Mad men and bachelors

I am happy to report what I hope is a shift in the paradigm of the bachelor party.

The concept still makes me cringe: the last sexual hurrah of the groom-to-be, aka strip clubs, booze, cigars, etc. Ew. Not that I’m a prude—but, well, stripping is problematic on so many levels I can’t even begin to address them, and, while I enjoy my own cocktails/beer/wine, hitting the booze at bachelor party-level quantities, makes people behave in ways that make you wonder why anyone would want to marry them, especially the day after. Cigars – well, as long as you don’t smoke them near me I suppose they’re not so very bad.

My judgments aside (yes, I’m judging!), I loved hearing about two recent bachelors celebrating with their buddies. One group ate burgers and shakes, then hit the board games: Risk, Star Wars version. The other party involved Mexican food and bowling.

I love this. I love it especially in the face of another, more disturbing trend: the popularity of “Mad Men,” the television hit.

I watched this once early in its inception and was repelled. Sexism at its zenith. A bachelor’s party would have been the least of it. On top of that, materialism on parade, infecting the entire cast and, it seem, the entire culture it represents. It is Madison Avenue (hence “mad” men), so I guess it’s understandable—but still unappealing.

Despite my distaste for this show, people keep referencing it—smart people. There's a clothing line. A Barbie and Ken, Mad Men-style. Maybe I’m missing something? So I tried again.

Cue the first episode. The show’s main character sleeps with an independent, artsy woman (is this a bad-girl depiction?) while his beautiful wife and children wait at home. Young upstart smarms it up in the office, commenting on the new “girl’s” skirt length (not enough leg showing). The culture is established, the sexy, stylish swagger has made its impact (yes, they are beautiful people to look at) and the token exceptions—senior colleague schools smarmer about insulting the secretarial pool, but only because they won’t do your work well if you cross them; said “new girl” propositions the first powerful man she can, a curious but troubling role reversal—does little to dilute the feeling of wanting to shower after viewing the entire show.

Then, in the New York Times, I see that many viewers can’t get enough of this stuff. The article lists alternative shows to tide them over while Mad Men is on hiatus.

What is this about? Nostalgia for a pre-PC universe? For a time when men could disrespect women unapologetically? For men, maybe—but why would women watch it?

Or is it about fashion? (Banana Republic has a Mad Men line—I liked the safari theme better.) Is it about the origin of feminism—a portrait of why women rose up? But it’s too hard to sit through repeated insults to get to the subtle progress and triumph women MIGHT make in this show, or the moral come-uppances some of the greedier suits might eventually be served.

Other people don’t seem to have such a strong reaction to this show. Why do I find it so repulsive, then? Maybe because I still feel threatened by this sort of disempowerment and disrespect, maybe it’ll happen again. Yes, when I was 21 I was cornered in a senator’s office by a much older, much more powerful man—with a family—who fortunately backed off when I stood up to him. I was ogled by a (male) editor for whom I worked—what to do, allow the smarmy looks and comments, and keep the article assignments, or cut them off and risk losing the client?

If the sort of social history displayed by Mad Men stays in the history books (and films), and out of our reality—and if new bachelors keep opting out of the strippers-n-booze parties, maybe my daughter won’t have to face these sorts of dilemmas.

Public Art

You never know what you’ll see on the way home – especially when you’re riding a bike. This week I noticed several new sculptures along the Metropolitan Branch Trail, each more intriguing than the next. The first one involved a pile of stones caught up in wire, topped with a brightly painted totem pole; the second I liked better, a pole with ceramic masks set in it at intervals. I slowed down and said to the young family standing among the sculptures that I’d not seen this art before, was it new? And the woman replied yes, he is the artist, and pointed to her husband standing beside her.

How often does that happen?
See art.
See the artist.
Right there on the side of the bike path.

The artist, Wilfredo Valladares, explained that his commission was to create eight abstract totem poles, representing the eight wards of the city. They are planted now like odd, mismatched flowers beside the trail, but I later discovered that they were originally installed, temporarily, at 3rd and H Streets. The D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities had something to do with it – and posted the pictures I have here on their facebook page.

