The final count is forty-four ... 44 ... four, four ... forty + four ...
I was talking to my Aunt at a holiday gathering of family, and I told her that the final count came to only forty-four books read in one year. And, I felt bad about it. But as I listened to the words leave my mouth, I realized that I shouldn't feel bad. I have nothing to feel bad about.
I read forty-four (mostly) really good books this past year ...
And, I was going to ask you how many books you read ... but to be honest, I don't care. The number of books you read does not have anything to do with the number of books I read. The number of books you read has no consequence on the number I read, and neither of us are defined by the number of books that we read in one year. I guess I, sort of, felt as though I had failed at my challenge because I did not read 100 books in one year. But, remember what I said?
"Okay, even as I am typing this challenge, I know it is ridiculous. It is unrealistic but I need to make it a challenge. If I say that I am going to read one hundred books ... that is not a challenge. Anyone could say that. The challenge will keep me motivated."
And, the challenge did keep me motivated ...
And one final thought on number of books read ... I have read several short stories for my English courses over the last semester. Books are great, but I have come to appreciate short stories in a new way these last few months. I will be writing about it soon, because there are some short stories that are a reader's dream to interpret. Stephen King has a new book of short stories out that I am dying to get my hands on ... as does Joyce Carol Oates. Look for those to be consumed (by me) in 2011.
I may have grown as a person because of what I read. I certainly learned new things, and became familiar with writers I had never read before. I did exercise my brain, which was my original intent. And, most of all, I think this little challenge lead me to return to school. Because as fun as it was to read and blog, I quickly realized that it was not enough for me. I wanted to learn more about literature, and the craft of creative writing.
I bet you want to know if I had a favourite book ...
That is a hard question to answer ... I especially LOVED A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving. I mean, you cannot meet Owen Meany and remain unchanged. I was pleasantly surprised by Ruth Reichl's Comfort Me With Apples, and I was fascinated by the role of the Jewish woman (in both her family and in her community) in Kaaterskill Falls by Allegra Goodman. I learned SO much from Randy Shilts inAnd the Band Played On; and, Alice Kuipers taught me that a really moving story can be told using very few words at all, in Life on a Refrigerator Door. And, I was both mesmerized and outraged by what I learned about the food industry. But those are just a few of many really great books that come to mind immediately. I honestly enjoyed most of what I read this year, but I also appreciated reading the ones the weren't really my favourites. Because I strongly believe that to understand what you really like, sometimes you have to explore the things you don't.
In very general terms, I find fiction is read faster than non-fiction. A fictional story often draws one in, and the reader is anxious to find out what happens ... will the protagonist reach their goal, get caught, realize their mistake, live, find their true love ... Non-fiction is often more dense, and cannot be read quickly while stirring a pot of chili with three crazy children running around - 'cause you cannot lose yourself in the story world. For instance, the difference in reading Fast Food Nation and Presumed Innocent was huge. Both really, really great books ... but read very differently. For me, anyhow.
And so, there it is. One year of reading and blogging ... done. Well, not all the blogging is done but I am working on it. There should be posts going up regularly until the Winter Semester begins .....
Originally written in Oct/10, but not posted until now.
This has been a crazy week. In fact, the last six weeks have been crazy for me. It has taken some adjustment (by everyone) to get used to the idea of Jill Jones, University Student.
This past week I had one midterm, one quiz, and two essays due. So today, after I handed in the last essay, I decided that Addie C. and I should go out for lunch. To McDonald's, of course ... her favourite.
While we were eating, I asked her about school.
"So, Addie," I chatted, "are you still learning about apples at school?"
"Nope, that's all done now," she explained.
"Oh, I bet you'll talk about leaves soon," I told her, feeling fairly confident since I have been through the JK curriculum twice recently.
"Yeah, Mommy, we already do that," Addie told me. "It's called Fall."
"Oh, pardon me," I said. "I didn't realize you were so smart. I wonder if you'll go on a nature walk this year." I was sort of talking to myself, wondering if I could somehow swing tagging along as a parental helper.
"We already did that tomorrow," she informed me. Addie C. gets her "esterdays" mixed up with her tomorrows sometimes. "And me and Simone were partners. So we shared a bag and we go alot of leaves, too."
What? How could I not know about this?
This is what I have been afraid of.
There are things going on in my little girl's life that I don't know about. That I am not involved in. It's what I have been afraid of, and I was heartbroken.
When Caiden and Marnie were in JK, I dropped them off every day and picked them up every day. I talked to their teachers every day; I knew what was happening in the classrooms; I knew who was naughty and who was nice; and occasionally, I did things with the class.
But now, I am doing things in my own classroom. With my own classmates. It feels great being out there, back in the world, talking to people, learning new things. But sometimes I feel like I am missing out on the stuff with my own kids. Like the effortless chatter when they come through the door after school.
But I cannot just sit at home, in case something interesting happens at school, right? Or wait around with the hopes that I might get the chanve to help out on a nature walk. That would be crazy ...
"I just want to eat something relatively healthy," he explained.
""What?" she said. "Do you think I am getting fat? Look at me. Do you think I am getting fat?"
"No," he answered.
"No, really," she pressed. "Do you think I've put on weight? Look at me."
"No, it's not about that," he said, getting frustrated. "It's about eating something with some nutritional value."
"Well, the only reason you need to worry about eating healthy is if you need to lose weight. So, you must think I need to lose weight."
He sighed, obviously frustrated.
"Listen, I ate at McDonald's AGAIN last night," he said. "And, I feel like shit. I just want some vegetables."
"Look at me," she demanded again. "Do I look like I need to worry about eating vegetables?"
A big sigh was (over)heard ....
This is a conversation I overheard standing in a food line in the University Centre. It made me chuckle for two reasons ... girls still have the same (body image) insecurities they did when I attended University twenty years ago, and the boy makes a good point about food options on a University Campus.
While the boy was right on point, the girl completely missed the point. The boy was concerned about health and not weight ... which was great to hear. He understands food as fuel for your body, and the importance of eating fresh food. The girl, unfortunately, was wrapped up in appearances.
As far as the choices available, I'm not really sure what could change or how to make it better. I mean, they are trying to make food for thousands of people ... there is no time to make large quantities from scratch. But what about a soup from scratch? With actual fresh vegies? Or a huge batch of fresh, homemade tomato sauce? Leftovers in the freezer?
Perhaps I am too ambitious. But I do agree with the young man in line behind me. Some fresh vegies would be nice.
There is a totally awesome fresh salad bar ... with a Southwest Salad that cannot be beat! So, if I lived on Campus, I would eat salad for lunch and dinner.
I wish girls did not have equate their worth with how they look. We have all done it, at one time or another. Fortunately for me, I have never had a weight problem ... yes, I know that I am lucky. This does not mean that I have always loved the way I looked. In fact, a couple of years ago, in a moment of self-(body)loathing, I checked out the BMI Index. I thought that it might inspire me to get my act together and get serious about eating healthy. And do you know what? My weight was in the healthy range for a woman of my height and age. And yet, I hated my body.
Women's bodies should not be skeletal. Bones do not need to be sticking out. And, skinny does not equal healthy. Do girls know this?
I say these things with caution because there is a large obesity problem in North America. No pun intended. People eat too much fast food, junk food and processed food. I have written about this many times.
When did food and eating become such a problem? Shouldn't it just be something you enjoy with some people you like? Guess not.
"Fine," she said. "I'll have a stir-fry. But I still don't think I need to."
I have a friend who has been encouraging me to read something by Stephen King as part of my challenge to read one hundred books in one year. Did you know that Stephen King reads seventy to eighty books each year? Suddenly, my pitiful thirty-five books read (to date) seems even more heartbreakingly pathetic.
In August I read, On Writing - A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King. I'm not sure if this counts as a Stephen King book to the general populous, but I sure did enjoy it. In fact, I loved it, however it is not for everyone.
For me, it was great to "talk" with someone who speaks my language. This is not to say that I feel like Stephen King and I are equals in the world of writers. Nothing could be further from the truth. However I completely understood everything that he wrote about with respect to the craft of writing. In fact, I learned a great deal, not the least of which is that I do have an understanding of the process. Some of the things he writes, I already do, some I understand the importance of but have not been able to achieve (because of the small people running around my house), and other things I had never thought of before, but completely appreciate. All that, just from reading this book.
His number one piece of advice to achieve great writing is to write a lot ... and to read, a lot. Well, that sounds like just about the perfect job to me. Does that mean that I can pick up a great book, hush the children (which means ignore them) and explain that Mommy is working? I'll have to try that one some time.
On Writing begins with a resume, of sorts. StephenKing remembers some of the early times in his life and some of the things that stand out from his childhood. He moves on to describe the events surrounding his first book (Carrie - 1974) being published, and he touches briefly on his alcohol and drug addiction. In fact, he admits that he has no recollection of writing Cujo (1981), which saddened him because he really loves that book and wishes he could recall the process of writing it. It is the kind of the auto-biographical writing that, when read, you want to share with someone else. So, suffice it to say, that Jonesy knows way more about StephenKing than he ever wanted to. But, having said that, I think he found the tidbits I threw out there, kind of interesting. Funny, gross, interesting ...
The other two thirds of the book are fairly specific to the craft of writing. Some is down-right instructional, other parts are teaching through example ... which I love. Sometimes he is specific - 2000 words per day- and other times he is more ambiguous, like when he says. "I'm doubtful about writing classes, but not entirely against them."
If you are a budding writer, I highly recommend picking this book up. But if you are just a fan of Stephen King and not really interested in writing as an art form, this may not be the book for you.
StephenKing - I cannot refer to him as King or Stephen, just StephenKing, all one word - is a really incredible person. I mean, aside from the writer; because as a writer, he is a genius and obviously, well-respected. I read lots of his stuff as a young girl ... Carrie (plus I saw the movie), Pet Semetary, Cujo are the ones that stand out. Of course, I have seen The Shining (red-rum, red-rum, red-rum) and The Green Mile which are movies based on his novels. And please, don't forget The Shawshank Redemption, based on the novella by StephenKing entitled, Rita Hayworth and the Shawhank Redemption -probably one of my favourite movies. I'll have to look for the novella.
But as a girl, my interests changed and I moved on to different writers, like Danielle Steele. Plus, at about the same time in my life, I developed a heavy social agenda, so I didn't have much time to read. Because when you are a teenaged girl, it takes approximately the same amount of time to "get ready" as it does to attend the actual event you are getting ready for.
He is a goofy looking man, whom I did not find compelling enough to really find out about the person behind the stories. For many years, I have thought of StephenKing as a grown up kid; like an adult with a boy's imagination. And, I don't think StephenKing would be offended by that statement; in fact, it would probably make him happy inside. Although he has matured, his interest still lies in the realm of science fiction. Just like it did when he was eight or nine years old and hitchhiking to movies in the nearest town. He wrote that he likes to get his character(s) into a predictament and then watch as they figure their way out of it.
Another admirable thing about StephenKing is that he has been married to the same woman for almost forty years. Which I consider a true accomplishment in the world of fame. He talks about her with respect and love and admiration. Don't you hope that your husband would describe your laugh as "adorable" or that he has a full understanding (and respect) for your lack of putting up with his bullshit - even after forty years of marriage?
Anyhow, after reading this book, I have my own piece of advice. Be patient as a writer. It is much easier to verbally tell a story than it is to write it down. Because most times, your brain moves faster than your fingers, so you have to slow down a bit and take the time to get it right. It is simple to invoke humor or expression using your face or hand-movements when telling a story. However, when writing a story you must be skilled at making your point (whether sad, or funny, or inspirational) using only words and punctuation. And you don't even get to read those words aloud to your reader ... you must hope that they can hear your voice.
Initially, I borrowed this book from the Public Library. I will be purchasing my own copy because I know I will refer back to it time and time again. That is how much I loved and appreciated this book. StephenKing is a natural teacher, and he has much to share. Do you want to learn from him?
It is the same, but it is different, too. University, that is.
As I have mentioned before, the campus is mostly the same. Of course, many of the classrooms have been updated to accomodate the use of laptops ... which means there are electrical outlets at each desk space. The classrooms are equipped for multi-media presentations, and there is free wireless available in several buildings on campus.
For the most part, the students seem the same ... the geeks, the jocks, the artsy people, the cool chicks. Plus those guys who you know will get kicked out after the first semester... They all wear jeans and t-shirts, just like in the late '80s. Pretty much anything casual goes ... I saw a guy today wearing a rainbow-coloured belt ??
And, I feel the same; which is to say that I feel comfortable. I am looking through my same eyes; the only problem is that when people look back, I look a little different to them than I did twenty years ago. I feel comfortable in a classroom, and until my Early British Literature class, I felt fairly confident in my abilities. Don't worry, we'll discuss it soon; just not today.
The one thing that has changed significantly are the professors. When I was a student twenty years ago, the professors were impersonal and distant. They were there to lecture and bestow their knowledge upon us. The professors did not care to know our names or anything about us (the students) for that matter. I felt like a number in a sea of faces. And they certainly didn't care if you came to class or not.
Today, professors seem genuinely interested in getting to know their students. In each of my first two classes, we had to introduce ourselves ... because the profs want to learn our names. They are interested in the students' opinions and thoughts ... they encourage open discussion. Sometimes they even talk about themselves in a personal manner. One of my profs told the class she failed Economics when she was an undergrad, and she talked about her little boy. This would NEVER have happened twenty years ago.
Plus, each of my four professors has given their curriculum vitae (verbally) ... like they need to reassure us they are qualified to teach university-level courses.
The professors care if you attend their classes. They want you there, and they encourage it by providing marks for class participation. Each of my four courses awards marks for attendance, and participation.
Teaching styles have changed drastically. Professors lectured when I went to school twenty years ago. They stood at the front of the class in front of a lecturn and they spoke at us. Many times it was boring, and dry, and unengaging. Today, the professors teach. It is interactive and fun. In one class, we got into groups, moving furniture around the room and putting together very small presentations on literary terms. I will forever feel comfortable in defining ideology, paradigm and hegemony.
As I am sure you can imagine, laptops are everywhere ... these kids even sit in the hallway, and while awaiting a class, they pull out their laptop and log in. Right there. While sitting cross-legged on the floor. I just don't have the energy to do that. It's much easier for us old ladies to just pull out a good old fashioned paperback book and do a little reading if we're a little early for class.
The other thing that bears mentioning is the abundance of information that is available to students today. There is an obvious and enormous difference from twenty years ago, and the contrast in the level of understanding is incredible. No longer are you dependent on just your textbook for information or explanation ... you have the Internet at your fingertips. For instance, my professor referenced a book that further expounded on the point she was making. In days past, I would not have really thought any more about it ... what could I do, other than check the University Library? However, since it was an essay published in 1967, I would never have found it. Plus I had the title wrong. After just a few clicks, I had all the information I needed to appreciate what she was talking about. My History professor posts all his power-point lecture notes on-line for easy access to what he lectured about.
It is all about easily accessed information.
The University of Windsor Library has put together special resources for each department ... just to make things even easier for research. For instance, the English resource page links students up to further readings by era, but also gives access to newspaper publications dating back to the 1800s. You can read the newspaper from the day your Grama was born ... how cool is that? But you must have a Student ID to do it.
Yep, things are definitely different. But in a strange way, it is all still the same. Except now I have to attend classes, do the assigned reading, complete the assignments on time, attend class and participate ... and try to get supper on the table for three hungry kids and a husband, too. But more on that another day.
In October of 1989, my Grampa Smyth gave me my first (serious) cookbook. Until that time, I cooked using my mom's recipes, her cookbooks - which numbered two or three, perhaps - and a children's cookbook I had received as a Christmas gift when I was ten years old. I still have it, and it was important in the life of me because it taught me how to make Cinnamon Toast.
But my Grampa recognized my interest in cooking, and I suspect that it was the first time he acknowledged (to himself) that I was growing up. He would have wanted to ensure that I could cook a good meal for my future husband. So while home (from university) for a long weekend at Thanksgiving, he presented me with the book. We had all gathered for Sunday dinner at Grampa's apartment, and he handed me this book, which had been wrapped up, if I remember correctly. I think this memory is so vivid because I was shocked that he was giving me a present ... we didn't exchange gifts at Thanksgiving?? And then I was so touched that he had been able to see me as a person, as an individual instead of just his granddaughter. That cookbook gave me my start into the world of culinary experimentation and exploration.
The book of which I write is the Good Housekeeping Illustrated Cookbook, and I absolutely adored it. I think I looked at every recipe, and then I tried lots of them. I perfected Cheesecake, homemade bread and pie crust and even made my own pasta occasionally. But it also served as a reference for roasting whole birds and (as Grampa always said) roast beast.
From that point on, my Grampa took credit for any and all my accomplishments in the kitchen.
"I gave her the first cookbook she owned," he would tell anyone who would listen, as he enjoyed a piece of my latest (dessert) creation. It was then that I became responsible for the dessert course at all family gatherings. But that is to be expected when you pump out the best apple pie on the planet, or homemade Cream Puffs.
The Good Housekeeping Illustrated Cookbook became my reference manual ... my cooking Bible.
Until I found Bittman, that is.
I have been wanting to buy How to Cook Everything (10th Anniversary Edition) by Mark Bittman for some time now. So, I finally did so a little earlier this summer, and I have not been disappointed.
Mark Bittman is a food journalist and an author. He is current, with an old fashioned sense of style. At least, that is how I think of him. He is a strong proponent of sustainable living and homecooking. He uses the freshest, most natural ingredients he can find, and his cookbook provides the reader with cool, hip recipes and some old-fashioned ones he has made-over.
How to Cook Everything is akin to a Journal or an Index of Cooking Information. It is my opinion that every kitchen should have this book ... even if you have been cooking for a number of years. Because you can always learn new things, right?
Bittman is a genius ... there, I said it. And I completely believe it, too. He makes food simple, but creates interesting, complex flavours. And he teaches technique as well. Most recipes are quick to make, with ingredients the average cook would have on hand.
One of the unique things about his cookbooks is that Bittman includes several variations for many of his recipes. For example, he will begin with a basic recipe for pasta or rice salad, followed by ten to fifteen different variations. Leave out this and this, and instead add that, that, and that ... totally different salad. And many times, he will give ideas on how take the same basic recipe and make it vegetarian by substituting cauliflower or a legume for the meat. It's really easy once you get the hang of it.
I'm sure you are familiar with the Apple campaign, "There's an Ap for that." Well, Bittman's marketing slogan could easily be "There's a recipe for that." Several times I have had an ingredient that needed to be used up so it would not spoil, and each time I have found a great use for it by consulting with Bittman. Just the other night I had some leftover corn-on-cob, and found a recipe for corn salad that was out of this world.
Don't let this turn you off ... but there are no photographs in this cookbook. Normally, the first thing I look for are great photos of the dishes you can create. Because we all eat with our eyes first, don't we? The only pictures in How to Cook Everything are instructional drawings. But, to be honest, I didn't really notice the lack of photos. I didn't need them, and you won't either. Because the more you make Bittman's recipes, the more you will come to trust him. He will not steer you in the wrong direction. Like the recipe for Watermelon and Tomato Salad ... it seems like the strangest combination of ingredients, but I cannot wait to try it. Especially since watermelon and field tomatoes are at all the local food stands.
If you are in the market for a new cookbook, please pick this one up. Look, this book has more than one thousand pages of recipes and ideas; so, if you cannot find a few good ones that would warrant the $40 you have to shell out for your own copy, then perhaps you should assign meal preparation to someone else in your family.
I think my Grampa would love it, and I wish I could surprise him with a copy of it. Why don't you? Surprise someone that you know with a fresh point of reference for their kitchen.
You can read Bittman's NY Times column, The Minimalist, here.
It was not that long ago that The Piano Man's Daughter came out. I can remember it clearly because I wanted to read it so badly. Therefore, when I stumbled on it at the Public Library a couple of weeks ago, I knew my search for another book written by a Canadian author was over. I could hardly wait to get home.
But when I did get home, I felt as though bitter reality had slapped me right across the face. It turns out that Timothy Findley's The Piano Man's Daughter was published in 1995.
1995? What? That just cannot be true because it seems like it was just a couple of years ago that I read the first reviews of it. Not fifteen years ago! Ugh ... there's that slap of bitter reality again.
It is a great read if you enjoy stories that encompass two or three generations of the same family, or a journey to understand the true character of one individual.
Just as the title suggests, this book tells the story of Lily - the piano man's daughter - and her battle with mental illness as seen through the eyes of her son. It is engaging and interesting, and although it is primarily the story of Lily, it also tells the story of the whole Kilworth family.
There are several themes running through this novel. Mental illness. Fire as a symbol. A little bit of religion. Spirituality, for certain ... Lily believed that "to be born was to be made visible." And the colonies of ants that Lily loved so much ... I would need to research that a little further before speculating.
As I neared the end of this book, I completely forgot that I was reading. I was so engrossed, I felt like I was there, with the characters. It seemed so real, I just knew that it had to be. And, I was right. Findley has acknowledged that the character of Lily was based on his aunt, who was schizophrenic. Findley describes Lily as autistic; however, I would have to politely disagree. Lily is most definitely schizophrenic, as well as epileptic.
Epilepsy brings a really cool aspect to the story because of the meanings attached to it. In ancient times, epilepsy came to be known as a "Sacred Disease." People thought that the seizures were a form of attack by demons, or that the visions experienced by persons with epilepsy were sent by the gods. Could Lily be a vessel? You read it, and let me know what you think.
It is the epilepsy that makes Lily different as a child, and the illness causes her mother (and family) to feel ashamed of her for that reason. They work very hard to hide the illness because at that time, mental illness (of any kind) was something that could bring shame on a family. But once she grows up, it is the schizophrenia that comes to define her life. She is delusional and has hallucinations, which are the hallmarks of schizoprenia. And the changes in her personality begin around the time she is eighteen or nineteen years old ... another indication of a schizophrenic diagnosis.
But I won't be able to convince Findley of my diagnosis because he died in 2002.
The characters really come to life, and force the reader to consider what is right for them. I had to question whether Lily should have had custody of her son? How could a mother choose her husband over the welfare of her daughter and grandson? Yes, she slipped them some money when she could ... but does that make her decision to turn her back on them all right? When do you stop being responsible for your child?
It is unfortunate that it took me fifteen years to pick this book up. Don't make the same mistake I did ... go, get this one right now.
She had been there hundreds of times before, maybe even thousands. But this time was different. At the age of forty-one, she had come to this store in search of back-to-school supplies ... for herself. Although she was very excited, she also felt a little silly, which is the reason she brought her daughter. Perhaps passers-by would just assume the supplies were for the little girl.
"Oh, Mommy," said Martie, holding up a package, "look at these pretty markers."
"Those are highliters," the woman explained. "They are used to mark the important things that you read ... so you won't forget them." Hopefully she wouldn't forget them.
"Can we get the pink ones?" Martie asks.
"Sure."
The woman and her daughter wandered around the store until they had found all the necessities.
"These are the cutest notebooks," said the cashier. "I think I am going to pick some up for myself."
"Do you attend the University?" the woman asked.
"Yeah," the young girl answered, with a little sparkle in her eye.
"Does anyone use actual notebooks to write notes in class?" the woman asked. She was truly interested in the answer, and waited while the cashier thought for a minute.
"Nope. Pretty sure most people use their laptop for notes in class," the cashier reports. There is a small (okay, it's very large) pit in the woman's stomach. "But sometimes I use a notebook. But not very often ..."
The woman laughed. What else could she do, really? When she last attended an institute of higher learning she felt fortunate because she had inherited her Grampa's electrictypewriter after he retired. Honestly. The forty-one-year-old woman could hardly imagine unpacking a laptop to take notes in class ... wasn't that a lot of work just to jot down some notes?
"You know ... I am taking some classes at the University this Fall. And, I am going to use notebooks ... and pencils. I don't care what everyone else is doing ..." she told the cashier, with a little sparkle in her eye, trying to be very self-confident and defiant.
"Well," she said, handing the woman her bag full of back-to-school supplies, "there is nothing wrong with old school."
Wait ... she wasn't totally old school. She has an iPod and a cellphone like everyone else in the free world. She knows about Twitter. It wasn't as though she wasn't current and hip and trendy. Okay ... maybe not totally hip and trendy. But still cool, right?
But she wasn't nineteen years old anymore either. The woman brought perspective and maturity to the university campus this time around. She brings experience. And, she also brings a different level of commitment and an interest that she did not have twenty years ago. This time, she would learn things with a deeper understanding. That is not to say that she did not learn things before. Because staying out with friends until dawn and then doing the same thing the next night was a skill that came in handy for dealing with newborn babies and sick children.
There is nothing wrong with writing notes ... the woman wanted to be a writer afterall. And writers write. Some authors still write their novels long hand ... not very many, but there are some who still do.
Yep, the woman thought, there is nothing wrong with old school.
But she was in the spirit of learning. A laptop on campus could come in handy ... she did have a blog to maintain and she can't study the entire day. She turned to her daughter and said, "Come on, Martie. Let's go check those cute laptop bags I've seen in all the magazines."
Disclaimer: Although this is a fictionalized account, the facts are true - school supplies were purchased and the cashier did tell the woman she was "old school." Real names have changed to protect the innocent.
In September 2006, I brought my oldest child to a strange building full of strange people and left him there ... to find his own way in the world. I was filled such apprehension and anxiety ... I think, because I wanted him to love school so much. Like I did/do. And I wanted him to dazzle the strangers, just like has dazzled his father and I. I ached for him while he was away; he was constantly in my thoughts, hoping he was able to manage without me to help guide him. Pretty pathetic, huh?
Let me assure you, I have changed since those early days. In fact, I have twice the number of years of parenting excellence since then. And, I have a much different perspective.
Today was the first day of school for two of my three children. Number three came along for the ride, so she could check out her classroom and officially meet her JK teacher. Excitement abounded as we approached the school this morning ... oh, and the kids were pretty pumped, too.
It wasn't until the early 1800s that public education began to form in Canada. Prior to that, each family was responsible for educating their own children. Can you imagine the collective scream of joy on the day all the kids went to the first school? Woo-hoo!!
Although we each have our own reasons, I thought I would share the reasons I love school so much ...
(10) I get use the bathroom in private, without someone knocking on the door. Whether I am in there for two minutes or thirty, over the summer months it was a rare occasion if there was not a knock on the door ... usually because somebody wanted "something" (see #6).
(9) I can actually finish what I start ... all in a row, without interruptions. Many posts throughout the summer have been written one sentence at a time; but now, here I sit, typing away ... sentence after sentence.
(8) The quiet. I now hear the breeze through the trees, the hum of my laptop. Not that I don't love the sound of all those giggles, but I have listened to them for nine weeks in a row and am now taking some pleasure in the breeze outside my window.
(7) I don't have to watch Hannah Montana or The Wizards of Waverly Place until after five o'clock each day. Or, the Jonas Brothers. Ugh. I am sure they are all nice kids and stuff, but ... Plus, I know all the words to their songs and I'm starting to laugh at their jokes ... this is troublesome for me.
(6) The number of times that I hear, "Mom, can I (insert most annoying thing your child asks for here) ..." will be greatly reduced. Between the three of them, it seems as though they are at me most of the day for food, drinks, or suggesting fun activities ... like painting (a favourite amongst all girls, I think) or going to the park/beach/grandparents.
(5) My sense of guilt will decrease greatly ... guilt over being a boring Mom. It has been difficult to entertain three kids, all at different stages of development, each with their own interests. And, frankly, a mom's energy level diminishes over the course of the summer ... at least this mom's energy level does.
(4) Stuff that I organize will actually stay organized for longer periods of time. That right, toys will stay in their places and clothes will remain on their hangers in the closet.
(3) I don't have to eat at specific times. If I don't feel like eating lunch until 1:30pm, I can get all crazy and eat my lunch at 1:30pm! Breakfast and supper, however, will remain on schedule ...
(2) Speaking of schedules, I get to have a structure to my day ... which I love. I'll admit that it was harder and harder to jump out of bed (ready to take on the day) as the summer holidays drew to an end. But now, I'm back on track with time-specific goals that must be met!
(1) And, the #1 reason that I am glad it's back-to-school time, is the smiles that greet me at the end of the day. The smiles that assure me friends were played with, new things were learned. And when they can hardly wait to tell you about something really cool that happened at school ... I love when that happens, too.
So, I have my quiet back and I enjoyed a guilt-free coffee this morning. But between you and me, the real reason I am so happy school is back in session is because, if the kids are all back in school, it also means it is time for Mommy to go back to school.
Two days until my first day of school ... but who's counting?
Did you have one when you were little? A blankie, that is?
Mine was pink and it was made of that waffle material. It was so soft and I loved it, a lot. I did not give it up until I was (at least) six years old and certainly not until I was shamed into doing so. Even then I kept it hidden in my closet because I just could not say good-bye. I wonder what ever happened to it?
Addie C. has a blankie, too. And she has loved it to pieces. Literally.
It once was a beautiful shade of pale purple. Now, it is a disgusting shade of dark gray. And it is in rags. Don't worry, I'll tell you what happened to it.
When she was a newborn, Grama Jones made a soft fluffy pink blankie for Addie. And although Addie C. could not tell us if she loved it or not, I loved it so much that Grama Jones bought me a kit and I made her a soft, fluffy purple blankie.
As she grew a little older, and could make some decisions of her own, Addie always chose the purple blankie.
"Popo kiki," she would squeal and point. "Popo kiki!"
And so, the fluffy, purple blankie became known by all as "Purple Kiki." I'm beginning to think she will never leave.
Purple Kiki goes everywhere with us. To the park. To the grocery store. To visit Grama Jones. To drive the big kids to school. Camping with Nana. She even tried to bring it to the beach, but sometimes a mom must enforce some rules. And don't worry ... I'm not one of the completely ridiculous parents who lets their four-year-old drag their blankie through the store. Purple Kiki must stay in the van ... mostly because I would die a thousand deaths if anyone ever saw it! However, in some strange I way I also cherish her and it seems that Purple Kiki has become the sixth member of our family.
Addie C. Jones also likes to suck her thumb. I know ... but there is nothing I can do about it. The more I make of it, the more she wants to suck for comfort - 'cause she feels bad. So I don't even mention it. But, when Addie C. was little(r), I did notice that she likes to grip the blankie in her little hand while she sucks that thumb.
Each night I would lay Purple Kiki across her, the straight edge tucked under her little chin, and watch as she snuggled in. Until one night ...
"No, Mommy," Addie C. Jones explained. "I want a corn."
"Corn? What?" I am searching for answers. "I don't know what you mean, Addie." Let's face it, we're never sure what Addie C. means.
"No. I want the corn of my kiki. Like dis." She begins to turn her blankie until she finds the corner, and I am enlightened. But what you should know, is that there are only two corns which can be snuggled under her nose while she sucks to sleep. The other two are not worthy.
What makes them worthy? I have no idea but I suspect that it has to do with some (disgusting) smell. Because two of the corns are a slightly darker shade of grey than the others. But maybe I'm just being judgmental.
Ugh.
One day, last Fall I came home to find that Addie C. had taken a pair scissors from the craft room and cut slices into one side of Purple Kiki. Now, let me assure you that the way in which I handled this very delicate situation was completely wrong. I should have said, "Oh, well. I guess you don't need Purple Kiki any more. Let's put her in the garbage together." Good riddance.
But no, I think with my heart, remember? And often, the filter in my brain is switched to off, so instead, it goes a little something like this ...
"Oh, Addie. Poor Purple Kiki, you cut her," I say, feeling a loss for this blankie that has been so important to her. But also, attaching human-like sentiment to this inanimate object.
"Oh, Mommy," Addie wails, "can you fix her? Puulllleeeaase ... I love her. Sew her together. Ahhhhhhh..." (imagine many tears dripping down a little girl's face).
"I don't know if I can Addison," I answer, and here comes the really, really bad part. "Maybe Mommy can sew you a new one."
She stops crying, smiles, and screams, "Yeah!! New purple kiki! New purple kiki!" It is at this point that I realize I will never get rid of Purple Kiki. She will live with us forever.
Now, being the excellent parent that I am, I left this task as long as possible. After dealing with my own sense of loss, I kept thinking that she would just give up on it. If there was nothing to replace this "thing," perhaps she would just move on and no longer need a kiki. Or, maybe the nice, clean, soft pink one would become beloved. Plus, she is starting school soon, and she is always telling me that she is a big girl now. So, I kept figuring (which should be read "hoping") that Addie C. would wake up one day not caring about Purple Kiki anymore.
No such luck.
In fact, she cut Purple Kiki some more and essentially made a sleeping bag ... even more cozy than the original. But it is a disgrace and I'm pretty sure Purple Kiki might be health violation.
So, I made her a new one. It is fluffly and soft and it smells fabulous. Addie welcomed it with open arms. She carried Purple Kiki 2 around all day, the original being left in a heap somewhere.
So, on her first night with Purple Kiki 2, I crept into her bedroom to check on her with a little excitement, anxious to see the new kiki in use. There she was, in her bed, the angel that she is, wrapped up in ... in the original. What? Where did she come from?
Purple Kiki 2 has been left lying in a heap on the floor beside her bed.
The next morning I must investigate ...
"Addie, did you sleep with your new Purple Kiki?" I ask.
She looks a little uncomfortable. "No," she mumbles.
I ask her why not.
"It doesn't suck," Addie C. says.
"I know," I say. "It smells great, and it is pretty. No, it doesn't suck - that's for sure." I completely missed the point.
"No, it doesn't suck," she says, pulling at the corn as she sticks her thumb in her mouth.
Oh. It doesn't "suck." Hmmmm.... this is going to be a problem.
Over the last couple of weeks since Purple Kiki 2 entered the scene she has been elevated in status because Addie C. now allows her on the bed. In fact, for awhile, she was using it like a sheet. She needed some time to warm up, I guess. Maybe she felt like she was cheating on the original.
In the meantime, I'm thinking of attaching Purple Kiki 2 to the back of the lawnmower until it gets that real earthy, dirt smell that she seems to adore so much.
Tape Flags are a must so that I can mark those very important passages ... the memory is not what it once was...
I'm not really sure why, but Highliters seem to be a must for all students ... especially when I could just underline the passage with a pen and save myself a few dollars on what will end up being pretty markers used by a 4-year-old princess. But what would be the fun in that?
I know it's weird, but there it is ... I love paperclips.
Romantic, as defined, means to be characterized by a preoccupation with love or by the idealizing of love or one's beloved. We have all felt romantic at one time or another in our lives, some times more than others. For instance, while changing diapers and breastfeeding eight to ten times each day, I did not feel particularly romantic. Tired, mesmerized (by my new little miracle), in love, scatter-brained, but never romantic. However, romance blossomed when Jonesy and I spent the weekend in Niagara-on-the-Lake several years ago, touring wineries and staying in a fancy hotel.
One day, earlier this summer, Jonesy and I took our three children to the Public Library. This was not romantic at all. However, it was fun watching as the kids selected a book to borrow, trying to decipher what it was that caught their attention. As fun as that was, I snuck off for a few moments because I, too, was in need of a new read. Usually, if I am going to borrow a book from the Library, I reserve it and then ask Jonesy to pick it up when he is out doing some other errand I have sent him on. He is my supplier - my book supplier, that is, which in many ways has become like a drug for me.
So, I wandered down the aisles, just waiting for something to grab my attention, for no particular reason. I wanted something written by a Canadian author, something contemporary. I chose a book I had never heard of, nor was I familiar with the author. But something about it drew me in - perhaps the title?- and I am so happy that I found it.
The book I chose is called, The Romantic by Barbara Gowdy. And guess what? When I researched her a bit, it just so happens that she was born in Windsor, but grew up in a suburb of Toronto. But more on Gowdy later...
Louise Kirk's mother leaves when she is nine years old. I mean, the woman just disappears, abandoning her husband and child. Louise will spend the rest of her days looking for a woman whom she can look up to and count on. She looks for a mother (figure) in their housekeeper, in Mrs. Richter, and finally, in the women she works for/with.
A short time after her mother leaves, the Richter family moves into the house across the street. Abel Richter becomes the love of Louise's life, the one that she will do anything for and cannot be without. They are bound together by common circumstances - both having been abandoned by a mother, both social outcasts at school - and they play together as children, until Abel's family moves to Vancouver. In a meeting of chance, they reconnect as teenagers, and immediately fall back into their relationship, but on a much more mature level. The relationship becomes Louise's undoing. She loses herself in Abel, understanding his very soul yet not being able to understand his actions.
However, it is Abel that is of real interest for a girl like me. Because I could have saved him - I know I could have. Consider the following ...
"I had hoped to feel something more, to have a revelation, but the things that occur to me have occurred to me a hundred times before. His excruciating sensitivity to the physical world. His rapturous dreams. His guilt and anguish over the death of the baby bat. His dread of interfering and of choosing. But why did he have these feelings in the first place? Why was he who he was?" - excerpt from The Romantic
Abel was a musician and a poet. He was creative and sensitive to a fault. He never considered himself when making decisions, which ultimately cost him his life. He truly believed that the lives of those who love him most will be better without him in it. He honestly believes that; otherwise, he would not have drunk himself to death. Don't worry ... I'm not giving anything away. The reader becomes aware that Abel dies in the fourth sentence of the novel.
Some of his characteristics - the rapturous dreams, the sensitivity, the anguish over the death of the baby bat - are easily explained for me because Abel is a creative/artistic person. Artists experience the world through emotion, the emotion of the room, of the moment. It is what drives them, in my opinion.
"Why was he who he was?" Abel was the way he was because he was adopted, in my opinion. Now, this intrigues me. You see, I can relate to Abel because I, too, was adopted. I was adopted as a newborn infant, and I will write about it one day because I have many thoughts on the topic. The details of Abel's adoption are never explored and I was hungry for more information in that area. It does not matter how wonderful your adoptive parents are, a child that has been surrendered/abandoned is always left with unanswered questions.
Of course, there are the obvious ones, like why? But there are more things that one longs to know and understand. The circumstances. The choices. The father. Am I like my natural parents in any way?
And, I swear to you, I am not angry with her - the woman who gave birth to me. In fact, I feel sorry for her. I am sure that each year on June 30th, she has a terrible time. She suffers from migraines, or she just withdrawals, or she gets really, really drunk. I have read accounts written by women, who could never understand why their mother became so distant and emotional at the same time each year. Until they found out it was because she was mourning the child she never knew ... on the anniversary of the day they met and said goodbye. It is the only link she had to her child.
But when trying to understand Abel, we need to consider what adoption does to the child. By projecting my own feelings and thoughts on Abel, I would imagine that he questioned why the woman who gave him life did not fight for him. Was he not worth it? Was there something wrong with him? Maybe he just wasn't important.
As a parent, I cannot imagine looking at my newborn child and then signing the papers. I couldn't have ... I would have been one of those rebel girls who got all the stares from the disapproving eyes. But I would have had my child with me. Not with anyone else. Not raised by a stranger. No matter how wonderful that stranger was.
However, I also understand that Abel and I were born in a different time, when society was governed by a different set of rules. Unwed mothers were treated as though they were low-life social pariahs.
Anyhow, I think that Abel is haunted by his adoption. He grew up wondering if the world would be better off without him. Every chance I get, I tell my children how much they were wanted and planned for and anticipated (with love). They know that the moment each of them entered this world was the happiest time of my life. The same cannot be said for the day that I entered the world. Nobody wanted me, and I arrived under a cloud of guilt and shame. I imagine this is how Abel felt, and I expect it is how most adopted children feel.
In fact, I have this image in my mind ... it is of the Nursery. Because way back in 1969, the Nursery is where all the newborn babies stayed while their mothers were in the hospital "recovering" from their delivery. You can imagine it, too, I bet. All the little baby beds pushed toward the window, moved around like puzzle pieces, so the proud new Daddies could show off their greatest prize to all those who came to visit. Tears of joy, smiles, the inevitable comparisons of familial traits. None of which really make any sense, but seem to be a part of having a new baby.
Except that one little bed. Pushed into the back corner, out of the way. Nobody was interested in seeing her. No one smiled. There were no tears of joy. Just tears. Until one day when a stranger came to pick her up and take her away.
But that is where things started to look up for that little baby girl ... I'll tell you about it some day. It's actually a very cool and unique story.
Abel avoided interfering because he feared making a mistake and he cleans his apartment all the time because it gives him a feeling of control. He feared not being chosen. And he would never choose because he would never want to hurt someone. There is no need to choose, in his mind.
Ask Jonesy ... I hate choosing.
"Okay, Jill, do you want good ol' fashioned Chinese food or spicy Thai?" Jonesy will ask me.
"Oh, whatever you want, as long as I don't have to cook it," is my reply.
"Honestly, just pick one," he'll insist. But I can't. Subconsciously, I have been afraid that I'll pick the one he wants the least, and then maybe he'll leave me for some girl who always knows just what type of food he really wants to eat. Because it doesn't really matter what I want ... I mean, I was so undervalued that the woman who gave me life left me behind. So, what makes me think that I should be allowed to pick the take-out we order? And in some really weird way, I don't what to offend the Thai food, but I totally feel like eating good ol' fashioned Chinese Food tonight. And so I find a way to keep everyone happy in my warped mind ...
"Okay, let's have Chinese this time, but we'll order Thai next time, okay? Don't even ask me, just bring home Thai ..." is how I respond. That way, Thai food won't be offended and Jonesy can look forward to a Thai dinner soon. Everyone is happy, right?
Okay, so maybe I need some therapy ... Honestly, the real point I wanted to make is that being adopted affects a person in ways that they may not really understand, certainly not as a young person. It shapes the way in which one sees the world, the way in which one experiences the world. And perhaps, you can only understand it if you, too, were adopted as an infant.
Abel deals with his demons by adding more demons until his life seems hopeless. And helpless. And Louise cannot move through her own life without him. She must see things through to the end.
It's a great read, and obviously invoked many thoughts in the life of me. Don't you just love when you stumble on a excellent book, like that? Or a good movie no one has told you about.
Barbara Gowdy is one interesting lady. She did not have her first novel published until she was thirty-eight years old. She has been married three times, once to an alcoholic who was killed in car accident (I suspect he was her Abel). She is a perfectionist. She studied piano for eight years, practicing five to eight hours per day but quit because she could not perfect the art. (source)
She has a HUGE imagination, writing on topics of gross disfigurement, necrophilia, exhibitionism, reincarnation, and homosexuality. And she is funny ... it always surprises me when something I am reading makes me laugh out loud. And Gowdy did, more than once.
And so, we are left with the question of who "the romantic" is. I could make an argument for Abel, and I can make a argument for Louise. However, if forced to choose (and you know how I hate to choose), it seems to me that Louise is The Romantic. Abel is beautiful and emotional and sensitive ... he writes poetry for God's sake. When he is with Louise, he loves her the best; but I'm not really certain how he feels when Louise is not in the room. It is Louise who is preoccupied with Abel, and idealizes their relationship. It blinds her, really. She thinks the best of him, she only sees the good in him and explains away what she does not want to believe.
She loves him with every ounce of her being. Isn't that romantic?
"My characters feel completely real to me, like old friends whose stories I know well and happen to have been the one who committed them to paper." Lori Lansens (source)
When I finish a book, I feel like I know the characters. Like they are friends of mine. And, often I miss them, because we have been a part of each other's lives for the last few days and by then it is difficult to let go. As I have written before, sometimes I slow my reading pace just so that I have a little more time with them.
I missed Addy Shadd when I was finished reading Rush Home Road, By Lori Lansens. A lot. And I missed little Sharla, hoping that she found some love and stability in her life. As I read, the characters seemed real, like people I might know. But that might be because the story takes place in the same area that I grew up. More on that later...
Rush Home Road begins as the story of little Sharla, who has a horrible excuse for a mother. Sharla is left with a stranger, because her mother wants to run off with her boyfriend. Seventy-year-old Addy Shadd is the stranger, and she opens her home to the little five-year-old girl, treating her as if she were her own child. But in doing so, Addy is forced to confront some unpleasant memories. And as Addy revisits her memories, we (the reader) re-live her life with her. And, that is how the story becomes one of Miss Adelaide Shadd.
A few friends suggested this book when I announced I was going to try and read one hundred books in a year. Lansens is from Chatham, Ontario ... the same town I grew up in. And, although I did not know her, I do know her cousins. So ... it's like I know her, too ... right? I can say that I know a famous author whose brain I can pick, to learn about the writing process - whenever I want. And she can invite me to her "author" parties, where she will happily introduce me to her publishing friends. What? That's not going to happen? Well, I do know her cousins ... that much is true. And I did grow up in the same town as she did.
It gives a story a unique perspective when you know the area you are reading about. In fact, just the other day - for reasons that are much too lengthy to get into now - I drove through Rushton Corners, near Buxton, which is the small town on which Rusholme is based. And there are familiar (last) names throughout the story, too. Plus Lansens has said that she based The Oakwood Bakery (found in all three of her novels) on a bakery/coffee shop that she worked at (in Chatham) as a teenager (source). Lansens and I also attended the same elementary school in Chatham, so we must have lived in the same side of town. Did I know her? She is a few years older than me, but our paths could have crossed. Maybe she brought me a hot chocolate when she was waitressing at that little coffee shop ... 'cause my Mom and I like to go out for hot chocolates.
But even if you are not familiar with the area, you will love this book. It is about being true to yourself and doing what you think/know is the right thing to do (even when it is really hard); it is about surviving the best way you know how. To bring some depth to the story, there is a running theme of feeling like an outsider. Haven't we all felt like an outsider at some time in our lives? I know I have ... several times, in fact. And just wait until I return to university in twenty-two days (but who's counting?) because amongst all the teenagers, I will most certainly be an outsider.
Lansens says this ...
I think that most writers are by nature outsiders, since as observers we live on the fringes and find the most intriguing company there. (source)
So, I am left with the hope I can be included in that company some day ...
We have standing joke in our family. Actually, the men in my family have a standing joke ... I don't think it is funny at all. Neither does my Mom.
When I was growing up,my Mom made chicken and rice casserole; she learned it from her mother. It was in the regular rotation of weekday meals and it was ALWAYS one of my favourites. In fact, if she made some spinach with it ... well, I was in heaven.
As an adult, I know that it is simple to make and you can even do all the prep work in the morning and throw it in the oven 30-40 minutes before you want to eat. Plus, it is easy on the budget. But as a kid, I just knew it tasted good.
And, so when I grew up and got married, I made it for my husband, too. Because it was easy on the pocket book of a newly-married couple and, more importantly, I loved it.
But, apparently, the husbands do not share the same level of adoration for the chicken and rice as the wives do. Probably because they are not in charge of every single week-day meal. Oh, they endured it and smiled appreciatively as they quietly choked back the delicious meal that had been placed in front of them. But they did not like it much ... apparently. And being the wonderful men that they are, they just suffered in silence.
Until recently ... when my Dad let it slip that he is not so fond of the chicken and rice casserole.
"Actually, it's not that I don't enjoy the taste," he explained, trying to dig himself out the hole he had just dug for himself. "It's just that I am so sick of it because it seems like it was all we ate when we were first married. So now, I've been eating it for almost forty-six years." My Dad really has a way with words, doesn't he?
"Yeah," Jonesy adds. "I was starting to think that chicken and rice was the only thing Jill knew how to cook when we first got married." Ummmm ... looks like Jonesy brought his own shovel.
The boys had their chuckle. But I'm pretty sure I'll get the last laugh.
Throughout the summer, the kids and I have been learning about different places around the world. I found a (colouring) map of the world on the Internet, and each week we locate a new country, colour it in, and then we make the flag for that country. We have done crafts associated with that area of the world and learned about animals indiginous to that nation, as well.
However, the most fun part (for me) has been learning about the cuisine of all these undiscovered (to us) regions of the world. And the kids have enjoyed it as well ... learning what other kids around the world eat for breakfast is interesting, I guess. Caiden loves trying new foods ... and the girls do too, as long as it looks good and not weird. Which for two princesses can be almost anything they have not seen before.
This brings me back to chicken and rice. It seems as though every single country in the world has their own version of chicken and rice casserole. Spanish chicken and rice. Thai chicken stir-fry and jasmine rice. Pakistani chicken and basmati rice. It's everywhere ... everyone in the world loves chicken and rice. Except my Dad and my husband.
So, with each country we visit, we try chicken and rice. See? I told you I'd get the last laugh ... because we have not eaten this much chicken and rice in years. Try it ... pick a country (any country) - and I assure you there is a national "chicken and rice" dish associated with it.
But if you want to try the best chicken and rice casserole, make my Grama's recipe.
Chicken and Rice Casserole (By Grama Marnie Smyth)
~3lbs Chicken Pieces (use whatever you like - thighs, legs, (bone-in) breasts) 1 can Cream of Chicken soup 1 celery stalk, chopped 1 onion, chopped 1/4 tsp ground sage 1/4 tsp ground thyme 1 tsp dried parsley Minute Rice (see recipe)
Season the chicken to your own tastes - salt, pepper, sage, etc. Bake the chicken in a large casserole, until cooked all the way through. Remove the chicken from the casserole dish and drain away the majority of the chicken fat; however, remember that the chicken fat will add lots of yummy flavour. If you are not eating straight away, cool and refrigerate the chicken until later.
Meanwhile, combine the can of soup with a can of water in a sauce pan. Add the celery, onions and spices; bring to a boil. Simmer for just a few minutes, and then, using the soup can as a measuring device, stir in two cans of Minute Rice. Pour the rice mixture into the casserole dish, scraping up all the little bits of chicken and flavour off the bottom.
Nestle the chicken on top of the rice and cover with a lid.
Bake in a preheated 350F oven for 30 minutes.
Serve with your favourite vegetables for a great family meal ... according to the ladies in my family.
Okay ... if you have been reading this blog for any length of time, I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you that I find Minute Rice absolutely appalling. So, I have messed around with this recipe, so that I could find a suitable substitute. I use the canned soup, diluted with one can of water plus the spices (never measured, just sprinkled); and to it I add almost one can of long grain rice (Basmati, or Jasmine, or just plain ol' rice). I will also add whatever vegies I think I can sneak past my kids ... shredded carrots, broccoli cut very small, cauliflower will sometimes blend in nicely ... what do your kids like? I bring it to a boil, and then pour into the casserole pan. I do not pre-cook the chicken; I raw chicken drumsticks or thighs. Cook at 375F for at least one hour, maybe even 1 1/2 hours. The result is a creamier rice. And you can use whatever soup you like ... Cream of Broccoli/Celery/Mushroom. But, I have to admit ... every once in awhile I like to make my Grama's original, with a side of spinach.
He is vile and without morals. He sees women as physical conquests ... he loves their bodies before he knows their minds. Sometimes before he even knows their names. He is sexist and lazy and has absolutely no self control. He is the opposite of every characteristic I look for in a man.
And yet, I cannot get enough of Hank Moody. Plus, I would totally hang out with him.
Why would I love a guy who lacks morals and would f-ck anyone, anywhere? Even if it meant losing the one person he truly has a (love) connection with. Now my mother would say, "Is it necessary to use such a vile and offensive word?" And I would have to tell her that "yes, yes it is" because that is what sex is to Hank ... an act, without emotion most times.
Now, I ask you why would I want to be involved with a guy like that?
Do you watch Californication? You should. It is well-written. It is current. It is very funny. And, it is hot.
Jones notes (to get you caught up): Hank Moody is a writer, with one work of creative genius that has made him famous in the literary/artsy world of Hollywood. He has an ex-wife that he loves from his soul and a teenage daughter that he is trying to raise. And if there is trouble within a five mile radius, it will find Hank Moody. Especially, if there is s-e-x involved.
But it brings me back to the question of what makes me want to watch Hank Moody? I mean, there are many women out there who would watch three minutes of his bullshit and wonder what is wrong with me. Me? I cannot wait for the next episode.
I have been an avid fan since the first season. In fact, it was the one television show that I made a real effort to watch ... skipping unimportant paragraphs in unsuspecting little girls' bedtime stories, halting adult conversations, ignoring e-mails because I had to watch Californication at 9pm Monday nights. And when it was all finished after just thirty minutes, I longed for the next thirty minutes.
However, when the third season premiered - almost a year ago now - I was not interested in watching television. In fact, I didn't watch any television. Ever. I was in a place of self-discovery, finding my love of writing and my evenings were spend with a laptop. So, I missed the whole season. But I didn't forget about the show.
The other night, after a very long day of trying to entertain three children, the only thing my brain could handle was just good ol' fashioned entertainment.
Like Hank Moody.
But you cannot just watch one episode and think that you won't care about watching the next one. So, over the course of a weekend, I watched the entire third season of Californication ... please, I beg you to watch this show. It is so entertaining. And you should not love Hank; but seriously, how can you not love Hank?
David Duchovny. Did you watch him as Agent Fox Mulder on The X-Files? Was his name Fox because he is a fox? I'll have to leave that up to you ... but there is some undefined quality about David Duchovny that makes me want to know more about him ... so I googled and clicked a few times.
Guess what? David Duchovny studied English Literature at Princeton; then he went on to get his Masters in English Lit at Yale, and he has partially finished his PhD. In English Literature ...
I knew there was a reason I love like him.
But, Duchovny has had his share of personal problems. If you follow all the gossip, you know that he checked himself into a rehab facility for sex addiciton in August 2008. It was at this point that things became clear to me. Perhaps some of Hank's escapades were based on actual events in Duchovny's life. Not that he could/would ever admit to it. Or perhaps, Duchovny could just really relate to Hank Moody ... which makes for excellent "interpretataion" art. Whatever the reason, Duchovny makes Hank Moody who he is.
And of course, I'm pretty sure I could help him to become the person that he really is deep down in his soul. Because that's the thing ... Hank Moody is a really good person. It's just that he makes some really stupid decisions. Decisions that are going to get him into some deep trouble ...
Unfortunately, the new season of Californication does not start until January 2011. Very disappointing for the die-hards, like me. But it does mean that you have lots of time to get caught up ... go to Blockbuster and check it out.
Maybe the reason that I love about Hank Moody so much is that I want to see him become the man that he is capable of becoming. To realize his potential. I want to watch him grow up ... finally.
