It looks like two pigs fighting under a blanket

I need to watch every movie starring Olympia Dukakis.

I just watched Steel Magnolias for the first time since childhood. First of all, it stars Dolly Parton and I love her, big hair, face lift, boob job and all. And then, my husband's away at the coast, and Steel Magnolias is the sort of film you only ever watch when your husband is away at the coast and there's only the cats to see you cry buckets when Sally Field finally breaks down. The really surprising performance is by Daryl Hannah, who is hilarious in her various manifestations as nervous wallflower, reformed party girl and evangelical Christian. I didn't know she had comic chops like that! What an underrated performer.

But lest you think that I have lulled myself into a Thai takeout chick flick stupor, I'll have you know that I've been mulling over a very deep question for the last two days.

Does knowledge carry moral weight?

No, I'm not stoned. Seriously: is knowledge morally relative; for example, does that fact that NASA recruited Nazi scientists (aka war criminals) to get us to the moon before the Russians somehow devalue the achievement? Should we have left humanity's feet firmly on earth rather than use our least heavenly brothers to reach celestial heights?

This is a good question, I think, especially given the recent and well-publicized prosecution of John Demjanjuk, an 89-year old alleged concentration camp guard now being held in Germany on murder charges. I'm of two minds about this situation. On the one hand, if he's guilty then he should spend the rest of his life in jail. He's lucky to have lived a happy, safe life after denying the same to thousands of innocent victims and it's time to pay the Piper. On the other hand, what's the point? At 89 he's probably repressed or rationalized his involvement in the Holocaust. Either he feels remorse or he does not, but packing his wrinkly butt in prison will only inspire self-pity and put the burden for his care on the German tax payer. Besides, it's hypocritical of the US to aid in the prosecution of octogenarians 50 years after recruiting their colleagues for the air and space program. Are these arrests the result of residual guilt? A tacit acknowledgement of the failure of the space program to establish whatever world stability and happy American hegemony the original Cold War ideologues thought it would?

Thank you for your time and energies, Herr Nazi. You bad boy, you.

I'm sure that the Nazis' contributions to academia weren't limited to rocket science. What about Mengele's medical experiments, how have they impacted modern medicine? Are we morally obligated to eschew this material; or, are we morally obligated to embrace this material as a means for saving future lives? What about Mercedes Benz and Volkswagen's and Doc Martins? Are ideas and items eternally innocent? And, a related question, when does responsibility for the Holocaust end? Will we hunt and prosecute every last member of the 3rd Reich so that we can people the German jails with incontinent Aryans and wipe from our consciences the shame of sending boats of refugees back to Germany?

...

I try not to dwell on the Holocaust. My application essay for the seminary (yes, I have a graduate degree in modern Jewish history...so how is it that I have just learned about NASA?!) was about relinquishing our hold on a traumatic past that does nothing to strengthen modern commitment to Jewish community and culture. I care very deeply about not defining Judaism by what has been done to Jews. Yet, learning that our trip to the moon was the end result of Nazi experimentation, and enslavement, and the careful erasure of war records, tarnishes an act I've always idealized a bit. And this idealization has been aided by an American educational policy to not teach students about the Cold War and to interpret all technological progress as inherently good and ethically neutral. When you separate "one small step for man" from the USA's and the USSR's petty rat race for universal domination it is an amazing triumph. Looked at within its socio-political context, Armstrong's moonwalk was a colossal pissing contest between two countries desperate to do anything besides examine their own moral failings.


So how did I get from Steel Magnolias to Wernher von Braun? It would trivialize both to reduce each to a lesson about life and death, or the impact of independent decisions on a community. Is science like art, heavy with history and continual meaning? Should it be studied for its nuances, for its dalliances with the emotive--something we try very hard to excise from our laboratories and science funding?

Surely yes?

Two Ham Sandwiches

Some days call for nostalgia, even of tastes or sounds we did not experience in their original era. I find that books do this to me all the time; I want to sit at the dinner table with the characters and break their bread, because the author makes those kitchens smell so good.

