My time in college was marked by a variety of bad-to-horrific American political developments including: Bush’s first term election, 9/11, the war in Iraq, and the whole ridiculous “freedom fries” debacle. All of this felt especially resonant for me because I was both a political science major and an American at a university in Quebec. Much of the time this was productive. It’s interesting to study politics from within a county that perceives itself to be next to a “sleeping elephant” (that’s us), particularly when that elephant rouses itself and starts engaging in poorly planned military action, which then results in nation building dalliances. Everything Canadian scholars (and many others, including some in this country) predicted about the absence of WMD, and the dangers of attempting to cast democracy over a place as though it were as easy as throwing a fishnet, came true.
There were times when being an American was, if not an overt liability, somewhat of a hindrance. Particularly in the days after 9/11, when my peers were eager to intellectualize how American foreign policy begot planes flown into buildings. I was still feeling utterly heartbroken and traumatized, mentally replaying TV images of people on fire jumping out of windows, and ruminating on the overarching fear and sadness that seemed to have settled over my country.
Before any of these egregious events transpired, I went to Europe, ostensibly to work on my French in Paris. This was lovely and quite educational, but ultimately rather counter-productive since the french in Quebec and the French in Paris are…if not two different languages, then at least only step-siblings. All of my gorgeously honed Parisian pronunciation got me nothing but English from native Quebeckers who seemed to assume that the accent indicated only superficial knowledge of the language. Of course, they were right.
This was the summer after Bush was elected and I figured, since I was attending a Canadian school, I could reasonably pass as Canadian myself. However, very few occasions necessitated any discussion of my nationality (I have noticed that people tend to assume I am from wherever I happen to be, as long as I don’t speak) and those that did usually involved my passport. Once the passport is out, the gig is up so I was a professed American whether I liked it or not. On one occasion, I was on a train from London to Edinburgh and my seatmate, a guy from the English countryside engaged me in a long, but non-aggressive, discussion about how it was possible that we had elected Bush. At the time the election itself seemed like a worst case scenario, neither of us had any idea how bad it would get - and how tarnished the American (and British) reputation would become.
I have since decided that being a proper ambassador of America (keep the voice down, refrain from wearing obnoxiously casual clothing, etc) is a far better option than pretending to be Canadian, but this article in the Washington Post * reminded me of how relieving it is to feel as though I can state my Americanism without immediately preparing thousands of apologies for our boorish international policies, or bracing for critique/anger/pity. Oh, to be admired!
As the inauguration approaches, I know that Obama’s challenges are so vast, our country so damaged, that it will be impossible for him to meet all of the expectations that many of us have cast upon him. However, I’m willing to trade some disappointment for finally, after eight years, feeling hopeful about America’s future - both domestically and internationally - instead of cowed by its present.
I didn’t grow up with Playmobil but it was on the parentally sanctioned toy list. When I was little my parents were part of a neighborhood “good toys” co-op type thing that involved Tupperware style parties except with Swiss-made puzzles and solid wood train sets. Once my sister came around, my parents seemed to relax their standards a bit, because we both amassed sizable collections of My Little Ponies.
Playmobil was also one of the highlights of the locally owned toy store that we would frequent for birthday presents. I used to marvel at all the little sets and characters neatly entombed in clear plastic boxes.
Playmobil is still kicking evidently, and has come out with an airport security checkpoint set. “Non-compliant nipple ring sold separately” the Reason headline blares gleefully. Reason also steers readers towards the customer reviews on Amazon. I cannot pick an indignant, hilarious favorite from the bunch, but it appears that the Playmobil customer base has not changed much.
The kitchen in my otherwise pretty cute 1920s mill house is the size of most people’s bathrooms. My relationship with it is strained at best. A confession: I don’t particularly like to cook (though I do have a rather strange love of cookbooks/food blogs/cooking shows) in the best of kitchens. A veritable army of foodie friends and easy access to interesting restaurants keeps me from feeling deficient.
Rather than belabor the point, I will simply note that when left to my own devices at home I eat a lot of cereal.
However, as the adorable New York Times recipe tester Jill Santopietro demonstrates, having a catacomb for a kitchen shouldn’t keep a person from flexing culinary muscle. “You just clean up as you go,” she chirps in the online videos she produces for the Times, and I feel at once envious and a little tired.
But really, how can you not be totally charmed by a woman who somehow has an ice cream maker stored in her “11.5 square foot” kitchen? Especially if she also demonstrates how to make ice cream using only a baking dish and a food processor.
Her video about tangerine sherbet is so enticing that I may be compelled to attempt it, teeny kitchen be damned!
* For me, baking is another species entirely. I love to bake…but not in my current kitchen.
I’ve been a mild hypochondriac for as long as I can remember. I think it’s an offshoot of being a bit anxious in general. I’m not really a germaphobe; I’ll touch door handles and shake hands and eat food from street vendors without hesitation. No, my hypochondria manifests in a fear of rare and fatal illnesses. I have an extensive list of maladies tucked away in my memory and am always learning about more.
When I was a kid, my research was fostered by the giant Mayo Clinic Encyclopedia that my parents kept tucked away on a high bookshelf in our living room. I learned about it when my mother, unable to convince me that I wasn’t stricken with something or other (”you do not have polio, M” she would say, somewhere between exasperated and amused) got it down and started reading me a symptoms list. I’d reference it myself, getting it down from the shelf by balancing on the arm of the sofa, and then hiding out in my bedroom.
