Hooked On Books — A book to make us human

I thought it might be unbearable to read Making Toast (2010, Ecco) a memoir of loss by Roger Rosenblatt.   I’ve had my own loss that I still haven’t comes to term with.  So why would I take on a stranger’s painful baggage?

I kept hearing about this work, reading reviews about it.  Lots of applause…  I still hesitated to pull the book off the shelf.

For Valentine’s Day, Bill bought me Rosenblatt’s book on the art of writing, Unless It Moves the Human Heart (2011, Ecco).  I read it that weekend and allowed myself to do something I had lately deemed verboten – to underline and put asterisks in the margins (in red pen, no less!)

I liked Rosenblatt’s tone, his self-effacement, his willingness to be challenged – and sometimes trumped – by a student one-third his age.  He’s a bit of a smart ass.  And he knows his stuff.  I guess that’s why he’s been appointed Distinguished Professor of English and Writing at Stony Brook University.

Already in Rosenblatt’s sphere, I was drawn back to Making Toast and bought a copy when Bill and I were stuck in the Detroit airport for six hours en route to Seattle.  The book was just as heartbreaking as I had anticipated, and a real bummer of an airplane read:  there I was trapped in my window seat with only the clouds for distraction from the story of a vibrant young mother’s sudden death.

That mother, Amy, was Rosenblatt’s daughter.  And she had three children under the age of seven.  Rosenblatt and his wife immediately move in with their son-in-law to take care of the kids, to try to breach the gap after this 38-year-old mother/daughter/wife/doctor died instantly of a coronary anomaly while on the treadmill one morning.

There is nothing in this book about Rosenblatt’s critically acclaimed writing, his six plays and fourteen books.  Nothing about his accolades and distinguished titles.  In this memoir, Rosenblatt is simply known as “Boppo,” an endearing term for grandfather.

Rosenblatt intersperses stories of Life After Amy with stories of Amy growing up.  The author is adept at sneaking in a back story for each of the main characters, and portrays them as someone you surely know – a neighbor, a colleague, a friend.   As their hearts break, yours may do the same.

You won’t find spiritual redemption here; Rosenblatt is angry with God.   But you will come out a better person for having read this book.  For in this small volume one discovers what it is to be human, to connect with others, to find solace in memory and in the moment.  To find it is possible, in the numbing aftermath of tragedy, to love and thrive.

Favorite Cooking Memoirs

As 35^th on the waitlist, I didn’t hold out too much hope that I’d get to attend the talk by Jacques Pepin at the Bethel Library.  However, three days before the event, the venue was changed and was bumped into the throng of admitted admirers.

Yippee!

I arrived early, checkbook in hand, knowing I would purchase at least one of his books.  If you’ve been reading my blog, you know I don’t need another cook book!!!   So I decided on Pepin’s autobiography The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen, which I ripped right through.

Jacques Pepin is – in person and in his book – a true gentleman, intelligent, mischievous, and a very talented chef and communicator.  He entertained with stories about growing up, and tales of working with his friend Julia Child.  He also offered thoughtful responses to questions from the audience; he said he would never, ever equate the craft of cooking with the fine arts, although it might certainly be elevated to the extraordinary by the likes of Chef Thomas Keller.

Pepin showed up to the event with his wife (first and only) and dog in tow.   He signed books and posed with fans as cameras clicked away, then he donated all his proceeds to the library.  And I suspect he had agreed to speak for free.

The Apprentice is just one of a string of chef and wanna-be chef memoirs I’ve enjoyed in recent years.  Here are some of my favorites to add to Pepin’s:

• My Life in France by Julia Child with Alex Prud’homme (engaging and inspiring account of her immersion in French culture and food, and her journey from learning to boil an egg to writing the classic work Mastering the Art of French Cooking.)
• Heat: An Amateur’s Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany by Bill Buford (novice gets to work in Mario Batali’s kitchen and tells all)
• Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly  by Anthony Bourdain (Rogue gives “down and dirty” account of what happens behind the scenes in restaurants.  Quite an eye-opener; take notes on what to avoid ordering and on which day next time you’re in the city.)
• Tender at the Bone: Growing Up at the Table by Ruth Reichl (Her story begins with how she learned to cook as a child to prevent being food-poisoned by her nutsy mother and progresses through meeting some of the famous chefs of the time.  Although not discussed here, the nearly-poisoned author goes on to become the long-time editor of Gourmet magazine.)

