The Good Old Days

There is nothing new under the sun:

Life, the Universe, and The Olden Days. (Thanks, xkcd guy.).

Rampaging Waves, and Glass Puddles

On a blustery day some years ago, when he was quite small, my youngest son looked out the window at the lake and said: "Look at that rampage of waves!" And that's, of course, exactly what the waves were doing, rampaging. Others might call it whitecaps, but let's keep language accurate, shall we? They was a rampage of waves again the other day, see:

A Rampage of Waves

The other thing is that I did some baking the other day - of clay, that is. Here's one of the pieces:

Squash Pot, 7.5", stoneware.

That puddle in the bottom, that's molten glass. Shards from a smashed-up vodka bottle, to be precise, which I had chiefly bought for the lovely cobalt blue of the container. Well, I needed it to make vanilla extract (two vanilla beans in 3/4 c. vodka, steep for two weeks, use); but the clear glass bottle would have been cheaper. You know you're addicted to blue glass when you buy booze according to the colour of the bottle. The glass crackled most satisfactorily once it cooled.

Glass Puddle In Squash Pot, 3", glass.

Life, the Universe, Rampaging Waves and Glass Puddles. The dish is for sale, the waves are not.

Rich

There's a word in the English language I particularly like: rich. As in, applied to food. In German, the equivalent "reich" strictly means "having lots of money" (if you capitalise it, Reich, it also means "empire", but as an adjective it just means, well, "wealthy"). But the English "rich" contains so much more. Today I made some chocolate mousse for dessert to go with Sunday dinner (goulash, egg noodles, and salad fresh from the garden, if you must know), and it totally covers every meaning of that word.

The ingredients in this delectable concoction (recipe to follow) are chocolate (actual chocolate, not just cocoa powder), butter, eggs, sugar (regular and icing), and whipping cream. The only way to make it more decadent, more expensive, would be to add some booze. (Ooh, that's a thought - a shot of Grand Marnier, perhaps? Hmm...) Eggs, butter, cream, sugar, chocolate - everything that is costly and rare, or should by rights be so.

And it tastes rich, too. It's the kind of thing you eat in tiny servings, because after a dozen dessertspoonfuls, you just can't eat any more. But oh, those dozen spoonfuls... Bliss.

And as promised, here's the recipe. It comes from Christian Teubner's Kochvergnügen wie noch nie ("Cooking Pleasures As Never Before"), the 1985 edition. One of my aunts gave it to my mother as a Christmas present, about that year or the year after, and as my mum isn't big into trying out recipes, I absconded with the book and its companion volume, Backvergnügen wie noch nie ("Baking Pleasures As Never Before"), when I emigrated to Canada. (The only-English-speaking among you might recognize the word "Vergnügen" in this context from the VW ads promising Fahrvergnügen, "driving pleasures". Personally, I get more Vergnügen out of cooking or baking than driving, but to each their own.) So here you are:

Mousse au chocolat
(serves 4-6)

100g (3oz) semi-sweet chocolate
1 Tbsp butter (unsalted)
2 eggs
1 Tbsp sugar
1 pinch salt
1/4 l (1c) cream
1 Tbsp icing sugar

Melt the butter and chocolate over low heat. Separate the eggs; beat the egg whites with the salt to stiff peaks, the egg yolks with the sugar until creamy. Blend the egg yolk mixture into the chocolate, along with a couple of spoonfuls of the egg whites. Leave to cool slightly. Whip the cream with the icing sugar. Fold together the chocolate mixture, egg white and cream.
Dish into fancy little dishes (I like using those 1970's champagne glasses, the wide, flat ones that are supposed to be originally molded on Marie Antoinette's breast. Which should turn one right off any food or drink that would be served in them, but as it's probably an entirely apocryphal story, I don't let it bother me.). Chill for a couple of hours (you and the dishes). Lick spoon and mixing bowl.
(The original recipe doesn't include that last instruction, and instead says to reserve some of the whipping cream for garnishing the dishes just before serving, sprinkle on chopped pistachios, and put one coffee bean on top of each. But I never do that. I do, however, lick the bowl, so I thought I'd share my own version with you. Don't blame Herr Teubner.)

So there you have it. This is the epitome of rich food. I made a double recipe today; it turned out exceptionally well (it doesn't always, so that's particularly gratifying), and there's not a single lick left.

Life, the Universe, and Rich Food. I feel privileged.

Profound

 "The best criticism of the bad is the practice of the better. 

Oppositional energy only creates more of the same."

