Hmm. Here's something that is now passé in the Big Apple--drinking to the point of obliteration. Who knew? Perhaps this trend will spill over into other communities, as an intoxicating way to live life and keep the party scene clean.
[Pun intended.]
12.11.2008
William Shakespeare? Will S.? or Billy Shakes?
It is arguably uncommon for members of American Society (and probably others around the world) to contemplate the crazy chiasmus of the well-oiled-cyclical machine that is our culture on a somewhat daily basis, but there is a handful of us who do. The process of synthesis allows us to bring the old and new together, understanding that somehow, not only do we perpetuate going 'round and 'round, but that perhaps some of the products and byproducts of our society's elements (i.e., literature, history, media, and such) affect us to greater extents than we wish to cogently concur with one another. And of course, WE (via society) continue to affect said products and byproducts--rendering speculation, conjecture, supposition, premise, actuality, certainty, and at times, reality in as many ingenious and original means as humanly (?) possible.
This morning, I stumbled upon Shakespeare and his chiasmus, thanks to Marjorie Garber, and the NYT. A man and his writings undeniabley aged manage to demand paramount bearing in modern and contemporary times. And somehow, it works. Read it. Ponder it. Accept it.
Oh, and for those curious minds who are left wondering why my sudden peak in interest for a man I spent my college career loathing: well, a favorite author of mine constructed this book, and it has (re)ignited the flame that never was--to say the least.
This morning, I stumbled upon Shakespeare and his chiasmus, thanks to Marjorie Garber, and the NYT. A man and his writings undeniabley aged manage to demand paramount bearing in modern and contemporary times. And somehow, it works. Read it. Ponder it. Accept it.
Oh, and for those curious minds who are left wondering why my sudden peak in interest for a man I spent my college career loathing: well, a favorite author of mine constructed this book, and it has (re)ignited the flame that never was--to say the least.
11.01.2008
good idea(?): manipulating time
Well, it's that time again.
Daylight Savings Time (DST), practiced around the world (in most countries, at least)--though, within the U.S., Arizona and Hawaii do not participate--happens twice a year. The proverbial "fall back" elates our inner child's yearning for that superfluous hour of sleep on Sunday morning while the "spring ahead" diminishes our youth by way of a brisk reminder that our jobs, and school, commence promptly one hour premature.
In Nevada, two Decembers ere, I took a spur-of-the-moment bus ride with a cluster of aged folk to the Hoover Dam, an amazing sight--get there if you haven't already--where I first pondered the somewhat tangible concept of DST.
"What's the connection between the Hoover Dam and DST?" you ask.
It's quite simple, really. If you've ever seen this movie, you'll understand the notion of natural curiosity. So, exerting usual behavior, I found myself walking toward the halfway point of the Dam. What drove me there? Well, the state line dividing Nevada and Arizona, of course. And since Arizona is a nonparticipant in DST, I just so happened to not only be standing in two places at once (my personal goal for the day), but in fact, I was in two entirely different locations at the same time, but in fact an hour apart! To this day I am utterly amused by my adventure.
By the way, the time of my visit just so happened to correspond with the beginnings of the Hoover Dam Bypass. Checkout the development and reason for this impressive infrastructure here.
Needless to say, the time differential between Nevada and Arizona caught me relatively off guard, and that is when I inquired about the controversy that is Daylight Savings. So, to my surprise, I found that the manipulation of time is not just a way for the government, or Mother Nature, to stick it to us, if you will, but it does, in fact, have some economic, health, and energy conservation benefits.
Daylight Savings Time (DST), practiced around the world (in most countries, at least)--though, within the U.S., Arizona and Hawaii do not participate--happens twice a year. The proverbial "fall back" elates our inner child's yearning for that superfluous hour of sleep on Sunday morning while the "spring ahead" diminishes our youth by way of a brisk reminder that our jobs, and school, commence promptly one hour premature.
In Nevada, two Decembers ere, I took a spur-of-the-moment bus ride with a cluster of aged folk to the Hoover Dam, an amazing sight--get there if you haven't already--where I first pondered the somewhat tangible concept of DST.