My favorite is the woven funnel-shaped swirl of a cone, open to the sky, like an unfinished basket or the bell of a trumpet pointed up. Some of the woven strips of wood have words carved into them: “More kids parks.” “Racially undivided city.” “Peace, love and happiness.” Little prayers, shooting skyward.

Best watermelon salad

At book club the other night, my friend Lisa brought a beautiful bowl of watermelon tomato salad, arranged right in the stripey green watermelon. It had tomatoes in it.
Which sounds weird.
But it was so delicious, a ping pong match between two of my favorite summer flavors: sweet watermelon and tangy tomatoes, with some herbs to give it further bite. I had two helpings and asked her for the recipe.
Lisa’s salad came from a Mark Bittman creation, and anything I’ve tried by this big-name chef and local/good food advocate has been great. This was no exception.
So I recreated the salad last week for lunches to bring to work. In the office kitchen, the folks around questioned me: that looks good! It’s enough of an introduction for me to wax on about any dish, so I explained: it has watermelon and tomatoes, and it calls for gorgonzola but I used feta, because that’s what I had around. It calls for cilantro but I used basil, because it’s what I had around. It calls for sherry vinegar, but I only had balsamic.
In the end, I guess this is my own salad, but many thanks to Bittman and to Lisa for launch. These amounts are approximate, and make about two servings.

Watermelon salad
1 ½ cups watermelon, cut with a melon baller
1 cup cherry tomatoes – I used the multi-colored ones from the Takoma Park Farmers’ Market
½ cup feta, crumbled
4 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
Olive oil to taste
Balsamic vinegar to taste
Mix together, keep refrigerated. Yum!

Can she bake a cherry pie?

I can bake a cherry pie.
In fact, I am good at pies, in general.

This is especially important when I am faced with a task that I am decidedly not good at. Like repointing a brick wall. Which I attempted yesterday. What a mess.

After a couple of sweaty hours of smearing hydraulic cement into the cracks between bricks (and despairing because it inevitably dripped in unattractive chunks down the wall) I took a break, headed for the kitchen and reclaimed my dignity.

Yesterday’s pie was peach-and-blackberry: summer tucked into a crust and sprinkled with a crumb topping. Yum.

But the more legendary pie has got to be cherry – and not only because of can-she-bake-a-cherry-pie-Billy-Boy, Billy-Boy. I baked a cherry pie a couple of weeks ago and was especially happy with it because:

* I made it in a houseful of kids over a weekend when I completely set aside work and didn’t even sweat the to-do list. I pitted the cherries while watching a Miyazaki anime movie, with a bunch of kids sprawled around the living room.
* I used the “pie cherries” I bought from my favorite Farmer’s Market stand, Twin Springs.
* Making cherry pie makes me think of my mom.

Mom made the best apple pie, every Thanksgiving and Christmas, and it is because of her that I can roll out dough without crying in frustration over buttery holes in the crust—well, her and the pastry cloth my sister Jean introduced me to.

Mom also made cherry pie, with canned pie filling.

But when she was a young bride, she was more ambitious. She and my dad set up house in a tiny cottage down the lane from Dad’s parents, who lived on a farm in Gordonsville, Virginia. The farm was called Spring Fields. So my parent’s tiny place was called Trickle Lots.

My mother adored my dad. She adored him so much that, when she was 21 or so, she left her goody-two-shoes behind and married him despite his big bad motorcycle and despite the fact that her parents weren’t too wild about his rough edges and defiant independent streak. But the fact was, Dad was supremely responsible and, more importantly, he adored my mother right back.

Out in the country, they made a home together. Dad commuted—in a car so old the rain came up through the rusted-out floorboards—about an hour to law school at UVA, while Mom, who grew up in a Long Island rowhouse, held her breath as she passed the enormous cows out in the pasture near the cottage, hoping they didn’t attack. She was determined to be a good housewife, wherever she was planted. She pinched pennies by removing Dad’s worn-out dress shirt collars, turning them inside out and sewing them so the frayed bits were hidden. She cut their worn out bed sheets down the center, where they’d worn thinnest, and sewed them back together with the less worn-out side pieces in the middle.

