COMPOSITE ARTS No.18: YOUTH

I am happy to announce my story, "Fumbling Towards Greatness," has made its grand debut in Composite Arts Magazine's current issue (No. 18: Youth)
And there was much rejoicing

"Fumbling Towards Greatness" is the title piece from my short story collection (and MFA thesis), and the piece I chose for my graduation reading in Berlin this summer. While I am fond of all the stories in my collection (with a few more to be still completed), in many ways this one is the most directly autobiographical. Not because I wanted to be a boy scout (though I  did. Mostly because I envied the sharp look of the blue Cub Scout uniforms, whose gold kerchief accent seemed to afford the Cub Scout boys a certain gravitas I could never quite achieve in my Brownie outfits, what with their brown and white collared shirts that looked, in my mother's own words, "like men's long underwear." Thanks, Ma!) but because I struggled with––I still struggle with––navigating the internal and external pressures that shape a person's slog through life and ultimately mold us into our identities. The search for identity is probably at the heart of this story: Who we are, who we can be; What we are, what we can be. Entangled in that search is the complicated notion of Destiny as colored and shaded by our favorite piece of folklore, The American Dream.

Anyway, this story found its way over to the Youth Issue of Composite Arts Magazine, thanks to a certain editor who also happens to be in the same MFA program yours truly was so recently graduated from, so thank you Joey Pizzolato! I truly hope you will take time to visit Composite Arts because the journal is innovative, funky, thoughtful, and artistically compelling.  And I am not just saying that because my words grace the center of the current issue. The journal as a whole is a beautiful and visually stunning piece of work so please check it out at this link below:

http://issuu.com/compositearts/docs/composite_no18youth . 

Thanks for reading, and have a Happy Wednesday!

The Idioms Are Running the Asylum

I love language. I love the shape and feel of different words, the twists and glides of sentences, and the flowering of phrases and paragraphs into story.  I love etymologies, the hidden history and carried legacies that hide within the lettered bounds of words. I love the sounds of syllables in fluid progression, the oily shimmer of a word like salubrious and the craggy heft of skullduggery. I love the mischief that language gets up to. I’ll admit I still snicker like a school girl to hear on NPR about “so-and-so, who is a HOMO(wner)”, and there was a time not long ago when news about a Massachusetts “Incan” Paint Factory (or Ink and Paint Factory) dominated headlines. I looked in dumbfounded disbelief when Gina told me her school’s motto was Gropers Who Achieve. (except her school thinks it’s pronounced Grow! Pursue! Achieve!) I am constantly delighted and surprised by the irregularities of our cobbled together English language. We have toad, load and road, so why doesn’t broad rhyme? And who on earth thought it made sense to have the intransitive “lie” (I rather think I might lie down for a bit and see if this ennui doesn’t pass.) assume the form “lay” as its past tense (She lay on the chaise longue until the doctor deemed her hysteria sufficiently quelled.) when ‘lay’ is also the present tense form of a different (but similar in idea) transitive verb (Dear, would you lay that compress over my eyes that my enfeebled nerves not suffer your offending visage any longer?)? Or how about the ending ‘ough’? A tough doughboy who thought he ought to march out with a plough to a Marlborough slough was felled by a cough. It’s a good thing I don’t have kids because if I had a son, I would really lobby to name him Geophgh (pronounced Jeff.)

 

 There are myriad wonderful ways to delight in our language and to revel in its textured complexity, but one aspect of it that seems never to fail to induce agitated palpitations in the hearts of the most phlegmatic of philosophers and stirs the dander on the staidest of staid scholars is, at its heart, a deceptively simple question: 

What is Language? 

This feather ruffling debate evokes such passion because of its philosophical nature. Is language living or dead? Are there certain fixed rules and usages of language by which we simply ought to abide? Or does language and how we use language evolve to suit the needs of those who use it?  Both sides have compelling arguments to make. If there are no standards around which we can agree language ought to be structured, then it ceases to make sense. The sentence, Peter hit Liza with a toy helicopter and dented her head for life.  makes sense because it follows conventional structure. We know Liza didn’t hit Peter, not only because she’s an angel and would never hurt a flea, let along her bullying older brother, but because our sterling grasp of grammar tells us subjects precede verbs and direct objects follow.  But what about this sentence?  Mother, upon hearing a kerfuffle, strode into the room and cried, “Forsooth! This might have been prevented if I hadn’t went to my woman cave for some peaceful repose!  Chances are, you still understand the gist of the sentence (Mother regrets leaving her children alone) even though ‘hadn’t went’ is a grammatical transgression that makes otherwise gentle folk twitch madly and blink their eye lids in aggrieved pain.

