Rant

I guess that this will be a yearly rant, but I still hate the word, "gifted," meaning "given as a gift." There's a commercial that plays on Hulu for T.J. Maxx about "the gifter," meaning "the person who gifts." That's even a worse word than "gifted." Next year, it will probably be "the giftered," meaning "the one to whom something is gifted." Bleh.

Also: I hate the word, "preggo." Ew.

The Names of Love

The Names of Love is a charming (and risque) French film about a hippy left-wing woman who seduces right-wing men in order to convert them ideologically and a centrist man who keeps his heart buttoned up inside his suit and does autopsies on birds, warning people against the dangers of bird flu. The film captures the delights of falling in love and the way in which women can disrupt men's order (in a good way). It also captures the way in which falling in love is falling in love with the whole person, the good and the bad. You love the person because of the good and the quirky and the idiosyncratic, not in spite of it. It captures the way in which falling in love opens you up to new experiences and interests and ways of seeing the world.

The film combines all of the interesting things--romance and race and politics. Baya is the daughter of an immigrant and is passionately committed to loosening immigration restrictions (including through marrying people to help them live legally in France--a dream of mine. Well, I couldn't help people live legally in France, but in America.)

Arthur is the child of a Jewish woman whose parents died in a concentration camp. His family refuses to discuss this and Arthur follows suit. It is only through Baya that he opens up and acknowledges his own curiosity about his family.

The Arch and the Old Cathedral

I'm already sentimentally attached to the arch. It's pretty inspiring up close. Francisco objects to giant memorials, which is fair, but there's something about seeing it even from very far away.




The arch is right next to the old St. Louis Cathedral, which is one of those rare Catholic cathedrals that looks just like early American Anglican churches--clear glass windows, with a simple white interior. The cathedral in Baltimore is the only other one that I know of. 

Even the altar employs federal architecture.

A Random Assortment

~ I'm not too into epics. Even a novel that is too thick sometimes discourages me. But this article, which explains Kudiyattam, classic Sanskrit drama performed in Kerala in India, extols the virtues of the epic:

Sitting through a play that lasts 130 hours might sound a bit exhausting, and at times, of course, one’s attention wanders. There were moments when I, like others, would fall asleep to the hypnotic beat of the mizhavu drums and wake minutes later to a world of bewildering, even outlandish, color and movement. Still, this performance changed my life and, given a few hours, I could even tell you how. I doubt that I’ll ever again have the opportunity to give myself entirely to a month-long performance that inexorably builds up to a climax of truly unimaginable power. For me, one of the most remarkable aspects of Kudiyattam is its insistence on carrying through a natural rhythm without compromise, without cutting corners, without rushing on to something else that is waiting with its own demands. I think I live my life in this constant rush toward death, almost never allowing a single movement of the body, or a single passing thought of any power or novelty, or even a single deep breath or tender gesture, to complete itself without being cut off too soon. I suppose that in this I am hardly alone. Kudiyattam is profoundly, perhaps uniquely, therapeutic in this respect.
...
Some things in life—the best things—can’t be truncated or compressed. If it takes an hour or two to “speak,” that is, to enact in the language of gesture, a single lyrical line from a Sanskrit poem, so be it. If it takes twenty-nine nights to sculpt a fully formed reality out of empty space, or to explore the subtleties and inner meanings of longing and loss, so be it. 

 ~ "Germany to ban sex with animals":

Lobbyist Michael Kiok, who lives with his dog Cassie, told the newspaper there were more than 100,000 zoophiles in Germany.

Zoophiles! That makes it sound like they like zoos! Also, the use of "lives with" amuses me, because really, most people live with their pets, although not in that sense.

~ This Economist piece wishes us all a "Happy War on Christmas, everyone. It's grouchy out there, so have a blessed day," which is awesome. But more importantly, the piece considers the recent rise in usage of "Have a blessed day." Which I don't think sounds that good, but to each his own.

Anyway, this struck me because when I was picking up my baggage a while back at STL, the loudspeaker announced, "We hope you had a blessed flight." Ew--I love God, but I hate loudspeaker announcements (and especially superfluous loudspeaker announcements!) and flights.

