Memorial Day 2022

Memorial Day 2022 has come and is now gone. The wreaths have been solemnly laid upon the graves of soldiers, the speeches honoring the braveries and sacrifices of soldiers have been made; sad songs were sung and “Taps” has been sorrowfully played. Tears have been shed and photos have been mounted in places of honor. Flags were flown at half-mast. Near where I live there is a veteran’s cemetery with symmetrically aligned gravestones settled on well-manicured grassy acres. The grounds were busy yesterday with visitors who could leave. Those who had been buried there did not speak and they could not hear. There remain space for more. I thought of Eric Bogle’s song “No Man’s Land”: he sings, “But the suffering the sorrow, the glory, the shame/The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain/For William McBride it's all happened again/And again and again and again and again.” As I write the war in Ukraine rages and the headlines do not fail to record its progress and show many, many pictures of the pain. There are wars and other deadly conflicts all over the globe: civil wars, pogroms, genocides . . .  no end to the violence, no end to the destructions, no end to the violent deaths. Nineteen children (all under the age of 10 years old!!) and two teachers shot dead in their classroom as the school year ended in Uvalde, Texas. Ten people shot dead by yet another racist thug at a supermarket in Buffalo, New York. Yesterday was Memorial Day. On Memorial Day what is it that we remember? What are we to do with those memories. 

I repeat: Memorial Day 2022 has come and is now gone. The wreaths have been solemnly laid upon the graves of soldiers, the speeches honoring the braveries and sacrifices of soldiers have been made; sad songs had been sung. “Taps” was sorrowfully played over the graves. What value in remembering on this day when tomorrow what has been memorialized today is forgotten. I remember once in a teacher-filled graduate class in the master’s program at the University where I taught for 28 years. I do not recall the precise year I now recall, but I do know that the class met on a September 11, a day on which 2,996 people died and almost 6000 had been injured. There had been speeches made and wreaths placed and memorials celebrated (!) throughout the United States. In our class the teachers wondered how they might address the events that occurred on that day thus many years ago with their students in the present in their classrooms. I listened as these educators responded thoughtfully and sympathetically to those horrific events and to its place in their classrooms. When they had spoken and there was in our classroom a moment of silence, I wondered aloud that if perhaps what was more important was not how they remembered the heart-rending day on its anniversary, but how as teachers they might address those events on September 12th and 13^th and on the days that followed. I suggested that there had to be more in their classrooms than mere memorialization and temporary sadnesses.

I am so weary of the celebrated days of prayer and declared moments of silence. Our so-called leaders pontificate to their constituents about the Constitution and do nothing to protect them from the too-regular slaughter with which they are daily threatened by terrible people carrying assault rifles and who arrive dressed in protective combat gear. And our leaders do nothing except visit the cemeteries on Memorial Day and espouse sympathies and regrets! And depart from the grounds to grab a drink and hurry off to the picnics. 

Memorial Day is ended and on this Memorial Day we remember that the drums have been beaten slowly, and the pipes have been sounded lowly. We hear that they have memorialized the dead with oh, so lovely words. They have fired the rifles o'er the silenced fallen as they lowered them down. The bugle did play the last post and chorus, and the pipes did play the "Flowers o' the Forest.” There might even have been some tears shed. I thought: all this ceremony on display to avoid action.

            I am so weary of days of prayer and moments of silence. Maybe what we have to remember is how to stop piling up these days for memorial celebrations. 

 

 

On Atonement

I love the quiet mornings. At present, at 6:15 am, all I can hear are the songbirds outside my window and the slight hum of cars on the road near my apartment. We rise early and except for an announcement of coffee preparation I try not to say very much until at least 8:00am. Right now to the east the sky shades from blue to gray. I cannot see towards the west. They say that there will be thunderstorms in the afternoon. I am not troubled because they are usually wrong and anyway, I don’t mind the seclusion or disruption the storm would cause.

Ian McEwan’s novel Atonement had led me to consider the concept of atonement. Once a year as a practicing Jew I have celebrated the Day of Atonement: Yom Kippur. I am sure that on that day Rabbis often spoke about the concept of atonement, but I don’t remember specifically any one particular sermon on the topic of atonement itself, not at the conclusion of the day do I feel I have achieved any sense of atonement. Perhaps then I did not consider what atonement meant. But McEwan has set me thinking. 

