tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-153773592024-03-13T04:44:50.410-07:00purified thinking watermore delicious than spam & better for you: kennedy's notes on food, books, film, life, death, beasts, and the heft of this half-full glassElizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comBlogger346125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-3386558433168892172010-08-13T08:13:00.000-07:002010-08-13T11:53:48.222-07:00sing it, ted olsonAnd you thought Fox News lacked quality programming:<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/EJwSprkiInE?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/EJwSprkiInE?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-31557269607851367602010-07-14T07:14:00.000-07:002010-07-14T10:46:26.186-07:00yours trulyPerhaps this has been covered elsewhere. Perhaps it's of little interest to anyone but that diminishing fraction of us who study words for a living. But the way a comrade signs her emails tells me a lot about the person, likely a lot that I'm just inventing and nothing about her real intent, but still.<br /><br />First, "cheers." How did this catch on? We're not in a bar. Nor are we in Britain. I just sent you the sales sheet for the spring 2010 publishing season. Is that something to toast? I daresay nay.<br /><br />Then there's "best." Not best wishes, not best regards. Just "best." This nearly always comes from someone with an MBA or on their way to acquiring one. I need not share further thoughts of mine on that sign-off then.<br /><br />"Regards." What I like about this, as has recently been pointed out to me, is that in responding to someone who has repeatedly failed or blown off deadlines, your use of the clean, cold "regards" is tantamount to one big eff you. This is truth. Observe in your own irritated exchanges of the future.<br /><br />All the rest work for me. I stole one from one of my fave folks on the planet, Askold Melnyczuk, who used to sign his letters to me with "all good wishes." I liked it so much, along with the energy it carried, that I just thieved it. <br /><br />So if nothing else, this serves as notice. I plagiarize. We all do.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br />ElizabethElizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-57034566714064323452010-06-16T06:16:00.000-07:002010-06-16T09:50:44.744-07:00inseparableSome days the ethics of being a literary critic, while unambiguous, still pinch. Say your allegiances lie squarely within the gay community. You actively advocate for and advance arts of, by, for the LGBTQ community. You're assigned to review the nonfiction work of Emma Donoghue, best known as a fiction writer who not only happens to be a lesbian, but who locates queer identities centrally in much of her work. <br /><br />You feel confident this will be a sympathetic review because you've enjoyed much of her fiction, even associate one of her short stories ('The Dormition of the Virgin'), "the diary of a nerdish English student on a mini-break pilgrimage to Florence," with an all-time high of personal contentment, the recollection still sweet of lolling around a Roman piazza as the sun set, reading her well-turned little tale as the crowd cleared out. You needed absolutely nothing more from life at that moment.<br /><br />Given all that, a review would be just fine, a hoot. You sign on. You're pleased. That is, until you read the book. <span style="font-style:italic;">Inseparable</span> is lacking and you are obliged to say so. <a href="http://articles.sfgate.com/2010-06-06/books/21658625_1_lesbians-women-loving-women-literature">This review,</a> because it's critical, was hard to write. Still, I'm pleased to suggest that I may be the minority opinion. So don't just take my word for it. <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/30/books/review/Harrison-t.html">Read</a> Kathryn Harrison on the matter as well. Even better, read for yourself and decide.Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-69979614530287643892010-06-04T06:04:00.000-07:002010-06-04T13:12:57.367-07:00operation walk the dog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2lX_EvN3A78/TAlbjTE_tGI/AAAAAAAABdc/fozcM2bq3g0/s1600/stella_12.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2lX_EvN3A78/TAlbjTE_tGI/AAAAAAAABdc/fozcM2bq3g0/s320/stella_12.