The Careless Cook: Paper Towel Vegetable Soup

 For a dinner with guests I had roasted winter vegetables—turnips, carrots, rutabaga, Brussel sprouts and winter squash—and placed them over quinoa and as per the recipe covered it all with some homemade pesto as a dressing. Though enjoyed by all I had prepared more than we could eat and so there were leftovers which I then placed in a suitably sized container and stored in the refrigerator. Maybe I would eat the leftovers for breakfast, but probably I wouldn’t; except for cold pizza breakfast doesn’t appeal much to me during these days of my aging. 

            For the second evening and for the same company of guests I decided to make a vegetable soup. When I prepare a meal for some social event I want to be observant of all food sensitivities and preferences and a vegetable soup is usually a safe meal. I added chopped onion to this repast, and for those of us not gluten averse I purchased a baguette. And so I began the somewhat arduous process of chopping and peeling and dicing the vegetables and placing each in appropriate bowls to add to the pot at the correct moment. At approximately the right moment: I am a careless cook. I lined up the appropriate spices on the counter and placed the measuring spoons for easy access. 
            I began to cook: adding three tablespoons of olive oil to the pot (a lovely bright red La Creuset Dutch oven model), I sauteed the onion, peeled and diced two cups of carrots, one and a half cups of celery and after ten minutes added garlic, thyme, oregano and crushed red pepper to the pot. Of course, I teaspooned in kosher salt and some pepper. I added two cups of diced potatoes, a tablespoon (or so) of tomato paste and one can of diced tomatoes with their juices!
            The directions then called for two quarts—eight cups!—of broth (seemed a lot to me), to bring this mix to a boil, and partly covered, lower the heat and simmer until the vegetables were tender: about 25 minutes. Done! Then, when all should have been sufficiently tender, I added a cup each of frozen green beans, corn and string beans and cooked them briefly until they, too, were tender! Thus far this was a good looking and excellent tasting soup, though I have regularly noted that very many of my soups (vegetable, all color lentil, split pea, etc.) tasted remarkably similar. Then I remembered my leftover winter vegetables and quinoa from the night before waiting in the refrigerator; acknowledging that I waspreparing a vegetable soup and I didn’t really like leftovers (except pizza), and acknowledging that adding them to my soup might help unclutter my refrigerator, I dropped the contents into the simmering soup. I was very content and rather pleased with my effort. And I left the soup to mature!
            After about ten or so minutes of ripening, I added as suggested two cups of spinach, a tablespoon of red wine vinegar, and some fresh parsley. I grabbed my wooden spoon and began to stir the spinach until it wilted. But then, as I mixed the vegetable loaded soup, and even tasted spoonfuls as I did so, adjusting the spices to taste, I detected floating amidst the de rigeur  vegetables, an unrecognized ingredient. Indeed, I observed that there were several clumps of this rather pulpy mass of a pale, white color floating about in the soup. At first, I considered that what I was viewing must be cabbage, but then I recalled that I had not added cabbage to the mix. I grabbed by metal tongs (that I employed traditionally to serve individual portions of thin spaghetti) and used the tongs to pull the several mushy masses out of the soup. To my surprise and dismay, those masses seemed to be sodden masses of paper towel!! How they had entered the soup I hadn’t the foggiest idea. Nevertheless, I tasted the soup again and found it flavorful and certainly servable, and when after tasing I did not collapse into some septic state, I chose to serve it for the meal as planned.
            In fact, everyone loved the soup though I did not tell them until the meal concluded about the presence of the paper towels in the preparation of it. I assured my guests (who were also my family) that the paper towels were not marred by ink-embossing: the towels were solid white. And I froze the leftovers, sans paper towels for, yes, another meal. I have a partner who will help me finish this remaining portion. And I hope she is very hungry and not too discerning.

