feel emboldened by the death? Did they come to chatter about it? The silences between birdsong and squirrel chatter felt deeper than usual, too. Maybe my senses had just been heightened, but our little ecosystem felt skewed, off-kilter. It felt like there was something missing.

When I took Nala to her dog-buddy’s house for her daily playdate, both seemed more subdued than usual. And my friend, this dog’s owner, told me her mother’s cat had died in the house last night. The cat was 19 years old, so this also fits into “natural order of things,” but still, it was sad. We talked about how the animals are usually such stalwarts in the face of change, they continue to play, to eat, to sleep, as if no one recently lost a job, or got a bad diagnosis, or split up a marriage.

Not today. Today, even the animal world rocked. Perhaps that’s in the natural order of things as well.

Our Daily Bread

I’ve adopted a new item in my regular kitchen repertoire. Homemade bread.

This is partly because I’d begun to buy farmers market and Whole Foods bread on a weekly basis, tempted by their chewy crusts and soft interiors and irregularly shaped artisanal charm. My favorites were often the simplest – just flour and water and yeast. So I thought, how hard can it be to throw together a handful of ingredients and come up with a great loaf of bread? Not $4 or $5 worth of hard. I decided to try it myself.

It’s not like I haven’t made bread before—I once sold my loaves at a health food store for summer spending money during college, and I’ve made plenty of bread since then. But my bread baking standard was always to take an afternoon and set it aside for Making Bread. I loved the luxury of unhurried kneading, and the promise of warm, aromatic loaves in exchange for following the structure of a recipe with lots of steps and ingredients in it. The last loaf I made this way was a seven-grain recipe from my sister (thanks, Jean!). It was delicious.

My new ambition is to make delicious without all the fuss. I began by looking up “artisanal bread” on the internet and bingo! There was one of the simplest recipes I’ve ever encountered. Best of all, it helped me break down the process so I feel comfortable ignoring all those steps I so slavishly followed in the past. Now I can start with the basics and if I feel like experimenting (or happen to have that luxurious afternoon), I’ll start adding on.

Distilled to its essence, good bread really is just four ingredients—flour, water, salt and yeast. Even when you knead it by hand, it is unintimidating and simple enough to do in 15 minutes while you’re waiting for your afternoon tea to boil and steep. Last week, I made bread in the time it took to watch Jon Stewart interview President Obama. That internet: first a great bread recipe, then a way to watch the show I’d missed two nights before!

By the way, I realize a bread machine is even simpler, but that takes the magic out of the process. I love pushing the heel of my hand into the silky dough, then turning it gently and rolling it around on the counter top for ten minutes. As I knead, I like to look out the window at the oak tree in my backyard and empty my mind, or think of the people who will slice and butter and eat this bread, warm from the oven or toasted for breakfast. The process becomes a meditation.

Here’s the bread recipe, modified from that web site per my own experience with it. It’s a cinch. And if you comment on the blog (and live near me) I might even make you a loaf.

Basic Bread
yields one loaf

3 cups flour (all unbleached white rises more, but when I make it with 1/3 whole wheat it's still delish and not overly dense)
1-1/2 teaspoons salt
2 teaspoons yeast
1 1/8 cup warm water

Stir yeast into water until it's dissolved. Mix in salt, then flour -- first 2-1/2 cups, then add the rest as needed to create a ball of dough that is kneadable -- not too wet (though it's okay if some of it sticks to your hands), but not too dry (you'll know if it's too dry, the flour will sit in the bottom of the bowl and not incorporate if there's too much of it).
Knead it for 10 minutes. Place in a greased bowl (I use olive oil for this) and cover with a damp cloth, set it aside to rise until it doubles in size, maybe an hour. Punch it down and let it rise again. Place in a greased loaf pan or, my preference, on a cookie sheet in the shape you like best, and let rise a third time, maybe 20 minutes or a half hour (not necessary, but my theory is that it'll make it airier). Bake in a 425 degree oven 'til done -- this was only about 20 minutes in my fast oven, but it might be different for yours. Just keep an eye on it. It's done when it makes a hollow sound when you thump the bottom with your finger.

Hungry for Meat

My daughter, Clara, recently decided to try a vegan diet – not to lose weight (because she has not one extra ounce on her) but to see how it made her feel, if her body would respond with more energy, if her conscience would be clearer because she was not eating animals or participating in the large-scale corporate agriculture that is the conventional delivery system for American meat and other animal products, and to see if she could do it.

I signed on for the project partly because 1) I am interested, for the same reasons, 2) I love a food challenge, and immediately started flipping through my mental file of vegan recipes, and 3) I’m the one who makes her dinner.

So how do I feel after a week of vegan diet?

Hungry. All the time.

A vegan diet is a wonderful thing for many reasons: there is, of course, saving animals from slaughter, which is graphically depicted in PETA and COK literature (yuck). My regular diet includes occasional meat, but I still avoid big-agriculture raised animals (with the corresponding unnatural and inhumane treatment of the animals, over-dependency on pesticides for grain feed, use of antibiotics to keep corralled animals from infecting one another, etc.). Instead I go for local, grass-fed, free range fare (way less yuck). I justify the price of this indulgence because I don’t eat meat often, and I believe the meat is vastly more healthy for my body. Plus, it tastes so much better. (For more on Good Meat, see Michael Pollan’s Omnivore’s Dilemma, one of my all-time favorite tomes).

A vegan diet is also good for your health, as long as you are careful about getting enough protein and fat in your diet. Eating all those veggies packs your body with vitamins and amino acids and fiber and, in general, good health. Cutting out dairy products eliminates the mucus-y gunk that can accumulate along your digestive tract, and, for many people, a non-dairy diet clears up decades of all sorts of maladies, from indigestion to depression. I’d even read it would help clear up eczema, which I have (it didn’t).

Theoretically, all those healthy veggies, fruits, nuts, seeds and grains don’t leave much room in the belly for dairy products, meat, and junk food, anyway. But theory doesn’t always prove true. There’s plenty of room in my hungry belly, and there don’t seem to be enough tamari-roasted almonds and dried apricots in the world to fill it.

I did stay vegan for a week. Maybe my body is just taking a long time to shift. I do feel lighter. My energy’s been fine, for the most part. It was fun finding (and revisiting) recipes that I liked, and I discovered that coconut milk and hemp milk are rich and satisfying on granola. The hemp even has omega 6 and omega 3 fatty acids in it (for the uninitiated, and those busy with things other than the minutiae of food nutrients, that’s good. And, the hemp won’t get you high – same plant, different process). Oh, and I created a new favorite snack: lightly toasted bread with olive oil and salt, then squares of chocolate melted on top and spread around with a butter knife, topped with fig spread left over from two years ago New Year’s Eve. Yum.

So I learned a few things. But I’ve added meat back into the diet. I had burgers two nights in a row, and fish today – think I’ll go back to salad for dinner.