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.

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.

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.

I don’t receive many comments to the Bowleg, and I’m rather draconian in my moderation of those few comments that come my way. I can’t imagine censoring comments that disagree with me, so long as such comments are interesting, challenging, or creative in their challenge to my point of view. As I see it, disagreements implies that a reader not only read what I wrote, but was sufficiently affected by it to express an opinion. That’s all to the good.

Disagreements that bore me, on the other hand, aren’t worth my time or attention.

In realty, such disagreements as arise are few and far between. Most comments that I receive and subsequently delete fall into two categories: obvious spam and advertising/self promotion. I don’t have ads on the Bowleg, and I don’t see a need to let someone else use my soapbox to sell their soap.

Earlier this week, I received a comment from the author of a recently-released novel inquiring whether I ever did book reviews for local authors (presumably on the basis of the fact I occasionaly write about Berkshire County). My first impulse was to consider this gentleman’s query more soapselling and delete it out of hand. On reflection, though, I decided his comment deserved more of a considered response.

Having pondered the matter, I’m disinclined to review this book for several reasons:

1) I write about books, not very well. I write about food, not very well. I write about movies, and comics, and current events, and art, and museums, and life in the Berkshires, not very well. As you can see, while the subject matter of my writing tends to vary, there is a common theme that ties it all together: it’s not very good.

For an author, it’s hard enough to actively promote your own work without having to also do damage control because some pinhead with a blog completely missed the point of what you were trying to accomplish with your work.

2) While I have written reviews in the past, I don’t consider the things I currently write, which are primarily for my own edification, to be reviews. They’re observations, opinions, and digressions, with limited critical benefit. By and large, I try to capture a quick impression of the books I happen to read, without much effort or thought put into coherent analysis.

Again, I feel it would be a disservice to this author to subject his work to my usual half-assed and slapdash criticism. Besides, a review written at the direction of the author is fraught with pitfalls. Write a glowing review, and I’ll seem like a shill. Write a negative review, and I’m picking on someone who never did me any harm. Write a balanced review, and I’m too chicken%$#@ to commit to an opinion. Any way you slice it, it doesn’t end well for me.

3) When I have written reviews in the past, they have come about in one of two ways; either an editor has assigned me a particular book to review, or the editor has provided a list of advance reader copies or new releases they happen to have on hand, and asked their reviewers to claim treasure from the trove. Without an editor, my book selection is based largely on whim and word of mouth. While this author’s communication arguably qualifies as word of mouth, we’re back to the whole question of soapselling.

4) Bart Modern is demonstrably not an opinion maker. On its best day, the Bowleg received 63 hits. As of this morning, it has received just over 3,650 hits over the course of almost 18 months. Contrast this with a popular blog like John Scalzi’s Whatever. In May of this year, Mr. Scalzi received just shy of one million hits to the Whatever (999,808 to be scrupulously exact). That’s an average of over 32,000 hits per day, over 1,300 hits per hour on average. To put it another way, John Scalzi attracts more visitors in three hours than the Bowleg has received in its entire life to date.

This is not to suggest that this author should necessarily run straight to the Whatever to promote himself and his work, merely that anyone in his position should focus their effort on maximizing the ripple effect by making sure they throw their stone into the right pond. There are only so many hours in a day, and limited opportunities to reach a potential audience. The puddle maintained by a guy who gets a handful of hits a day is to shallow to produce meaningful ripples.

Still, I admire this gentleman’s tenacity. He wrote a book, and that counts for something in my book. He obviously believes in his work, and is putting in the effort to get it in front of as many people as he can through as many channels as he can. I don’t think I’m the best person to help him do it, but I also believe his effort deserves some acknowledgement.

So, Bowleggers, at the risk of selling some soap, here’s the deal: there’s this guy name of Peter Clenott who wrote a book called Hunting the King. Make of this information what you will.

I’ve been a fan of Mr. Coben’s books since friends of mine who used to own a bookstore recommended his first Myron Bolitar novel, Deal Breaker, to me. I generally enjoy both the Bolitar series and Mr. Coben’s other, largely standalone, thrillers. Like people who complain that they like Woody Allen’s funnier movies best, I have a slight preference for some of Mr. Coben’s earlier works, which are lighter in tone and substance than his more recent fare, but even his darker stories are engaging (if that sort of thing appeals to you).

[Digression: I can't prove it, but I suspect the influence of all the procedural shows on television raises -- or possibly lowers, depending on your point of view -- the bar for thrillers. Part of crafting effective procedurals week after week is coming up with new mysteries to unravel, or finding a new angle on the old mysteries that make them fresh enough to keep the audience coming back week after week. One of the ways to twist the mystery is to make it more shocking, and to plumb the depths of human depradation and inhuman morality. As this has become the norm on television, it seems it has pushed print authors in the same direction.]