On Conversation and the Cracks

Holden Caulfield fantasizes about going off to live in a cabin in the West and marrying a deaf-mute girl. “I’d pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn’t have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody.” Holden says that if then anybody wanted to communicate with him, they would have to write what they wanted to say down on a piece of paper and soon they would get bored of doing that and “then I’d be through having conversations for the rest of my life.” Well, I guess that is one answer. Conversation is always problematic. Engaged in talk one carefully negotiates through the levels of intimacy choosing often for the least revelatory. Perhaps it need not even be a conscious negotiation, but it serves as one nonetheless. Over the years I’ve returned often to Gregory Bateson’s idea that most conversation is an attempt to avoid an argument. That careful negotiation attempts to avoid anything too personal and/or opinioned; nothing that would upset the even balance of the relationship and the dull serenity of the scene. Nothing would be ventured; nothing to be gained might be the rule in conversation. The narrator of James’s The Golden Bowl says that for Fanny Assingham, “Discussion had of itself, to her sense, become danger—such light as from open crevices, it let in . . .” Statements, Fanny says, are too much like theories in which one lost one’s way.” Questions, I think, are too often judgments best not posed. And though throughout the novel the characters converse, they rarely speak the truth. Fanny admits that she knew what was at the bottom of Amerigo’s thought, but also “what would have sounded out more or less if he had not happily saved himself from words.” There is danger in conversation that too much conversation obscures. Holden had believed that most conversation is carried on by “phonies” and isn’t meant to communicate very much. Holden’s fantasy to become a deaf mute would make most conversation impossible. But Charlotte Stant, again in The Golden Bowl, recognizes how conversation reveals the crack that would let the light in and that participants work energetically to avoid the light. She wonders to Amerigo, “Don’t you think too much of ‘cracks’, and aren’t you afraid of them?” Of course, it is through the cracks that the light gets in. Fanny and Amerigo are frightened by the cracks, but Charlotte exclaims, “I risk the cracks . . .” I suspect that a relationship to the cracks and to the light that it invites in might to a great degree define an individual’s character. Maggie Verver learns to accept the cracks and the light it allowed in: “So again, she saw the other light, the light touched into a glow both in Portland Place and in Easton Square, as soon as she had betrayed that she wanted no harm . . .” Though her suspicions concerning the relationship between Amerigo and Charlotte are yet unproved, the light reveals her doubts.
            The bonfire held annually on Guy Fawkes Day had frightened the boy. Richard Wollheim writes in his memoir Germs “As always at home, I said nothing of what was on my mind, and I knew that to grow up, really to grow up, was not to do all the manly things I so much dreaded: it was to be able to break silence.” For Wollheim maturity realized the capacity to allow conversation to acknowledge the cracks and the light that broke through as a result.  I think for Wollheim conversation would not be about avoiding an argument but about experiencing empathy—the ability to be interested and inquiring: to listen and be heard. To be empathetic would be to acknowledge that conversation revealed the cracks that would allow others to see. To break the silence—to allow in the light through the cracks would be the mark of growing up, to become not an adult but a free mind and body.
            I think it is rather easy to find those who like Fanny are afraid of the cracks that let in the light, but as painful sometimes as the conversation might hint to proceed, I like to think that I seek out those like Charlotte who would be willing to risk the cracks. I know that there are times when I deny the cracks and the light that might emanate through them, but I most delight in the conversations that risk the cracks. These are moments that I feel most alive and most grown up.