"What's the connection between the Hoover Dam and DST?" you ask.
It's quite simple, really. If you've ever seen this movie, you'll understand the notion of natural curiosity. So, exerting usual behavior, I found myself walking toward the halfway point of the Dam. What drove me there? Well, the state line dividing Nevada and Arizona, of course. And since Arizona is a nonparticipant in DST, I just so happened to not only be standing in two places at once (my personal goal for the day), but in fact, I was in two entirely different locations at the same time, but in fact an hour apart! To this day I am utterly amused by my adventure.
By the way, the time of my visit just so happened to correspond with the beginnings of the Hoover Dam Bypass. Checkout the development and reason for this impressive infrastructure here.
Needless to say, the time differential between Nevada and Arizona caught me relatively off guard, and that is when I inquired about the controversy that is Daylight Savings. So, to my surprise, I found that the manipulation of time is not just a way for the government, or Mother Nature, to stick it to us, if you will, but it does, in fact, have some economic, health, and energy conservation benefits.
10.31.2008
good idea: ode to a poet
Naturally, many of us celebrate the universal holiday known as Halloween (All Hallow’s Eve to those of us who know a thing or two about etymologies), and some of you may join in the celebrations dedicated to the lesser evil, known as Harvest Fest (prior to the growth of the Catholic Church), lasting the duration of the autumnal season.
Whether it’s ghoulish costumes and frightful accents you crave, combined with bonbons galore (that are to be dropped into a pillow sack upon mentioning your ceremonial “Trick-or-treat”) and candy apples (a delectable treat for all ages; though, I prefer caramel), or a more Puritanical approach to appreciating the generosity of Mother Nature in the forms of maize, potatoes, gourds, and other such crops, it is with a humble disposition that I enlighten you with regard to October 31st's celebratory matters.
Halloween, in fact, though its history runs deep, shares its day with the birth date of one of the foremost poets of England’s Romantic era, beginning in the mid-1800s. The inspiration leading to Romanticism (and I’m not referring to the dreamy, impractical, passionate, tender, amorous, adoring, tender, starry-eyed love you have for another being that forces you to trip over raised portions of the sidewalk, harbor butterflies in your stomach, have a smile wider than that of the Cheshire Cat , and utter the most disjointed ramblings ever concocted, rather I impart unto you the complexity of an impressive movement within the realm of artistic and literary intelligence that took flight with the onset of England’s Industrial Revolution), in itself, promoted a surge of grand poets—one of whom, is the honorable John Keats (b. 31 Oct. 1795; canonized poet, and beholder of an apothecary license), the man who taught us that Beauty is Truth, and Truth is Beauty (see Letters, To Benjamin Bailey).
I shall permit you to formulate your own opinions regarding Keats, by going here to take a gander at some of his works, and a by leaving you with a few parting thoughts: though Keats’ prominence came posthumously, he influenced other such great poets as Alfred Lord Tennyson, befriended the likes of Percy Bysshe Shelley, mastered the unmistakable ode, had a knack for undeniable imagery and sensibly exquisite word choice, and managed to make his way into the novels of many at-the-time-contemporary American authors and other such pop culture entities of the 20th and 21st centuries.
So, whether it's the Harvest or the Ghastliness you celebrate this cool, crisp day, perhaps you might embrace poetic license and craft an ode or jingle on behalf of Keats. Even a 'raise the roof' or a 'woot woot' would suffice--I'm sure the man would get the gist, and perhaps even 'holler' back.
Here are some of my favorite lines:
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
from La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
from Ode to a Nightingale
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
from Ode on a Grecian Urn
Whether it’s ghoulish costumes and frightful accents you crave, combined with bonbons galore (that are to be dropped into a pillow sack upon mentioning your ceremonial “Trick-or-treat”) and candy apples (a delectable treat for all ages; though, I prefer caramel), or a more Puritanical approach to appreciating the generosity of Mother Nature in the forms of maize, potatoes, gourds, and other such crops, it is with a humble disposition that I enlighten you with regard to October 31st's celebratory matters.