Let’s talk for a moment about pet peeves, shall we? Circle up your chairs, people we’ll all go around and count one off. I’ll start: Please don’t throw your slipper at Beulah and I!  Yes, it makes me twitch and spit. Because you wouldn’t ever say, “Please don’t throw your slipper at I!” Would you?  Adding one person or ten thousand people to the list of potential people you might throw a slipper at does not change the fact that you always throw your slipper at me, him, or her, and never at I, he or she.  Please don’t throw your slipper at Tom, Dick, Harry, Eve, Steve, Bathsheba, Genghis Kahn and his whole army, Beulah, him, her, or (especially!) me.  This is called consistency. This particular rule has its roots in Latin grammar, but the more important thing is, we still abide by this rule today. We say, “Don’t throw your slipper at me!” And thus, we also say “Don’t throw your slipper at Beulah and me.” That’s maintaining grammatical structure, and that is why I twitch and spit to hear “I” where “me” is what is correct.

Second pet peeve: Mangled subjunctive sentences: When people say something like If I wouldn’t have looked before I crossed the road, I would have been smashed flat by that speeding tractor. The subjunctive territory is tricky business, and I appreciate this. Perhaps because it is in the land of subjunctive where we slip from the solid ground of certainty towards the dreamy world of possibility: If I had a million dollars, I would buy you a K car (Bare Naked Ladies). If I hadn’t bought a case of mead, I would be anxious about running out this weekend (Liza M.).  I should have gone to the bathroom when I didn’t have to, so that later, if I need to go, I won’t have to (My grandfather. Not strictly subjunctive, but a tangled logical delight nonetheless). It is tricky because such sentences are conditional: if X, then Y.  If I had gone to the bathroom when you told me to,  I wouldn’t be in this smelly rest area toilet now.   If only I hadn’t gone to my woman cave, my precious daughter’s head might still be dent free.  Throwing around should have, would haves, and could haves with reckless abandon muddies up an already complex idea. You are entitled to one per conditional sentence. Are there any exceptions to this rule? Honestly? I am too lazy to dig around and try to find it if one exists. 

       Saying “should have went” instead of “should have gone” also grates on my ears, but I recognize that irregular verbs basically make no sense, so how they are declined can seem fairly arbitrary as well. The past (in Latin, perfect) tense of go is went, so it sort of does make sense that the past perfect (had verbed) would be had went. Except it’s not. It’s had gone. But I understand where you’re coming from with had went. I don’t like it, but I understand. Sigh.

Now it’s your turn.  What are your grammatical pet peeves? Why do they annoy you? And here’s a challenge for you to think about: Do they annoy you because you believe these transgressions somehow fundamentally undermine the foundation upon which our language rests? (See irksome use of “I” as a direct object, above.)  Or do they annoy you, well, Just Because? Here’s an example of a transgression that fails to unleash the full force of my fury: I will always fight for my right to proudly split infinitives. I believe this little no-no comes from the Latin again, where infinitives are one word. Esse means to be. That’s it. Just Esse. No matter how dextrous your Latining skills, you cannot slip an adverb into a Latin infinitive without fracturing it. But here’s where English is different from Latin: We can. Without too much effort, really. Because our infinitives come packaged for us with the handy little helper, to. To Verb. There’s a wee space in the middle, just large enough to squeeze in your adverb. So go ahead, try to casually slip in an adverb. See how easy that was?

Harvard psychologist Steven Pinker breaks the debate around language into two camps: Prescriptivists, who talk about how language ought to be used, and Descriptivists, who describe how language in fact is used.  Where should we stand our ground and defend the integrity of our language in order to preserve its clarity and, ultimately, usefulness, and where should we step back and shrug our shoulders and say with a gentle chuckle, tempora mutantur lingua et mutatur in illis.* I don’t know in which camp I stand. I am of two minds, as I think most people who care about language are.  I know people who would just as soon smite any fool who doesn’t halfway know the proper time to use who or whom but who couldn’t give a fig about apostrophes, while other normally civilized souls might upturn tables in a fury over a participle that’s been left dangling, but then go on Facebook and write OMG, WTF!! And does anybody besides me care about the technical difference between a student and a pupil? My point is we all draw lines in the grammatical sand in an effort to Defend (or preserve?) Language, but then contribute in some other area to changing it. Sometimes we are right to defend it, sometimes we should stay cool and let things change. So where to draw that line? Those who would clutch their pearls and shriek that the word ‘gay’ has been hijacked from their vocabulary demonstrate their ignorance with the word’s sordid and ribald march through the ages. On the other hand, don’t we sacrifice precision and risk losing a rich etymological history when we say the crops were decimated by locusts and rogue children when what we probably mean is the crops were devastated by locusts and rogue children?

