27 March 2022

Darkness

I miss darkness. I do not mean the darkness present in a soul that leads an individual to engagements in deeds nefarious. Nor do I refer to the dark night of the soul that denotes a hopelessness and profound sadness. And I do not mean the darkness that exists under the bed where monsters reside and from there threaten. Nor is this darkness a means of a frightened escape from the business and relations that are part of living in the well-lit outside. This darkness is not Prospero’s acceptance of Caliban: “This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.” In Prospero’s abjuration of magic, he acknowledges the presence of the destructive within him. No, this darkness that I miss is not depression because save for episodes when I spend too much time reading the news or experiencing the troubled characters of loved ones, I am for the most part content, reside in some degree of peace, and remain active and sometimes even productive within the dark. And this darkness of which I speak does not shatter my quiet as does the darkness Dylan speaks of in “One Too Many Mornings.” This darkness is not the night suffered by Elie Wiesel in the camps. No, I miss the darkness of night when the world about me closes down, when the doors are shut and even locked. In this dark night curtains and shades are pulled shut and the noises of the street are silenced. This darkness makes the space for solitude I appreciate. 

            It is ironic for me that in our culture we value light over the dark: Dylan Thomas implores his dying father to “rage, rage against the dying of the light.” It is claimed that the light is where life happens and activity takes place. Daylight Saving Time increases the times of light of the day, and so there is more time to be about and doing busy. But for me there is a comfort and warmth in the solitude of darkness, and I look forward to wrapping myself in it as I would pull about me a welcome blanket. This darkness I enjoy is black and enveloping; I can stand and feel the ground but not see it; can hear the trees but not see them. Darkness excludes the messiness of the world, of the yellowed snow, the pot-holed streets, the noise of traffic and commerce. But not, of course, of memory. Standing outside the sky never ended and expanding universe sparkled.

            City lights disappear darkness and fade the moon and stars. In the absence of periodic blackouts, New York City where I lived for years doesn’t know darkness. It was and is, indeed, a city that never sleeps. And where I now live there are streetlamps that click on as the sun goes down; car headlights that speed along the streets; and store fronts that make the darkness invisible. Across the way from my present domicile, the front door entrance lights of neighbors remain on through neglect and the darkness of the night is banished. 

            I lived in a rural environment for almost three decades. The house sat atop a small rise and away from County Road D that ran below it. From the house traffic on the road could be heard and not seen. I could know the morning arrived at 5:30 am by the sound of an unseen car on the road. But when the dark arrived the noise was silenced and there was absolute silence. Even the airplanes overhead flew where they could not be heard. When first we moved into the home, there was only a single house in the vicinity accessed through a dark copse of woods. Buthe lights of that neighboring house could not be seen and the dark was undisturbed. When night would arrive we would settle in; even though we were together we were quiet and at peace . . . and if we looked out of the windows to our back yard there was nothing to see—except in the time of the full moon. The fields of corn across the way were lost in the dark.

            I know that the lights in our home were lit and in the dark that night made reading and study became possible, and I know that I am probably romanticizing the dark. Or maybe I just resent not the light but its ever presence. Sometimes I just want to see the stars.  

21 March 2022

The Careless Cook VI

Last night I served Bess Feigenbaum’s Cabbage Soup for a dinner with friends. I haven’t the slightest idea who Bess Feigenbaum might be, but the recipe from the New York Times was entitled “Bess Feigenbaum’s Cabbage Soup” and so that is how I will continue to refer to it. I am certain I had once before for a Shabbat dinner prepared this soup and I recalled that it was very favorably received. And except for the cabbage I already had all of the ingredients. I didn’t have to purchase anything additional, except as I said, the cabbage. I would serve it with homemade sourdough bread.