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479011083647693922" /></a>This may not sound at the outset like it has anything to do with dog walking, but it does. The rampant jeering at BP leads me to the obvious conclusion that we're monstrous for distancing ourselves from the oil companies. It's a breathtaking disconnect. Gentle reader, how many miles did you drive today? And how many of those miles could you have ridden your bike, taken public transit, or walked? For me, I'd estimate my week clocked in at well over 100 miles, with all last weekend's zipping around. <br /><br />I've got a great bike. And the sole reason, as it has been for years, that I drive to work is so I can travel the six miles back home to walk my dog Stella at lunch without taking forty minutes by bike each way to do it. So. Does my budget stretch for a dog walker comfortably? Not without some changes. But I'm putting out the call anyway. I don't want to sit around lamenting the evil empire of BP while their fuel pump is snug in my tank.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FjlbmYx4HdQ&feature=player_embedded"><br />Natural Resources Defense Council</a><br /><br />[Photo credit: Kira Stackhouse]Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-37105371953646793302010-06-03T18:03:00.000-07:002010-06-04T13:10:37.098-07:00nose work<a href="http://badrap-blog.blogspot.com/2010/06/right-on-nose_03.html">Fun stuff.</a>Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-12584611866730645682010-05-24T05:24:00.000-07:002010-05-24T12:44:07.281-07:00octopus dress!1. Maude would approve.<br />2. How did this not go to Tilda first?<br />3. I want one. Or more.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2lX_EvN3A78/S_rWz6TGC9I/AAAAAAAABc4/LNjq9VxM_GA/s1600/octopus+dress!.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_2lX_EvN3A78/S_rWz6TGC9I/AAAAAAAABc4/LNjq9VxM_GA/s400/octopus+dress!.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474924484333276114" /></a><br /><br />That is all.Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-50802932904661697422010-05-19T05:19:00.000-07:002010-05-19T11:38:49.766-07:00the mad maudlinWe let Maude Madeleine go; she was seventeen years old. This sweet little feline was given three month to live in August of 2007, but she defiantly lived a healthy, bossy, private life until May 18, 2o10.<br /><br />I didn't write much about her because she was the opposite of Stella in just about every way--she was brave and quiet, subtle, graceful, moody. She meowed me awake every morning, didn't want much to do with folks outside her very small tribe, and patiently acclimated each time I relocated us, all told probably around ten times. I miss her desperately.<br /><br />She'll likely be one of those active spirits. So send your wishes her way.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2lX_EvN3A78/S_QKp1FfCWI/AAAAAAAABcs/oKG5oShlniw/s1600/maudling.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2lX_EvN3A78/S_QKp1FfCWI/AAAAAAAABcs/oKG5oShlniw/s400/maudling.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473011160902994274" border="0" /></a>Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-61922561240551320652010-05-11T05:11:00.000-07:002010-05-11T09:59:09.150-07:00stella's spring semester<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >We've been out having lotsa fun this year. Maybe we need an intern to blog for us. Well real quick, here's a peek into Stella's new superfavorite endeavor: nose</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >work class. The girl is CRAZY for it.<br /><br />For those unfamiliar, nosework is a kind of professional hunting for dogs. It takes advantage of a dog's excellent sense of smell and natural desire to hunt. F<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>or those who have dogs that like to stalk and hunt, this is a hell of a way to channel their energ</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >y. In this video, we've hidden treats in one of the object out on the floor and each dog is instructed </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">to "find it." Have a look.</span><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyVtBwGuC_f1UUqnJ3y8zr2wCsYfYUpnPnRSNAhZWL4Ba8Gqy4dinRyZdtGbvlOIMkPRNfmwxkXYd4' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">In the video above, you can actually see Stella catch the scent pretty early at 0:39, right before she passes by the little portable dog kennel for the first time. Then it becomes more obvious she's caught something as she starts to circle around, ruling out areas and closing in on the treats in the fruit basket.</span><br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy4bXqJADLqYy9oeV2zdav4M5KDR2wrSLlDoHMSzIc62hNP7JuZigWMkisCH5Y2fykfqqF6HdnRwA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Take note in this video of the orange cone turned on its side. That's where the treats are hidden this time. When Stella goes past it, you can see her lift her head and then drop her nose right to the ground at 0:24. She then follows the scent like it's a thread right to the cone. She's caught the scent and just followed it. Neat stuff, no?