So all this brings me back to that question. What is language? What is its purpose? Is it a tool whose integrity relies on the steadfastness of its inflexible truths? Or is it a tool whose integrity lies in its ability to shift and adapt and change according to the needs of its users? The answer, of course, is yes.

* I am dusting off some cobwebs to riff off this speech from Illiad. Roughly, speaking, it means times change, and language changes in those times. With apologies to my friend and Latin teacher, Julia Brown.

Color Me Confused

Trigger Warning: Contents below are of a wonky/political nature and may inspire yawning, boredom, and in some cases, extreme eye glazing from those who have better things to do than watch Frontline documentaries on a Saturday night.

I’m really not trying to be dense here, and I haven’t been mining this story extensively, but I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around this Edward Snowden/NSA leak explosion thing because there seems to a bit of a paradoxical angle to it all.

Let me see if I can get this sorted out:

Snowden’s decision to leak all these millions of documents to Glenn Greenwald and a few others has, in the words of the NSA and administration, threatened our national security. This may be true. It probably is true, but that’s not what I can’t wrap my head around. What I can’t wrap my head around is what Snowden's ability to leak details about NSA's secret program reveals about the efficacy of that secret program.

So as we learn from Snowden’s leaks, the NSA  ––hello there fellas!––  has been collecting anything and everything on us it can tap into: phone records, emails, library accounts and God knows what else. And as we learn the full juicy colored details of how two administrations and the NSA have been keeping full frontal tabs on us all, we have demanded to know what purpose this unprecedented level of data collection on US citizens serves.

And we are told––what? This unprecedented level of data collection on US citizens serves as a necessary means to detect and root out possible threats to our national security.

Threats to our national security like, um the Snowden leaks?

So how well is this program working again, NSA?

The very fact that Snowden was able to get such a massive leak out to the press demonstrates the glaring fallacy of their argument, doesn’t it?

Oh but he was using aliases and encrypted codes in his emails and communication.   Phew, that’s a relief. Because anybody with an intent to harm the country wouldn’t think to do that.

I guess I don't understand how the NSA can argue that the broad reach and extensive depth of their data collection on Americans has been working (and is therefore warranted) to keep America safe when their very system failed not only to prevent Snowden from posing a threat to national security, but failed to keep themselves safe from (embarrassing) exposure. Something about their argument for their program and against Snowden seems awash in self-invalidation.

It’s also not as though this particular secret program, with its capability to spy on Americans was the only system the NSA had developed in order to collect information that could pose threats to our national security. But I leave further exploration of that topic to Frontline’s 2 part series, “United States of Secrets.”

As I said earlier, it’s entirely possible I’m being dim here. it's possible I'm missing a large piece of the argument/situation/scandal but unfortunately this is about the condition of my brain right now.  I suppose this is what happens when I have actual things I need to get done for school.

So Hipster It Hurts

Ahhhh, spring!

It’s finally here. Nothing ushers in thoughts of another New England spring like a minor snow/sleet storm on March 31^st, but nothing that good roaring fire in the woodstove can’t eventually thaw out. Finch finally started to move again sometime yesterday afternoon and I am happy to report that she has nearly forgiven me for trying to turn her into an icicle on our Monday morning walk. (I wasn’t trying obviously, but such nuance, like so much else these days, escapes her dottering sensibilities.)  It was during this unwelcome deluge, when I sat huddled by the fire and under my blanket with two shivering dogs by my side––even the cat’s crankiness had seized up in the dank chill. It took too many calories to complain––that sudden inspiration struck. 

Paraphrase of Inspired Thought: 

You know, I could really go for a big slobbery vat of steaming macaroni and cheese about now.