She read her own mother’s feathery handwriting on small index cards, recreating family recipes for her new husband: Lamb stew. Meatloaf. Scalloped potatoes.

And she baked a cherry pie.

Cutting the shortening into the flour with two knives, criss-cross, criss-cross, until it was the size of peas. Adding cold water a little at a time, until the dough was soft but not yet sticky. Rolling out the crust on the table in the tiny kitchen. Did she have a rolling pin? Or did she use a milk bottle? Laying the crust into a pie tin. Mixing cherries with sugar and corn starch, to take up the juice. Laying the cherries into the crust, dotting them with butter, covering with a second crust, crimping the edges and cutting vents into the top to let steam escape.

The house would smell buttery and sweet when my dad returned from Charlottesville, clattering down the two-lane country road. And after dinner Mom would set the pie on the table to cut it, so he’d see the perfectly browned crust, and he’d raise his bushy, blond eyebrows and say how beautiful it looked. He loved pie.

And they’d take their first bite and discover:

She’d forgotten to pit the cherries.

Here's my cherry pie recipe, with a variation on Mom's crust (no more Crisco, and with a bit of whole grain flour):

The Crust

1 cup unbleached white flour

1/2 cup whole wheat flour

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup non-hydrogenated vegetable shortening

5 tablespoons, maybe more, ice water

Mix the flour and salt together, then cut the shortening in with two knives until it is the size of peas (you can do this in the food processor, just don't overmix). Add ice water a little at a time, maybe 5 tablespoons, until it is all coming together in a ball, but not yet sticky. Roll out and lay in your pie pan. Add:

The filling

1 quart basket of sour cherries, PITTED

maybe 2 tablespoons honey, or more to taste

3 or so tablespoons flour

a good sprinkle of cinnamon

Mix together in a bowl. Top with:

The topping

1/2-3/4 cup oats

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon or less, salt

3 tablespoons butter

1/8 cup flour

mix together with your hands so the butter is distributed evenly

Bake at 350 for 40 minutes or so. Serve to someone you adore.

Chasing Skirts

I feel sorry for men because they can’t wear skirts.

Then I look around on Metro and can’t believe the number of women in pants. Why would anybody choose hot when they can have

Airy and cool in summer.
Legs available to summer breeze and sun.
A swish of hemline teasing the whole concept of clothes on a hot summer day
And under the fabric, naked legs, like a little secret in the buttoned up world of the city.

Family table

My family on a recent weeknight is daughter Clara, her friend Emily and Joseph. We come to the table at 8 o’clock for pasta with butternut squash and talk about the merits of feta cheese versus goat cheese, and the “cheap cheese” we had in a German restaurant that, without the accent, turned out to be “sheep cheese.” We discuss whether we like olives in our pasta. I could tell about the olive oil we had at Nikita’s, pressed from her housemate’s family trees in Italy, but since we are a sort of family ourselves, they’ve already heard that story.

We talk about the U.S. soccer team winning the semi-finals against France, and whether we’ll get to see the finals this weekend. We brainstorm how to handle a challenging kid in the sports camp where Emily is working this summer. We puzzle out how to arrange the furniture in Clara’s craft space upstairs.

Another night the table might include a combination of other friends and family: Tyler and Aaron and Clara, or Martin, or Tom, Amber, Tommy, Giovanna, maybe Adriana or Lauren. It could be just me and Clara and Joseph. Or me and Joseph. Or me and my own two kids. We might talk about the latest tragic headline, like the massacre in Norway, and debate whether there’s any obligation to read about such things when they are so depressing. Or we’ll talk about the quality of the acting in the Harry Potter movies (adults good, kids not so much), or the proposed teen curfew in Montgomery County or single vs. double rooms in college dorms. Recently, my nephew and his wife joined me at the table, and we talked about their move to Charlottesville and law school, and whether Mormons can eat chocolate (yes), and how to make something called a stuffed burger.

I love this fluid table, always open, throw some more pasta in the pot. Or not.

I miss it when the kids are gone.