I found a copy of Jacques Pepin’s Kitchen: Cooking with Claudine, a cook book based on the television series with Jacques and his daughter cooking up healthy and simplified gourmet meals, in a used book store near Pepin’s hometown of Madison, CT.   The clerk was completely unresponsive to my enthusiasm for hooking a big one.

“This is by Jacques Pepin,” I said.

Pause.

“You know, the famous chef.”

The woman blinked.  “Oh, yah,” she said blandly, as if someone had flicked the switch but forgot to transmit power.  “He lives around here somewhere.”

Sigh…

This summer, I will attempt the awesome recipe for monkfish stuffed with spinach and coated with salmon mousse – all wrapped up in a crust that looks like a fish.  And maybe a dessert soufflé. I haven’t yet decided who will get the invitation to this feast, but it will definitely be someone whose eyes light up when I mention the name Jacques Pepin.

Libby Lu Bakes Dog Treats

Libby loves to hang out in the kitchen.  She’s most happy when I’m making jam or preparing a complicated meal because this requires I spend a block of time in one room.  And Libby, who trails us closely, wants people to stay put!

In particular, she likes it when kids come to visit (yah!) and bake something (double-yah!)  We have many baking traditions at Springer Hill, all of which involve our nieces, nephew, and young friends.  From a dog’s perspective, however, the best culinary happening is when my friend, MJ’s, middle daughter comes to bake dog biscuits.

Libby is always ecstatic to see Alison, a lithe young adult with a deep connection to animals and a talent for cooking.  Within minutes of Alison’s arrival, Libby has gone through her Alison Ritual of having jumped on her in greeting, flopped on her back with her legs limp in the air, and fallen into a trance as she enjoys the best belly rub a dog could imagine.

As this belly-rubbing can go on all morning, I have to call the chefs to order.  Everything we need for our baking is set out on our old red linoleum counter – measuring cups and spoons, dog-bone cookie cutter, ingredients, food processor, cutting board and chef’s knife.  I don’t worry too much about Alison using a long sharp knife because her father has taught her good knife skills and she is a careful and calm chef.

Although I have gathered all the materials, I’ve saved the measuring and chopping for Alison.  This is what I consider the “fun” part of baking.

Our recipe contains a lot of ingredients, including fresh herbs and various grains.  The batter is combined in the food processor, which grinds away at the thick mass.  The dough has an ultra-healthy smell and look about it.

We flour and roll the dough, and then cut out medium-sized bone shapes.  After arranging on two trays, we put them in a moderate oven.

The downside to this Dog Biscuit Event is the bones must remain in the oven overnight.  Fortunately, Alison is one of the few young adults I know who has no problem with delayed gratification.  I promise to bring half the baked biscuits to her house in the morning.  Libby sticks close to the kitchen all day while the biscuits are baking (how does she know?)

The reviews are in!  Libby can’t get enough of these homemade dog treats; she begs for one after the other.  Alison’s dog, Ella, also is crazy for them.  We give treats away and hear the same reports.

As for me, I find the biscuits taste too dry and too healthy!

Favorite Dog Biscuits

(Based on recipe from Gourmet December 2005)

Grease two cookie pans.  Set one oven rack in upper third of oven and the other in lower third.  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In food processor, pulse until combined:

1 ¼ cups all-purpose flour

1 ¼ cups whole-wheat flour

1 ¼ cups cornmeal

1 ¼ cups old-fashioned rolled oats

½ cup toasted wheat germ

½ cup packed light brown sugar

1 T baking powder

1 ½ tsp salt

Add and pulse until mixture resembles coarse meal with small lumps:

1 ½ sticks butter

Add and pulse until dense dough forms:

1 cup water

Turn mixture out on floured board and knead in until well blended:

½ cup chopped fresh flat-leafed parsley

½ cup chopped fresh mint leaves

Divide dough into two balls and roll out to 1/3 inch thick on floured board; flour your rolling pin, also.  Chill first if dough is too soft.  Using a dog bone cookie cutter (or substitute), cut out biscuits.  Arrange biscuits ¼ inch apart on baking sheets.  Press scraps together; roll and cut remaining dough.

Bake for 17 minutes, then switch the position of the pans and bake for 17 more minutes.  Turn off oven and dry biscuits overnight.

Biscuits will keep for one month in airtight tin.

The Lore of the Leatherman

This past Monday, all local history buffs were biting their nails wondering if any of the enigmatic, 19^th-century legend, the Leatherman, would be brought to light.  Literally, that is.  Scientists and archeologists were out that day, digging for his bones.

Named for his strange garb, and known for his mysterious habits and anti-social behavior, the Leatherman continues to intrigue and perplex 122 years after his death.

In The Old Leather Man: Historical Accounts of a Connecticut and New York Legend (Wesleyan University Press, 2008), Dan DeLuca presents a portrait of this unusual character through a compilation of news reports, documents, and images.

“He was a wanderer, constantly walking the country roads and railroad tracks, sleeping in caves, huts, or lean-to shelters.  He made his curious garments from soft-tanned leather cut from the tops of discarded boots, which he stitched together with leather lacing.  His long coat had pockets on the outside and inside.  Spruce wood, three quarters of an inch thick, formed the soles of his boots; stitches of thick wire joined the soles to the leather tops.  A cap with a leather visor completed his costume.  He carried a large leather pack on his back and a tin pail in his hand… No one ever discovered his identity or the reason for his constant wandering,” writes DeLuca in his preface.

The Leatherman roamed this region from 1856 until his death in 1889.  During the last six years, he traveled his “famous clockwise circuit – a regular route of 365 miles every 34 days.”  His appearances generated enough interest to warrant regular news items in local papers, as well as gossip that soon became lore.

Some believed the Leatherman to be French Canadian.  He seemed to comprehend both French and English, although he rarely spoke in any language.  He usually did not make eye contact.

Today, archeologists believe the behavior chronicled in the newspapers of the era may point to the Leatherman having been autistic.  The plan for Monday was to exhume what they believed to be the remains of this legend and test them for DNA sequencing that indicates autism – yes, they have identified DNA markers for this.

It wasn’t simply scientific curiosity that prompted the exhumation in the potter’s field in Ossining, N.Y.  A modern marker indicating the grave of the Leatherman was at the edge of Sparta Cemetery, very close to what is now a highway.   A new site inside the cemetery was designated for re-interment – in part to make it safer for modern-day pilgrims to park and visit the Leatherman’s grave.

Some objected to the exhumation in a movement to “Leave the Leatherman Alone.”  I wonder if it is more a question of leaving the legend of the Leatherman alone.  After all, if you demystify the behavior of this fascinating man would his status be diminished?

We will never know the answer to that, and many more questions, as the Ossining gravesite was barren of human remains.

The mystique of the Leatherman continues…

Ode to Lexington Gardens

I went to a funeral of sorts today. Lexington Gardens, a favorite destination in town, closed this winter after a terrible identity crisis which resulted in a decline in stock and services.  Unexpectedly, the doors reopened and stock was resurrected this week for a Last Gasp Sale.   All of town seemed to turn out to wander through the expansive building and grounds, many shaking their heads in disbelief and saying to each other in low tones, “What a shame.”

Lexington Gardens was a little oasis of greenery and blooms during winter months, and a place you were guaranteed to find sturdy plants, beautiful gifts, and advice on horticulture in any season.  It was a magical place.

One room was dedicated to fine linens, unusual china, San Francisco truffles (in season), and kitchen gadgets.  Another room had jewelry, a florist department, gifts, and cards.  Running the entire length of the building was a middle section with gifts for pets, seeds, bulbs, bird attractants, deer repellents, and everything the serious gardener could possibly need to succeed.  In the back third boasted table after table of begonias, violets, cacti, ivy, hanging baskets, and houseplants.  Beyond were “staff only” areas including the greenhouse where plants were raised and transplanted.  And the plywood tables outside overflowing with perennials and annuals to plant in the spring.

Traditions bound the community to the store.  At the holidays the mid-section transformed into a Christmas Shop – a feast for the eyes with at least thirty artificial trees each decorated by theme (music, dogs, fishing, nature, sports, Victorian).  I remember dragging my mom to Lexington’s December 26 holiday clearance sale; we waited outside in the cold and enjoyed the congeniality of others who who were ready to rush through the doors and filled small baskets with exquisite items.  In January, Lexington Gardens hosted an art show and demonstrations sponsored by the local art group.

A couple of years ago, Lexington Gardens went on the market – the business, the building and the extensive property.  When it sold, the former owner agreed to stay on and advise/assist the new owners.  But the new owners had a different vision.  And that’s when the trouble began.

No one I know liked the changes.  Gone were the truffles, the outdoor thermometers, pet gifts, florists, china, and the seeds!  The change happened so painfully slow that it looked like a perpetual garage sale with rooms open but denuded, and concrete floors exposed.

It was heartbreaking.