            Now, the recipe called for three pounds of cabbage (minus the hard outer leaves and the solid core) and for some reason I followed the directions fully and exactly. But, the recipe said that the soup would serve eight and we were only going to be four that turned into just three. I started to cook the soup in a La Creuset pot but three pounds of ribboned cabbage would not squeeze into the crock and so I very messily transferred the all of the now wet ingredients into a very large stock pot I had purchased forty years ago at Zabar’s in New York City for a soup I was preparing then for a large contingent of high school students who were visiting the city from an alternative school in Denver, Colorado. I’ll clean the stove later, I sighed. 

This stock pot contained better my three pounds of ribboned cabbage, sauteed onion and garlic, tomato paste, ketchup, crushed tomatoes, bay leaf, and six to nine (!) cups of water. But, I now ended up with too much soup even after I hoped each of us would elect to have second helpings. I froze a container even before company arrived, and after dinner I packed a large Tupperware container of soup to be taken home by them and to be eaten at their leisure. I have for myself a considerable number of servings in my refrigerator/freezer for days to come. I realize that I should have halved the recipe!

The problem is that though I do consume them, I do not like leftovers, and I try to avoid having them about and being constrained to eat them. Having said that, I acknowledge that there are several longstanding containers of past meals sitting patiently in my freezer awaiting consumption. I consider here why I am so averse to them. I mean, when first I prepared the served the meal the food was then well received . . . why now do I not enjoy it again? Some dishes, I read in the New York Times recipe site are improved as leftovers! But for me, only macaroni and cheese taste better the second day.

I believe that a good part of my disaffection with leftovers might stem from the lack of necessary preparation that they require. My leftovers (when I choose to eat them) are simply pulled from the freezer in their ceramic or glass or BFP free containers and simply reheated—there is no preparation. But preparation for dinner is exactly the point—it is the process of chopping, slicing, pureeing, seasoning, drinking liquors, all in the service of delivering a cooked repast to the table that I now enjoy and have enjoyed during my adult life and in my delighted role as father and that seems to me essential to the essence and meaning of the meal. The engaged and engaging effort offers an intimacy that is lacking when I simply pull a dish from the freezer put it in the oven or, heaven forbid, the microwave, and then plop it on the table sometimes even in the original container, and too rapidly and carelessly shovel the food in. Sometimes reheating the leftovers is accomplished in the container in which it had been stored—I wonder, why should I dirty another dish that I would just have to later wash clean. In the kitchen I want to offer more care for my self (and others). 

I suppose I will sooner not later eat the soup stored now in my refrigerator. And eventually I will defrost the container of the frozen soup nestled in my freezer. But I believe that I will do better to learn to cook smaller quantities that would leave no leftovers.

  

14 March 2022

Monday Morning

I like to wake up in sunlight but Daylight Saving Time returns me to arising in the dark and today has been especially gray. I like the quiet of the mornings and I speak in a whisper when I speak at all. Spring arrives formally next week, the days do grow longer and I know that soon the morning sun will start my too-early days. I suppose I could sleep later, to remain asleep at least until the sun appears, but all of my life I have had to be at school early; sleeping late was never an option. I learned not to sleep late. When I lived in New York Spring seemed to arrive exactly on time—March 21—and in the City parks crocus blossoms could be seen breaking through the softening ground. Here, in Minnesota, now as the temperatures rise the snow melts to reveal not crocuses but masks that have been discarded. They do not look like flowers.

The war in Ukraine threatens everyone: the specter of full-fledged war in Europe and the existence of vast arsenals of nuclear weapons frightens me. This must be what the world felt like in 1939 when Hitler invaded Czechoslovakia and Poland and brought World War II onto the stage. The people I talk to admit to following the events in Ukraine obsessively and somewhat helplessly. I, too, am tied to the reports of the fighting and sitting quietly reading I pick up my devices and monitor the fighting. The headline font in the New York Times grows larger daily.