So it was that I found myself craving a kitschy ham and cheese sandwich with a thin layer of real mayo on white bread all day today. Store-bought bread, too, the kind that tugs at the roof of your mouth tasting like mayonaise and sugar. I'm reading a novel set in the early 1960s, and the children are constantly devouring platters of sandwiches put out by adoring mothers in twin sets and pumps. Several days of such descriptions, and my stomach was growling for Cold War culinary Americana. My reading, combined with my growing disgust with the low-carb, low-everything-that-tastes-good skin diet, made this desire too strong to combat. After work I walked to the store and purchased sliced Virginia ham, sharp cheddar cheese, and Franz buttermilk bread. I came home and put together my white, orange and pink sandwich. I cut it into two triangles.

It looked like elementary school, like childhood. Not my childhood, because we ate crumbly whole grain bread with tuna fish and minced black olives, but the childhood you read about in novels that take place on Canadian air force bases in 1963. Campbell's tomato soup childhoods.

It was so good. I ate my sandwich in the early evening sunshine with a glass of OJ, and then had some cherries. And a couple of hours later, I ate another sandwich, curled up reading on the couch. (I understand now why storybook children eat multiple sandwiches. They're not very filling--probably because they're not very nutricious. I'm already hungry again. And only the grimmest self-restraint is preventing me from going right back to the fridge to make myself an old-fashioned PB&J.)

I know I shouldn't eat like this every day, and tomorrow I have a gourmet meal planned because my parents are coming over (Mussels Marseillaise, baguette, salad, poached peaches) but once in a blue moon you gotta get your Kraft on.

Tybalt

What's little, polydactyl and black all over?

Tybalt, of course! Our new kitten, companion cat to the ferocious Stella (who likes this not at all).

We'd noticed for some time now that Stella gets very anxious when we leave for the weekend, often so anxious that she stops eating and begins vomiting all over our clean laundry. The vet suggested that we get a companion cat for her, but we hestitated, because Stella isn't exactly friendly with other cats. In fact, she's the street bully and enjoys spending her days tormenting the neighbor's dogs. She's sweet and beautiful with us, but she also bites and hisses when she doesn't get her way, and she doesn't adapt well to new individuals.

So.

Knowing all of this, we decided to get a second cat anyway. The lure of a new furry beast was too strong to resist. T's the household animal expert and he's confident that Stella will eventually stop hissing and lunging at Tylbalt; I hope she'll stop making those unearthly Gollum noises while she eats, keeping one violent eye trained on the kitten. In the mean time T and I are relegated to separate bedrooms so that each kitty gets a human and Tybalt doesn't cry all night. Stella has been shirking our company, preferring to make lots of noise under the bed to ensure an unrestful night's sleep and remind us of our perfidy.

Tybalt. The most ill-fitting name for such a merry, prancing kitten! He's joyful and sweet, sleek and black, with the mouth and ears of a Siamese. He talks constantly, which is a little irritating at times (for example, 5am), but he's so loveable and soft that the mewing is more funny than annoying. He likes to meow fiercely at me while I wash dishes. I look down and there at my feet is a tiny little kitten roaring like a miniature lion. Right now he's sleeping against my knee, with one many-toed paw thrown over my leg. How could anyone resist such sweetness?

We think he'll stay sweet, too, because at his age Stella was already a little huntress. She would lurk in corners and doorways for the sheer pleasure of climbing up your bare leg or back, her kitten talons needle sharp. She was completely adorable, but a little scary, too. To me, at least, since I was her favorite victim (T thinks she liked the shrieking).

I look forward to the day when the kitties reconcile. In the mean time, though, we just drink in his cuteness. And give Stella some extra, sympathetic snuggles.

A Post in Need of a Plot

Oy gevalt I've been so busy, you wouldn't believe so busy. Tonight alone I had a rehearsal, went grocery shopping, cooked for the camping trip, consolidated my lesson materials for photocopying tomorrow morning, and began finalizing my plans for Kate's bridal shower. Now I'm waiting for the chickpeas to cool so that I can finish the hummus, shower, and get to sleep.

I have made some tasty treats for camping. In addition to the ubiquitous meats for grilling (in our case turkey maple sausage and burgers) we have watermelon, a brown rice salad with julienned cucumbers, red bell pepper, and napa cabbage in a spicy peanut sauce, and homemade hummus. We also have fresh corn, yams, and russets for slow roasting in tin-foil, Kettle Chips, and rice flour tortillas. I figure if we're going to car camp, we might as well do so deliciously. T is promising a meal out in Manzanita, too, which is very dashing and romantic. In this household, anyway.

I've also been planning my cousin's bridal shower brunch, which is going to be full of all sorts of delicious foods that I shouldn't be and haven't been eating, and so will enjoy with greater gusto than usual. There's going to be a fresh fruit salad with mint, roasted potatoes with sea salt and rosemary, a strata with rustic bread, gruyere and ham, wild rice salad with sundried tomatoes and goat cheese dressing, baked blueberry French toast, scones, cake, mimosas and rose! And lots of silly games and present opening.

This is my first stint as matron of honor, and I'm taking it very seriously.

New York, New Yawk

Here I am in the Big Apple, not doing so much as looking out the window while the rain comes pouring down, and reading a gothic romance (it's from the 18th century, so there's a little literary credibility there). My friends' daughter, Annika, is taking a nap, and so we're taking a break from city activities. Though truth be told, all we've done is gone to see Up in 3-D. We're planning on walking up to Fairway soon to procure ingredients for a great dinner, but I don't know how long the little one sleeps for. It doesn't really matter; I lived in the city for two years, so I don't feel like I have to run around shopping and seeing shows. Especially in the driving rain. It's cold here!

Tomorrow will be more of a city day. I'm going to meet with my friends Sue and Julia, probably for dinner and wine, and I'll probably leave my home-base apartment a bit early in the day to shop at H&M. I've been dreaming of a slice of Zabar's coffee cake for four years, so I might splurge Saturday morning on my way to the LIRR. I'll have to compensate with mountains of broccoli and gallons of carrot juice, but sometimes culinary memories have to be sated and re-explored.

To me NYC is food and parks, anyway. I'd forgotten how amazing the grocery shopping is here: loads of foreign staples and fresh pastas and amazing fruit and vegetables. Fairway was a wonderland last night despite the crowd and rude clerks, and I'm so looking forward to Zabar's. Dean & Deluca is tempting, too, because I know I can find nigella seeds there. My friend Glenna, with whom I'm staying, has been my city cooking companion since we met at seminary, and so seeing her always means making delicious food and indulging in the kind of easy, close friend conversations that one doesn't often have, and so are a kind of nourishment in of themselves. We used to take long walks up Riverside Park; I also took lots of solitary walks when I was lonely or thinking, and once T moved here, we would walk through the Inwood parks with overly sugared coffee and bagels and the newspaper and just be happy.

But the baby has awakened and I'd like to get back to this rare bit of city socializing. God, vacation is good.

Homemade Beef Jerky

I have to force myself to grade ten more papers in the next 2 hours, but I can't resist taking a break to encourage you to make your own beef jerky.

I've never really liked store-bought jerky--it's so hard and dog-foodishly over-processed--but in my search for new protein-rich snacks it occurred to me that homemade jerky just might prove the ticket: chewy, portable, salty, sweet, lean, and somewhat naturopath approved. Besides, my toaster oven has a dehydrator setting, and I've been dying to use it. (As it turns out, the dehydrator is nifty but the oven is better. But do use dehydrating racks, if you can. They'll save you the mess of wiping down greasy oven racks.) And I am so glad that I tried it out, because this jerky is yummy to eat and painless to make. The hardest part is waiting 24 hours for the strips to marinate and dry so that you can eat them with childish abandon.

After doing some internet research, I decided upon a relatively lean cut of steak (top loin) and a marinade of tamari sauce, sweet chili sauce, agave nectar, and thai fish sauce. The soy and sugar in the marinade aren't ideal healthwise, but they seem important if you want your jerky to be salty-sweet, which most people do. You want a pretty lean cut of meat because fatty jerky is both messy and disgusting. Plus, it will go rancid much faster than leaner beef. The same is true for poultry, so make your turkey jerky (so fun to say aloud) with breast meat.