            The Oxford English Dictionary in a definition from the early to mid 1500s says that atonement refers to the “condition of being at one with others.” A state of being at-one. In McEwan’s novel Briony has told an egregious lie that caused irreparable harm to others and that has caused a permanent break with her family. The novel, Atonement, that we learn has been written by Briony, is to serve as her act of atonement. In that novel, Briony has made Robbie Turner, about whom the lie was told and whose life by it was wholly disrupted, even destroyed, demand that Briony “go to a solicitor, a commissioner for oaths and make a statement which will be signed and witnessed. In it you’ll say what you did wrong, and how you’re retracting your evidence . . . Then you’ll write to me in much greater detail . . . [and] put in absolutely everything you think is relevant. Everything that led up to you saying you saw me by the lake. And why, even though you were uncertain, you stuck to your story in the months leading up to my trial.” That letter that Robbie and Cecelia demand becomes the novel, Atonement, and it follows Robbie’s direction exactly. But, in fact, for Briony, the lie-teller and the novelist, her lying is not even at an end. In what could be only an afterword written almost 65 years after the events narrated in the novel, Briony acknowledges that the satisfactory reconciliation with her sister and Robbie that she has narrated did not in fact occur, that in the end Robbie and Cecelia having been separated by the criminally unjust imprisonment that Briony’s lie led to, and by their engagements at the onset of World War II, he in the infantry and she as a nurse, were not ever reunited. Both were killed in the war. Briony enjoyed no state of being at one with others. Save for her having written the novel, there was for her no atonement. Actions have consequences that cannot ever be erased. Results can sometimes be somewhat altered, but the act having been committed remains. Briony recognizes that her uniting of the lover’s at the end is only an act of kindness because in life this meeting could not occur. Briony admits, “But I was not so self-serving as to let them forgive me.” For her there could be no atonement. 

            A second definition of atonement states that it is as an “act of being at one, or condition of being at one after strife or discord.” Again, though she writes in the novel of such a meeting, Briony never realizes atonement. She cannot: she is too cowardly, and unable to attend to and console Cecelia after Robbie’s death from septicemia on the beach at Dunkirk. There would be for Briony no atonement here.

            A third definition, also from the 1500s, says that atonement is a “reconciliation or restoration of friendly relations between God and sinners.” I am reminded of a story told of Henry David Thoreau, who when laying on his deathbed was asked if he had make peace with his God. He replied that he was not aware that they had quarreled. For him the act or state of atonement was needless. In Atonement, Briony asserts that novelists are God, creating and manipulating, organizing events and lives, and that therefore for her as novelist (hence, as God) there was no higher authority to which she could turn to be reconciled or could grant her forgiveness. There could be no atonement for novelists or for God.  And I consider now that if I am the novelist of my life, then there is no possibility of atonement for me.

            But I wonder what would it mean for my life to recognize that atonement is impossible? That because of my actions, most of which I cannot wholly explain, there is no chance for a return to others? Neither would there be a return to a state of being at one after strife or discord. Nor can I effect a reconciliation between a higher authority and a sinner. I think what must result would be a state of alienation, of precarious and lonely existence. I know something of alienation. I think of the monster being pursued by his creator, Dr. Frankenstein for whom neither will atonement be available. I think of Jake Barnes in The Sun Also Rises, who is aware that he and Brett couldn’t have had such a damned good life together. I am thinking of lines in Gretchen Peters’ song, “Our Lady of Guadaloupe”: “I am the least of all your pilgrims here/But I am most in need of hope.” She yearns for atonement, but she has her doubts.

I believe that without atonement we are drawn not out but in to ourselves and to the recognition of the consequences of our actions. And though these effects must be accepted, finally there can be no relief from them. Atonement is unavailable. I think of Briony Tallis who admits that in her novel “I was not so self-serving as to let them forgive me.” She is not reconciled. She wishes for the power to conjure them alive again to celebrate her 77^th birthday . . . she claims that such conjure is not impossible, but acknowledges, “But now I must sleep.” 