Halloween, in fact, though its history runs deep, shares its day with the birth date of one of the foremost poets of England’s Romantic era, beginning in the mid-1800s. The inspiration leading to Romanticism (and I’m not referring to the dreamy, impractical, passionate, tender, amorous, adoring, tender, starry-eyed love you have for another being that forces you to trip over raised portions of the sidewalk, harbor butterflies in your stomach, have a smile wider than that of the Cheshire Cat , and utter the most disjointed ramblings ever concocted, rather I impart unto you the complexity of an impressive movement within the realm of artistic and literary intelligence that took flight with the onset of England’s Industrial Revolution), in itself, promoted a surge of grand poets—one of whom, is the honorable John Keats (b. 31 Oct. 1795; canonized poet, and beholder of an apothecary license), the man who taught us that Beauty is Truth, and Truth is Beauty (see Letters, To Benjamin Bailey).
I shall permit you to formulate your own opinions regarding Keats, by going here to take a gander at some of his works, and a by leaving you with a few parting thoughts: though Keats’ prominence came posthumously, he influenced other such great poets as Alfred Lord Tennyson, befriended the likes of Percy Bysshe Shelley, mastered the unmistakable ode, had a knack for undeniable imagery and sensibly exquisite word choice, and managed to make his way into the novels of many at-the-time-contemporary American authors and other such pop culture entities of the 20th and 21st centuries.
So, whether it's the Harvest or the Ghastliness you celebrate this cool, crisp day, perhaps you might embrace poetic license and craft an ode or jingle on behalf of Keats. Even a 'raise the roof' or a 'woot woot' would suffice--I'm sure the man would get the gist, and perhaps even 'holler' back.
Here are some of my favorite lines:
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
from La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
from Ode to a Nightingale
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
from Ode on a Grecian Urn
10.10.2008
good thought: let's talk politics
In light of the current presidential and vice-presidential debates (and town meeting), some of my finest scholars offered up commentary from the peanut gallery, known as our classroom--not bad for a Friday:
This brings me to Palin who is apparently against abortion in all cases even in those of rape, and incest. Why is this? Her religious convictions are that strong? Is it an overall lack of logic and intellect on her part? Mrs. I'm-not-so-sure-what-a-VP-does who really has taken this circus act out of the carnivals and into the big tent.
The reason we went from a surplus under Clinton to a deficit under Bush is that Bush is horribly retarded.
We don't need terrorists to take down the country; it's self-imploding just fine on its own.
The reason we went from a surplus under Clinton to a deficit under Bush is that Bush is horribly retarded.
We don't need terrorists to take down the country; it's self-imploding just fine on its own.
10.03.2008
North Stonington: B.F. Clyde's
And with the first days of October comes along my jovial acceptance of autumnal bliss. Still mingling my flip-flops with khakis and Eddie Bauer knit cardigans; I find a more contented stride in my saunter as I parade around my selected oversized coffee mug for the day on my not-so-urban inner-city campus. I do not reside in conurbation, yet the metropolis is rather sprawling and eco-friendly.
With the changes in climate, ensues a transformation of the self. As the chlorophyllic leaves of summer proliferate into gatherings of vibrant burgundy and cherry reds, gold and rustic yellows, and carroty and ginger oranges, the soul cannot help but to crave the mild sense of urgency the blustering wind begets. Ah, fall.
Our senses turn keen:
We smell the autumn woods, the pumpkin spice or sprig of cinnamon in our coffee.
We see the effervescent foliage as it slowly emerges and lines each and every road.
We feel the brisk wind and the gentle chill that will soon immobilize us come winter.
We hear the jubilant shouts of children and the rustle of leaves during afternoon recess.
We taste the harvest and the apples…mmm, apples.
I don’t know about you, but I find apples and their byproducts to satiate just about any craving possible. Not only are apples a delicious commodity naked, oh no friends, that’s just the very beginning, but think of candy apples, and caramel apples. How the sweetly hardened sugars form like molten lava over the curved body of the apple. Imagine apple butter spread, apple crisp, apple pie, apple cider doughnuts, and, yes, apple cider—hot or cold. Perhaps my nostalgic fondness for industrious machinery increases my desire for these tasty delights. I mean, have you ever seen a traditional cider press at work? I have.