</span>Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-10022167458654850852010-03-19T15:19:00.000-07:002010-03-25T13:17:52.362-07:00basic civil rightsAfter reading <span style="font-style:italic;">From Disgust to Humanity: Sexual Orientation and Constitutional Law</span> by Martha Nussbaum, I simply cannot imagine how anyone could get married while so many Americans are denied that same right.<br /><br />Here's my <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2010/03/19/RVK51CG7JK.DTL">full review.</a>Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-2027844846531143652010-03-17T15:17:00.000-07:002010-03-18T11:56:17.187-07:00migration nationFinally making the move over to Wordpress. (Slow and steady wins the race.) <br /><br />More soon and happy St. Patrick's Day!Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-23975086565657798722010-02-02T14:02:00.000-08:002010-02-02T14:51:27.696-08:00hey, stella!Stella is making the rounds. Her mug is up on <a href="http://pitbullpatriarchy.blogspot.com/2010/01/readers-baby-stella.html">Pit Bull Patriarchy</a>. Ain't she purty?Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-76854632221820704772010-01-13T01:13:00.000-08:002010-01-13T16:07:50.598-08:00this vegan lifeTwo weeks into this vegan deal--some discouraging moments, along with breakthroughs to cooler stuff. <br /><br />1. The web remains, as we well know, a dangerous superhighway, pocked with noxious DIY potholes. A good many of the vegan recipe photos I have encountered thus far bear a striking resemblance to indistinct offal or, perhaps more accurately, cud. I pass.<br /><br />2. I miss honey. Eat some for me. Honey, as it turns out, happens to be on everything crunchy and delicious. See labels. Truth.<br /><br />3. Rip kale, drizzle with olive oil, salt, pepper, go at 350 degrees for a flash of minutes till just crispy. Jesus, so good. Just like potato chips, I swear.<br /><br />4. Vegans are magicians in the art of substitution. Not the silly "meats" so much as baking substitutions. Take eggs, for example. Depending on the recipe, you can use bananas, avocados, or applesauce in their place. Also all the synthetic soy and corn products, of course. I am, in fact, making Avocado Brownies tonight. Oh that's what I said.<br /><br />Anyway, it's not all roses for the beginner. It can be discouraging. Going out to dinner is a joke when you do not know your way around. My most significant encounter was at my local Thai place. I asked if the masaman curry was vegan and she said, "Yes, masaman chicken (pronounced cheeken) and ... ?" (Pause) No, no. Not exactly right.<br /><br />So most days I venture into establishments, I do feel like Felix Unger, alienated and underserved. But the upshot has been an intense increase in cook-at-home meals, not bad since I'm pretty good in the cocina. All told, it's a hard adjustment, so much to learn, but I feel good, cleaner, for the most part. It's a hard feeling to convey, much like the impact peppermint has right after you breath it in. That kind of thing. And I feel a lot less guilty for complicity in all sorts of things. That's worth a great deal. I've lost weight already. I'll have to watch that. I've been having especially lunatic dreams. Related? Perhaps. It's all becoming part of my routine and I'll just end up rambling about my dog and books and movies in no time at all.<br /><br />In the meantime, I have to go soak some nuts for a raw pizza. I kid you not.Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-28921413738720681462010-01-06T13:06:00.000-08:002010-01-06T20:05:16.062-08:00thai iced tea for nowI had Thai food after work and was jonesing for a Thai iced tea. It was a rocky road to that damn drink. I nearly broke the veganism only five days in. Turns out this is a landscape rich with mines. Non-dairy, apparently, doesn't mean non-dairy. Casein, essentially a cow's milk protein, is found in cheese, as might be expected, but also in non-dairy creamer and, incidentally, plastic. Awesome! <br /><br />So I backed off that, but most of you probably suspect that coconut milk has such a strong flavor it would interfere with the tea taste and the other milks would just be too thin. And you're right. The recipe below comes close enough for a beginner, but it's not the same as Thai iced tea. I see, though, that there are soy non-dairy creamers out there, so there are likely rice versions too. I'll have to look around and revisit this one. <br /><br />Ohh, and neat molecular gastronomy-ish stuff: I'm going to see about experimenting with Irish moss, carrageenan, and other thickening agents. I'm not so into cornstarch; I can taste it like I've stirred my drink with a tire iron. Not the taste I'm going for. Who knows, comrades. It's all an imperfect process. We'll see what we can unearth (other than mines and tire irons). <br /><br />Meanwhile, here's one for the passage of time:<br /><br />Thai Iced Tea, Sorta<br /><br />2 tsps. Thai tea blend (China Black tea and red tea leaf, plus "natural flavor")<br />1 c. boiling water<br />1 tsp. sugar<br />1 tsp. rice milk<br />1 tbsp. coconut milk<br /><br />Fill a glass with ice; using a ceramic one-cup coffee filter, run the hot water over the tea blend. Once that's brewed, add the sugar, stir, and add the milks.Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-21570114426120138742010-01-05T13:05:00.000-08:002010-01-06T13:00:43.058-08:00rosy cocoaFood's great, but the warm drinks are the order of the day.<br /><br />Rosy Cocoa<br /><br />2 tbsp. Dagoba Fair Trade Baking Cocoa<br />2 tbsp. light brown sugar<br />1 c. hazelnut milk<br />1 tsp. Magliano Organic Rose Syrup<br /><br />Whisk cocoa, sugar, and milk over medium-low heat in small saucepan. Once cocoa is dissolved and milk is letting off steam, add syrup. Get a book, find a blanket, call the dog over, and delight in it all.<br /><br />Hmm: This just in. I've been told that you can't actually raise any nut milks over the boiling point because they scald. I certainly didn't have any film on my cocoa and it tasted great. Okay, well whisker beware.Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-69360904278918176592010-01-04T01:04:00.000-08:002010-01-04T09:24:03.033-08:00cinnamon raisin teaIt's cold out! Not sure how I got on this drink kick, but here's a suitably cozy bevvie, original and interesting, from comrade <a href="http://theappreciationblog.blogspot.com">Karen</a>'s mother.<br /><br />Cinnamon Raisin Tea<br /><br />1 tbsp. ground cinnamon<br />5 cinnamon sticks<br />5 cardamom pods<br />1/2 c. raisins<br />1 c. prunes<br />6 qt. water<br />2 tbsps. brown sugar (add at the end to taste)<br /> <br />Add first five ingredients to the water in a large soup pot. Boil for fifteen minutes and then simmer for at least two hours. Strain and sip. Mmm.Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-63425822274092058792010-01-03T13:03:00.000-08:002010-01-04T12:24:24.279-08:00cold-pressed cardamom coffeeIt’s Sunday morning. I have my morning paper and that means the time for lattes is upon us. It’s come-to-Jesus time, my flockmates. Must. Have. Good. Coffee. What’s a die-hard Peetnik to do? Is this it? Will the whole vegan bag be hoisted into the Bay because I pitched a fit over an insufficient coffee option? I seriously worried—veganis interruptus was nigh. Since I have never been crazy about a cup of joe without milk, soy lattes or sugared-up chai seemed the best options. Bleak prospects, both, by way of substitution. (And don’t suggest carob to me, you communists.) I thought all hope may be lost. Then ah, sweet, punk-rock cherub of provision screeching up to the curb gifted me last night at the last possible moment with this cold-filtered concept.<br /><br />For the uninitiated, cold-filtered coffee—to my knowledge—is indistinguishable from the standard, classic French press treatment of the coffee, only more coarsely ground and left in cold water for twelve-plus hours (rather than steeped for five minutes in hot water). I swear to you: this is a delightful discovery, even for the omnivorous coffee ho. <br /><br />The brew is totally free of bitterness, not acidic at all, yet full of the robust flavor we fiends cannot do without. My sole warning for the coffee critic is that it lacks that roundness that comes from the oils released with hot-water steeping—it’s thinner. I was okay without that quality, but you may not be. And here’s the stunner: the way I made it, I didn’t actually want milk in it. Whoa.<br /><br />One other note: I use a thirty-two-ounce French press from Bodum. Peet’s recommends two-thirds of a cup of grounds for that. I am disinclined to add hair to my chest, hence my reversion to one-quarter cup. But hey, do your worst King Kong if two-thirds speaks to you. I won’t judge.<br /><br />Acid-free Paper<br /><br />1/4 c. coarsely ground Peet’s Fair Trade Blend coffee<br />32 oz. water<br />10 cardamom pods<br />1/2 vanilla bean<br /><br />Smash the cardamom so that each pod is cracked open. Split the vanilla bean lengthwise and scoop out the bits. Put it all in the press pot—grounds, water, cardamom, vanilla bean, scooped bits. I pressed it halfway down before bed, sort of arbitrarily, then pressed the rest in the morning. Poured a cup (I had it up and cold), read paper, saved myself for veganism. God bless. That was a close one.Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-16713622988059955292010-01-02T13:02:00.000-08:002010-01-04T12:24:54.690-08:00drinks with the vice squadLifestyle discovery of the hesitating vegan, exhibit A: plan ahead. A number of the better looking recipes found in the few vegan cookbooks I've gathered thus far call for long-term maneuvers—soaking, sprouting, fermenting, and the like. An unexpected ancillary effect is I find myself considering the whole package, the full meal deal, well in advance.<br /><br />That includes drinks. Being three years sober now, I have no less interest in beautiful drinks and pairing them than any other enthusiast. But my cocktails call for creativity. So this long-term thing may work out. The first drink I made was entirely my creation. It worked out well, I think. Good for tamarind freaks, an order to which I tithe with feeling. <br /><br />Dum Dum 2.0<br /><br />These drinks taste almost identical to the lollipops of yore. No joke.<br /><br />15 whole tamarinds<br />1 gal., plus 1 c., water<br />1/2 c. agave syrup<br />15 sprigs fresh lemon thyme<br /><br />Soak the tamarind in the gallon of water overnight. Bring the cup of water and the agave to boil in a small saucepan. Reduce heat immediately and add thyme. Simmer on low for ten minutes. Remove thyme sprigs and cool completely.<br /><br />Next morning, strain tamarind water with fine sieve or china cap, as well as the thyme agave syrup. I like a three to one ratio, water to syrup. Serve on the rocks and with a freak at the table, ifn ya like.Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-38801316969679375402010-01-01T13:01:00.000-08:002010-01-03T21:27:37.812-08:00the hesitating vegan<p class="MsoNormal">The majority of private emails I’ve received about my going vegan for 2010 have asked what in the world I—the sensualist omnivore who practically sleeps snuggled up to the Roquefort in the kitchen—am doing. I am improvising, that’s what. I have spent several inquisitive years badgering farmers and trying to monitor the quality of life for the animals I eat. I have, in my own assessment, for the most part failed, no matter how I have tried, so I’m venturing an experiment.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br />I am a solid amateur cook, a snob—a judgy, fussy, discerning, demanding girl who has long enjoyed access to a wide range of excellent product and deep gastronimical resources. I know what’s up. With a twelve-week course from Kitchen on Fire treading my soles, and more importantly, plenty of time with my boots on the ground at the range, I have just that mix of bravura and ignorance that makes a chef lusty, brave, and reckless. So if there were ever a time when I could give this a go without going full-tilt-boogie into culinary school enrollment, it's now. So I assure you: I have not changed. I still like meat, cheese, honey. I love the mouth-feel of cream in my coffee, the taste of chicken in my stock, the sight of a steak on the grill pan. But I am curious to see what a chef can do without all of that. Call it a conscious year-long Quickfire Challenge. (Longer, who knows, should my nutritional and culinary results prove out.)<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">These posts will be real when meals taste awful, but focused on pleasing and surprising. I will be going with all my heart for hits, not misses. No one should expect this to become the depot where we sing the song of tempeh soy-cheese scrambles. In fact, we take this truth to be self-evident: soy is the devil. It tastes bad, we can’t digest it, its producers are ravaging our primeval forests. But the soy devil will, alas, show up in these recipes here and there. I’ll just operate on the presumption that there's more to veganism than Tofu Pups and their attendant fleet of fake meat travesties, and that the better I get at this gig, the less I'll need to employ them.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I’ve got the here, I’ve got the now. So on we go, friends, launching our own minor variation on JFK’s theme from the <span style="font-family:serif;">’</span>60s. We do these things “not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others too.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">My favorite recipe of the weekend, for your fun, is this <a href="http://www.vegnews.com/web/articles/page.do?pageId=40&catId=10">macaroni and cheese</a>. It’s delicious. Honest to god, you can take the word of this cynical omnivore. Trust. I’d be the first to roll my eyes.