I have a whole theory about how what we really need is a once and for all training about how to fly on airplanes and then never again need to hear a word about how to fasten a seat belt or put on an oxygen mask or inflate a life vest or how smoking in the lavatories is not permitted.

~ Deb reads Laurie Colwin! From the new Smitten Kitchen cookbook:

"Prior to reading Laurie Colwin's Home Cooking, I found chicken salad anything but glamorous.  I mean, really, what is there to love about cold leftover chicken dressed with a scoop from a jar of mayonnaise  It's about stretching scraps, filling two slices of bread in time for lunch - it's about function, not gastronomy.  But in Colwin's voice, chicken salad becomes something elegant - for children's lunches, and their tea parties; for ladies in hats wearing strings of pearls; for grown-up dinner parties...I realize that sane people would scoff at putting this much effort into chicken salad, but only because they haven't tried the results yet.  So it was with Colwin's gentle encouragement that I decided to up my chicken-salad game and create something I'd order in a fancy restaurant but also enjoy eating at home..." 

(Found and shared by Sayers.)

City Museum.2

A room full of insect collections. (Some of the collections are only half put in place, but it's sort of charming.)

(More doorknobs.)

(Below: a wall covered with old printing press plates.)

City Museum

The City Museum is a place that defies description. For those of you from Williamsport, it's like a Children's Discovery Workshop for all ages. Although especially for children--I didn't fit in all the crawlspaces there were to explore. There are slides and strange and wonderful tunnels to crawl around in. The place is aesthetically fascinating.

(A shoelace loom.)

(I love this doorknob!)

Some people say that in no sense is it a museum, but it actually is on the third floor: there's a museum of architectural decoration that is just wonderful. It focuses on decoration from the midwest and saves and gathers remnants from destroyed buildings (there are a couple of bitter references to the Americans with Disabilities Act, which led to some lovely courthouses being torn down). (Above and below is Louis Sullivan's work, which I especially love.)

Twitter

I showed this website announcing A Theory of Justice: the Musical! to my students in class today before we began our discussion of A Theory of Justice. I'm not 100 percent sure that it's for real, but if it is, I want to go see it.

Cooking with Colwin: Bread

I love bread, so when I saw that "Bread Baking Without Agony" was next, I was thrilled. And it would be a perfect accompaniment to the delicious, enormous pot of vegetarian chili that I made.

However, I think I'm going to need to try this recipe again, because this time it came out oh-so-hard. I mean, I was a little worried about my teeth breaking off, although they didn't. I don't know--it's probably my fault--I probably left it in the oven too long or didn't knead it enough or something. Colwin's directions are so vague and I'm so lazy--she writes, "Knead the dough well." I do better with a time limit.

Her recipe for a baguette:

1) Mix 1 1/2 cups flour with 2 1/4 cups wheat flour. Add one heaping teaspoon salt and one tablespoon of wheat germ (yum--wheat germ is one of my favorite things).

2) Mix a scant 1/2 teaspoon of yeast with 1 1/2 cups of liquid--half milk, half water.

3) Pour the liquid into the flour and stir it up. It can be ever so slightly on the sticky side.

4) Knead the dough well, roll it in flour, stick it in a bowl, leave it in a cool place and "go about your business."

5) "Whenever you happen to get home, punch down the dough, knead it well, roll it in flour and forget about it until convenient."

6) "Sometime later punch the dough down, give it a final kneading, shape into a baguette, slash the top with four diagonal cuts, brush with water.

7) Bake at 450 for 30 minutes and 425 for another 20.

(My pizza pan/baking tray.)

It was too hard. Also maybe a little too whole-wheat. 

Union Station

The Grand Hall in Union Station, St. Louis's old train station, is the most beautiful space I've seen in St. Louis so far. The description calls it "the grandest possible hall," and I believe it.

I love this stained glass window: it's an allegory of San Francisco, St. Louis, and New York. I love the the confidence and self-satisfaction that St. Louis exudes.