Careless Cook IX

Last night’s meal was creamy turmeric pasta, again from a New York Times recipe. Turmeric has been receiving a great deal of good press recently. Curcumin, the active ingredient in turmeric is said to lessen inflammation and pain, improve memory, fight free radicals, lower the risk of heart disease, help fight depression, and even help prevent cancer. I would say that is quite an impressive record, and one to which I am attracted. For almost fifty years I have ingested mega-doses of supplements purchased from health food store wherever I have lived: multiple vitamins; vitamins C, D, and E; Saw Palmetto; folic acid; calcium, and omega 3. Over the years there have been others with which I have experimented as I sought perfect health that would lead to longevity and even immortality. Alas, I got sick anyway, and none of the supplements have prevented the advent of age-related difficulties. I still consume some supplements, but even with all of the press given to turmeric I have no interest in adding it to my regimen of supplements. I think I am at an age that nothing will relieve the process of getting old. No amount of moisturizers will transform my parchment-like skin into a silky and smoothly youthful cover. I add another nap to my daily regimen. Despite all my care, I wend my way toward extinction. As Hamlet said, “If it be now, ‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.” Chiron, the immortal son of Cronus, received an arrow in his heel and suffering unrelievable pain asked Zeus to let him die. And Zeus granted his wish and transmuted his dear friend into the heavens as a constellation, Centaurus. Nothing will prevent my aging and its accompanying difficulties. Nothing I take will give me immortality. The readiness is all.

And so none of the health benefits of curcumin—the active element in turmeric—were involved in my decision to prepare creamy turmeric pasta for dinner: rather, I was drawn to the simplicity of preparation: there would be little opportunity to suffer serious mistakes. The dish contained only a few ingredients all of which I already had in my pantry and all ones that I favored: pasta, butter, onion, turmeric, parmesan cheese and cream! And, of course, a bit of salt. The color of the sauce was a bright and deep orangey-yellow that contrasted wonderfully with the dark gray skies that brought in rain and thunder. We ate in comfort with not a little noise from out there. And a little white wine went well with our dinner. There was left over nothing.

Pasta is such comfort as a meal. Of course, pasta is yet another bread product and I already eat too much bread. I am down to only two loaves in my freezer, and I begin to feel a rise of anxiety that I will soon be without; they say bread is the staff of life. I’ll make Vermont Honey Wheat Oatmeal Bread. Pasta is so friendly—it accepts whatever sauce one places atop it and whatever side dish is prepared to accompany it. For years when Maddy would share our dinner I served up spaghetti with marinara to which I always added peas! I suspect both she and her dear friend, my daughter, always expect peas alongside or even within their spaghetti plates. And at chez moi that is what they are always and forever served. I have at other times and for other guests added a variety of vegetables to accompany my pasta dishes: broccoli, asparagus, mushroom, even butternut squash (spicy butternut squash pasta with spinach) or brussel sprouts (crisp gnocchi with brussel sprouts and brown butter)! And I have covered the pasta with a variety of sauces, mostly plain, simple marinara or homemade pesto, or just butter and cheese, but on occasion I prepare a sauce somewhat (for me) exotic: linguini with melted onion and cream, for example. I try to follow the recipes provided but . . . well, I am careless and sometimes misread the recipe or just do not have the required ingredients. But the pasta is always forgiving and we eat well enough. 

 

 

Careless cook VIII

Evidence of how my world has shrunk to within the four walls of my apartment can be evident in the difficulty I am having with the fitful progress of late with the blog. During the pandemic this writer has been shut out of the world: I have ventured out to very few places; I have not traveled; I severely restricted my social agenda; regretfully gave up the cinema; saw very few people. There was little stimulation coming in from out there. The out of doors has begun to feel alien and somewhat dangerous. I read in The New York Times about the rise of violence everywhere: and especially have been appalled at the rude and narcissistically disordered passengers on airplanes. There is war in Ukraine and in other countries as well though the latter don’t get the same press space as white people’s wars. I have nothing to say and do not much care about the court case between Johnny Depp and Amber Heard; and am appalled that the Times is running a three-part series about Tucker Carlson. There is the daily blustering of Trump and the pusillanimous horde of Republicans I would prefer to avoid: I become physically ill when I think of them. And so to write about them would only keep them in focused view when I would prefer that they be kept out of my sight. They soil my consciousness with their lies, their hates and their ignorances. Too much of my writing efforts have been expended on them. And though I continue to read vigorously and widely, I do not want again to write literary analysis of the novels I consume. Nor turn this blog into a journal.