If the first image that pops to your mind when I talk about this bastion of American cuisine is more or less this:

or even this:

I got one word for you:

Not that I have any complaint with the concoctions that fine food scientists from Kraft industries have unleashed upon our civilized world (even if their cheese powder continues to be an alarming shade of orange), nor those of their their wholesome hippy counterparts. That boxed stuff is perfectly fine for the macaroni hobbyist or dilettante who occasionally dabbles in pasta e fromage. Heck, I’ve consumed at one sitting entire pots of mac and cheese the shade of Chernobyl and have enjoyed every last slurp but let’s face it. Even Organic Annie’s is still down in the Intramural Leagues of Macaroni and Cheese Creation.

And Hipster don’t play that game.

I let the genius of my idea begin to take sturdy root in my mind and then commenced to gathering the provisions that could help me turn this dream into reality.

Because what the Varsity League* teaches you is there is no reward so sweet as the satisfaction of accomplishment earned through hours of honest industry and toil.

*You may substitute in “Puritan Inferiority Complex” here if that is more directly applicable to your own experiences.

 Which is to say this is just background and context to lay the groundwork for our main feature.  Please remember to silence your cell phones, now sit back and enjoy our Feature Presentation.

VARSITY LEVEL KITCHEN SPORTS

Episode 1

MAKING MACARONI AND CHEESE 

 WITH CHORIZO SAUSAGE, BROCCOLI, AND MUSHROOMS

Serves: Um, two. 

Prep Time: Approximately 5 Months, 4 days, 26 hours.

Bake Time: 10 Minutes

Bread Crumb Topping:

2 Tbsp butter

2 Cups of Fresh, Seasoned Bread Crumbs

Pasta:

1 lb Elbow Macaroni

Cheese Sauce

6 Tbsp butter

1 Garlic clove

1 Tsp Dijon mustard

¼ Tsp hot pepper

1 Tsp Dried Sage

6 Tbsp all-purpose flour

3 ½ Cups whole milk

1 ¾ Cups chicken broth

1 lb Colby cheese

½ lb Farmhouse Cheddar cheese

1 Cup Chantarelle and Morel Mushrooms

1 Cup Broccoli

1 lb Chorizo sausage

Other Tools Needed.

4 Gallons whole milk

Rennet, culture, enzyme, cheese salt, cheese cloth, brush, cheese wax, and pot dedicated to             cheese waxing

1 Cheese press OR lumber and hardware and tools to build one

1 Cheese mold

2  5-lb weights

1 Cheese cave  OR dedicated dorm-sized refrigerator

1 Mushroom collecting basket

1 Garden

1 Hot Pepper seed  OR flat

1 Sage seed  OR  flat

1 Trowel

Flour, yeast, water, sugar, and salt to bake an approximate 1.5 lb loaf of bread

1 Pig, meat grinder, and sausage seasoning ensemble OR  1 CSA farm share

1 Whole chicken

2 Bay leaves

Dash Pepper

Pinch Salt

Optional

1 Dehydrator

Prepare Ahead of Time:

1.  Taking lumber, hardware and tools to build cheese press, go ahead and build your cheese press.

      (Time: approximately 1 week)

Figure 1: Cheese Press (maple)

Gonna party like it's 1899

2.  While glue on cheese press is drying, start your garden. Using trowel, carefully plant your pepper and sage seed / flat. Water as needed. (approximately 5 months)

Figure 2: Dramatic reënactment of pepper and sage seeds just planted

3. While garden is growing, take 2 gallons of whole milk and enough rennet, enzymes etc. to make 2lbs of Farmhouse Cheddar curds. (approximately 4 hours)

Figure 3: Proto Cheese of the Cheddar variety. Or is it Colby? Or Mozzarella?

4. Using cheese cloth, press, weights, wax, cheese cave / fridge,  press curds into cheese and age approximately 6 weeks – 2 months. (approximately 2 months)

Figure 4? 

6. In 2-4 weeks, repeat Steps 3-4 for Colby Cheese, and age approximately 4-6 weeks. (approximately 6 weeks and 4 hours)

Figure ??  

7. While Cheese is aging, take mushroom basket into forest and forage 2 cups of Chantarelles  and/or Morels.  Brush and clean with soft brush. (approximately 3 days) 

Figure ∑: Basket-o-Chantarelles and Antler. A study (2014)

     

After cleaning with soft brush

       

Optional: If it looks like the mushrooms won’t make it until the other ingredients are ready, you may dehydrate them, reconstituting in water about an hour before you need them. (approximately 3-4 days)

Figures

8. Harvest pig; grind, and season into sausage. Alternatively, root through CSA meat share until you find packaged Chorizo.

Figurine: I see the hind do and sperribs, but where on earth is the sahsage I want to know? 