Photo credit: Francisco

Ted Drewes

Ted Drewes is a St. Louis staple that I first visited with Norleans and her family. St. Louis is sure known for a lot of different foods--ooey gooey butter cake, toasted ravioli, ice cream cones, cotton candy, frozen custard, and the list goes on. Frozen custard is like a very thick soft serve--it's ice cream made with eggs. Ted Drewes mixes things into that frozen custard on concrete, plops it in a cup, and turns it upside-down before handing it to you, just to show you that it won't fall out.

Tivoli / Time Zero

Francisco's latest visit counted as his birthday weekend, even though it wasn't his birthday. His real birthday (and a momentous birthday at that) is during my visit to Diana and Fred who happen to live in the Bahamas (I think) (Francisco: "You're going to the Bahamas for my 30th birthday?")

For his birthday, I took him to the St. Louis International Film Festival's showing of Time Zero, a documentary about the last year of Polaroid film (which, SPOILER ALERT!: was not actually the last year of Polaroid film). The film was showing at the Tivoli, a lovely old theater at the Loop.

The documentary was incredibly interesting and thought-provoking and imperfect. It argues that the disappearance of Polaroid pictures is a great loss--that Polaroid pictures are an event to which neither analogue nor digital photography can compare. Polaroid pictures are the only ones that exist as an artifact immediately after being taken.

While I'm a big fan of most nostalgia, this nostalgia has a lot of logical holes in it--the documentary often implied that Polariod pictures were the only ones that are printed and preserved, that if Polaroids disappear, no one will have old shoe boxes filled with pictures anymore. It made me wonder how well Polaroid pictures themselves actually hold up over time.

It also made me wonder what really is so special about the Polaroid? Its immediacy? If so, then isn't social media a successor of Polaroid? Instagram seems so obviously to walk in Polaroid's footsteps that I found it odd that the documentary never mentioned it.

The documentary also made me curious about what Polaroid contributes to the art of photography. It alluded several times to famous photographers, such as Ansel Adams, using Polaroid, but showed few examples of Polaroids as art (as opposed to as record), particularly in the early years of Polaroid.

Sadly, the film quality was poor--but I think that it was the theater and not the film itself that was to blame. The sound was crackly as a speaker was out, and the film didn't properly fit on the screen. I thought it was a shame that a film festival wouldn't take more pains to ensure a comfortable viewing experience. 

Instagram: The Architecture Hurt My Toe

The other day, on my way to pick up some books at the library, I had an architectural accident: these silly doors are so poorly designed--it isn't clear till you get up close where the handle is or which way you open the door or when you open it, how much of the door will swing open.

All that to say, I think that safety is an important goal in architecture, and these doors are not safe. I hobbled into the stacks and sat for an hour reading some of the books that I came to pick up until my toe stopped bleeding and I could walk again. 

All Around Town

(The Loop)

(Ladue-ish; I love this steeple.)

Downtown.

Quotes

"This transition or conversion often begins when we meet a person who recognises our profound beauty, who appreciates the secret of our being, hidden behind our faults, fears, false values, and who sees all the potential for life contained in this secret. ... In my own case, this meeting took place with Fr. Thomas when he welcomed me after all my years in the navy. I felt that he knew me and all that was good or bad inside me, my secret self--that he loved and accepted me just as I was. This was a liberation for me. I did not have to wear a mask, or pretend to be intelligent or good. It is marvellous to be seen and recognised as a person with a destiny and a mission."

--Jean Vanier, Our Journey Home

"We are used to being told that weak people need strong people. This is obvious. But inner unity and healing come about when strong people become aware of their need of the weak. The weak awaken and reveal the heart; they awaken energies of tenderness and compassion, kindness and communion. They awaken the source of life. It was the little woman with Alzheimer's who awoke the deep spring of life in her husband. She called forth his true self and his deep 'I' from behind the barriers protecting his heart and his need for power. In embracing his weak wife with tenderness, the husband, the strong one, had begun to welcome his own weakness, the child--the wounded child--inside him. Through this he discovered that he had the right to have failings and weaknesses, that he did not always need to be strong, to win, to succeed and dominate. He could be vulnerable. He did not have to wear a mask, or pretend to be other than he was. He could be himself. ... It requires time and constant effort to remain faithful to communion. But this leads to the discovery of our true humanity, and so to a deep inner liberation. In discovering the beauty and light hidden in those who are weak, the strong begin to discover the beauty and light in their own weakness. And more than this; they discover that weakness is a place that favours love and communion, it is the place where God dwells. They discover God hidden in littleness, and this is an even greater liberation."