Sigh.
I think I have been misplaced; I am designed to have lived during the ’20s, ‘30s, and ‘40s. Craftsmanship. Good, honest work. Literary explosion. Expatriates. Whiskey. Speakeasies. The Charleston. War. Economic Boom. The Great Depression. Fedoras. The perfect balance of the great American paradox.
And, it’s all based on apples. Yeah. How do you like them apples?
With the changes in climate, ensues a transformation of the self. As the chlorophyllic leaves of summer proliferate into gatherings of vibrant burgundy and cherry reds, gold and rustic yellows, and carroty and ginger oranges, the soul cannot help but to crave the mild sense of urgency the blustering wind begets. Ah, fall.
Our senses turn keen:
We smell the autumn woods, the pumpkin spice or sprig of cinnamon in our coffee.
We see the effervescent foliage as it slowly emerges and lines each and every road.
We feel the brisk wind and the gentle chill that will soon immobilize us come winter.
We hear the jubilant shouts of children and the rustle of leaves during afternoon recess.
We taste the harvest and the apples…mmm, apples.
I don’t know about you, but I find apples and their byproducts to satiate just about any craving possible. Not only are apples a delicious commodity naked, oh no friends, that’s just the very beginning, but think of candy apples, and caramel apples. How the sweetly hardened sugars form like molten lava over the curved body of the apple. Imagine apple butter spread, apple crisp, apple pie, apple cider doughnuts, and, yes, apple cider—hot or cold. Perhaps my nostalgic fondness for industrious machinery increases my desire for these tasty delights. I mean, have you ever seen a traditional cider press at work? I have.
Sigh.
I think I have been misplaced; I am designed to have lived during the ’20s, ‘30s, and ‘40s. Craftsmanship. Good, honest work. Literary explosion. Expatriates. Whiskey. Speakeasies. The Charleston. War. Economic Boom. The Great Depression. Fedoras. The perfect balance of the great American paradox.
And, it’s all based on apples. Yeah. How do you like them apples?
9.28.2008
good thought: how much do we really see?
The newest installment of my everyday life.
As a being who is forever questioning life, and my pupils, through methods perfected by Socrates, I often stumble upon the pensive learner’s observations and perceptions; notions I support, generally, but more importantly, slices of wisdom that remind me why my job is worth every single moment. I cherish the moments, even when fleeting, when students of mine render me speechless. I grin, gleefully. It’s a feeling that, no matter how often it occurs, paralyzes me with intense joy.
Then, without further ado, here is the first of many wonderfully inspiring, thoughtful, humorous, pragmatic, and surprising morsels of everyday American life. And, for the copyright owners, well, you know who you are, thank you for continuing to inspire me.
Here goes:
You drive your car down the same roads every day, but if you were to walk those roads you would realize that you've never actually been there before.
As a being who is forever questioning life, and my pupils, through methods perfected by Socrates, I often stumble upon the pensive learner’s observations and perceptions; notions I support, generally, but more importantly, slices of wisdom that remind me why my job is worth every single moment. I cherish the moments, even when fleeting, when students of mine render me speechless. I grin, gleefully. It’s a feeling that, no matter how often it occurs, paralyzes me with intense joy.
Then, without further ado, here is the first of many wonderfully inspiring, thoughtful, humorous, pragmatic, and surprising morsels of everyday American life. And, for the copyright owners, well, you know who you are, thank you for continuing to inspire me.
Here goes:
You drive your car down the same roads every day, but if you were to walk those roads you would realize that you've never actually been there before.
9.26.2008
good eat: banana whoopie pies
Generally speaking, I am far from embracing the junk food-junkie lifestyle, nor do I migrate toward the sweetness of cookie or candy aisles in the supermarket; rather, I am most likely to be found licking salt off the side of a building. Okay. That’s somewhat of an inadequate exaggeration (is that even possible?). However, I tend to embrace treats of the saltier genre, occasionally finding delicious concoctions of salty-sweet goodies. Pickles, along with honey wheat pretzels dunked in raspberry yogurt, are a weakness, although pickles certainly deserve their own host of ramblings, so without further ado I must retrieve my digression.
Onward!
It was ere that I committed to the familial duties required as the eldest sibling, stopping by to offer brief guidance, more laughter and name calling, and the fundamental discourse that would ensue betwixt the professorial type in her mid twenties and two of her adolescent siblings. As the lad retreated to the garage to perfect his tricked-out skateboarding dexterities, the young lady, the sort that (at an early age) is quite maternal, empathetic, yet oddly embraces an air of warranted highfalutin antics, led me to the kitchen where she was experimenting with this lady’s newest delectable formula.
Intrigued, I inquired if I might help—wrecking havoc in another’s kitchen or infringing on one’s personal bake time unannounced or uninvited is a grandly erroneous act. Obliging my request, my kin permitted me to take charge with a pastry bag (these are so cool, by the way) and extrude the batter onto parchment.
A mere twenty minutes later, perfecting the assembling process, we had a platter occupied with delicate, sweet indulgences.
A gentle sprinkle of 10x on top. Say no more. I was a goner.
Four banana whoopie pies later, I journeyed across the city to my home a gleeful twenty-something-year-old foodie, who, for the time being, had overlooked her aforementioned lack of interest of all entities sweet.
9.24.2008
good idea: celebrating punctuation.
To all grammarians, and editorial pirates and misfits alike, today is a day to rejoice! “Why?” you ask: because one brilliant lone man braved humiliation from the masses of the illiterate and the ungrammarfied—yes, I made that word up—on behalf of all punctuation marks, sophisticated and primitive, underused and overused, dominant on the keyboard and secondary on the keyboard (requiring the use of the shift key to unlock its rule), to proclaim today National Punctuation Day.
Hallelujah!
At last, a day—no, a holiday—honoring the diligent and absolute attributes to some of the most underrated finites. Go ahead, go out and tell your friends, your colleagues, your students, your boss, your parents, and your next-door neighbor; hell, go out and tell your enemies (it’ll make you look smarter than them . . . again). And if that isn’t enough [for you], well, go get yourself a copy of the ever-essential, pocket-sized, classically written, how-to paperback. And who said Charlotte’s Web was his finest work? (I do admit, I certainly maintain a veiled affection for Fern and Wilbur).
Alas, for those who simply can’t, won’t, or don’t give a damn, well, here are my parting thoughts: Wherever there’s a comma splice, a gorge of semi-colons, a misplaced colon, a perfunctory exclamation, a ridiculous question, a misrepresentation of hyphens as em dashes, an unwarranted bracket, quotation mark, or parentheses, there is an army of angry red-penned editors, proofreaders, copy editors, and grammar fanatics waiting for your very next move. Edit your act, damn it!
P.S. If you’re a glutton for punishment, want to sharpen your skills, or might like to try something for kicks, put yourself to the test, and enjoy. I certainly did.
9.16.2008
good eat: rice balls
Buon giorno, amici! Now is one of those times where I long to embrace the qualities of my Italian heritage. Why? Well, just like everyone else, I find myself slipping into mini-bouts of nostalgia based on my seasonal likes and dislikes, and something—perhaps the faint crispness that takes over the soft summer haze—about the embark of Autumn releases my strong desire to be one with the rolling hills and vineyards of Tuscany. In reality, the longing for my native land is only partially what brings me to such conclusions—the other, simply put, is food.
Now, ever since I was a young bambina I have dreamed of whisking away to Tuscany, where I would live in a clay house adorned with flowers, artwork, and other such wonderful embellishments and ornaments. I imagine two floors, very spacious and inviting, with guest bedrooms and amenities. I wish for a medium-sized backyard where I can scrub the laundry clean, in an old washbasin, using a handcrafted washboard, and then drape the newly fresh adornments and linens on clotheslines to dry. In the meantime, supper would be cooking—for I will have guests at my house ogni notte. And, without a doubt, each and every meal will be homemade, from scratch—I buy only what I couldn’t grow myself at the local mercato. This dream continues as I slosh around my personal vineyard in an oversized pair of yellow rubber boots. I harvest grapes of deep violets and crimson for delicious reds and whites, looking for new creations to please my guests.
Once dinner settles, guests saunter around my dimly lit house, chatting and sipping wine, or they might be found lolling on the back portico, gazing up at the star-studded sky. In the background, faint sounds of old famous Italian opera singers are heard—Cuzzoni and Pavarotti. Me, well, I’m likely to be discovered coiled up in a little ball on the strato quietly digesting a new novel. Sigh. One day.
You’ve probably decided that now you need to understand how food gets me on a rant about my intense desire to escape to a foreign country in hopes of one day calling it my home. Well, food, by nature, has the potential to be nostalgic. My obsession with Tuscany is somewhat unaccounted for since my heritage proves I am a well-balanced combination of Neapolitan and Sicilian. (I wouldn’t worry too much about the latter, since I am clearly a romantic at heart). Food. Inspiring. My favorite little Sicilian treat is a delicious and hearty nibble classified as arancine con ragù, more commonly known as rice balls. Arancine is from the Sicilian word meaning “little orange.” And, I understand this to be a relative term, since the rice balls do in fact resemble a perfectly round orange. A delicious combination of rice (or leftover risotto), peas, and mozzarella are rolled into a sphere that is then turned over in a bath of breadcrumbs. After a quick dip into a hot well of oil, smash in the center with a fork and top it off with a scrumptious homemade meat sauce (you know, what us Italians call gravy) and a sprinkle (or smatter) of fresh parmigiana reggiano.
Okay, so where can you find one of these amazing snacks? Well, the best locale to grab one is in Boston’s North End on the last weekend in August, when fellow WOPs celebrate the Feast of Saint Anthony. If you suffer from social anxiety, and aren’t really a people-person, well, I know a hole-in-the-wall establishment that is nothing less than utterly satisfying. Dom’s is the place to go, if you have the time, and while you’re there pick up a cannoli or two. On the other hand, if you dare attempt a homemade version of this tasty bite, experiment and make it your own. If you need guidance, well, just follow Giada’s recipe. Mangi!
Now, ever since I was a young bambina I have dreamed of whisking away to Tuscany, where I would live in a clay house adorned with flowers, artwork, and other such wonderful embellishments and ornaments. I imagine two floors, very spacious and inviting, with guest bedrooms and amenities. I wish for a medium-sized backyard where I can scrub the laundry clean, in an old washbasin, using a handcrafted washboard, and then drape the newly fresh adornments and linens on clotheslines to dry. In the meantime, supper would be cooking—for I will have guests at my house ogni notte. And, without a doubt, each and every meal will be homemade, from scratch—I buy only what I couldn’t grow myself at the local mercato. This dream continues as I slosh around my personal vineyard in an oversized pair of yellow rubber boots. I harvest grapes of deep violets and crimson for delicious reds and whites, looking for new creations to please my guests.
Once dinner settles, guests saunter around my dimly lit house, chatting and sipping wine, or they might be found lolling on the back portico, gazing up at the star-studded sky. In the background, faint sounds of old famous Italian opera singers are heard—Cuzzoni and Pavarotti. Me, well, I’m likely to be discovered coiled up in a little ball on the strato quietly digesting a new novel. Sigh. One day.
You’ve probably decided that now you need to understand how food gets me on a rant about my intense desire to escape to a foreign country in hopes of one day calling it my home. Well, food, by nature, has the potential to be nostalgic. My obsession with Tuscany is somewhat unaccounted for since my heritage proves I am a well-balanced combination of Neapolitan and Sicilian. (I wouldn’t worry too much about the latter, since I am clearly a romantic at heart). Food. Inspiring. My favorite little Sicilian treat is a delicious and hearty nibble classified as arancine con ragù, more commonly known as rice balls. Arancine is from the Sicilian word meaning “little orange.” And, I understand this to be a relative term, since the rice balls do in fact resemble a perfectly round orange. A delicious combination of rice (or leftover risotto), peas, and mozzarella are rolled into a sphere that is then turned over in a bath of breadcrumbs. After a quick dip into a hot well of oil, smash in the center with a fork and top it off with a scrumptious homemade meat sauce (you know, what us Italians call gravy) and a sprinkle (or smatter) of fresh parmigiana reggiano.