9. While your farmer is harvesting your pig and turning it into sausage, bake loaf of bread. You may eat portions of it while it is fresh, but purposely save/forget entirely about until it’s gone hopelessly stale, about 2 cups. (approximately 3 days)

Figure I'd rip this graphic off of www.dripbook.com

12. Harvest ¼ pepper, 1 tbsp sage from garden. Dehydrate or air dry (8 hrs – 3 days)

Figure 12:  Has not been properly licensed and has been subsequently blocked or removed from the site. We regret any inconvenience.

                                                            -The Management

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees

2. Grind up stale and forgotten about bread in Cuisianart. Season with dried herbs and butter. Award yourself five points if they are your own herbs, but that is not required. Set bread crumbs aside. (approximately 5 minutes)

3. Take Chicken and put in pot of boiling water to make 1 ¾ Cups of chicken stock*. Let simmer. Add bay leaves, salt and pepper.   When done, set aside chicken for future dinners (approximately 4 hours)

* An earlier edition had this incorrectly posted as 2 13/4 cups of chicken stock. Upon realizing this error, we had the offending editor summarily dragged from her post and shot. We apologize for any inconvenience.
                                                                                                                            -The Management

4.  Removing chorizo sausage from intestinal casing, crumble and pan fry sausage until cooked. Set aside. (approximately 15 minutes)

5. Reconstitute mushrooms, if needed.

6. Cook Macaroni, drain and set aside.

7. Use garlic, butter, flour, chicken stock and milk to make your basic beschemele sauce. Add mustard and your harvested, dried hot pepper and sage.

8.  Cut 1 lb of Colby cheese off your wheel and cut into small chunks, adding a little bit at a time into the bechemele while you stir with a whisk.

9. Repeat step above with Cheddar, using 8 ounces or ½lb.

10. Cut up 1 cup of broccoli. Combine broccoli, pasta, chorizo, mushrooms into large baking dish and mix together to evenly distribute.

11. Add cheese sauce and stir, coating noodles-n-chunks evenly

12. Sprinkle breadcrumbs over the top

13. Cover in foil and bake 8 minutes covered, then uncover and bake 2 minutes.

14. Present and Serve.

          Helpful Tip: Be sure to compliment your wife on her newly finished sweater vest and her other marvelous accomplishments . . . 

Figures of Loveliness: Seriously, isn't this vest sweet?  Did you notice the DNA up the center? Bad. Ass. Alright? 

. . . in order to divert attention away from the state of the kitchen as you’ve left it, and to lessen her shock when she does eventually does notice it.

      After an exhaustive flurry of activity that utterly unnerved the dogs and made me giddy with anticipation to taste the fruits of my industrious efforts, I proudly presented my masterpiece to Gina that evening at dinner. She was suitably impressed and allowed as how I must have been working hard to pull it all off.

 Oh shucks, I said. It was a team effort, really, I said. And though I was being sort of falsely modest because I was hoping to continue the praise, it was also actually true. She made the cheese, I made the cheese press. She grew the garden. We both foraged the mushrooms. Together we waged a war against ease, convenience, shortcuts, and every advance of modern civilization to make a big slobbery vat of steaming macaroni and cheese that was, as a certain someone used to say,

Perfectly Delicious

Gina took a bite and looked up. She smiled. You know what this macaroni and cheese is?

I unlaced my shoes and slipped my feet out the highly fashionable but stiff wingtips, letting my feet have a chance to wiggle free. No, what is this macaroni and cheese?

She breathed in, savoring the meaty apricot tang of the chantarelles and the sharp note of our farmhouse cheddar, now mixed together in beautiful harmony.

This macaroni and cheese is:

So Hipster it Hurts.  

She adjusted her fresh-off-the-needles DNA sweater vest.

 Ha ha! I said. That's great! So hipster it hurts!  By the way, your vest looks awesome.

Aww, thank you honey. By the way, this meal is freaking delicious.

Aww, thank you honey. 

I took off my fully functional prescription monocle and gave it a quick buff with its designated wipey cloth thing.

Hipsters! Us! Ha hahahaha.

And so we fell into the easy routine of our nightly conversations. She continued to compliment my efforts of the kitchen, and I continued to be as endearing and charming as I could possibly manage, silently crossing my fingers that when she finally looked up and noticed the mountain of dishes in the sink that stretched towards the heavens and teetered in precarious piles on every stretch of counter, she would remember the great feeling of satisfaction which comes from hours of honest industry and hard toil.

Figure The End.