The sky begins now to lighten into a deep blue. I have a sweater the shade of the sky now. I do not know if the sun will shine: the meteorologists (whose batting averages would not get them a contract in the Major Leagues) predict a mostly cloudy day with some snow. At the moment feathery snow falls heavily covering the ground and trees. I suspect it will melt by afternoon. because temperatures are predicted to rise above freezing for the week. By afternoon today 40 degree temperatures are predicted. I know that there will be at least one more snow storm before winter honestly (and finally) ends. When I lived in Western Wisconsin twelve inches of snow fell on May 12 and was gone in just a few days. Nature asserting its authority! And as Tom Lehrer wrote, “What Nature doesn’t do to us/Will be done by our fellow man!”

William Hurt died yesterday. Body Heat (1981); The Big Chill (1983); Kiss of the Spider Woman (1985); Children of a Lesser God (1986); Broadcast News (1987); The Accidental Tourist (1988)The last film introduced me happily to the work of Anne Tyler. I guess William Hurt was an actor that helped define my 1980s. I did not follow his career after that decade, but I believe he represents important moments of a decade in my life when I spent a great deal of time in the movie theaters. I have sorely missed the movie theaters during the pandemic.

 

 

10 March 2022

The Careless Cook V

There is a considerable mention of food—and its absence—in Genesis. When food is absent, usually in the occasion of famine, hardship results and no meals can be prepared. In this case carelessness is of no concern! But when the food is available, then it must be prepared, and there are several significant meals described in Genesis. From the beginning food was a significant player in human interactions. It begins, of course, in the beginning, with Adam and Eve’s choice to partake of the Tree of Good and Bad in the Garden of Eden. This meal by Jewish accounts was not a sin though for Christians it marked the origin of sin. In either case, the meal was not without significance. Little preparation careful or careless was involved in this first meal, but as a first meal it marked a significant turning point in human history. An entire narrative concerning woman’s place in the world, at least, is embedded in that first uncooked vegetarian repast.

There is no mention of meals prepared and served aboard Noah’s ark, but it is reported that after the flood had receded and when the families and the animals exited the overcrowded vessel, God enigmatically authorizes the eating of meat. The Rabbis suggest that this is God’s acknowledgement that humankind is incorrigible and that they may therefore eat slaughtered animals for their meals. What the relationship between incorrigibility and eating flesh might be is not exactly clear to me, but certainly animal rights advocates might have much to offer as explanation and repair. I do know that Noah, having planted a vineyard, made wine and became intoxicated and fell into his bed drunk. I speculate that this drunkenness occurred at a family meal. I do know that his insobriety led to a subsequent shameful incident involving his sons and led to at least the Southern use of the Bible in their justification of slavery. This meal did not end well, and I suppose Mrs. Noah and her daughters-in-law who had carefully prepared the meal, were left to thoroughly clean up after it. 

Another meal: in Chapter 18, three angels in the guise of men visit Abraham who was recovering from his circumcision. Despite his pain welcomes his ‘guests’ and prepared a meal for the angels. It is said, “So Abraham hastened to the tent to Sarah and said, “Hurry! Three se’ahs of meal, fine flour! Knead and make cakes!” Abraham then ran to his herd, took a calf, (the Bible describes it as one that was “tender and good”) and had it carefully prepared. Abraham then took cream and milk and the cooked calf and served the repast to the visitors. Abraham did not sit with the men/angels but watched over them as they ate. Clearly, this meal was prepared before the laws of kashrut were given because on the table milk and meat were served together. No careless cooks here . . . only the finest flour was used for the bread and only the tenderest calf was served. This carefully prepared meal seems a fitting exemplar of hospitality and fine dining.