Okay, so where can you find one of these amazing snacks? Well, the best locale to grab one is in Boston’s North End on the last weekend in August, when fellow WOPs celebrate the Feast of Saint Anthony. If you suffer from social anxiety, and aren’t really a people-person, well, I know a hole-in-the-wall establishment that is nothing less than utterly satisfying. Dom’s is the place to go, if you have the time, and while you’re there pick up a cannoli or two. On the other hand, if you dare attempt a homemade version of this tasty bite, experiment and make it your own. If you need guidance, well, just follow Giada’s recipe. Mangi!
8.31.2008
good read: The Book of Joe
I preface this post by confessing my desperate need to fill my life with a profusion of books. I worship the power of books, and how they transport the reader into another world. I tend to read books for many different reasons: a good plot, incredible characters, remarkable writing, or sometimes just as a means of escape. Also, I value books for scores of reasons, thus not being able to define what makes a “good book” by means of one or two defining characteristics; though, if I had to, I guess a “good book” to me is one that sticks with me for an extended period of time—whether it be a moment, or a lifetime.
I recently read Jonathan Tropper’s The Book of Joe, and though I wouldn’t consider it delicious writing, I would argue that it is real writing. Not very often—and I think this is due to the complexity of the task—does a writer craft a novel with a style that employs the habits of everyday life. The casual manner in which Tropper tells his story allows readers to feel a certain closeness to his characters—not necessarily because they are tremendously developed, nor are they underdeveloped—through the fierceness of truth that lies behind each and every one of them.
Tropper sets his narrative in a fictional Connecticut town (much to my gleeful surprise), a town that could potentially exist anywhere, and probably does. His main character deals with the all-to familiar circumstances that force some of us to go back to the town we grew up in and face the warped memories we have shaped, abandoned, reshaped, and forgotten. The clumsiness in which Tropper’s character does this, reminds us all of the difficulties of growing up, and of the ease with which we tend to bury our past. Only when we return to our childhood can we justly grow as adults.
All in all, I struggled with the idea of this book as a whole, yet when I finished reading the very last page, and took my customary moment of literary digestion, did I finally feel the ambiance of Tropper’s novel. It stuck with me for about two days, leaving me wondering what elements of my past and childhood I may have forced to lay dormant all these years; it also comforted me in knowing that the lapses in memory that suddenly become vividly alive in mere seconds once the mind gives in happen to everyone.
I recently read Jonathan Tropper’s The Book of Joe, and though I wouldn’t consider it delicious writing, I would argue that it is real writing. Not very often—and I think this is due to the complexity of the task—does a writer craft a novel with a style that employs the habits of everyday life. The casual manner in which Tropper tells his story allows readers to feel a certain closeness to his characters—not necessarily because they are tremendously developed, nor are they underdeveloped—through the fierceness of truth that lies behind each and every one of them.
Tropper sets his narrative in a fictional Connecticut town (much to my gleeful surprise), a town that could potentially exist anywhere, and probably does. His main character deals with the all-to familiar circumstances that force some of us to go back to the town we grew up in and face the warped memories we have shaped, abandoned, reshaped, and forgotten. The clumsiness in which Tropper’s character does this, reminds us all of the difficulties of growing up, and of the ease with which we tend to bury our past. Only when we return to our childhood can we justly grow as adults.
All in all, I struggled with the idea of this book as a whole, yet when I finished reading the very last page, and took my customary moment of literary digestion, did I finally feel the ambiance of Tropper’s novel. It stuck with me for about two days, leaving me wondering what elements of my past and childhood I may have forced to lay dormant all these years; it also comforted me in knowing that the lapses in memory that suddenly become vividly alive in mere seconds once the mind gives in happen to everyone.