The Obscenity, the Obscenity

The Oxford English Dictionary dates the definition of obscenity to the early 17^th century, 1608 to be exact. It then meant “indecency, impurity, lewdness (esp. of language”). In 1618 obscenity referred to “foulness, loathsomeness.” It seems to me today that in this regard Donald Trump is an obscenity. His language represents indecent, impure and lewd expression. He spews vulgarity: “We will root the communists, Marxists, fascists and the radical left thugs that live like vermin within the confines of our country . . . the real threat is not from the radical right. The real threat is from the radical left, and it’s growing every day  . . . The threat from outside forces is far less sinister, dangerous and grave than the threat from within.” Oh my god, I realize, He’s talking about me! In language that echoes the obscene, hateful rhetoric of the 20^th century monsters Hitler and Mussolini, Trump declares that under his reign it is me that he would eliminate.
            Trump’s every move embodies this obscenity—his rhetoric is foul and loathsome, he is indecent and very, very dangerous. Stephen Collinson writes on CNN that “It is true that Trump has adopted the rhetorical strategies of some of the most reviled dictators. He dehumanizes his political enemies, has discredited the legal, political and electoral system, has demonized the press and has targeted vulnerable members of society, minorities and immigrants, as scapegoats.” And yet I am appalled that there are millions of voters who are prepared to put him in the position to carry out his obscenities; This thought irrationally obsesses me--that there are people who are willing to wallow in his obscenities, to advocate for his intentions and promise to vote to eliminate me, our children, our communities, our freedoms . . . all that we have that makes our lives safe, free (which may be the same thing) and habitable. And now I look into the faces of everyone I pass on the street (though I think Minnesota is yet a selectively safe place for white folks) and I wonder if they belong to that obscene mob who would enthusiastically participate in my elimination and join share in his obscenity. I wonder what they tell their children about Trump’s abhorrent rhetoric? I recall the photos of lynchings that have captured young children staring up at the strange fruit hanging from the branches. I wonder if these fellow Americans (that is meant as too obvious irony!) would tolerate such talk from their children as vomits out of the mouth of Trump and echoed in his sycophantic followers. If these so-called conscientious citizens would allow it, then they, too, embody obscenity. And then I read today in the papers that the Republican leadership continues its unquestioned support of Trump and echo his vitriol and lies. Who are these people?? I am remembering Daniel Goldhagen’s book, Hitler’s Willing Executioners that gave evidence of the enthusiastic participation of ordinary Germans in Hitler’s attempt to eliminate the Jews.

            I understand that this posting is a screed, and I realize even as I write that this release doesn’t ease my mind. Trump and his minions cast a pall over every day and there will be little relief for it until he is convicted and jailed or defeated again in the election.  

 

Where Do the Ducks Go?

Holden Caulfield wonders to the taxi driver about the ducks in Central Park. “You know those ducks in that lagoon right near Central Park South? That little lake? By any chance, do you happen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen over?” I was thinking about Holden’s query today during my daily walk through the park at the Highland Bridge development. Over the Spring and summer months I had followed the ducks in the various water spots—some planned and some randomly formed as a result of the too infrequent rains—in which they had settled. I watched them hatch their eggs and raise their families, observed them swimming about and ducking under the waters searching (and eating) whatever it is that ducks consume as meals. Elizabeth tells me that there were in residence two varieties of ducks: one that searched for food by sinking just their heads into the water and then another variety that upended their whole bodies perpendicular into the water looking for their sustenance. I enjoyed the spectacle, even enjoyed the obliviousness of the ducks to my presence. They were busy and had no interest in the voyeur. But as the Fall proceeded I began to note that the ducks were slowly disappearing. I feared that they had been eaten by the predators, but Elizabeth (my authority on the wildlifes about here) said that probably the ducks had flown the coop, as it were, heading somewhere where the water would remain unfrozen, the food plentiful and the weather warm. I wondered if they might raise more families when they had resettled, but Elizabeth didn’t seem to have a thought regarding that eventuality. I was a bit unsettled in this gap in her expertise. 
            However today, on a gloriously sunny and relatively mild November morning, as I headed up Montreal Avenue I noted just to my south a group of a dozen or so ducks calmly swimming in the water and ducking for whatever nutrition they could discover beneath the surface. They were of the first variety and only sunk their heads into the water. I immediately called Elizabeth to wonder to her why they were still here. She theorized that perhaps they had stopped here on their journey to warmer climes: the water was free of any ice and the food plentiful yet and readily available. I suppose Elizabeth meant that the ducks had stopped here even as we on our road trips headed somewhere settled into motels. I guess we all need to rest from our journeys and to anticipate in our moments of rest starting off on them again. Perhaps our journeys even get defined by these pauses in them.