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--> <!--[endif]--></p>Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-9996186762675833762009-12-16T00:16:00.000-08:002009-12-16T09:11:49.877-08:00let's ditch oingo boingo and make a movieYes, yes, a thousand times yes.<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Py4NQN2GIGI&rel=0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Py4NQN2GIGI&rel=0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />(EXCEPT: Is it so much to ask, Tim Burton, for you to perhaps offer us a soundtrack other than the same one Danny Elfman has written you since ding dang <span style="font-style: italic;">Pee-Wee's Big Adventure,</span> which was filmed in 1985? Really, you're being had. He burns the same music with a different film's name scrawled on the CD and somehow Jedi-mindtricks you into imagining it is a new arrangement. I don't understand. Lose him. Let's be changemakers, Tim. You and I together. Actually scratch that. You and I. And Helena. And Johnny. In fact, we don't really need you at all, come to think of it. Just send me those other two lovelies and the three of us will figure this all out on your behalf. We will make beautiful music together. Trust.)Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-24561018132445287982009-12-14T12:14:00.000-08:002009-12-14T16:23:40.469-08:00consider me the shadkhenbetween you and your dictionaryFrom the mailbag: "You write really well, except for the occasional use of big words that I have to look up."Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-44863834933681719792009-12-08T00:08:00.000-08:002009-12-08T12:37:42.339-08:00and that's the poetry of it<span style="font-style: italic;">I Dreamed I Met William Burroughs<br /></span><br />by Franz Wright<br /><br />I met William Burroughs in a dream.<br />It was some sort of bohemian farmhouse,<br />And he was enthroned, small and skeletal,<br />in a truly gigantic red armchair.<br /><br />When I asked him how he was, he replied<br />Well you know what they say—for best results,<br />always mock and frighten the lobster before boiling.<br />Franz—I like that name, Franz. Childe Franz<br /><br />To the dark tower something or other … Hey,<br />got a smoke? And quit worrying so much:<br />they can’t help themselves; they’re like abused dogs<br />and they’re going to react to affection and kindness<br /><br />with uncontrollable savagery. Just tell them,<br />You’re out of my mind, pal. You’re out<br />of my mind. Either that or, I’m out of yours.<br />That’ll keep them brain-chained to the trees.<br /><br />--<br /><br />Yeah, but sometimes it's the abused dogs that<br />act just like beloved, barely blinking kittens.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"> This I know.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2lX_EvN3A78/Sx62ox75JYI/AAAAAAAABYE/Weq8WRnonrE/s1600-h/baby+bird.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 239px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2lX_EvN3A78/Sx62ox75JYI/AAAAAAAABYE/Weq8WRnonrE/s400/baby+bird.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412964613861483906" border="0" /></a></div>Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-51836979720020404542009-12-07T12:07:00.000-08:002009-12-07T22:24:43.149-08:00erick zonca's julia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2lX_EvN3A78/Sx3Zbq73RiI/AAAAAAAABX0/MITNkMogJDQ/s1600-h/marry+me+tilda.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 69px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_2lX_EvN3A78/Sx3Zbq73RiI/AAAAAAAABX0/MITNkMogJDQ/s400/marry+me+tilda.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412721396574275106" /></a>Coming up on three years sober, I have often wished I could find more drunks on film that hold up as believable failures, all the more spectacularly disappointing because they have the substance to have made more, to have chosen better, to have interrupted the downward spiral somewhere along the way. <br /><br />Appreciating that (a) we're culturally prone to overtalking diagnosed illnesses and (b) that's the point of these morality tales, a collective there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I, it's surprising we have so little by way of compelling boozer archetypes. Well at last, we have a drinking disaster to watch who is not just a clowning caricature (think Arthur or Bluto) or a rotten miscreant (Bukowski, anyone?). <br /><br />Allora. Leave it to Tilda—brilliant, radiant Tilda—the versatile woman who has played Jadis here and Orlando there, to get a smart, defiant, pathetic, regressing alcoholic just right.