8.30.2008
Litchfield County, wine and chocolate
So, it’s not surprising that one of my favorite corners of the earth lies in northwestern Connecticut. A place quite contrary to the big-city lights of Boston or Manhattan, and even Chicago and Atlanta for that matter, Litchfield County offers a quiet solitude, cozy atmosphere, and some of the greatest hidden treasures in New England. The scenic drive to Litchfield County limits the time one has to travel on the infamous I-84, and truly shows off some of Connecticut’s green landscape, winding roads, and glorious hills and valleys. Though this slice of heaven is celebrated for it’s historic districts, town commons and greens, local growers, and natural beauty (including covered bridges: one in West Cornwall and two in Kent; a topic for an entirely different post), here are some of my favorite places:
Haight-Brown Winery is located just beyond junction 118 and 202 in Litchfield. This gorgeous winery and vineyard, constructed from a hollowed out barn offers eleven wines ranging from chardonnay to merlot to delicious dessert wines, including their decadent Apricot Moon. The atmosphere is unbeatable: upon entering, you are immediately shuffled upstairs to the loft where you can browse around, sit at the farmhouse style wine-tasting bar, or relax on the heated deck that overlooks acres of well-developed grapes for harvest. Delicious assortments of cheeses are offered for devouring whilst sampling wine in this blissful haven.
Not too far down the road, in neighboring Goshen, is another highly desirable, yet strangely familiar winery, Sunset Meadow Vineyards. Located just ten minutes from Haight-Brown, Sunset Meadow offers a homey place to sample more locally fashioned wines, ranging from the ever-popular whites, to the local favorite reds, developed by the St. Croix grape, born in the Midwest, and growing well in New England’s rough rocky soil. In addition to the delightful offering s of reds and whites, I left Sunset with an amazing rosé, Sunset Blush (reminding me of my most favorite song). If you’re ever looking for something to do, and you enjoying cruising in your car listening to Billy Joel and Carole King as you coast the scenic roads less traveled in Connecticut, and if you are a fan of wine, then I highly recommend investing the time and mileage into the Connecticut Wine Trail.
And of course, after the consumption of countless samples of taste bud-tingling swills, it’s an agreeable recommendation that you make your way to this miniature paradise overflowing with mouth-watering truffles, and various and sundry candies reminiscent of days gone by. The Litchfield Candy Company is an endearing little shoppe, jam-packed with flavor after flavor of chocolate truffles, ranging from dark chocolate to amaretto. Conveniently located alongside Rte. 202, it’s easy to miss as it holds all this marvelous wonder in a small, one room red shack. If you drive by, make sure you stop in—you won’t regret it.
good idea: yellow chalk
It was this past Monday that I quietly tip-toed around the campus of a rather rural Catholic college, in search of the classroom that would become a cozy learning vestibule for young eager minds this fall semester, when I stumbled upon a dimly lit room, instantly noticing that two of the four walls were draped with blackboards (ironically, green in color). Almost instantly, I rocketed back in time to the second grade: my first memorable encounter with chalkboards--that soft green surface covered with the dust of chalk. The silver tray holding stray pieces of white and colored chalk and two standard erasers--you know, the kind you begged to be allowed to clap during recess for extra credit or bonus points. Ah yes, chalk: I would have to secure some in order to utilize this fine commodity of the past. And not just any chalk, no, I want--need--yellow chalk; the same chalk my elementary and middle school teachers nonchalantly carried around. The yellow chalk that dusted the blackboard, and the backs of female teachers' dresses and male teachers' trousers; that yellow chalk with the perfect contrasting hue on its green backdrop. That yellow chalk that, though it doesn't erase as well as white chalk, commands attention from all learners in the classroom. The coveted yellow chalk that educates students. Nostalgia? You bet. And yes, I know that the chalkboard chalk business is no longer as lucrative as the whiteboard and dry erase marker industries, but still, I prefer to be launched back into the peaceful world (so I assume) of the 1950s--you know, where families ate dinner together, and soda jerks handed you that classic 1957 manufactured Coca-Cola bottle--any day than continue this spiral into a land of pushing buttons, text messaging, and voice commanding gadgets. In fact, I relish it, embrace it, and realize that I must locate a chalk holder.
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