Mr. Coben’s latest thriller continues his strong track record. At the same time, I take slight exception with the book. Mr. Coben is an alumnus of Amherst College, although I try not to hold that against him when I read his work, much as I can appreciate the achievement of Mark Helprin’s A Winter’s Tale despite Mr. Helprin having written speeches for Senator Bob Dole during the 1996 presidential campaign.

However, as a resident of Berkshire County, and as someone who has a theoretical rooting interest in certain of this region’s institutions, I take slight exception to the sociopath/villain/narrative instigator of Hold Tight being an alumnus of Williams College. It’s not so much the sociopathy that bothers me as much as the cut-rate, cartoonish nature of it.

Richly visual and intimately understood, graphic novels — with their anti-heroes, narrative appeal, and storylines sometimes off-limits in other modes of expression — may be prepared to usurp the role that novels currently play.

I call bull%$#@.

Didactics are an important component of the museum experience. Good wall text provides museum visitors with background, context, and history. It illustrates something about the relevance of a particular artist or work in their medium or relative to their position in the history of art. It also explains how a given artist or work reinforces the theme of they exhibition in which they appear.

But oh my; didactics also become a channel for curatorial excess, overreaching, and pretension. Case in point: the above text from one of the introductory didactic panels included in the Lit Graphic: The World of the Graphic Novel exhibition currently on display at the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Massachusetts.

Comics (or “sequential art” if you prefer) are (or is it “comics is?”) a wonderful storytelling medium. The form is dynamic, flexible, and capable of rendering everything from the birth of an idea to the death of a god, and all stops in between.

But “storylines sometimes off-limits in other modes of expression?” What the heck does that mean? The melding of word and image creates a singular vehicle for exploring all manner of stories, but comics are no more boundary-breaking than any other medium. The closest comparison to comics is film, which is also about presenting visual ideas sequentially. But as with any comparison between print and film, there is a level on which reading is always the more active process, watching the more passive. Regardless of how the information gets into our brain, however, the fact is that neither comics or film (or poetry, or painting, or sculpture, or any other creative endeavor) is constrained by storylines.

Anti-heroes? Narrative appeal? Is there a form of storytelling that can’t include anti-heroes? I’m hard-pressed to think of one, and that’s a good thing. Anti-heroes are usually more interesting than heroes. Is there some sort of narrative that isn’t, or at least can’t be, appealing? That’s a qualitative issue, and not one related to the inherent nature of comics, or any other narrative medium. Some stories are appealing. Some stories aren’t. Good storytellers can take the most mundane story and make out of it something that makes the audience reevaluate the very nature of the world around them. Bad storytellers can take great ideas, strip them of all originality and vitality, and regurgitate them in a way that makes the audience feel debased and insulted.

A mode of expression is a box. Whether that box contains diamonds or dog%$#@ says something about the skill of the creator, not about the structural limits of the box.

And usurping the novel? What the actual hell? Again, any comparison that assumes an absolute scale of comparison between two narrative forms is misguided at best. If cinema has not entirely usurped the novel, comics won’t be the ones to knock the novel off its perch either.

Grandiose and unsupportable claims notwithstanding, there is a lot to like in this exhibit. There was also much that I found either flawed or frustrating.

The gallery featuring pages from Harvey Kurtzman and Will Eisner was simply amazing. Looking at these selections, there is no doubt why two of the biggest awards in the comics field are named after these creators. The Will Eisner Spirit story on display in the gallery is a revelation; The Spirit barely appears in the story but his absence creates the suspense that drives the story.

Then, the scale of many of the pieces on display was impressive. As a comics reader, I’m used to seeing art on the typical comic book sized page, or smaller. Many of the pieces in Lit Graphic were original art, rendered on illustration paper. When published, the camera-ready art is reduced to the appropriate size. As with any reproduction, the process eliminates some of the texture and detail of the drawn work. Seeing it as the artist intended showed off the skill, and the effort, and made these works all the more impressive.

Case in point, the selections from Dave Sim and Gerhard’s Cerebus. In particular, the cover illustration from the collected Church and State I is phenomenal when seen in a larger scale.

As anyone who has read Cerebus knows, Gerhard’s backgrounds are terrifically detailed, with intricate cross-hatching and meticulous shading, while Mr. Sim’s characters are designed down to the last wart and unfortunate hairdo. The reduced image on the “phone book” collection of the story simply can’t do justice to the amount of effort it takes to produce a piece like this, or the level of detail it contains.

Indeed, this may be the most meaningful contribution exhibitions like Lit Graphic make to the comics field. It’s not that showing comics in museums legitimizes this art form and allows people to play the “Comics aren’t just for kids!” card. Rather, these showings demonstrate that comics are (comics is?) art. Comics don’t need to be legitimized, they merely need to be seen from a different point of view. By displaying these works at the scale at which they were created, by showing every pen line and brush stroke, Lit Graphic demonstrates beyond any doubt the artistry of comic book art.