<br /><br />I cannot recommend this one enough. (Props to the miniature John C. Reilly who played opposite her and the poor lil pit bull who got typecast as a slum drone.)Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-57847585619117855882009-12-03T00:03:00.000-08:002009-12-03T14:00:53.866-08:00do you think we're ready for that kind of commitment?If you are concerned about the definition of marriage, and by concerned I mean a thinking person earnestly trying to resolve yourself to an issue (not a simpleton whose mind is hermetically sealed infinitas infinitio), you owe it to yourself to watch this. Hear her out. All the way through.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/dCFFxidhcy0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/dCFFxidhcy0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-42620305748892571342009-12-02T00:02:00.000-08:002009-12-02T14:50:26.691-08:00go forth, a fonder way to say move on<span style="font-style:italic;">Beach Walk</span><br /><br />by Henri Cole<br /><br />I found a baby shark on the beach.<br />Seagulls had eaten his eyes. His throat was bleeding.<br />Lying on shell and sand, he looked smaller than he was.<br />The ocean had scraped his insides clean.<br />When I poked his stomach, darkness rose up in him,<br />like black water. Later, I saw a boy,<br />aroused and elated, beckoning from a dune.<br />Like me, he was alone. Something tumbled between us—<br />not quite emotion. I could see the pink<br />interior flesh of his eyes. "I got lost. Where am I?"<br />he asked, like a debt owed to death.<br />I was pressing my face to its spear-hafts.<br />We fall, we fell, we are falling. Nothing mitigates it.<br />The dark embryo bares its teeth and we move on.Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15377359.post-75931984813798898112009-11-29T23:29:00.000-08:002009-12-01T12:31:23.961-08:00we must march, my darlingsI have considered renouncing holidays, as their onset in my life has recently been eclipsed by death and dying. Per esempio: the eve of my birthday saw me lose my young father and the dawn of Thanksgiving was the first without my desperately beloved Nana here on terra firma. <br /><br />This last bright and blustery Saturday we buried her and I faltered before a church full of family and oldest friends, buckling at the lectern under protracted grief, too choked up to read my way through the first letter of John from the New Testament. My voice cracked and I involuntarily held my hand to my throat in that way people do when they're trying to pin wavering emotion in its place. I forced my way through it, the butterflies so loosely netted:<br /><br />See what love the Father has given us,<br />that we should be called children of God;<br />and that is what we are.<br />The reason the world does not know us<br />is that it did not know Him.<br />Beloved, we are God’s children now;<br />what we will be has not yet been revealed.<br />What we do know is this:<br />when He is revealed, we will be like Him,<br />for we will see Him as He is.<br />The Word of the Lord.<br /><br />A Buddhist back in my day-to-day Californian life, I'd delivered the "word of the lord" rather hastily and rushed back to the pew to collapse against my brother's arm, a mess of muffled sobs as the rest of the mass blurred by. After kneeling, standing, sitting, signing the cross and breathing the incense, after weeping at the gravesite and clinging to the coffin, eulogizing over candlelit dinners and embracing those befogged elders that still stood among us, I retired with my clan to our Nana's humble brick home for some time-tested Irish Catholic grog slingery.<br /><br />Late into the evening, my cousin (once removed) and I sat out in the dark on the covered porch, him the chain-smoker, me the weak-blooded Californian cloaked in wool throws, and we got to talking about the meaning of these rites, just what—aside from our heritage, the religion of our childhoods, the honor of our now lost elders—we were affirming there in that church. And we got to this exchange, when the priest and congregation conduct a call and refrain at the end of the mass of the faithful.<br /><br />May the Lord be with you. (Dominus vobiscum.)<br />And also with you. (Et cum spiritu tuo.—Actually that's "And with your spirit.")<br />Go now, the mass is ended. (Ite, Missa est.)<br />Thanks be to God. (Deo gratias.)