Two Movies

I used to love going to movies. I'd go to movies every night of the week, sometimes even double features! Lately, I don't know. I'm tired of going and being disappointed. Watching them at home, there are so few that inspire me. Even when I enjoy them at the time, I hate myself in the morning. But I can't always be the wet blanket, so this weekend I agreed to rent a movie with my younger daughter on Friday night, and go out to see a movie with my eldest tonight. Here's the rundown:

Taking Woodstock -- "Based on a true story", a tale about the small town that hosted the Woodstock festival in 1969. This had gotten so-so reviews, and having lived through the sixties, I was prepared to hate it. Surprisingly, it was altogether enjoyable. Accurate? I doubt it. But fun and poignant at the same time. I think what saved it was the fact that, where the film maker could have been extremely heavy-handed with the visual imagery and the hippy stereotypes, instead it was handled with a very light touch. So you could laugh about the theater troupe doing Chekov in the nude, instead of sink into your chair and squirm with embarrassment. And the best part? When the protagonist's father, a Russian Jewish immigrant, called someone a schnook. I haven't heard that word -- haven't even thought of it -- since my parents died.

An Education -- A screenplay by Nick Hornby is reason enough to see this one. Takes place in 1961, the story of a 16 year old English schoolgirl who takes up with an older, more worldly man. I don't want to say too much for fear of spoiling it for you, but it is definitely well worth seeing. Well acted, entertaining, thought-provoking …

Both movies are recommended.

Happy Birthday to one of the Lights of my life!

She was almost a groundhog. It was February 3, 1996 around 10 a.m. when our third daughter, Grace Marguerite, entered the world. Outside was bitterly cold --  -27˚F. While in labor I made my husband and my friend Fay walk me around the block in the wee hours of morning. Twice.

I haven't looked at the photos from her birth-day in a long time. I am a little unprepared for the emotions that are welling up. Grace's birth was such an enormous joy, but -- perhaps unfairly for her -- it was imbued with an incredible mix of emotions: grief, anxiety, and hope. She was born exactly a month after my dad's sudden passing, and we were still reeling from that. Also, as many of my faithful readers know, Grace was born subsequently to her older sister Sophie's death. (It pleases me to notice that in the upper left corner of the photo of Ed holding Grace, is another photograph of Anna holding her newborn baby sister Sophie.)

Grace came and helped us heal. I smile like the sun when I think about that day. Happy Birthday, dear Grace!

Photographs taken by Fay McClurg

Sad Day

R.I.P. Howard Zinn -- one of my heroes. His death is an enormous loss to the world.

Ah, Kindergartners

I've been back in school for 3 days, and the cuteness is pretty darned cute. A quote from yesterday: "Ms. Grindrod, I'm going to the bathroom. I have to go poop, so I might be gone for a while, just in case you're wondering." I guess she was afraid I'd suspect her of playing in the bathroom, which is one of my pet peeves.

Same child returned from lunch today with a speck-sized hangnail and quickly escalated to a wail of "It's bleeeeeding! I need a baaaaaand-aid!" "Yes, I can see that it's gushing blood," I replied. "We may have to call the custodian to mop up." My sarcasm was lost on her, as she agreed with me. I was to drop everything and get a band-aid -- which I did.

On the way to the cafeteria for lunch, another child earnestly suggested that everyone should have to genuflect before eating their lunch. (She didn't actually say "genuflect"; she just gave a demonstration.) I tactfully told her that I didn't think a requirement like that would go over to well in [public] school.

Later on she couldn't find her library book and was becoming quite upset. When we finally found it, she told me "I think the Lord helped us find it!" (Kind of reminds me of my mom. She'd say, "Which of you spilled cocoa on the counter and didn't wipe it up?" We'd all brush her off: "I don't know. It wasn't me …" and exasperated, she'd snap "I suppose the dear Lord did it!")

Ah, it's good to be back!

Hot Tub! or, Reenacting "The Titanic"

It being Christmas and all, Mr. Ether's siblings are all gathered in town. It being Sunday and all, the Green Bay Packers ("the only Socialist team in the league," as Mr. Ether is fond of saying) played today. Me being me and all, I avoided the game like the plague. Everyone else gathered at my brother-in-law's house to watch the game. I was lured over by the promise of a dip in my brother-in-law's hot tub, and I carefully timed my visit to coincide with the end of the game.