            Again: Abraham sent his servant, Eliezer, to Nahor to find a wife for Isaac. Upon his arrival at the well Rebekah offered Eliezer water to quench his thirst and then she watered his camels. Eliezer saw this occasion of kindness and generosity as a favorable omen for his mission. Rebekah escorted Eliezer to her home where her brother, Laban, prepared for him a meal, but Eliezer says that he will not eat from the table until he has explained the occasion of his mission. Laban agrees that, of course, his sister can marry, though the Rabbis suggest Laban’s motive stemmed from greed, Laban having suspected that the gifts given to Rebekah at the well suggested that Isaac was a wealthy man. Eliezer worried that perhaps Rebekah would choose not to go with him, but Rebekah accedes to the betrothal and the meal was happily consumed. There is little suggestion who prepared the meal, but I would suspect carelessness was not an issue here.

            But then in Genesis the meals turn cruel and deceitful. We are told that Esau had gone out into the field, perhaps to hunt for food. But there was a famine in the land and people were hungry. So, too, must have been the animals that survived the scarcities. I think that Esau must have been unsuccessful in his hunt and had returned home with no food. But his effort must have been arduous and he returned tired and starving. Now, Jacob had prepared a lentil stew: I wonder where he had found the ingredients amidst the famine. The Rabbis say that Jacob was preparing the mourner’s meal for his father, Isaac, whose own father, Abraham, had died on that very day. I have my doubts. The Rabbis have gone to great lengths to create Jacob’s good reputation. But how was it, I wonder, that Jacob had a meal conveniently prepared and a recommended method of payment all ready for Esau’s return? As noted, Esau was a hunter and the text reads that Isaac loved best his son, Esau—a curious statement in Genesis, I think, since the Rabbis go on to define Esau as the archetypal enemy of the Israelites and perhaps the original anti-Semite. But returning to his home physically and even emotionally exhausted, Esau asked his brother for a plate of stew. Now, Jacob doesn’t say that the meal was for their father in mourning, but proceeded to offer Esau some of the stew if Esau would sell to Jacob his birthright. Neither a display of brotherly affection nor a concern for what might have been his grieving father was evident in Jacob’s demand. Esau, weary and famished says, “Look, I am going to die, so of what use to me is a birthright?” and taking advantage of his brother’s plight, Jacob steals from Esau the birthright for a bowl of stew A dubious meal prepared with some care, perhaps, but also cooked with a great deal of scheming.

`           Again: as Isaac is dying, he asked Esau to “go out into the field and hunt game for him. Then make me delicacies such as I love and bring it to me and I will eat, so that my soul may bless you before I die.” But Isaac’s wife, Rebekah, overheard Isaac’s conversation and plotted with Jacob whom she loved better than Esau to deceive Isaac. She says to Jacob, “Go now to the flock and fetch me from there two choice young kids of the goats, and I will make of them delicacies for you father, as he loves. Then [you] bring it to your father and he shall eat, so that he may bless you before his death.” Jacob objected that his arms were not hairy as were Esau’s and Isaac wouldl know he was being fooled, but Rebekah assuaged his worry, dressed him in his brother’s clothes and covered the skin of his arms with the skin of the goats to mimic those of Esau. This was a carefully prepared ruse. And the nearly blind Isaac is fooled by the meal and Jacob’s disguise and gave Jacob his blessing believing that he is Esau. But when Esau returned from the fields, he prepared the meal for his father and brought it to him, but alas, Isaac had already eaten and had given Jacob his blessing. Esau implored his father, “Have you but one blessing, Father? Bless me too, Father.” But Isaac could not take back his blessing. “And Esau raised his voice and wept.” My heart breaks at Esau’s plea. Two very carefully prepared meals but one family sorely rent in the serving.

