An open message to one of our cats

I understand that my laptop keyboard is a warm place to perch. I’m even willing to overlook your occasional contribution to a document or email. But please, edit your work. Everyone knows “gtfrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrw” only has fifty-seven ‘r’s.

One down

December 1, 8:25 a.m.: “Christmas Wrapping” played on 94.7 WMAS out of Springfield, MA.

(Disturbingly, my obsessive quest to find/hear this damn song resulted in hearing “Dominic the Donkey” three times. This is what is known as an unintended consequence. I may need to rethink my approach to hearing “Christmas in Hollis” on the radio.)

Your holiday season may now begin. Please exercise all due caution when engaging in the decking of any halls that may be yours to deck.

Post holiday post

1) We broke with tradition this year, and abandoned the obligatory turkey with all the trimmins in favor of pasta with a big pot of meatballs and sauce (and sausage, and pork). In doing so, preparation, cooking, and cleanup times all dropped by at least two thirds, allowing more time to clean the house, spend with family, and the hallowed watching of the television. I’d meant to watch football, but somehow the Godfather marathaon seemed more appropriate given our meal choice.

1a) While spaghetti and meatballs seems like a far cry from traditional Pilgrims ‘n’ Indians fare, our Thanksgiving dinner fulfilled many of the requisite functions of the meal and the day: more food than anyone could or should possibly consume; abundant leftovers, and; more to the point, leftovers that could be made into sandwiches. Sure, there’s nothing that compares to leftover turkey, stuffing and gravy reheated, laid out on a couple of slices of good, thick, crusty bread, dressed with cranberry relish, and made into a messy, unwieldy, delicious sandwich experience, but there are times when a good meatball grinder is good for what ails you, you know?

1b) Successful as the meal was, The Kid has already requested that we have the traditional meal again next year, which is fine.

2) For me, the Holiday Season ™ doesn’t officially begin until we put up our tree, which we won’t do for another couple of weeks yet. At the same time, I recognize that my personal timeframe lags well behind the societal norm, or at least the market driven, media fueled post-Thanksgiving chaos that we’ve trained to think of as the societal norm. Among all the other things that means (Sales! Crowds! Dubious Bargains! An Almost Total Loss of Perspective! Mass Hysteria!) comes the first salvo in the month-long assault of holiday music. I have very simple requirements in this area: I don’t feel like I’ve had my full Festive Holiday Experience ™ for the year until I hear certain songs on the radio: “Christmas in Hollis” by Run D.M.C.; “Step into Christmas” by Elton John (I hate myself just a little bit for this one); and, of course, “Christmas Wrapping” by the Waitresses. So I drove over the mountain and down the highway to the in-laws this weekend scanning radio stations the whole way. No Waitresses. No Hollis. Half an Elton John. But really, no Waitresses. On the other hand, I heard Peggy @#$%ing Lee “Rockin’ Around the God-*^$@ed Christmas Tree” about a half dozen times. This does not bode well for my enjoyment of this festive season of Joy and Cheer ™

Hail

On a beautiful fall night in 2004, I watched, breathless, as Keith Foulke fielded a chopper back to the mound, ran a few steps toward first base, and flipped the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz, giving the Boston Red Sox their first World Series championship in 86 years. It was the perfect way for the Series to end. They secured their victory with a textbook play. It was the the sort of thing that every kid who plays ball gets drilled into them from the first time they take the field, the kind of routine play that professionals make dozens, even hundreds of times over the course of their career, the distilled essence of the game into a single essential moment. It capped off a long, dramatic season of struggle and teamwork. It was the realization of hope deeply felt but rarely indulged in recognition of so many past disappointments.

It was @#$%ing awesome to behold.

For me, the ultimate expression of that moment did not come on the field at Busch Stadium under the carmine light of a moon in eclipse. I saw it in the New York Times the next morning, in a photograph of Red Sox ace pitcher Curt Schilling embracing Sox veteran Johnny Pesky. The look on Mr. Pesky’s face in that photograph distilled for me what it means to be a Red Sox fan: joy and disbelief in equal measure, hope rewarded and doubt vanquished, yesterday’s mistakes redeemed by today’s actions, all in a place where people, despite their outward differences, share a common, sacred and unbreakable bond.

On an unseasonably warm November night in 2008, I watched, breathless (and, truth to tell, a bit queasy), as the networks tallied up votes, and projected states for one or the other of the leading presidential candidates. I sat, increasingly tense, as the outcome seemed increasingly certain. I felt hope, but it was tempered by the bitter lessons of the past. I was hesitant to believe given the realization that taking things like this for granted in the past resulted in chaos, disappointment, and eight years of leadership that I believe has done profound damage to our nation, its people and our standing in the world, leadership whose mistakes our next president will have to work tirelessly to rectify while also working to achieve their own agenda.

Even when CNN made its announcement shortly after 11:00 p.m. Eastern Time, I could not bring myself to celebrate. Like the Apostle Thomas Didymus, merely hearing the news from a third party was not enough for me. My faith required proof. My doubt affected the members of my family with whom I watched the results. My mother declared she could not believe, could not celebrate, until I did.

Still, as the networks showed signs of celebration in Chicago, in Atlanta, in Harlem and Times Square, and in Washington, D.C. (in front of the White House no less!) it became difficult to hold on to skepticism. As the time came for Senator McCain to take the stage and give his concession speech, we woke up The Kid so that she could witness history in the making.

Then, finally, my resolve began to crack. The first fissure came when I read the words “President-Elect Obama on the television screen.” The next came when I sat down on the couch, put my arm around The Kid — my daughter — and realized that the fact I wanted her to see this moment justified my belief. Finally, the image of Reverend Jesse Jackson standing in Grant Park with tears running down his face shattered any illusion I had that celebration was premature. The look on Reverend Jackson’s face in that moment distilled for me what it means to be an American: joy and disbelief in equal measure, hope rewarded and doubt vanquished, yesterday’s mistakes redeemed by today’s actions, all in a place where people, despite their outward differences, share a common, sacred and unbreakable bond, and must shoulder the same obligations of — as President-Elect Obama noted in his victory speed — service and sacrifice.

Like the 2004 Red Sox, President-Elect Obama’s victory also capped off a long, dramatic season of struggle and teamwork. It was the realization of hope deeply felt but rarely indulged in recognition of so many past disappointments. It came as the result of putting all the right pieces together, and executing a plan for victory day after day, of making mistakes, learning from them, and improving based on what was learned.

I’m exhausted this morning, and all I did was bear witness to history. I can’t begin to imagine the bone-tired fatigue that everyone who worked harder, fought stronger, and struggled more mightily for so long must be feeling today, beginning with President-Elect Obama — and does that phrase not have a lovely ring to it? He delivered on the promise of hope; now he must lead us, inspire us, and charge us all to turn hope into action.

I can’t wait to see what the next four years bring.

I’m Mr. Icicle!

One of the unforseen consequences of my recent — and, for the moment, successful — fitness and weight loss regimen is that my ability to regulate my body temperature has diminished. Lately, I’m always cold, particularly my extremities.

In essence, I’ve turned into this guy:

What ever I touch
Turns to snow in my clutch
I’m too much!

…with, perhaps, a touch less meteorological joie de vivre and a touch more frosty bitterness, or possibly bitter frostiness. So maybe it’s more accurate to say I’m like this guy:

Regardless, I’m damn cold most of the time. Considering the alternative (sweaty and hypertensive) it’s probably best if I learn to adapt to this new internal thermostat setting, and accept that until that happens, layering is my friend.

What’s for lunch? A drama in two brief scenes.

Dramatis Personae:
Bart Modern, a father
The Kid, a kid

Scene 1:
A kitchen and dining room, somewhere in America

Bart Modern: [reads the day's school lunch menu offering aloud.] Bringing or buying?

The Kid: Not buying.

B. Mod.: Salami sandwich?

TK: No.

B. Mod.: Then what?

TK: Peanut butter.

B. Mod.: Jelly?

TK: No.

B. Mod.: Roll or bread?

TK: Tortilla.

B. Mod.: Really?

TK: Yeah.

B. Mod.: No, I mean really? You just want, like, peanut butter on a cold tortilla?

TK: Yeah.

B. Mod.: Okay.

Scene 2:
The same place, five minutes later

B. Mod.: [Opens refrigerator, removes jar or peanut butter and package of tortillas.] Hey, could I maybe warm up the tortilla a little, and make this like a wrap? Maybe put some sliced apples on it?

TK: Peeled apples?

B. Mod.: Okay.

TK: Then yeah. You should put a little bit of lemon juice on the apples.

B. Mod.: To keep them from going brown?

TK: Yeah.

B. Mod.: Okay. [Crosses to cabinet, removes skillet, places on stove, assembles wrap.]

TK: Hey, are you putting honey on it?

B. Mod.: Yeah, I thought a little bit would be good.

TK: Cool.

The End

Not really a recipe, but here’s what ended up in The Kid’s lunch bag yesterday morning:

1 burrito size flour tortilla
1 serving peanut butter (which according to the label is 2T, but come on, who are we kidding here?)
5-6 thin half moon slices of apple, peeled
1/4t lemon juice
Drizzle of honey

Warm the tortilla in a skillet over medium heat to soften. Toss the apple slices with the lemon juice. Spread peanut butter over about 1/3 of the tortilla, starting about 1/6 from the edge of the tortilla. Arrange the apple slices, slightly overlapping, over the peanut butter, and drizzle with honey. Fold into a flat packet like a thin burrito. Return to the skillet briefly to seal the edges and lightly toast the surface. Allow to cool, wrap in plastic wrap, and send off to school with the child in question.

Fall-ing, yes I am fall-ing

Perfect warm sunny October afternoon. Standing in the middle of an apple orchard, washing down a perfect, crisp, tart, fresh from the tree apple (Macoun, thank you very much) with a cold sip of transcendent sweet cider. The foliage on the hills around the orchard as close to peak as makes no difference.

That’s why I live in New England.

An almost perfect moment? Opinions differ. I maintain it’s as close to perfect as one is likely to get in this life. The Kid argues that the moment fell short of perfection because the cider donut machine at the orchard shop was out of commission on this particular afternoon. For me, in my quest to avoid temptation, the lack of hot sugary cider donuts was an asset rather than a liability (I have no problem wrestling with angels, but the grappling does tend to ruin otherwise blissful moments), proving once again that Paradise is a highly subjective condition.

Essays^3

Read three interesting collections of essays recently by three wildly different essayists

Maps and Legends: Reading and Writing Along the Borderlands, by Michael Chabon: Mr. Chabon can write the living @#$% out of whatever he turns his talent toward. This is even true when the subject matter (Sherlock Holmes as fan fiction, a battlefield account of a flame war about the Yiddish language) is esoteric, dense, or so deeply personal as to leave the reader with few comfortable points of entry.

Not That You Asked: Rants, Exploits, and Obsessions, by Steve Almond: Whether talking about his role as the Red Sox Antichrist, his battle with the right wing noise machine, or his experience having a VH-1 camera crew film an ultimately deferred 15 minutes of fame — to say nothing of the parts about sex and parenthood — Mr. Almond’s strength lies in balancing outrage and discomfort, usually in the service of uncomfortable self-revelation.

[Note: I'm not 100% certain I'm 100% certain what that means.]

When You Are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris: Much as I enjoy Mr. Sedaris’s work, especially when I hear it performed on This American Life or other programs, I find his collections to be an exercise in diminishing returns. Naked is an amazing, hilarious book, but I find I’ve enjoyed every subsequent collection slightly less. It’s not that his writing is of any lesser quality, but rather that with each new piece, the balance between humor and sadness seems to tip in favor of sadness. Perhaps hearing the pieces in this collection as performed works would change this opinion, but on paper these stories kind of depressed me.

Nonsense Passing as Radio

The October 1, 2008 edition of National Public Radio’s Morning Edition featured an incredibly irritating self-exculpatory pity party of a story about why the media just can’t seem to do its job these days.

Apparently, journalism is hard.

Media Play Catch-Up To Lightning Pace Of News
by David Folkenflik

In normal times, you’d see front-page headlines on the appointment of a special prosecutor to consider charges against former U.S. Attorney General Alberto Gonzales.

In normal times, you’d see unrelenting media scrutiny of John McCain campaign manager Rick Davis’ work for mortgage companies caught up in the market meltdown. And there would be even more ferocious attention paid to each new gaffe served up by both major parties’ vice presidential candidates.

But these are not normal times.

Indeed they are not. These are abnormal times. In normal times, a distinguished news organization like NPR wouldn’t devote 3 minutes 48 seconds of air time to a puff piece that seeks to explain their shortcomings. They @#$%ing well would have used that time to report on the very things they seek to excuse themselves for not covering. Instead, in these abnormal times, NPR has elected to join the infotainment scrum and produce navel-gazing metacommentary like this as an alternative to the hard work of researching and reporting stories about political corruption, economic chaos, or any number of other stories that go unreported in favor of this nonsense.

“I don’t think anyone — including the people in charge — can make sense of what’s happening in the country right now,” says new-media guru Jeff Jarvis. He’s a consultant for several media companies, including The Washington Post, and a columnist for The Guardian. Jarvis says the media are simply overwhelmed by the news.

“It’s just too big and too complicated, and it requires both too much background and fundamental understanding about economics,” Jarvis says. “Also, we’re not sure whether we’re being told the whole story still, so we need people to look into things the way journalists do.”

If news outlets need people with background and fundamental understanding about economics (or any other issue) in order to fulfill their basic functions, they should @#$%ing well figure out how to get those people on staff, or forge relationships with experts in these areas who can provide the necessary context and commentary. Throwing up your hands in frustration and saying “Gee, you know, we’d love to do our job, but gosh wouldn’t you know we just can’t” is neither helpful nor honorable.

The breakneck pace of developments means a lot of news worth knowing receives the briefest burst of attention before being dropped for something hotter.

Think about it, says Alexis Glick, the vice president for business news at the new Fox Business Network and one of the anchors for its show, Opening Bell: The nation’s largest insurer is bailed out by the government; the largest savings and loan fails; the nation’s fourth-largest bank is sold for a dollar a share in a deal brokered by federal officials.

“If you talked about one of those things occurring in a year, that would be shocking,” Glick tells NPR. “Those things occurred in a two-week period. [That's] completely unprecedented.”

Perhaps the specifics are unprecedented, but the role of the media to report — and even explain — crises is nothing new. The reporters who had to cover the Great Depression certainly had limited context and background for their stories. The battlefield reporters of World War II had to make sense of chaos on a daily basis. While the stakes are comparatively much lower, sports reporters turn full fields of players into coherent narratives on a daily basis. It’s difficult. It’s often complex. It’s the point of the profession.

Glick says she feels compelled to read 200 pages of research each day when she arrives at work at 4:30 a.m. — and then has to keep track throughout the day.

What? A professional feels “compelled” to be informed about the realm of her alleged professional expertise? Out-@#$%ing-rageous! How can anyone be expected to actually do their job? That’s just crazy talk!

Many journalists say they are scrambling just to keep the headlines coming — and are chasing after the explanations, too. For now, the news appears to be outracing both.

Again, how fortunate that NPR is there with non-story story like this to help the news extend its already considerable lead over the media’s reporting capabilities. I’m so glad they took time away from all the important stories they could have been covering to deal with the vital business of insulting their listeners’ intelligence.

What I wish he would have said

I haven’t seen anyone pick up on this nugget from the first debate last Friday night: In speaking of Iran, Senator McCain said something to the effect of “the have a lousy economy because they have a lousy government.” I’m truly surprised Senator Obama didn’t pick up that ball and sink a nice basket from mid-court:

“If that’s true, Senator McCain, then what does the current state of our economy say about our government, and the leadership of George Bush and your party for most of the past eight years?”

How to blow this thing wide open

The impulsive and reactive nature of Senator McCain’s campaign over the course of the last week — My campaign’s suspended! Except it’s not! I’m out of the debate! Except not really! I’m going to Washington to bust some heads in my independent and maverick-y way! Only it’s not working! I’m going to have my surrogates declare victory*! What? The bailout bill failed? — presents an opportunity for Senator Obama to gain some ground.

What he needs to do is have his political surrogates and media types to blanket the airwaves with the something along these lines:

“John McCain’s erratic campaign performance over the past week suggests one of two things: either he is making all of these desperate calls on his own, which raises serious questions about his judgment, or he has completely surrendered control of his campaign to his advisors, which means he’s given up the last shred of the independence for which once he was so renowned. Can America really afford a president who is either a fool or a tool?”

*That Mitt Romney — whatta maroon.

End of summer bookdump

Some more of what I’ve been reading recently…

How I Learned to Cook: Culinary Education from the World’s Greatest Chefs, edited by Kimberly Witherspoon and Peter Meehan — Short essays by famous chefs. As with all such anthologies, some are heartwarming, several recount definitive or formative embarrassments, some are infuriatingly self-aggrandizing, and some just miss the point entirely.

Banana: The Fate of the Fruit That Changed the World, by Dan Koeppel — So apparently the half of a banana I enjoy with my daily oatmeal faces extinction, with no viable replacement variety currently on the horizion. Depressing.

Comfort Me with Apples: More Adventures at the Table, by Ruth Reichl — I quite liked Garlic and Sapphires, Ms. Reichl’s memoir of her New York Times restaurant critiquing gig. I found this book, which recounts earlier events in her life, less enjoyable, largely because I found the narrator less engaging, likeable, or sympathetic.

Pint-sized Ireland: In Search of the Perfect Guinness, by Evan McHugh — I’m in one of my periodic tetotal phases, so the boozing part of this book was interesting, but in an almost academic sense. As an account of traveling through Ireland, this is a cracking good read.

The Cleaner, by Brett Battles — First book in a series about the guy who comes in after a situation and removes all traces (and remains) of that situation. A nice mix of action, paranoia, and intrigue.

The Sword-Edged Blond, by Alex Bledsoe — While this purports to be a blend of fantasy noir, it’s really more a staright-up fantasy with noirsh elements at the bookends. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but the author definitely fails to follow through on the central conceit. Still, as pure fantasy, it works pretty well.

Jhegaala, by Steven Brust — A bit of a letdown after some recent strong (Issola, Dragon, Dzur) but even a so-so Vlad Taltos novel is still a delight.

On the other hand…

Now and Then, by Robert B. Parker — So remember the movie Heathers? Remember the interplay between the Winona Ryder character and her father (“Would somebody please tell me why I keep smoking these things?” “Because you’re an idiot.”)? Yeah, that’s how I feel about Spenser novels sometimes. Not that I’ll quit, just that the habit isn’t as enjoyable as it once was.

The Deceived, by Brett Battles — Sequel to The Cleaner. Solid.

What to Eat, by Marion Nestle — Graduate level Michael Pollan; an aisle-by-aisle and shelf-be-shelf analysis of the supermarket. Basically, we’re doomed. The array of food available and the economics and politics of its production and distribution are impossible to escape. The best we can really manage is to be as informed as we can as consumers, and make the choices we do make based on an understanding of what we’re putting in our bodies and where it comes from (as well as such uninformed, impulsive, indulgent, or habitual choices we care to make along the way).

The Saucier’s Apprentice: One Long Strange Trip Through the Great Cooking Schools of Europe, by Bob Spitz — “Great Cooking Schools” is a bit of a misnomer. Some of Mr. Spitz’s experiences come across as great, even life altering, but these transcendent experiences are more a matter of good fortune than design. His teachers range from dilettantes to martinets, along with a few rare good teachers. Few are great, or even necessarily good, chefs. The result is a journey to be envied for its ambition, if not necessarily emulated in its design or execution.

Chasing Darkness, by Robert Crais — A solid outing featuring LA private detective Elvis Cole. A decent plot, aided by a lifting of the darkness that has hung over other recent outings.

The Emperors of Chocolate: Inside the Secret World of Hershey and Mars, by Joël Glenn Brenner — Basically, this is an economic history of Willy Wonka, if Willy Wonka were two people, one philanthropically minded and slightly complacent, the other a miserable bastard dedicated to growth and expansion for their own sake.

Florence of Arabia, by Christopher Buckley — The author of Thank You For Smoking and other social satires takes on women’s rights in the Middle East. This one cuts a little close to the bone to be as purely hilarious as some of his other books.

The Man Who Ate the World: In Search of the Perfect Dinner, by Jay Rayner — A London-based restaurant critic travels the world eating at renowned gourmet restaurants. The result is an exploration of excess, celebrity, indulgence, and the questions How much is too much? and What is the real value of world-class cuisine? The food? The experience? The prestige of being able to pay head-spinning prices? Again, this is not necessarily a journey for anyone to emulate, but Mr. Rayner tells his story engagingly. Plus, he gets to hang out with Mario Batali, which is something to envy.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

I recently read Dan Koeppel’s Banana: The Fate of the Fruit That Changed the World. I’m currently reading David Hajdu’s The Ten Cent Plague: The Great Comic Book Scare and How It Changed America. Keen observer and pattern matcher that I am, I noticed the subtitle similarity between the two books.

The “That Changed…” or “and How it Changed…” trope is a remarkably common subtitle. It’s an easy way to lend weight or significance to any topic. Change can be revolutionary, tragic, transformative. It can happen in an instant, or be the accretion of years, even decades of events, relationships, and upheavals that altered the status quo. However it happens, and whatever it means, subtitled change on the cover tells the reader something about the assumptions or pretensions of the argument being made within.

Don’t believe me? A survey of a major online bookseller demonstrates just a few ways authors and publishers deploy change language:

21 events, people, or things that changed America

April 4, 1968: Martin Luther King Jr.’s Death and How It Changed America, by Michael Eric Dyson

Blizzard!: The Storm That Changed America, by Jim Murphy

Boomer Nation: The Largest and Richest Generation Ever, and How It Changed America, by Steve Gillon and Nancy Singer Olaguera

Cradle of Freedom: Alabama and the Movement That Changed America, by Frye Gaillard

The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America, by Erik Larson

Dinner at Mr. Jefferson’s: Three Men, Five Great Wines, and the Evening that Changed America, by Charles Cerami

The Dust of Death: The Sixties Counterculture and How It Changed America Forever, by Os Guinness

The GI Bill: The Law That Changed America, by Milton Greenberg

Grant and Twain: The Story of a Friendship That Changed America, by Mark Perry

Hank Aaron and the Home Run That Changed America, by Tom Stanton

Meet You in Hell: Andrew Carnegie, Henry Clay Frick, and the Bitter Partnership That Changed America, by Les Standiford

The Poem That Changed America: “Howl” Fifty Years Later, by Jason Shinder

The Promised Land: the Great Black Migration and How it Changed America, by Nicholas Lemann

Prohibition: Thirteen Years That Changed America, by Edward Behr

Reading with Oprah: The Book Club That Changed America, by Kathleen Rooney

Rendezvous with Destiny: Ronald Reagan and the Campaign That Changed America, by Craig Shirley

Rising Tide: The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How It Changed America, by John M. Barry

Scarface Nation: The Ultimate Gangster Movie and How It Changed America, by Ken Tucker

September 11, 2001: The Day That Changed America, Jill C. Wheeler

The Ten Cent Plague: The Great Comic Book Scare and How It Changed America, by David Hajdu

Triangle: The Fire That Changed America, by David von Drehle

15 events, people or things that changed the world

100 Days in Photographs: Pivotal Events That Changed the World, by Nick Yapp, Douglas Brinkley, and Chris Johns

Banana: The Fate of the Fruit That Changed the World, by Dan Koeppel

Cod: A Biography of the Fish That Changed the World, by Mark Kurlansky

Fateful Choices: Ten Decisions That Changed the World, 1940-1941, by Ian Kershaw

The Girls of Summer: The U.S. Women’s Soccer Team and How It Changed the World, by Jere Longman

Gunpowder: Alchemy, Bombards, and Pyrotechnics: The History of the Explosive That Changed the World, by Jack Kelly

ICBM: The Making of the Weapon That Changed the World, by G. Harry Stine

Nothing On but the Radio: A Look Back at Radio in Canada and How It Changed the World, by Gil Murray

The Riddle of the Compass: The Invention that Changed the World, by Amir D. Aczel

Rome 1960: The Olympics That Changed the World, by David Maraniss

Soul Made Flesh: The Discovery of the Brain–and How it Changed the World, by Carl Zimmer

Special Providence: American Foreign Policy and How It Changed the World, by Walter Russell Mead and Richard C. Leone

Tea: The Drink That Changed the World, by Laura C. Martin

Thermopylae: The Battle That Changed the World, by Paul Cartledge

To the Ends of the Earth: 100 Maps That Changed the World, by Jeremy Harwood

What’s striking about these lists is that just as it rains on the just and the unjust alike, so weighty assumptions rest on subjects both worthy and unworthy. There can be no doubt that September 11, 2001 — to take an easy example — changed the United States. This is true in both immediate ways, and in ways that must await the judgement of history.

At the other end of the spectrum, it is hard to truly embrace the notion that a gangster film such as Scarface is culturally or socially transformative. It is a cultural touchstone for certain segments of its audience, some of whom work in the film industry, thereby giving them a venue to demonstrate and recapitulate this influence in other works. This is true of any piece of art, however, and there is no shortage of films from the same cinematic generation that have their own particular partisans, proponents, and parodists. Taken to the extreme, one could reasonably imagine some fan penning Weekend at Bernie’s: The Ultimate Buddy Movie and How it Changed America.

Change is easy to observe. It’s easy to track. It’s impossible to avoid. Change lies at the essence of the human condition. I know that sounds like something Captain Kirk would ponderously intone, but it’s no less true for its obviousness or ponderousness. The trick lies in determining what change is truly meaningful, what transformations are really transformative, and how to define objective significance. For the reader, this means looking past, or at least paying attention to, the implied elevation of this particular subtitle convention.

In Defense of Food, by Michael Pollan

Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.

Seven words. Michael Pollan boils it all down to seven words. I’m not giving away his secret, since his maxim is right on the cover of the book.

With this simple formula, Mr. Pollan cuts right through the additives and filler in our contemporary (American/Western) diet, and gets right to the point. The best and most healthful foods for us to eat are actually, you know, food: minimally processed, vaguely resembling something originating in nature (or, when processed, processed from ingredients that vaguely resemble things originating in nature), standing on their own merits rather than on grandiose claims of being the secret — true and entire — of health and nutrition.

As I’ve been eating better lately anyway, I found this book resonant with my own experience, which is another way of saying Michael Pollan:preacher::Bart Modern:choir. But as with many things we come to in our own way, it’s often nice to have someone reflect back your experience in a way that connects to some larger context.

Mindless Eating: Why we eat more than we think, by Brian Wansink

An interesting, if flawed book. Mr. Wansink’s central thesis is that we aren’t aware of how much we eat, eat too much as a result, and gain weight as a result of this overeating. He discusses the mindless eating people do as the result of mindless habits (that extra dip into the candy dish, the impulsive purchase at the supermarket, the restaurant meal where we have no fixed sense of portion size or calorie count, misleading packaging that touts certain benefits [Low Fat!] and downplays other nutritional data [High Calorie!].

His book offers a prescription for ways to reengineer our habits to switch from mindlessly overeating a couple of hundred additional calories a day to mindlessly cutting those same couple of hundred daily calories. He maintains that over time, this mild calorie deficit will lead to gradual — and because it is habitual, sustainable, weight loss.

It’s a reasonable strategy, although personally, I’m a great believer in mindful rather than mindless action. There’s something I find personally satisfying about setting a goal for myself and working to achieve it. The mindless approach is a bit to passive for my taste. I also strongly disagree with how easily Dr. Wansink discounts exercise; essentially, he argues that exercise, being something that requires mindful action, is beyond the scope of what most people are willing and able to do. As a believer in a diet and fitness strategy that encompasses both eat less and move more, Dr. Wansink’s prescription ignores half the process.

As someone who works closely with food producers, purveyors, and marketers, Dr. Wansink is also too tolerant and forgiving of the role that marketing plays in influencing weight gain through mindlessness. He becomes an apologist for unfettered capitalism, arguing that fast food restaurants that market and sell high fat, high calorie foods don’t care whether their customers actually eat their entire order of fries, merely that they purchase them in the first place. The rest, Dr. Wansink implies, is a matter of consumer choice and personal responsibility.

Now I’m all for personal responsibility. It’s part of that whole commitment to mindfulness I mentioned. At the same time, Dr. Wansink engages in some unsubtle sleight of hand when he absolves industry of any role in these mindless behaviors. If he is correct — and I believe he is — that people navigate an environment of messaging that compels, fools, and otherwise influences consumption, then those who develop, propagate, and profit from these messages are complicit, if not entirely responsible, for some of the consequences of their success.

Berkshur Culchur, Fershur

Summer in the Berkshires has a lot to recommend it. Winter too, I suppose, if you happen to ski (I don’t). So, for that matter, does the fall. As does the spring, to the degree the area sees a proper spring anymore. Lately it seems that the traditional season known in song and story as “spring” has given way to an extended interlude of rain, chill, and mud, broken up by occasional clear days and a slow renewal of green things, giving way all to soon to the heat and humidity. Not like the springs when I was a kid, I tells ya. Oh, we had seasons back then…

Summer is a terrific time to avail yourself of the many cultural attractions in the region. Over the course of a recent vacation, my family enjoyed two of the Berkshires’ most storied cultural landmarks: The Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute in Williamstown, Massachusetts, and Tanglewood in Lenox, MA.

The main attraction at the Clark was the opportunity to see their new building, the Stone Hill Center. The building, which opened earlier this summer, houses the museum’s art conservation facility. It also includes a small gallery.

The building itself is impressive, sited up on Stone Hill a gentle and pleasant stroll through the woods from the main museum buildings. It’s got a terrific open patio that looks out over the natural beauty of its surroundings.

The current gallery content on the other hand is a serious misfire. At present, the gallery features Homer and Sargent from the Clark: twelve of the Clark’s most important paintings by American artists Winslow Homer and John Singer Sargent. These are wonderful works of art, popular mainstays of the Clark’s permanent collection that will be familiar to regular visitors to the museum. Therein lies the first problem with the exhibition: these paintings are too familiar to be presented in a new context and in a new location. The paintings themselves seem out of place. Then, too, the need to create an appropriate environment for these classic, delicate, and expensive works means that the museum must draw the shades on the large windows in the gallery, thereby shutting out the landscape with which the gallery, and the entire building, was designed to integrate. It’s not a disaster, by any means, but it is certainly makes for a lackluster launch of the facility.

Tanglewood, on the other hand, is all about the harmonious interplay of place and presentation. The recent unfortunate lightning incident aside, it is a place where nature and music combine to create an almost spiritual experience. A blanket and a few chairs, a nice basket of food, a generous supply of bug spray, and the stars slowly coming out overhead create at atmosphere conducive to the enjoyment of great music presented by world-class performers. Tanglewood accomplishes what the Clark Art Institute’s new facility so far fails to master.

Of course, in both cases, my experiences represent a point in time rather than an absolute. Even talented performers can misfire, and it’s possible for the Boston Symphony Orchestra to present a dud of a program at Tanglewood. Other factors can also influence the outcome of your Tanglewood sojourn. The weather may fail to cooperate. Dinner may not come together. It may be too warm or too cold. You may end up seated next to certain of your fellow patrons who don’t know when to shut up and listen. Similarly, the next exhibition installed in the Clark’s Stone Hill Center may indeed be a tour de force, one that challenges patrons to experience both art and architecture in new and transformative ways.

Anything is possible, and that’s the point. To approach culture expecting to be amazed every time sets an impossible expectation. Transcendence is a possible outcome, but it need not be a goal in itself. It can be enough just to take in what these cultural venues (and any of the myriad others in the region) have to offer. It’s one of the best reasons to live in or visit the Berkshires in the summertime.

Food on the fly

Tentative plans for a family evening out last night gave way to some later than anticipated work time, a forecast for inclement weather (that ultimately proved unwarranted), and general sluggishness. This left a hungry family at a loss for a planned meal as the dinner hour slipped away.

A quick rummage through the fridge, freezer, and pantry resulted in the rapid assembly of the following improvisation:

Poor Planning Penne

3T olive oil
4 cloves chopped garlic
2 cloves garlic, smashed with the flat of a kitchen knife
2/3 cup milk
1/3 cup half and half
3 oil-packed sun dried tomatoes, chopped
1 leftover grilled chicken thigh, meat stripped off the bone and cut into large dice
1 slice grilled pork tenderloin, diced
1 crown broccoli, separated into small florets
1/2 cup frozen peas
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 pound penne (preferably whole wheat)

Heat the oil in a large saute pan. Add the garlic, and cook over medium heat 2-3 minutes until soft.

Cook the pasta according to package directions; drain and set aside until ready to add to the sauce.

Warm the milk, cream, and smashed garlic in a small saucepan. Allow the garlic to steep in the milk mixture until needed.

Add the tomatoes, to the garlic in the saute pan, and cook another 1-2 minutes. Increase the heat to medium-high, add the chicken and pork and cook until warmed through. Add the broccoli, and cook until just tender (2-3 minutes). Add the frozen peas.

Remove the smashed garlic from the milk mixture. Add the milk to the saute pan. Stir to combine.

Add the pasta and the cheese. Stir to combine and coat.

Serve.

My brain hates me.

So I’m trying to eat well. I’m trying to exercise regularly. I’m starting to see some progress from these efforts. So what does my stupid subconscious decide? That what I really need to do is request a whole mess of cooking and food books through the (kickass) interlibrary loan system.

Self-sabotage anyone?

A few recent literary bites include:

Fork It Over, by Alan Richman: Smart writing in both its pure and -alecky, -assed, and -mouthed forms. Too joyful to be a curmudgeon, and too bluntly critical to be an apologist, Mr. Richman writes about food from a perspective that remains informed by his earlier career as a sportswriter, which is intended as a compliment.

The Splendid Table’s How to Eat Supper: Recipes, Stories, and Opinions from Public Radio’s Award-Winning Food Show, by Lynne Rossetto Kasper and Sally Swift: While there have been plenty of cookbooks I’ve liked less than this, most of those at least provoked a strong negative response on my part. It’s rare I read a cookbook that leaves me almost entirely indifferent. I don’t know; perhaps if I were familiar with The Splendid Table radio program I would have been more receptive to this book’s charms. Without that grounding, I didn’t find much in this book to care about.

The United States of Arugula, by David Kamp: A culinary history of gourmet eating in the United States. From the mid-twentieth century ascendance of James Beard, Julia Child, and Craig Claiborne, through the genesis of Chez Panisse and its ripple effects across the gastronomic landscape, through a succession of foodstuffs and food trends (vegetarian, macrobiotic, free-range, sun-dried, extra virgin, nouvelle, California, sushi) to the diverse, unique, sometimes commodified, often celebrity-driven, frequently dissonant contemporary food environment, Mr. Kamp’s book is an adept survey of culinary cultural history.

In the queue I have not one, but two books about Guinness (did I mention that part of my eating and exercise reqimen includes cutting out alcohol), a book about bananas, a culinary memoir, and a collection of essays by famous chefs.

So, yeah. My brain? Trying to destroy me.