Richard Rohr (Falling Upward, appendix)

reflection

On Jane Austen Film Adaptations, Take 2

completely random pretty flower

I've been really busy waffling on about Austen over at quill and qwerty. Latest installation: a post on the Sense and Sensibility movies, which I watched the last couple of evenings. So I've kind of been too occupied to pop in over here and let loose with some of my usual ramblings.

But then it suddenly occurred to me: some time ago, I promised a post on Jane Austen heroines and the actresses who play them, one of them being the girlfriend of Blake Ritson (he who plays such an excellent Edmund Bertram in the 2007 Mansfield Park), so this would be a great time to redeem that promise. And when I looked up that old post, I found that it was written exactly a year and a day ago, May 21 of last year. What is it about May? Must be the season for watching Jane Austen movies. In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to love... (except I ain't all that young. And most definitely not a man.).

So, Blake's girlfriend. Yup. She's my favourite. Hattie Morahan, her name is, and she plays Elinor in the 2007 Sense and Sensibility. Fabulous casting, she's exactly my idea of the sensible Dashwood sister. Oh, but - in the 1995 version of the movie, Elinor is played by Emma Thompson. She's my favourite. Fabulous casting, exactly my idea of... Oh dear. You see my problem. They're all my favourites.

The two Sense and Sensibility movies are especially bad for that; I honestly can't make up my mind which I like better. The older version has a fantastic cast of seasoned actors, and that utterly amazing score by Patrick Doyle (the soundtrack for that movie is still on my wish list. Hard to get a hold of nowadays, though. I've never yet watched a movie with a Paddy Doyle soundtrack I didn't like. The "Non Nobis Domine" from Henry V, oh my goodness...). And there's the wit in Emma Thompson's screenplay and her acting, and Hugh Grant's typical bumbly-but-cute manner, and Kate Winslet just being Marianne and Greg Wise such an attractive Willoughby - I so enjoy that movie.

And then I pop in the disc of the new version, and there's that wonderful cast of actors who are, for the most part, actually about the age the characters are in the book (as opposed to the other movie where they're all ten to fifteen years older than their parts, except for Kate Winslet who is the right age and makes everyone else look old by contrast). They're so fresh, so real - so believable. And they've kept in some of the characters that are cut from the older version, Anne Steele and Lady Middleton, for example, and they act out some of the scenes that the other movie doesn't even mention (like the duel. And the oh-so-awkward dinner party at Mrs Ferrar's.). Such a wonderful movie.

And of course, there's Jennifer Ehle's Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice, and Keira Knightley in the same ten years later. I do prefer the older movie, all told, but I like Keira's Elizabeth. She's got that spunky wit that Lizzie has in the book.

And then there's Anne Elliot, who is next to Elinor Dashwood my favourite Austen heroine, and so convincingly played by Amanda Root in the 1995 version of Persuasion (with Ciaran Hinds as Captain Wentworth - ahh...).

You see what I mean? Too many favourites. But that's okay, I can just keep watching these movies over and over. One after the other. And enjoy them, every time.

Life, the Universe, and Austen Heroines. It is a truth universally acknowledged that movies don't get any better.

Slowpokes

Driving the kids to school, I got caught behind a slowpoke this morning. Twice, coming and going. It's a narrow highway, just the two lanes between a rock wall and a lake; passing is not only illegal, it's suicidal. So if there's a slowpoke at the head of the line, you're stuck. You can't do anything but slowpoke along behind them, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel, grumbling to yourself under your breath, wishing you had passed them back in town on the four-laned part of the highway. You keep checking your speedometer - we're going 75kmh, c'mon, grandma, this is an 80-zone! If you're too unsure of your driving to go the legal speed limit, maybe you should stay at home, or better yet, hand in your driver's license! This road isn't so scary as all that, c'mon, you're holding up traffic! Sheesh, now we're down to 70! Give me a break!

But then, today, on the way back, I decided to quit those compulsive glances at the speedometer. It sure wasn't making the slow driver two cars ahead of me speed up any. And really, it's a gorgeous day for a drive today. To my right, out of the corner of my eye, I see the lake glittering in the sun with all its might. The bushes on shore are shrouded in their best spring green, the sunshine makes the rocks gleam rosy-pink, setting off the dark green of the Ponderosa Pines which hold so precariously onto the cracks and crevices they've sprung from. I take the time to actually listen to the radio show I've got playing: Tom Power is witty as always, and I sure enjoy the songs he's choosing today. Lovely guitar intro to that one!

Oh, and what do you know, here we are at the turn-off. The highway widens to four lanes again, slowpoke gets into the right, I veer left because I need to drive up the hill to get to my house. They've probably cost me all of thirty seconds with their slowpokishness. Thirty seconds of increased enjoyment in my drive, and a pleasant feeling of smugness brought on by my having conquered the impatience monster.

I'll tell you about tailgaters some other time - you know, those annoying drivers that sit on your bumper, their impatience practically boring into the back of your neck. Pushy idiots.

Life, the Universe, and Slowpokes. It really is a lovely day today.

Failure

All right, I can't any longer not talk about this. I had it once again shoved in my face this morning, in double-dosage. You see, what happened was that a friend posted on Facebook a really cool article, written by a lady who was homeschooled, entered college at age 13 (yes, true story), proceeded to take every ceramics class they had available four times over, aced them all, and went on to a job with the Laguna clay company (the potters among you will know what that means).

Great. Love the story. So wonderful for this young lady; I'm so pleased she had that opportunity and that it worked out so well for her. It's a beautiful success story. And it's by no means the only one of the kind I've ever heard.

But you see, that's precisely the problem. I've heard these stories over and over. There are people who write whole books about them, glowing success stories of what happens when you homeschool your children. And I believed those stories. I believed them deeply, fervently, whole-heartedly. I invested my life in that belief.

And then I experienced failure. Because what I really believed when I clung to those stories was not that homeschooling worked out great for the Colfaxes and the David Alberts, but that it would work out great for me. Because that's the message that's behind all those stories, unspoken in some cases, loudly articulated in others: if only you do things this way, this is the success you will experience.

So I tried doing things that way. I tried my darndest. And tried, and tried, and tried. And failed. From almost the first year of our homeschooling, things did not work the way I was told they would. And I felt, not to put too fine a point on it, like shit. Because if you do things right, then you will be successful - isn't that so? So if you're not successful, you've obviously doing something wrong. You've failed. You have failed.

And this issue does not just pertain to homeschooling (even though, I think, homeschoolers can take the attitude to unusual heights). No, it crops up in every walk of life. Anne Lamott, this morning on Facebook (and that was today's second instance of having my face rubbed in this topic), posted an article she wrote on why she hates Mother's Day. That's right, it's Mother's Day coming up in just a few days. And Lamott hates it because, as she says, "it celebrates the great lie about women: that those with children are more important that those without". The failure of not having children - either by choice, or by circumstance. And we drive home the shaft deeper each time we perpetuate the story that motherhood somehow equates to a form of success.

And marriage - there's another one. Having a "successful" marriage. And if you don't - if things break down between you and your spouse, or (perhaps even worse) if you never found a spouse in the first place, you've failed. You're a failure. Because a happy marriage is what makes you a worthy, successful person. Or so we tell each other.

Of course, it equally applies to school, and work, and health, and possessions, and pretty much anything else our life it made up of.

It all comes down to the stories we tell each other. If we do such-and-such, then so-and-so will result, and that will be success. But more often than not, things don't pan out that way. We look at the right side of the equation, at the result, and see "not-success", we see failure. And we conclude that obviously, we suck at math and might as well give up and go eat worms. But it never occurs to us that maybe we need to look at the left side of the equation, at the premise we started from. We need to look at the stories we're telling ourselves.

While we keep telling each other the stories of what constitutes success, of how we, or someone else, did this-and-that and look how well it turned out, without admitting to the times we fell on our faces, we will be forever stuck in the prison of our own making. We lock each other up in a jail of shame.

If you've never listened to Brené Brown's TED talk on Shame, I suggest you do so at the earliest opportunity. Her conclusion is that the most effective weapon against shame is sharing - the simple words "Me, too." Yes, me, too; I, too, have failed. No, I was not successful at what I set out to do. I landed on my face, and damn it, it hurt.

Because when we do that, we undercut the lies that are built into the stories of what constitutes success - and even better, we re-define what it means to be successful. We shine the light on the fact that the premise is faulty, that A+B does not, in fact, necessarily equal C, because perhaps there's a few Arabic and Greek letters in the alphabet soup to the left of the equal sign which do not lend themselves to neat Roman-cyphered answers. We change the story. And with that, we change the outcome.

I don't know about you, but I, for one, badly need a different outcome. I badly need to change the story that I tell myself, that I tell everyone else.

And so just to let you know: I've failed. I've blown it. I did not succeed the way I was sure I would when I started on this journey. There, that's my story - my new story. My new premise. And it's a little bit of a scary one. It's an uncertainty, it's messy. I can no longer point to a neat and clean premise, to an equation that says "IF - THEN". I don't know what's right any more, don't know how things ought to be done correctly for the best possible outcome. And you know what's the awesome thing about that? I'm okay with that idea.

Life, the Universe, and Failure. Changing the story is a powerful thing.