            Food, not meals, runs through the story of Joseph. The brothers had stripped Joseph of his coat and imprisoned him in a pit. Then, the text says, “They sat to eat food.” While they ate a caravan of Ishmaelites passed on their way to Egypt, and Judah suggested that they sell Joseph, their brother, to the Ishmaelites. The contents of the brothers’ meal reminded me of the brown bag lunches my mother prepared for me to carry to school every day: peanut butter and jelly slobbered on slices of Wonder Bread, a bag of potato chips and perhaps even slices of carrot. Joseph ended up in Egypt where circumstances and his insight into Pharaoh’s dream led him to become the steward of Pharaoh’s lands. Seven years of plenty would be followed by seven years of famine, Joseph predicts, and suggested to Pharaoh that he must appoint a steward for the land—a wise and discerning man—and of course Pharaoh appoints Joseph. And when after the seven years of plenty famine strikes the land,  Joseph’s stewardship had created stores of foot in Egypt. Jacob sends his sons to purchase provision. And Jacob recognized his brothers! And though they paid for the provisions, Joseph commanded that the monies be returned to them secretly in their sacks. When they returned to their father with supplies, they ate from the provisions until they were gone. And Jacob sent them back to Egypt.

            I think except for Abraham’s meal to the angels, meals in Genesis were not overly cordial, celebratory occasions. There always seems a questionable motive behind their preparation and the proffered hospitality. Even if the cooks were careful in the meal’s preparation, the whole repast suggests a devious intent. Genesis recounts not only the beginnings of the world but the beginnings of contentious, family meals.      

03 March 2022

Andrea del Sarto

Robert Browning writes in “Andrea del Sarto,”, “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,/Or what’s a heaven for?” I love the interjection “Ah,” a word that usually might express relief or comfort. But I think it is here an expression of resignation: Andrea del Sarto has reached only so far as what he could grasp, and in that grasp has given up the passion that would fuel his art. In fact, del Sarto is referred to as the perfect artist; his technique is flawless, but he laments that his work lacks the passion that would make whatever flaws exist inconsequential. Del Sarto has opted in his work for money, has stolen money from King Francis and purchased a house for his less than attentive wife, and become, as he says of himself, not an artist but merely a craftsman. But in the poem del Sarto acknowledges that though his technique was perfect, his paintings do not achieve the status of great art. He recognizes the flaws in the painting of Raphael but sees in it as well the passion which del Sarto lacks and that makes Raphael and Michelangelo the greater artist. He acknowledges that the so-called flaws in their works are not evidence of incompetence and lack of skill but of the artist’s continued effort to paint what resides in the heart and soul. “Beside, incentives come from the soul’s self;/The rest avail not.” The rewards come from the effort and not the product that must always reveal, well, not imperfections, but evidence of the reaching beyond what can be grasped. “Andrea del Sarto” is a poem about failure—the painter has grasped and not reached. But ironically, failure is evidence of success and that the artist has reached beyond his grasp; Andrea del Sarto has failed because he has succeeded in grasping.
           I am intrigued with Browning’s assertion that a person’s reach should be beyond what can be grasped or what is “a heaven for.” Heaven is for those who tried and failed: I am reminded of Tennyson’s Ulysses, who urges his men “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” Browning writes not the achievement of the Heaven, but rather, of heaven. Not the capitalized final goal but the lower-case place where one acts n Desire and passion. Individuals must seek their own satisfaction, follow their own passion—a heaven that they would recognize and not the Heaven that is imposed on them. Del Sarto has attempted to blame God for his decisions: “Love,” he says to his wife, Lucrezia, “we are in God’s hands,” and God, he accuses, has laid the fetter by which man is bound. I went as far as God had planned, del Sarto says. But he knows that he has failed and though he has produced ‘perfect’ art he has not fulfilled his passion. Nor made true art. Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp . . . and del Sarto had ceased reaching. He knows what he has done—and has not done. “I am judged./There burns a truer light of God in them,/In their vexed, beating, stuffed and stopped-up brain,/ Heart, or whate’er else, than goes on to prompt/This low-pulsed forthright craftsman’s hand of mind.” Del Sarto says that their work shows imperfections but though “Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, /Reach many a time a heaven that’s shut to me . . .” 
           I wonder if I have had a truer light of God burn in me. If my reach has exceeded my grasp.