 --ditto

Breaking Bad

Breaking Bad goes in the category of descent-into-terrifyingness that characterizes Native Son and Crime and Punishment and is simultaneously masterful and reprehensible and masterful precisely because it's reprehensible. By and large, the show traces Walter White's decline from human being to monster, yet, from time to time, his humanity creeps through and keeps you loving him. You just can't help it, and you hate yourself for it (you and Jesse both).

Ironically, part of what keeps Walt making the drugs is that it's something at which he excels (although most of what keeps him making the drugs is the power that it gives him). Perhaps even more ironically: without the order and excellence of cooking, Jesse descends again to using, rather than making, drugs.

It's been said before, but I'll say it again: the filming is fabulous--from the nature shots to the surprising angles to the flash-forwards that frame many episodes to the super-macro shots--it's artistic and beautiful.

A Random Assortment

~ "Portrait of an Artist as a Postman." This piece has in it Waco and art and silk scarves and a postman. Clearly a must-read. It also has a lot of sadness in it. (Here are pictures from Kermit Oliver's studio; below are pictures of a couple of his scarves.) (HT: Francisco via NK)

~ I do have a weakness for poets and their favorite foods. Borsch is sounding really good to me. My only quibble is with the name, John Keats's Porridge: Favorite Recipes of American Poets. At least when I last read him, Keats was British. (HT: Edge)

~ Williamsport, natural gas, and the New York Times:

“We’re wrapping our arms around the industry,” said Williamsport’s mayor, Gabe Campana. “Drill, baby, drill!”

Twitter

Heard on Prairie Home Companion on my drive from Chicago to St. Louis this evening (it was a description of Lubbock, TX, but it's accurate for Illinois, too):

"You can see 50 miles in every direction, and if you stand on a can of tuna, you can see 100."

Cooking with Colwin: Chicken with Chicken Glaze

Feeding the Fussy, Part 2. This is Colwin's recipe for fussy eaters who aren't vegetarians. She writes, "This chicken dish can be fed to invalids, people recovering from abdominal surgery, heart patients and picky children."

I couldn't help cooking it because I think that the name is fantastic. It reminds me of the 60s when, as I understand it, everything was cooked and stuck in a gelatin and a mold. (Colwin does say that the chicken glaze, if refrigerated, will jell.)

You begin with three whole chicken breasts. Split them and remove all of the skin and fat. (I didn't know exactly what to do, since I bought split chicken breasts, so I just took the skin and fat off and covered them in water.) Poach the chicken slowly in the water, without allowing the water to boil. Remove the chicken and cut it into strips when it cools.

 Let the broth reduce over medium high heat until it's a syrup (chicken glaze). I didn't really know long to do this for--I have a feeling I didn't allow it to reduce enough--it was a bit watery yet.

Then you seed and cut cucumbers into julienne--put some on a platter, and put the chicken on top. The the chicken glaze goes on top of all that.

This is the most bland and simple meal imaginable. But somehow it feels very nourishing, perhaps because it's like chicken soup. Cucumber and chicken never in a thousand years would have struck me as good together, but I'd totally make this again. Would people look at me funny if I cooked this for them?

Laumeier Sculpture Park.2

This one is of the ceiling of a gorgeous sculpture/pavilion, taken while laying on the ground.

The sculpture park is very kid friendly--in fact, I ran across a small family where the dad was chasing his child in circles, presumably to wear him out. The park integrates art into recreation in an unassuming and natural way.

Wasn't it Sir Philip Sidney who said that the purpose of art is to delight and instruct? Well, most of this didn't instruct me too much (except about how crazy people are about dogs), but it sure did delight me: the park was surprising at every turn. I don't know about you, but I never expect to bump into a pile of red log-like things in the middle of a field!

 , which reminds me of this:

If you come visit me, I will take you to the sculpture park.