For me, this great strength was also part of Lit Graphic’s greatest weakness. While the artistry of the creators exhibited is diverse, taken in the aggregate the show feels like overkill. Howard Cruse and Jessica Abel, to pick two names from the exhibition group, are both wonderfully talented, incredibly engaging storytellers with unique artistic styles. Put them side by side (or in the case of Lit Graphic, in the same gallery) and the work of each creator remains distinctive and recognizable. Put them in a gallery with other (and in some cases, lesser) artists whose work encompasses slice of life narratives and the unique style of each artist begins to give way to a certain sameness of convention and form. Taken collectively as representative examples from larger works, these individual panels and sequences become, if not repetitive, then at least somewhat familiar. The similarities start to overshadow the differences in a way that does not happen with a collection of, say, portraits.

But no exhibition is perfect, especially those organized around a particular theme. Large group shows invariably include things that will resonate with some individuals, and leave others unimpressed. What I like may not appeal to everyone. What someone else likes, I may loathe. That’s part of the museum going experience. So long as the these works revolve around a curatorial idea that has the gravitational pull to hold the pieces together, the exhibition can work, regardless of the subjective preferences of any given visitor.

By presenting comic book art as art first and comics second, Lit Graphic does a great service to this unique and important art form. It is both interesting and appropriate for the Norman Rockwell museum to present an exhibition like this. Mr. Rockwell’s career and reputation embody the often dismissive tension between the respect afforded to the artist by the elite, and their dismissal of art with commercial appeal as mere illustration. Just as the museum (rightly) insits on Mr. Rockwell’s artistic legitimacy, so too Lit Graphic helps to legitimize comics.

That’s achievement enough without attempting to stake out exclusive narrative territory for comics alone.

Lit Graphic is on display at the Norman Rockwell Museum (9 Glendale Road, Route 183 Stockbridge, Massachusetts 01262; 413-298-4100 ) through May 26, 2008.

If healthy eating is a habit to be cultivated, then the corollary is that sometimes you have to throw broccoli and self-discipline to the wind and make a pilgrimage to the local dairy bar.

On a warm spring afternoon, there aren’t many things better than sitting at a picnic table amid good company, waiting for your order number — your first of the season — to be called over the PA system. Pay for your order and grab your tray. Quick detour to the condiment bar to load up on specimen cups of ketchup and mustard, each one too small to satisfy the dipping needs of even the dantiest and most fastidious diner, but you always end up getting too many. Back to the table. Pass around the food. Grab a couple of onion rings from the communal order in the middle of the table. Eat. Talk. Laugh. People watch; families, high school kids, seniors, a business type in shirtsleeves walking up to the counter for a decidedly non-business lunch.

You’ve definitely had — and made — a better burger, but context matters. Sunny day, picnic table, not a care in the world except whether or not to go back and order a chocolate frost.

A week of unseasonably nice weather (for a few days, Mother Nature leapfrogged over spring to give us a little taste of summer) turned this young man’s fancy to thoughts of…grilling. After a thorough — I’m still trying to get the last of the gunk out from under my nails — cleaning earlier in the week, I’ve celebrated the end of a long winter with a few nice grill-centric meals.

Grilling lines up nicely with the healthier eating kick we’re on here at the Modern family compound. As gas prices and food prices continue to rise, we’re making a real effort both to stretch our food dollar as much as we can and to devote the greatest possible percentage of every food dollar to the purchase of, you know, food. This makes trips to the market something of a balancing act. Real food, particularly things like produce, tend to be more expensive than the packaged, processed, partially hydrogenated, high-fructosized. You get more fruit roll-ups for your grocery dollar than you can real fruit.

Okay, so none of this is a revelation. I’ve known for a long time the difference between a real strawberry (or apple, or peach) and a machine-extruded strip of strawberryish plasticine. I know which one is better. I know which one is cheaper. So what’s the point, here?

At present, mindfulness is the point. At present, we’re thinking a lot more about our food when we buy it, and when we consume it.

I’ve always been a by the list grocery shopper. Obsessive-compulsively so at times. I’m not immune to the occasional impulse purchase or good deal, but by and large I have a plan and I stick to it. Improvisational grocery shopping doesn’t work for me; it’s too easy to go over budget, and even easier to load up on things that are not remotely necessary. Lately, in addition to making lists based on what we need, I’m also becoming a circular shopper.