As it turned out, the rest of the sibs being prodded by restless teens, they all left to go back to Grandma's. No prob, all the more room in the hot tub, eh? I waited until Mr. Ether had removed the lid of the tub, and clad only in my swimsuit and mukluks, made a dash across the frigid deck (temperature around 20˚F today) for the steaming hot tub. Not forgetting to remove my mukluks, I jumped in and -- "Oh. It's not very warm is it?" Mr. Ether checks the thermometer. "98˚. Body temperature." Five minutes later, "97˚." Crap. "Bill, your hot tub isn't very warm!"

My brother-in-law Bill, wonderful guy that he is -- fantastic artist, talented musician, best uncle in the world according to my children -- is not particularly handy. He comes out, mumbling about it working yesterday and knowing there was a "reset heater" button somewhere, but he couldn't remember where. Back he goes into the house to search for the owner's manual.

"96˚," says Mr. Ether. We're not quite ready to believe that we aren't going to have our wonderful hot tub experience. I wonder if it's possible for my nose to get frostbite while the rest of my body is submerged in warm water. "Hey," I say to Mr. Ether. "Let's reenact that scene from the end of The Titanic (which I've never seen, but never mind that) where everyone is floating, dead in the frigid sea." We barely have time to assume our poses before Bill is back again. He's put on some slippers and a sweater. He doesn't notice us as he's poking around. Darn.

We finally give up the hot tub ghost and head into the house to get into dry clothes and warm up. Then Mr. Ether -- who on top of everything else that is wonderful about him is also handy -- goes back out to the tub and finds the proper combination of buttons to push and contacts to connect, comes back in and says, "It's working!"

By this time there is a dog to walk and feed waiting at home, so we cheerfully head out into the night. Maybe we'll get to hot tub another time.

Gives a whole new meaning to "toiletries".

I first noticed this last week as we drove back to town from cutting a Christmas tree ("Hey, I think we just passed a Christmas tree made out of toilets!"), but alas, didn't have my camera. Yesterday we drove out again to photograph it. Residents of Dane County (Wisconsin) -- you can find it on highway 14 between Middleton and Cross Plains.

Secret Santa?

I woke up this morning to find the tiny corpse of a mouse lying in our upstairs hallway, right outside the bedrooms. A few feet away was one of the cats, wearing a "Who, me?" look. The other cat appeared shortly after I had picked up the deceased in a body baggie to carry outside. She went right to the bag and sniffed it, then went to the place where the victim was first found and gave that a sniff as well. With a shrug of her kitty shoulders (or so I imagined), she too gave me a look of innocence. I see how it is; neither one will admit to being the murderer.

The thing is, I cannot imagine either of these pampered, clutzy, indoor cats having the wherewithal to catch, much less kill a mouse. Perhaps all of those hours sitting on the back of the couch watching "birdie TV" out the window are paying off. They have honed their skills, like an armchair big game hunter watching Marlon Perkins every Sunday evening.

I hope this isn't a harbinger of things to come, because I walk around barefoot in the dark most mornings. I might be in for some nasty surprises.

Now bring in the figgy pudding!

Photo by Ed Feeny

Best wishes to everyone this Christmas morning. The stockings are hung by the chimney (but actually by the windows because we don't have a fireplace) with care, and just waiting for the [not-so-small] humans to wake up. The Hogfather needed hip-waders to get here last night instead of a sleigh. Rain, rain, rain. It looks like sledding is not on the horizon for today. (And my first ever annual Christmas Eve wienie roast in the backyard was rained out too.) The dog has been up, out, fed, and has gone back to bed -- probably curled up in my spot with her head on my pillow. I am making cinnamon rolls for breakfast in a fit of Martha Stewartage, but I fear my yeasty-beasties may be too old as the dough doesn't seem to be rising very fast. Determined to be cheerful today if not happy, come what may.

Merry Christmas!

Life …

When you are a new parent and holding that sweet, beautiful child for the first time, that's all there is … and that's a good thing, a wonderful thing. But you are not prepared for the many small heartbreaks that come later: the hurt feelings, the pulling away, the arguments, the first time leaving home, and now, witnessing my beautiful daughter's heartbreak. I want to protect her from everything, just like I did when she was a baby, and I know that I can't, and furthermore, that I shouldn't. All I can do is all we really have the power to do ever, which is to love her.

I finally finished another book!