The only downside is that jerky is a somewhat expensive snack, even homemade. 2 lbs of steak cooks down to around 1 lb of jerky. But compare that to the store brands, and this is a steal. Plus, it's a nice alternative to peanut butter crackers or cheese, and hits the spot if you crave something salty.

Here's the rough recipe:

1 C tamari (or regular soy sauce)

1/2-1 C sweet chili sauce (hot would be great, though)

a couple squirts of agave nectar (or some brown sugar)

2 T fish sauce (optional)

2 lbs lean steak

Freeze the beef for an hour or so, so that it's easier to slice into thin (approximately 1/8 of an inch) slices. Dump the marinade ingredients into a ziplock bag or tupperware and shake to mix. Add the beef, coat completely in marinade, and throw in the fridge overnight.

Sometime the next day, place foil on the bottom of your oven, and preheat your oven to 160 degrees (or 200 degrees with the door slightly cracked). Lightly oil your dehydrating racks or oven racks and place the beef strips in rows on top of them. Leave to dry out. This can take 2-4 hours, depending on how thickly you sliced your jerky. The oven temp is so low that you can go about your business without too much concern. I went to the gym, but maybe I'm reckless with appliances?

Pull the jerky out when its flexible but dry, and the coating is a beautiful dark caramel. Cool completely before storing in a tupperware in your fridge.

This won high ratings from T, and the cat seems pretty interested in it, too. Make some today and your family will love you forever. Or at least until the container is empty, at which point you just might make some more...

Taking Deep Breaths and Focusing on the Inner Carrot

I'm learning a belated lesson in patience and the evils of superficiality. As my body detoxifies from its fairly benign history of misuse, my skin continues to worsen. I probably have the worst acne of my life right now, and age 15 didn't find me looking too pretty. It's getting difficult to work up the courage to put on my clothes and walk out the door, and even scary to host friends at our house without feeling pressured to cake on concealer and wear my long hair down around my cheeks. Poor T has to deal with a wife who's an emotional wreck with zero self-esteem and listen to my angry tirades against the naturopath who has me looking like this.

But. I'm sticking with it. The no wheat, no dairy, no sugar, no caffeine, all veggies, all meat, all water diet: the wacky nutrition regimen that has me drinking carrot juice and eating broccoli and turkey for breakfast. Because as horrible as this is physically and psychologically, I know it's good for me. And once all of this gunk is out of my body, and once my body is able to digest everything more easily, my skin will improve.

The thing with naturopathic medicine is that it is a slow, creeping process. Americans are used to going to the doctor and coming home with a miracle drug that cures our acne in 3 days; it is not in our collective patient psychology to wait 3 months for improvements to occur. The waiting game is hard. It's hard to wake up each morning, look in the mirror and cry. It's hard to have a gorgeous husband and not begin to question how he can look at you each day with such wonder and love; can such blind passion be real? And it's hard to admit, also, that this problem you're facing is a minor one in the grand scheme of the world, and that you should be grateful to have acne and not leprosy, and to have health insurance and a job and a beautiful man who loves you no matter what you look like. It is so much easier just to take a drug and stop thinking and feeling. And it's even easier to be seduced by our society's dominant ideas about beauty, and to associate one's beauty, or lack thereof, with one's success in the world.

So as I prepare to travel back east this week to visit friends and family, I'm working on finding my self-worth beneath my face and projecting it outward. I'm drinking lots of carrot juice and trying to focus on the positive. And it's hard. But if I'm going to detoxify my body then I might as well detoxify my mind and spirit, too. I think that both of those things have been neglected for a long time, having been filled with negative thoughts and energy.

This doesn't mean I won't wake up tomorrow morning and cry. It doesn't mean I feel proud of my face or that I want to leave the house. But it does mean that I won't let these feelings consume and define me, and I'm going to try really hard to reach that mythic "inner beauty" we're always hearing about.

Besides, I'm going to need to be in a real zen place when my father and grandmother both tell me how horrible I look. Which they'll do. Repeatedly. So that when the inevitable occurs I'll be able to stand there and smile, focusing on the inner carrot. And plotting revenge.