That three-foot snowfall in January finished off Lexington Gardens– literally, crushing greenhouses and killing the more tender plants inside.  The store had planned to close “for four months,” but that did not happen; the new owners, for whatever reasons, just gave up.

I was shocked to hear Lexington Gardens was open again, even for just three weekends – like a ghost rising and beckoning me.  But when I heard “fifty percent off all plants,” I quickly recovered.

The parking lot was packed – just like in its hey-day, and former owner Tom Johnson was even at hand to answer questions about shrubs and plants.  (Truth be told, I almost bought a weed that had completely obscured the lily in the pot.  When I asked Tom what this unusual plant was, he started ripping out the plant I had intended to buy – green and thriving, unlike most of the plants offered – as he explained that I did not want that in my garden.)

I found red raspberry and yellow raspberry bushes, a currant bush, a concord grape vine, ten different perennials (I am a sucker for sedum!), and a Japanese barberry that will stay red if planted where it will get at least six hours of sun.  The barberry is a pathetic, scraggly, Charlie-Brown-type plant but it fulfills my need to have this species in my yard as well as my desire to rescue it from the fate of a dumpster if no one else bought it.  It was the saddest and most expensive of all the plants I bought today.  But it’s flowering; it wants to live.

I also bought barronwort.  Tom says these love shade and are on his top-ten hit list for favorite plants.  I went back and got a second based on this recommendation.

A friend stopped by later in the day with – two plants from Lexington Gardens!  A final gift from one of the most beautiful shops in the region.

I was sad planting my new acquisitions.  But then a thought occurred to me:  The legacy of Lexington Gardens will continue as dedicated gardeners in town nurture, divide, and make gifts of the hardy plants they bought at the center over the years.  In this manner, we will propagate our collective memory.

Spring(er Hill) Clean Up

Spring is my favorite season.  Until fall arrives, that is.  Then I flip-flop.  For me, both seasons are grounded in nature with spring offering restoration and fall, the opportunity for introspection.

This spirit-breaking winter is finally passed.  I feel such joy to see green emerging and, yes!, even pollen flying! around the house and gardens at Springer Hill.

Ahhhhh…..

I always have the itch to bring out our statuary and plop it in the bare gardens as early as April as talismans against frost.  I resist that urge and attend to my first task of spring clean up – picking up all the many little twigs that litter the lawn.  (I use the term “lawn” loosely, as moss and weeds comprise much of it.)  In the beginning of our years at Springer Hill, I found spending an entire morning bending over and picking up twig after twig to be an onerous task.  Much like the snows of this past winter, it seemed never-ending.

But then something changed: my attitude.

Instead of relegating the twigs to our woods, I decided to make fire-starter bundles.  A Zen calm comes over me as I bend and gather.  I think about the trees that shed these pieces: how they withstand tremendous storms; how they keep growing even as they lose some of the physicality. I anticipate how many bundles this gift of nature will provide.

After the harvest, Libby and I sit on the ground in front of the mound of twigs.  I carefully lay out two strips of cotton string and choose sticks of similar lengths, both thick and thin.  Then I tie them snug, finishing with a bow, and repeat the process.  This year yielded twenty-eight bundles which are now stored in the garage to dry over summer.

Bill says these are the best fire starters, even better than store-bought starter sticks.

Libby seems to enjoy this spring event in that she lays calmly nearby with her nose to the wind.  Unlike the gardening season, she doesn’t nag me relentlessly to throw the ball.

As I bundle sticks, Bill rakes the yard and clears out all the dead matter and    leaves that have drifted back since our fall cleanup.  Later in the day, I don my garden gloves and pick out debris from behind the trellis, under hydrangea and boxwood.  The soil is exposed and it seems it will take nothing short of a miracle to call life forth.

But I am an optimist, as is Libby.  And with the advent of spring clean up, she and I begin our daily inspection of the gardens.  We watch for a sprout, a breach in the soil as life begins to renew itself.

Revved Up To Write

Apologies for neglecting you, my readers.  For the past five weeks I have traveled, visiting family in Florida, taking in sights in D.C., bumming around NYC, birdwatching in New Jersey, visiting family in Seattle and then exploring the incredible Olympic Peninsula.

Now it’s back to writing.

I will be posting here at least weekly.  Also, I have been invited to write a regular blog about books and will post my first tomorrow on newtown.patch.com.

During the next two months I will be working on my nonfiction book, Stories from Springer Hill, which you have been introduced to through “Lu Stories.”  Also, I will be writing furiously on an extensive revision of my mystery.

In June I will launch my website at: apzimmermann.com.

I hope you’ll come visit!