When I went to hear Wendell Berry back in October, he read a short story entitled Making It Home from a collection of short stories. That Distant Land is the title of that collection. It spans nearly 100 years in the lives of the inhabitants of the fictional town of Port William, Kentucky. If you are at all familiar with Berry's fiction, you will find many characters that you recognize in this collection: Jayber Crow, the Coulters, Feltners, Rowanberrys, and Catletts -- all part of what Burley Coulter referred to as "the membership" of Port William who farmed the area going back 200 or more years.

Although the fact that it took me 6 weeks to finish this book of short stories might signify that I didn't find them compelling, that was not the case. I thoroughly enjoyed it. One of the things that I really appreciate about Berry's fiction is that in Port William he has created an entire world much like Terry Pratchett has in Discworld -- a world that the reader can return to again and again. Furthermore, Port William's citizens -- at least the ones that Berry allows us to get to know -- are just decent people, who hold to an ethic to which I also aspire: stewardship of the land, care for the people around you. It is pretty simple and very profound at the same time.

One of the last stories in the book is called Fidelity, an old-fashioned notion that I submit is the overarching theme of this group of stories. We may talk about loyalty, but fidelity involves so much more -- responsibility, faith, love.

If you have not read any of Wendell Berry's work, this may not necessarily be the book to start with. You might end up feeling like you're an outsider at someone else's family reunion. Once you've read other of his books, by all means give this one a try. You will get the back stories, side stories and the endings to some of the stories that started in other books.

Battered and Bruised

(Warning: I am about to ramble a little.)

Well, emotionally anyway. Yesterday one of my Facebook friends (a "friend" only on Facebook, but that's OK -- he seems a decent enough guy) posted a link to an article about the recovery of the Bush White House emails. I made a comment about having little faith that the Obama White House will prosecute, and was berated by another commenter for having "low expectations." He ended by saying, "Who did you vote for? John or Ron?" and he said I was no different than the teabaggers. I responded that I did indeed vote for Obama, and that, while I was aware I was not voting for a progressive, I have been disappointed in things like the escalation of the war in Afghanistan. The same commenter belittled that, saying that Obama is NOT escalating the war in Afghanistan. When I replied that I thought sending in 30,000 additional troops did amount to escalation, and as a Quaker I am opposed to all war, he called my opinions "uninformed". He also said that if I am going to comment in a public forum, I am open to insults and criticism. At that point, another commenter jumped in saying that if I am a Quaker I shouldn't have voted for Obama because he said he would escalate the war in Afghanistan. I responded (should have stopped there, but oh well) that a) many Quakers voted for Obama for many reasons, and b) just because he said he was going to do it doesn't mean I have to like that it is happening. Anyway, 2nd commenter got the final word when he wrote, "Oh just take your bat and ball and go home! If you're going to comment then grow a thicker skin!"

O-kaaaay. I'm just going to say that I felt like I was in an old boys' club and these two guys were hell-bent on proving that they were right and I was wrong. They were going to belittle me until I ran home to my mommy. The crux of it seemed to be that I said I was disappointed in Obama so far. During the Bush years, some wags in the blogosphere coined the term "sheeple" for the people who mindlessly followed Bush just because he was the president. Is it any different to mindlessly follow Obama? I find it alarming that so many people seem to think so.

Commenter One told me that my ideals were unrealistic. He said I was a "fringe element." If people like me (and I think I'm in very good company with folks like Howard Zinn, Amy Goodman, Dennis Kucinich and so many more) are painted as extreme in our ideals, then the center is pushed farther to the right and the so-called "centrists" look an awful lot like Republicans. Like Bill Clinton. Or Barack Obama.

For the record, I have to agree with Ralph Nader, who said that it wasn't Obama's intelligence he questioned; there is no doubt that he is a smart man. It is his integrity. He is not a progressive president. I knew that when I voted for him, but it still saddens and disappoints me. I wish I could really and truly vote for a peace president. I wish I could have voted for Dennis Kucinich. I wish there were viable parties outside of the big 2. (Or as Gore Vidal said, there is one political party in the U.S. with 2 right wings.)

I'll bounce back. I spent the night thinking of many people who have taken a stand and been berated and worse for it. It's part of standing up for what you believe in. However, I wish that people in the relatively anonymous world of the internets didn't feel like they had to be insulting in order to get their point across.