<br /><br />Just having lost his own father two weeks back, cousin K seized on the priest's last words: "Ite, Missa est." There we have two clauses, the first in the imperative mood, second person plural: "You (all) go!" And roughed out, "Missa est" is equivalent to "The dismissal exists." A swish of scotch spilled over the lip of his Waterford lowball, his voice and gesture emphasized: I was not getting it! This is the news; <span style="font-style:italic;">THIS </span>is the word of God. We're being told at the deathbeds of these mentors, our illustrious, cherished members of the Great Generation, he insisted, "Go. You are dismissed! You are set forth. You are called upon to go and live."<br /><br />Back when my father died, a relatively new friend of mine advised that, however hard his death may have been on me then, that it was only the beginning of a lifetime of living without. I think now of Joan Didion, how she, like I have, suffered a one-two punch of abandonment. She wrote in <span style="font-style:italic;">The Magical Year of Thinking</span>, "That I was only beginning the process of mourning did not occur to me. Until now, I had only been able to grieve, not mourn. Grief was passive. Grief happened. Mourning, the act of dealing with grief, required attention.… Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death."<br /><br />In the past, my mood toward death was one of piteous sympathy, a distance and distaste not unlike that of Philip Larkin's uncharitable characterization in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1nzCQL0NbZM">"The Old Fools."</a> Now I am tempted to feel something much finer, a sorrow that the mythos of our childhood must end. Our parents tell us they will always be there for us, will always protect us, and we as parents go on and say the same, but none of this is assured or in any way within our power. It is much like Cormac McCarthy's <span style="font-style:italic;">The Road, </span> when the boy clings to his dying father and demands in a religiously charged exchange, "You said you wouldn't ever leave me." We do not want to be left. We do not want to leave. We are animals and we continue to crawl on. Iron & Wine sings a song that I think chronicles it well, the lifetime lived in the mix, all need and hope for recollection:<br /><br />Please, remember me<br />As in the dream<br />We had as rug-burned babies<br />Among the fallen trees<br />And fast asleep<br />Aside the lions and the ladies<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lnGXduu293c&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lnGXduu293c&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />And I necessarily think of who may remember me, who I might lose next, who is afraid of being left, who is also guilty of wanting to be remembered. I want to recall them all, with a different urgency than I want to be with them.<br /><br />I think back to an early date with the man I now love ardently, and despite how critical we both are of everything, always the analysis, always the dismantling and the resistance and the pleasing demolition as shifting plate grates plate, in this one recent instance, we both sat in a theater riveted by, of all things, a Levi's commercial. Whitman's voice, an early wax recording, sifts heavy sentiment. "O pioneers!" he proclaims over a montage of beautiful youth aflame with action.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HG8tqEUTlvs&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HG8tqEUTlvs&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />I was lying in bed after we saw the short for a second time, this after the second death, and I was feeling so in love yet blinking through the effort to soothe my eyes, achy from crying. And he said to me so mildly that it nearly failed to register that he expects, given age, to die before I do. And the little siege of sorrow against my heart surged, only until the simplicity of what my cousin was saying came back to me. It is the obligation of the living to the dead: live now. And this, incidentally, requires a resistance to maudlin attachment.<br /><br />Put more grandly, the poem proclaims more than Manifest Destiny, but that "by those swarms upon our rear we must never yield or falter, / Ages back in ghostly millions frowning there behind us urging, / Pioneers! O pioneers!" It calls upon us to "spring to your places." So perhaps it is reason to look forward all the more to the holidays I have, for I have twice been reminded now on the brink of celebratory milestones that the remote future, unlike this instant, is beyond any ken or comfort. At the end of the ad, the youth run through the frame, away from the camera. The banner behind them as they go reads, "Go forth."<br /><br />Go forth. Inevitably.Elizabeth Kennedyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07029090893951541694noreply@blogger.com