But I had undertaken a new thread, “The Careless Cook,” in which I meant to report on my haps and mishaps in the kitchen and perhaps how these events might relate to the rest of life. I continue—will continue as long as I live—to prepare my meals and to bake my bread. There is certainly a neurotic component to the efforts of the latter: there are usually too many breads stored in the freezer. But I sense that it somehow calms me to mess about with the dough, and I am comforted when on the streaming show Julia I see Paul Child and Avis DeVoto throw out not a few failed baguettes in their attempt to develop a method for baking them that will produce a nice oven spring and crisp browned crust. I have recycled not a few loaves and I still have issues with my baguettes—well, my careless method with baguette shaping and baking. But I think Amelia and Lilian still enjoy my results, tentative as the ladies may be. As for my dinner meals, I follow recipes (mostly) from the NYT and sometimes the dish comes out exactly as planned. And sometimes not.

            Now the other cookbook I look into a little less frequently is my Moosewood soup, stews  and salad edition, The Daily Special. I had earlier owned and dribbled all over the original two volumes from Mollie Katzen, Moosewood Cookbook (1977) and The Enchanted Broccoli Forest (1982). Both of these volumes have long since fallen apart. I retain a great affection for the Moosewood volumes and the restaurant that spawned them: my eldest daughter went to Ithaca College where the restaurant is located and whenever we visited her we dined at the Moosewood and was never unwilling nor impatient to wait for our table and always enjoyed our dining experience there. 

            But last night’s dinner was a creamy tomato soup from a NYT recipe, though I have also prepared the Moosewood dish as well. The latter is a bit more complicated with many more ingredients and thus, leaves greater opportunity for carelessness yet more possibility for variety of flavor. But of tomato soup: when I was much younger (now, at seventy-five years of age the description ‘much younger’ lacks substance) the only soups we were served, mostly of the vegetarian variety, came from the Campbell Soup company. My mother would prepare a can of tomato soup into which we children would be allowed to drop crispy Chinese noodles purchased specifically to serve as the soup’s condiment. Almost always, a grilled cheese sandwich would bepaired with the soup and be part of the meal. My mother’s kitchen had a circular iron grilled cheese device. She would prepare the sandwich and place it into the iron, close and lock it, and then trim the square bread that stuck out of the sides and thus forming what would be a perfect circular grilled cheese sandwich. The sandwich was then placed on the burner (gas or electric I do not recall), and when one side seemed done (mother always unlocked and peeked into the iron to assess the progress) the second side got its opportunity. In seemingly no time, the round grilled cheese sandwich was done and served as what seemed the appropriate accompaniment to the tomato soup. This pairing seemed to me (and still does, in fact) a perfect meal. And always delicious.

I believe that somehow tomato soup got paired culturally (whose culture, I wonder?) with grilled cheese sandwiches. I recall that once on a summer bicycle trip, after a fifty-mile ride the group stopped for the night at the designated inn and for our dinner we were served grilled cheese sandwiches and creamy (and home-made) tomato soup. I suppose that chips might have accompanied the soup and sandwiches, but I don’t specifically remember that addition. To the others about the table, I remarked that all that was missing to make this the all-American dinner was a chocolate malted. I can’t imagine where I considered that this menu figured as the all-American meal but everyone about the table seemed to nod their heads in agreement. And several grabbed a second sandwich and another bowl of soup! A restaurant in Madison, Wisconsin, Cooper’s I believe, is famous for its tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich meals. Their French fried potatoes are also outstanding. Maybe tomato soup and grilled cheese is an American variant of Italian pizza: tomato, dough, cheese . . . just not prepared in a single structure. 

            Creamy tomato soup is remarkably comforting: the thick liquid fills the spoon heavily unlike typical broth soups which tend to run off the sides of the spoon on the way to the mouth. Creamy tomato soup is easy to consume. It is also smooth textured and there is nothing complicated about its accessibility. There is nothing in it requiring chewing: to have to chew: like the American dream, tomato soup offers accessibility to all. Nothing obstructs consumption: chopped additions that might complicate consumption and fill up the spoon are avoided, though adding leftover rice is sometimes a simple and convenient addition. And the grilled cheese sandwich with several thin slices of American cheese oozing out of the sides of enriched white bread that has been slobbered with fresh butter satisfied (me, at least) absolutely.