B. Mod’s iPod: Geography shuffle II

Foxboro Hottubs, “Broadway”
Harry Belafonte, “Jamaica Farewell”
Beck, “High 5 (Rock the Catskills)”
Joe Jackson, “Memphis”
Neal Hefti, “Gotham City Municipal Swing Band”
Ani DiFranco, “Hello Birmingham”
Tom Waits, “I Wish I Was in New Orleans”
Pogues, “Fairytale of New York”
Pogues, “Dark Streets of London”
Cry Cry Cry, “Cold Missouri Waters”
Counting Crows, “Omaha”

B. Mod’s iPod: Geography shuffle

Beastie Boys, “An Open Letter to NYC”
John Lee Hooker, “Tupelo”
Phish, “Montana”
Nerf Herder, “New Jersey Girl”
Moxy Fruvous, “King of Spain”
Warren Zevon, “Werewolves of London”
Jim’s Big Ego, “Los Angeles”
Desi Arnaz and Amanda Lane, “Cuban Pete”
John Gorka, “I’m From New Jersey”
Bee Gees, “Massachusetts”

The hills are alive, with the sound of wheezing…

So it was the @#$%ing Congo Bars that had me hiking halfway up a goddamned mountain*.

I made a batch of them for my nephew’s high school graduation party last month. I used Emeril Lagasse’s recipe** from Emeril’s TV Dinners, which means that they were guaranteed to be both pretty darned tasty and quite apocalyptically bad for you.

During the party, I manged to bring to bear enough willpower to avoid eating any of them. Problem was, the recipe makde enough bars that we wound up with about half the batch left at home. I brought a few to work, and stored the rest in my parents’ freezer (the Yucca Mountain of food we can’t be trusted to leave in the house) against the day we needed a dessert on the fly.

That day came this Fourth of July at my parents’ big family cookout and funtime-palooza. In addition to all the other great food, the @#$%ing Congo Bars made their encore appearance.

I don’t know. Maybe it was the good company. Maybe it was the inevitable consequence of attempting to maintain rigid self control. Maybe it was the fact that I’ve permitted myself a few exceptions, all of them centering on the confluence of good company and homemade sweets. Maybe it was just a moment of weakness. Regardless, I knew it was a bad idea. Like the idiot in the horror film who doesn’t know enough not to go upstairs, I should have known better. Yet like that idiot, I fumbled my way straight to my doom.

What I’m trying to say is, I slipped. I had a @#$%ing Congo Bar. It was a small @#$%ing Congo Bar, but it started weighing on my mind the second I savored that first decadent bite. I’m not sure why I took that @#$%ing Congo Bar so seriously, or why I was so worried that savoring dessert that one time would cause a dietary relapse. All I know is that I’m better able to meet my commitment to exercising and eating well when I do — or more properly, when I avoid — certain things, most especially alcohol, caffeine, and sugar.

Now I know; I’m the guy who’s all “a commitment to exercising and eating well shouldn’t be about sin and expiation.” But in this case I really felt a need for a little penance, if only to get the @#$%ing Congo Bar off my mind once and for all.

So halfway up the goddamned mountain I went. Specifically, up the Birch Brook Trail at Hopkins Memorial Forest. Now, you might think that the description of this hike on the trail map — “The trail climbs the steep, east-facing slope of the Taconic Range” — might have alerted me to the fact that this was basically, you know, uphill most of the way. You would think the words “steep climb” would have raised some red flags. You would be wrong.

Indeed, I found myself huffing and puffing and sweating my flabby, wheezing, out of shape way up a mile and a half of steep verticals with few level spots to mitigate the effect of climbing a big ol’ hill. Indeed, a few times I questioned the wisdom of continuing, and considered the possibility of turning around. I was hiking on my own. There was no one to whom I needed to prove myself. There was no one to judge me. There was no one to know I had turned back. Hell, on the most basic level, there was no reason aside from sheer bloody-mindedness and that @#$%ing Congo Bar to believe that setting my feet on this particular trail in the first place required me to follow it to the end. It would have been easy to turn around.

Now I’m not the most spiritual person in the world. Frankly, I’m too arrogant and stubborn to want to rely on any outside person or agency to help me. While I admire them in others, grace, humility, and patience are pretty low down on my personal roster of salutary characteristics.

But as I stood somewhere between the bottom of that trail and the top taking a pull from my water bottle, I experienced a moment of that I can only (reluctantly) call insight. Steep as the trail had been, and steep as it looked ahead of me, I was fairly certain there was more of it behind than there was left to climb. I was almost there, but did I want to get there?

As I put the cap back on the bottle and tried to decide which way I would go next, a clear thought popped into my head: the person I have been would turn back. The person I want to be would get to the top. Put that way, it was a pretty simple choice. Put that way, getting to the top of the trail had nothing to do with the @#$%ing Congo Bar, and everything to do with how I want to be in the world.

I don’t know; maybe I’m just using a not terribly nuanced thought to ennoble bloody-mindedness. Maybe struggling this much over a decidedly arbitrary and meaningless goal is a waste of time. Maybe I need to settle the heck down about the whole @#$%ing Congo Bar thing. I’m really not sure.

What I do know is I made it to the top of the trail, and a little farther on beyond that to boot. Arbitrary and stubborn it may have been, but I’m confident it also felt a hell of a lot better to push through the difficulty than it would have to give up and turn around.

Oh, yeah, and Hopkins Forest is a beatiful place to hike, even if you aren’t feeling especially penitent. The Birch Brook Trail climbs through some really nice — if really @#$%in’ steep — terrain on its way to hooking up with the Taconic Crest Trail. The Lower and Upper Loop trails comprise a nice figure eight of rolling pathways with a few nice inclines to keep the whole thing interesting.

*”up a goddamned mountain” copyright Warren Ellis and DC Comics.

**Mr. Lagasse refers to them simply as “bar cookies.” The recipe is fairly simple, and presented here in a way that hopefully conveys the basics of an extremely basic recipe without violating Mr. Lagasse’s copyright.

So what you do is you make yourself enough of a graham cracker crust to cover the bottom and sides of a large-ish baking sheet.