For a long time now, I’ve shopped at one particular store. Not out of any tremendous sense of loyalty, but because they usually offer slightly better specials, which makes them the cost-effective option. Now that I’m shopping mindfully, which has had the added effect of further simplifying an already straightforward list, I’m comparison shopping among markets a lot more. With a pared down list, the value proposition of one store over another on any particular week becomes much easier to determine. I suppose if I were truly dedicated, I would make two or more lists, and break up my shopping trip to maximize value, but I’m not there yet. The gas price and time value costs of multiple shopping excursions outweigh any marginal savings, at least for the time being.

Like the markets themselves, the circulars offer a lot of deals on things I don’t need, heavily discounted in the hope of convinving me that maybe I do need them after all. So, while my actual frozen pizza (or processed cheese single, or store brand ketchup) need is zero, I have to consider whether loading up on ten frozen pizzas for ten bucks might not be such a bad idea. Fortunately, I’m sufficiently cynical that that line of thought usually culminates in the realization that convincing people that buying a whole lot of something they don’t need is a “savings” is part of the reason our economy and our collective values are so screwed up.

So it’s grilling season, and I can get a good deal on a rainbow assortment of grilling sauces and marinades featuring our good friend high-fructose corn syrup, and its hench-additives, the nefarious twins artificial and natural flavor.

Here’s my thing: given a reasonably well-stocked pantry, who needs prepackaged sauces? How hard is it to mix soy sauce and ginger to make a soy-ginger marinade? Absent a smoker to give you the tang of mesquite, why not just add a couple drops of liquid smoke to some chili and lime juice? Sure, chipotles in adobo aren’t a staple in some households, but a choice between a chemical slurry of faux chipotle and mesquite flavor and picking up a can of chilis is really no choice at all. Lemon-pepper? Herb and garlic? Make them at home. They’ll taste better, and you’ll have more control over what goes onto your food.

I speak from guilty experience when I say the main reason people opt for prepackaged sauces is time and convenience. Open the bottle, glug a portion over your food, mix it up to evenly distribute the marinade, and let it sit. Elapsed time, maybe 30 seconds. Simplicity itself.

Know what else is simple? Take a clove or two of garlic, and chop it finely. Transfer to a small bowl. Give it a few shakes of oregano and basil (or toss in a chiffonade of fresh herbs if you have them on hand). Add a couple of tablespoons of olive oil, half again as much lemon juice, and a dollop each of mustard and honey. Whisk to emulsify. Pour over a boneless pork tenderloin and distribute evenly over the meat. Elapsed time, maybe three minutes, four if you take a minute to rinse out the bowl and clean your knife and cutting board. The result, however, is at least six times better than the prepackaged option:

Preheat your grill to medium-high heat. Remove the tenderloin from the marinade, and wipe off any excess. Sear the tenderloin on all sides, then grill covered for 20-25 minutes, turning periodically. Let the meat rest for five minutes before slicing. Accompaniments at the cook’s discretion (grilled tortilla and a cucumber salad go very well with this meal).

At the risk of once again laying siege to the unenviable blogging niche of MASS MoCA apologist and New York magazine scold, I’ll note the magazine once again gives short shrift (whether intentionally or carelessly, I hesitate to speculate) to the museum.

The April 7, 2008, issue of New York magazine featured a profile of photographer Gregory Crewdson by Amy Larocca. In her piece, Ms. Larocca wrote,

Crewdson produces large-scale, elaborately constructed photographs taken in and around the town of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, where the Crewdson family has forever had a small log cabin in the woods.

She went on to note,

Crewdson’s method of photography is highly unusual; he has not taken a picture all by himself for the last ten years, save the occasional snapshot of his kids. He works with a crew of about 40: lighting, set, production designers, and even a director of photography.

Interestingly enough, it turns out there is a large contemporary art facility in the vacinity of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, that has hosted Mr. Crewdson and his crew in the past.

As always, let’s remember that correlation does not equal causation. The fact that New York magazine failed to acknowledge MASS MoCA’s positive contributions (such as supporting Mr. Crewdson’s work, or being the first site to exhibit Cai Guo Qiang’s Inopportune) while commenting critically on its challenges (as with its one-sided and rather judgmental coverage of l’affair Büchel) does not indicate a conspiracy on the part of the magazine against the museum. On the other hand, we all have our biases. While mine run in favor of scrappy museums in rural New England, it’s not surprising that New York magazine has a vested interest in preserving New York as the center of the art universe, and indeed of projecting and championing the image of New York as the center of every conceivable universe.

Where I have a problem — not just in the case of New York magazine, but in every corner where this lamentable facet of the human condition rears its ugly head — is with the notion that one person or organization’s success somehow threatens someone else’s identity. Is New York, the city, the magazine, or the concept, really lessened if something wonderful didn’t originate there? Are the museums, galleries, and theatres of the city truly diminished just because some museum, gallery, or theatre might get there first from time to time?

Random observations while watching a film classic: