Monthly Archives: February 2016

Home, Nature

Going, Going But Not Quite Gone

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In Maine, what a difference a week can make. The snow is nearly gone from the backyard, and we can see the garden and some of the patio. The area by the clothesline is free, and I long to start washing blankets so that I can hang them outside.

The backyard
The backyard

 

“Not quite yet,” Clif has advised. “The ground is still too soft, and the weight of the blankets will pull the line over.”

He is right, of course, and I’ll hold off washing the blankets for another few weeks. But now and then, I look longingly out the window at the line.

The waiting clothesline
The waiting clothesline

 

Yesterday, in an extreme case of Pushing the Season, Clif and I went outside and mucked around for a bit. I mean this literally. Our shoes left footprints in the mud, and where it was shady—this includes the whole front yard—we left footprints in snow that is as soft as a coconut slushy.

The front yard
The front yard

 

I had originally gone out to pick up sticks in the backyard. When you live in the woods, there are always a fair number that fall during the winter. I gather them and put them in a large garbage can, and we use them in the firepit in the summer.

The ground was really too soft for this chore, but Clif soon found another that was more appropriate. That is, removing usable wood that had been trimmed by the power company and left in an untidy clump in our front yard. While he was at it, he brought out the ladder and sawed some branches that were hanging too low. We saved what we could use, and the rest I hauled into the woods, where I made a little brush pile for the creatures who live there.

All in all, we spent a good couple of hours at our task, and when we were done, the front yard looked much better.  We came in with wet feet and a sense of accomplishment. I popped some popcorn and we settled in the living room to read and to eat our snack. The dog, who had been supervising outside, jumped on the couch so that he, too, could have some buttered popcorn. All was snug and cozy.

I’m going to conclude with a wood metaphor. Going out on a limb, I’m predicting that winter is over, and we are on the cusp of mud season, early spring in Maine. The days are ever so much longer, and yesterday I heard our resident cardinal singing his spring song.

Naturally, this winter I did not accomplish anywhere near as much as I wanted with my inside chores—the perpetual cleaning and decluttering.  Never mind! On bad days I will work on those projects. Right now, I am itching to be outside, even if it’s only to muck about in the yard.

Of course, Mother Nature might give us one her little surprise March snowstorms, which will cover all the bare ground and make everything even wetter and soggier. But the snow won’t last long.

Spring is edging her way in, and how welcome she is.

Snow dog
Snow dog
Food for Thought, Movies

Sordid Realism: Jafar Panahi’s Taxi

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taxi2Last Saturday at Railroad Square, we saw the Iranian film Jafar Panahi’s Taxi. (It was part of a film series—Cinema Explorations—that Clif and I help organize.) The filmmaker, Jafar Panahi, a gadfly of the Iranian regime, has for some years been under house arrest and has been forbidden to make films. His response? Make movies that pretend not to be movies but of course really are movies. Hence, Taxi, where he flouted house arrest to drive around Tehran in a taxi and film various passengers and their conversations.

Part documentary, part narrative, part cinéma vérité, this terrific movie explores different aspects of Iranian life and culture. Executions, women’s rights, imprisonment, repression, movies, and superstition are all discussed as passengers come and go.

I was especially taken with the section of the movie where Panahi picks up his teenage niece Hana from school. Hana is a budding filmmaker, and she carries her trustee Canon camera around so that she can shoot street scenes as her uncle drives through Tehran. Panahi and Hana talk about making movies, and she worries about the filming restrictions her teacher has placed on her. The teacher’s list is long, but “sordid realism” is a particular bone of contention for Hana.

Now, when we Americans think of the term “sordid realism” what might come to mind can be very nasty—graphic sex, graphic violence, disturbing behavior, bad language. I must admit that I tend to avoid movies that dwell too much on what I consider sordid realism. However, if a movie is very good, then I will make exceptions.

But to the Iranian censors, sordid realism means something quite different. Instead, it is a term—almost doublespeak—applied to anything that might make Iranian society look bad. In the niece’s case, it applies to a young street boy who steals money dropped from a bridegroom on his way to his car after his wedding. Hana has filmed the theft, and tries to convince the young boy to return the money. However, things don’t go exactly as Hana wants, and the boy ends up with the money.

After her uncle drives away from the boy, Hana frets about this at some length, knowing that her film won’t win any prize money if it contains such sordid realism as a street boy stealing money. And without the prize money, how can she go on to make a better film next time?

How indeed? I expect that Hana’s worries are also shared by her uncle. How can artists create with such unreasonable restrictions and censorship? As Panahi so deftly illustrates with this movie, it can be done. But at what cost?

As I mentioned earlier, I am not a fan of what I consider sordid realism, but unless animals and children are harmed in the process, I firmly believe that filmmakers have the right to make the kind of movies they want. For example, I have never seen the The Wolf of Wall Street. Too many friends have warned against it for the sheer ugliness of the sex scenes. But that is my individual choice, one that I don’t necessarily expect others to make.

And that makes all the difference.

 

News

Freeing the Birds at Woolworth’s

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At the little house in the big woods, whatever the season, the backyard is aflutter with birds, and it gives me great joy to watch them as they flit from the trees to the bird feeder. Finches, woodpeckers, chickadees, nuthatches, and many other birds come to eat. Our friends Beth and John are just as crazy about birds as we are, and last year on a warm spring day, we spent a happy afternoon on the patio, watching the birds.

In the winter, of course, I watch from inside, often as I am doing dishes. Winter is a hungry time for birds, and there are always a lot clustered at the feeders.

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The other day, as I was watching the birds in the backyard, I remembered the time I freed the birds at Woolworth’s in Waterville. I was three or four years old, and in those far-gone, innocent times, I was allowed to look at the toys and the pet section by myself while my mother did her shopping. I was a quiet child. not prone to running around and screaming and breaking things. My mother felt as though she could trust me, but you know what they say about the quiet ones.

On the day I set the birds free, I watched the bright fish swim in their tanks and listened to the bubbling sound that came from the water. I admired the silky hamsters, curled in a ball, their little noses twitching from time to time. Then I came to the birds, tweeting and jumping in their cages. I remember feeling sorry for them, trapped in such a small space.

Without hesitation, I undid the latch of one the cages and opened the door. With a swoosh, the birds flew from the cage, and their quick motion startled me, making me realize that what I had done was probably not a good thing, at least from the store’s point of view.

I found my mother, but I didn’t tell her about the birds until we were at the lunch counter, and two parakeets went by.

“Look at those parakeets,” my mother said. “I wonder who let them out.”

I confessed right away. “I let the birds out.”

“Shush,” she said, and I could see that she was trying not to smile.

Our food came, and as we ate, birds flew over our heads, and I could hear them twittering. No doubt they were eventually caught and returned to their cages. But for a short time, anyway, they had escaped their confinement and did what birds are born to do—fly.

When we got home, my mother scolded me, just a little, telling me I was never to let the birds out again, and I didn’t. But to this day, I  see my younger self and my quick little fingers, unlatching the cage door and letting the birds fly free.

And it still makes me smile to think of it.

Food, People

Lunch with Piper and Beth

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Yesterday, I was invited to have lunch with my friend Beth and her granddaughter Piper, who soon will be two.

Before lunch we played a game of peekaboo.

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Then came a wonderful lunch of chicken salad with grapes, almonds, and a bit of marmalade with the mayonnaise; raspberry muffins; and cantaloup.  For dessert, hermit cookies. Let’s just say my reputation as A Good Eater remains untarnished.

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After lunch, we had tea and chatted while Piper played, involving us from time to time in say, ball or change the baby doll’s diaper.

All too soon, it was time to leave so that Piper could have stories and a nap.

Before I left, I said, “When the weather is good, come join Liam and me for a walk on the trails behind the Winthrop high school.”

“Piper has a jogging stroller,” Beth said. “And we’ve gone on the trails in Vaughn woods.”

“Then trails at the high school shouldn’t give you any problem,” I said.

Piper blew me a kiss, and I blew one back. As I drove home, I thought about what I would have for Beth and Piper after the walk. A light lunch, perhaps, and some little toy—toy farm animals or dinosaurs for Piper to play with.

I’ll be on the lookout.

Food, Movies

Pizza, Pumpkin Roll, and Monsoon Wedding

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Last night was movie night at the little house in the big woods, where we were joined by three friends—Alice and Joel and Diane—to watch and discuss a movie. Last night was Alice’s turn to choose, and she picked Mira Nair’s Monsoon Wedding.

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The movie came out in 2001, and this was a second viewing for all of us.  Alice and Joel told of how they saw Monsoon Wedding for the first time at the Toronto Film Festival, right after the terrorist attacks on September 11. A joyous, bright film about an arranged marriage in India, Monsoon Wedding was just what Alice and Joel needed to see after the terrible attacks. (Can fifteen years have really passed since that dreadful day? We had a daughter living in New York City and another one living in Washington, DC. It is a day Clif and I will not forget.)

But back to movie night. Clif made two of his delectable pizzas. We always mean to get a picture of them, but somehow, between the rush to eat and watch the movie, we never do.

We were more on top of things with the beautiful dessert—a pumpkin roll—that Alice made. As soon I saw that roll, I knew it should have its picture taken.

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I am happy to report that the pumpkin roll tasted just as good as it looked. After watching Monsoon Wedding, we had coffee, tea, and pumpkin roll as we discussed the various aspects of the movie—in particular, arranged marriages. While acknowledging there were no guarantees with any marriage, I noted how strange it would be to marry someone you had never met or seen.

“Different customs for different cultures,” Diane observed, and how right she is.

We can be grateful to movies and books (and blogs!) that bring us glimpses of other cultures. They remind us that the world is full of diversity, and they enlarge our perspective, which is always a good thing.

Food, Movies

Youth and Gelato: A Trip to Brunswick

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Yesterday, Clif and I took the afternoon off and headed to Brunswick for a movie and gelato. We had a gift certificate for each event, which meant that except for the gas, the outing was free—our favorite price.

Brunswick has an arty downtown filled with cafés and restaurants and various other shops. While it’s fun to walk on the sidewalks and look at the window displays, crossing the street is another matter. For some inexplicable reason, four lanes go through the downtown, and getting across them can feel like a heroic effort. There is only one spot with a sort of island and a walk signal to help pedestrians cross. Otherwise, it’s just a crosswalk. Hoping that cars will see you and therefore stop, you hold your breath as you scurry across the road.

But Clif and I made it safely across the road to Eveningstar Cinema, which shows independent films. We went to see Youth, directed by Paolo Sorrentino, who seems to be Fellini’s artistic, if not actual, heir. Odd characters are liberally sprinkled throughout this film—a grotesquely obese former sports star; a masseuse with jug ears, braces, and a rodent-like face; an expressionless woman who makes giant soap bubbles for the evening’s entertainment.

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Youth is set in a resort in the Swiss Alps, and the resort is frequented by the weary one percent, who all appear as though they are about to die of ennui. Somehow, though, despite the the odd characters and the stylized and often surreal look of the film, Youth is a moving exploration of old age and the regret and diminishment that come with it.  At the center of the story are Fred Ballinger, a composer, and Mick Boyle, a movie director. They are played respectively, and wonderfully, by Michael Caine and Harvey Keitel, who in real life do not at all seem to be diminished by age.

The esoteric Youth is not what I would call a crowd pleaser—although there were plenty of people who came to see it on a Wednesday afternoon at 1:30—but both Clif and I are admirers of this director, who manages to combine surrealism with deep emotion, not an easy trick.

After the movie, we again courted death by crossing the main street to have gelato at the incomparable Gelato Fiasco, where we both had hazelnut and chocolate. So very good.

Since December, the days have gotten longer, and we were able to make it home before dark. The older I get, the more I like this, especially during the winter.

The afternoon had been sunny and fifty degrees warmer than it was on Sunday. What a wild swing! However, this meant the house was warm, and there were still coals in the wood furnace. Clif had no problem restarting the fire.

For our supper we had chili on baked potatoes—I keep cans of chili in the pantry for just such an occasion, when we are out and about and want an easy meal to fix when we come home. A cozy, hearty supper after a good afternoon in Brunswick.

 

 

cooking

How I Learned to Roll Pie Dough

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Yesterday, as I was rolling the dough for our quiche, Clif said, “You sure do know how to roll pie dough.”

I laughed. “And no wonder. I’ve rolled out dough for hundreds of pies.”

Not because our family eats so much pie—although we like pie as well as the next family—but instead because when I was a young woman, I worked in the bakery in one of the dining halls at Colby College in Waterville. Everything was made from scratch, including the pies, and we would spend entire afternoons rolling dough.

Fran York was the head baker, and she was the nicest boss I have ever had. Soft spoken and cheerful, Fran set a calm but hard-working tone, and there was never an ounce of drama in her bakery. She had that elusive quality that so many bosses don’t have—-in her own quiet way, she made us want to work as hard as we possibly could. But she never badgered, harangued, or scolded us. We just wanted to do our best for Fran.

She came in early and worked until 3:00 p.m., leaving us, her assistants, to finish the work we had started. On one particular day, it was pies.

“We need one hundred and fifty” Fran said. “But if you do seventy-five, that will be fine. We can roll out the rest tomorrow morning.”

Then she left, and there were two of us, one of whom was Fran’s mother. Unfortunately, I can’t remember her name, but she was a lively woman, a southerner, an extrovert—unlike Fran—and oh so fun to work with. “Son a’gun!” was one of her favorite sayings when something surprised her. Like Fran, she was a hard worker.

“What do you say?” she asked after Fran had left. “Let’s see if we can roll out all those pies by the time we leave.”

And so we began. The flour flew, the rolling pins thumped against the big work table, and pie after pie was made. Five, ten, twenty-five, fifty.

Fran’s mother sang, “Can she make a cherry pie, Billy boy, Billy boy? Can she make a cherry pie, charming Billy?”

We were, of course, making cherry pies, and I grinned as Fran’s mother sang.

We reached one hundred. “We’re almost there!” Fran’s mother cried.

More flour flew, and the thumping of the rolling pins grew louder. “One hundred and fifty,” came the triumphant call. “With plenty of time to clean up.”

My apron was covered with flour, and my face had a fair share, too. But I felt triumphant. We had exceeded Fran’s expectations.

The next day when I came in, Fran said, “My, you two did a good job yesterday. Look at all those pies ready to bake.”

I felt as though I had been given a prize—praise from Fran.

“Oh, we worked right along, didn’t we, Laurie?” said Fran’s mother.

We certainly did.

And forty years later, how did my one little quiche turn out?

“Pretty darned good,” my Yankee husband said.

Addendum: About all those cherry pies: I forget to mention that the pie filling and the dough were made ahead of time for us. All we had to do was roll. And, it took us hours. We were working the late shift, and we rolled until the end.

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Home, Nature

One Cold Valentine

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The headlines in the Sunday paper got it just right—“Caution urged as teeth-chattering cold moves in: Wind chill temperatures could hit 35 below in parts of New England.”

The cold has certainly come to central Maine. When we got up this morning, there was ice on the inside of the windows, which melted as Clif stoked the wood furnace and brought the inside temperature up to something approaching warm.

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Clif, intrepid soul that he is, still took the dog for a walk up and down the road. When he came back, he snapped a picture of our outside thermometer. As we Mainers might say, it was a little brisk outside.

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On such a cold Valentine’s day, we both decided that a special breakfast was in order, and Clif made eggs and toast.

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To celebrate Valentine’s Day, we had originally planned to go to a movie and then out for gelato afterwards. But the cold changed our minds. Instead, we decided to stay home, where we could tend the fire in the wood furnace. We do have back-up heat—propane and electric—but nothing warms a cold house the way wood does.

This evening, I’ll be making a quiche with smoked cheddar, a rich dish for special occasions only. We’ll have a couple of rum and cokes and listen to music. We’ll watch a movie at home.

In the next few days, the weather is supposed to be significantly warmer. Then, we’ll venture forth for that movie and gelato.

Until then, we’ll stay in our own snug house.