Then you dump whatever from the baking aisle suits your fancy over the crust; I’m talking here about a package each of your favorite chips (chocolate, peanut butter, butterscotch, etc. — two packages in all), a package of whatever nuts you happen to like, and a mess of shredded coconut (if that appeals to you; if not, then, regrettably, you’re just not my kind of people; I mean, I’m sure you’re good people, and I wouldn’t necessarily shun you or anything, but, yeah, I don’t know, man. I’m sure there are things about me that elicit the same reponse. I abhor mayonnaise [and, really, the whole pantheon of emulsified -aise sauces, including Bernaise and Hollandaise] for example.), and then drown the whole schmear in a couple cans of sweetended condensed milk. Then bake for a while until the ingredients get browned and crusty and bubble and delicious. Cool and cut into whatever dimensions seem prudent.

B. Mod’s iPod: Morning Walk Shuffle

Moxy Früvous, “My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors”
Pogues, “A Rainy Night in Soho”
Warren Zevon, “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner” (live version)
Frank Sinatra, “The Tea Break” (spoken)
Ani DiFranco, “Superhero”
Jody Watley, “After You Who”
Tom Waits, “Big in Japan”
Paul Williams, (Muppet Movie Soundtrack), “Animal…Come Back Animal”
Booker T. and the MGs, “Green Onions”
Bee Gees, “Night Fever”
Aquabats, “Cat With 2 Heads”
Great Big Sea, “Fast as I Can”
Clem Snide, “The Ballad of David Icke”
The Simpsons, “Happy Birthday Lisa”
Weird Al Yankovic, “Dare to Be Stupid”
k.d. lang, “So in Love”
Jim’s Big Ego, “Boston Band”
Weird Al Yankovic, “I Want a New Duck”
Weird Al Yankovic, “Eat It”
Grateful Dead, “Friend of the Devil”
Elvis Costello, “Beyond Belief”
Rufus Thomas, “The Dog”
Robert Johnson, “Milkcow’s Calf Blues”
Iggy Pop, “Repo Man”
Elvis Presly, “Jailhouse Rock”
Elvis Costello and the Brodsky Quartet, “Damnation’s Cellar”
Barenaked Ladies, “Am I the Only One?”
They Might Be Giants, “She’s Actual Size” (live version)
Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, “Can’t We Be Friends”
They Might Be Giants, “Out of Jail”
Tom Waits, “Home I’ll Never Be”
Jim’s Big Ego, “She Turns Me On”
Lyle Lovett, “Church”
Bee Gees, “Alone”
The Mad Lads, “Don’t Have to Shop Around”
Warren Zevon, “The Envoy”
Katia Ricciarelli (Puccini, La Boheme), “Chi E La?”
Weird Al Yankovic, “Good Enough for Now”
Weird Al Yankovic, “The Alternative Polka”
Thomas Dolby, “Hyperactive!”
Angela Gheorghiu (Puccini, La Boheme), “Si, Mi Chiamano Mimi”
Weird Al Yankovic, “My Bologna”
Talking Heads, “Popsicle”
Indigo Girls, “Joking”

Don’t get me wrong; I love Weird Al, but he came up on the shuffle a few too many times this morning.

And another thing… (WALL•E redux)

I’m really impressed that when the makers of WALL•E selected a Louis Armstrong song for the film’s soundtrack, they looked past the obligatory and overused (but thematically appropriate) “What a Wonderful World” and went with “La Vie en Rose.” It’s a little thing, but it’s the difference between the easy decision and the decision that requires thought and effort. I appreciate that extra little bit of attention to detail.

WALL•E (2008)

WALL•E is…

A Charlie Chaplin/Little Tramp movie, but, with, you know, robots;

A not terribly subtle social commentary that nevertheless gets its point across without heavy-handedness;*

kind of reminiscent of Silent Running, if Silent Running hadn’t been so relentlessy pessimistic;

proof that Fred Willard is the cinematic equivalent of nutmeg: too much can be overbearing, but just the right amount can really brighten things up;

a great love story, with, you know, robots.

*However, since part of the commentary revolves around the fact that the human race had to leave Earth after filling up the planet with all their consumer stuff, I kind of question the practice at the theater where I saw the film of giving a WALL•E watch to the kids who attended the screening.

The Omnivore’s Dilemma, by Michael Pollan

For something so basic and necessary, it is easy to take food for granted. Doing so enables many of us to ignore the chain of social, economic, petrochemical, pharmacological and loose regulatory causality that goes into putting a meal on our plate. For example, the meat most of us eat is the end product of an industrial food chain driven not so much by our collective hunger for burgers and chicken as it is by the mountainous — and ever growing — surplus of corn. Similarly, while the term “organic” conjures up comforting thoughts of healthful food grown in pastoral settings, the reality of the industrial organic business model in place today benefits from regulations that define organic food in the broadest possible terms while charging a premium for them in the marketplace.

In The Ominvore’s Dilemma, Michael Pollan tracks his way through four food chains to see where our food comes from, and to identify the true costs and tradeoffs that come of eating in different ways. He explores the complicated, corn- and petroleum-based food economy, culminating in a McDonald’s meal. He investigates the organic food movement, and discovers that the process by which organic chicken and baby greens get to boutique markets require similar economies of scale and comparable tradeoffs to the industrial food mainstream. He spends time working on a farm that produces its food in as close a harmony with natural systems as something as interventionist as agriculture allows. Finally, he learns to hunt and forage, and cooks a meal gathered entirely by the effort of his own hands.

Ultimately, few of us are in a position to feed ourselves and our families as pure hunter-gatherers. Even if we were, the reality is that there is not enough forage out there to feed a nation of scavengers. While the book presents the facts and implications of each of the different food systems Mr. Pollan explores, the lesson of The Ominvore’s Dilemma has more to do with mindfulness — of knowing what you are eating, where it came from, and the benefits, costs, and tradeoffs inherent in that food system — than with changing readers’ ways of thinking or acting.

I’m not sure I wouldn’t be happier not thinking about where my chicken came from, or the evolutionary tinkering that goes into feeding ruminant cattle a corn-intensive diet in order to fatten them up in order to yield more burgers per animal, or even about the reality that undelies the pastoral image on the box of my supposedly organic cereal. I suspect that from this point on, I will have a much more difficult time being casually ignorant; ignoring these realities will now require an act of will.