Now the Internet provides all the information I need to whip myself into a frenzy. More, really, because unlike the Mayo Clinic, the Internet is filled with personal testimonials (and plenty of dubious medical claims) . “Get Off The Internet!” friends and families screech at me whenever I ask them about a weird-little-bruise (for instance).
When I’m not feeling totally freaked out (which is often, it’s not a daily battle but more something that flares up now and then), I know that this is actually rather funny. It was in this spirit that one of my lovely friends presented me with the book The Complete Manual of THINGS THAT MIGHT KILL YOU (capitals theirs). “This is a gag gift, but I thought it might actually help you,” she said as we giggled.
And so I am spending part of this gray, cold day sippng Diet Coke and learning about things like Da Costa’s Syndrome — a non fatal but terribly unplesant anxiety disorder with severe physical symptoms, if you’re wondering.
Tonight I heard the last bit of an interview on Fresh Air with Temple Gradin, a woman who works with animals (she is both a livestock facilities designer and a writer). Gradin also has autism. The quote in the title was part of a question that Terry Gross asked about the rising hipness of “geekdom” and whether or not that makes it any easier to feel a bit more normalized, and even empowered, as a person with autism. Gradin talked about the necessity of honing in on autistic kids’ interests and giving them ample opportunities to pursue them in both pragmatic and creative ways. She also mentioned that schools and teachers need to develop more flexible methods of dealing with kids whose brains function differently and adjusting requirements (but not expectations) accordingly.
One of the things I’m interested in is social skills development in young children. This overlaps with some kinds autism research, especially regarding Asperger Syndrome. Briefly, Asperger’s involves having a hard time using/interpreting social skills combined with perseverations (obsessions with specific topics or themes). It’s a fairly mild kind of autism and it wouldn’t surprise me if in the next decade or so, researchers conclude that Asperger’s makes up a separate spectrum. Right after I graduated from college, I started working with a boy with Asperger’s for a few hours a week (I was relatively directionless at the time - this was a happy coincidence). Our interactions for the first couple of months went something like this:
Him: “You have how much of gas?”
Me: “What?”
Him: “You have how much of gas?”
Me: “Uh, I’m not sure, maybe half a tank.”
Him: “Let’s look at it.”
We got to know each other mostly sitting in the front seat of my car (with periodic trips to the gas tank area to unscrew/re-screw the gas cap). Eventually he wanted to know about windshield wipers, lights, horn, alarm, etc.
“You know,” I said one afternoon as he scooted onto my lap to have a look at the gas gauge, “when I come over, the first thing we should say to each other is ‘hello;’ then you can ask me how much gas I have.” From then on when I would arrive he’d open his front door and call, all as one word, “helloyouhavehowmuchofgas?!”
** I’m so saddened and disappointed by the Israeli government decision to pursue military action in Gaza
My family and I visited Israel for the first time when I was six years old. I have typical child’s eye memories of the trip (one of the most vivid, weirdly, is seeing a “Just Married” car decorated with streamers and flowers in Tel Aviv). However, I very clearly remember a meal we had in The Philadelphia, a Palestinian restaurant in East Jerusalem. Although I wasn’t aware of this at the time, the evening we visited The Philadelphia was a bit dicey; we were the only customers there and a staff person was sent to watch over our car. Despite the circumstances, the food was wonderful. I was a noodles-with-butter-and-no-green-things kind of kid but even I couldn’t resist the platters of food, all served family style, with waiters bringing multiple heaping trays at a time. Dessert was similarly feast-like.
Out of everything we tried, the favorite treat was something that looked like golden shredded wheat curled around candied pistachios. Four years later when we went back to Israel for another visit we returned to The Philadelphia, which was busting with patrons this time around, but the dessert was nowhere to be found.
The pastry had become part of family lore - none of us has ever seen another.
Saturday I went to a local Lebanese restaurant that has been in the area for years, but is not particularly near where I live. As I was moving through the line to pay for my shawarma, I noticed the desserts in the deli case. Can you guess the rest? Yes! There were the shredded wheat wrapped pistachios, called “Borma.” Of course I immediately bought one. Yum.
After lunch when I was looking around the market attached to the restaurant, I found a package labeled “shredded phyllo.” On the package was a picture of Borma. The “shredded wheat” is not shredded wheat at all but finely grated phyllo dough. Childhood mystery solved!
In college I had a professor who required that we religiously read the Financial Times because, as she rather cryptically put it, “it’s the men with all the money that need to know what’s really going on.” To keep us on our toes, she would sometimes administer verbal FT pop quizzes at the start of her classes which involved her easing out from behind the lectern, removing her glasses, and staring at us while serving up raspy questions about various European Union developments, international conflicts, things that happened in the UK, etc.
After my class finished I only read the FT sporadically, but I’ve returned to it a bit lately to help me try and understand the sad, sad state of the economy. Today this pursuit yielded an editorial about economic recovery and the fallacy of over-reliance on the free market.
Any piece that uses the word “blunderbusses,” particularly in reference to world economies, gets an A+ for readability I think.
One of the enduring holiday traditions my family has [besides making three kinds of cranberry sauce available for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, which I didn't realize I was attached to until the absence of one of them over this Christmas made me cranky] is making gingerbread cookies. My parents cookie-cut the dough into people, chickens, stars, Christmas trees, Etc. After they are baked and cooled, we all paint them using small watercolor brushes with different colors of confectioners sugar icing. Candy embellishments are used as well.
When we are finished, my father dutifully snaps a couple of pictures for the archives.
My personal crowing achievement for this year was a bull / devil-esque looking thing that was made with an upside-down bell cookie placed over a gingerbread man’s head.