Musing on Music

As I was chopping onions for dinner tonight, I suddenly realized that I've been taking guitar lessons for 5 years!! I began my lessons shortly after November 2, 2004, and they carried me (just barely) through the despair of BushCo's second term. Although sometimes I am crippled by an overwhelming sense of "I'll never be any good!", I am still plugging away. When I tally up the things that bring me joy in my life, playing guitar is in the top 5. When I play regularly, miraculously, I can hear myself improving. (I need a post-it note on my computer that says, "Before you log in, have you played your guitar today?")

The guitar that I play was a Christmas gift from my dear husband a few years ago. He blindfolded me and drove me to the guitar store. Silly man, he should have remembered that I can read his mind, so I actually had a very good inkling of where we were heading and why. I love the guitar, but even more I loved (and continue to love) the affirmation of me as a musician.

If you have any inclination to learn an instrument, to pick up an instrument that you once played, or to make music of any sort (such as singing) I urge you to do so. Music should be participatory.

P.S. Guitar Hero doesn't count.

Makin' a List and Checkin' It Twice.

Out at recess this morning with all of the Kinders and First Graders. My colleague came over to inform me that she had just called the office to report some inappropriate graffiti on the climbing structure. "Guess what it says," she said. "Um, f*ck something?" was my guess. (We are right down the street from the high school, after all, and often find interesting, um er, artifacts on our playground.) "No, worse!" she said. "It says Santa doesn't exist."

The bastards! They're targeting an elementary school population … does that qualify as a hate crime?

I'm still here.

I haven't had much energy or inspiration for a blog post recently. The school year has taken off like a runaway train and I'm holding on for dear life. I'm bummed out about health care, bummed out about the "surge" in Afghanistan, bummed out that this presidential administration is as beholden to the banks and corporations as all the others that came before (but did I expect any different?)

Oh yeah, and especially bummed out that my state legislature is buying into Obama's carrot & stick approach to education reform -- particularly because in Wisconsin the government has not paid its fair share of special education costs in at least 25 years and for the past 16 years we have suffered under horribly regressive revenue caps that limited what a district could raise through property taxes. (The taxes of homeowners have gone up astronomically, while businesses carry an infinitesimal percentage of the tax burden. And whose fault is that? You got it -- THE DAMNED TEACHERS!!)

We've finally gotten an Assembly controlled by Democrats (not to mention our national Congress and President) and the solution is … punish the damned teachers!!! It is extremely disheartening when I know how hard I -- and my colleagues -- work and how much we make due with so little. I'm kind of sick of being cast in the role of pariah, the blight on public education.

Okay, I know that this administration has big fish to fry what with mopping up the mess left by their predecessors (nice mixed metaphors, eh?) but it gets my goat that they are taking the politically expedient, blame teachers route when it comes to education. It's the path of least resistance, and requires no work, no imagination, and best of all … no money. Business as usual here in Education-land.

Maybe we could have a little accountability for our elected officials, hmmm? Sorry, Mr. Obama, you haven't met AYP in keeping your campaign promises. Nor you, Governor "I'm married to a teacher" Doyle. (Sleeps with one, screws the rest.) I think it's time to impose sanctions.

Sigh. But hey, it's Wednesday and we're over the hump! Thanksgiving approaches, maybe a chance to have a blogger meet-up next week. That will be fun. So from my house to yours, have a good rest of the week.

The Natural Laws of Good Luck: A Memoir of an Unlikely Marriage

Ellen Graf was a lonely sculptor and mother of 4 mostly grown children living in rural upstate New York, when a Chinese friend suggested that she might like to meet her brother in China, who was also a lonely divorcée. Graf decides to take a chance, travels to China to meet Zhong-hua lu, and marries him. What follows is a moving and frequently hilarious account of two people from exceedingly different cultures attempting to make a life together. Graf has an advantage, as it is Zhong-hua who emigrates and must learn English and try to fit in to American culture. However, Graf too must adapt to living with someone whose most basic assumptions about human interactions -- and in fact, life in general -- are alien to her.

I like reading memoirs of all sorts and I enjoyed this book. I marveled at the leap of faith that brought Graf and Lu together and the hurdles they managed to clear. I recommend this book.

Book Review: Hannah Coulter by Wendell Berry

This was a reread for me. When I first read Hannah Coulter a few years ago, it instantly became one of my favorites. I was a little bit worried that if I read it a second time, I wouldn't like it as much. Having finished it, I can say that the writing is nothing short of astonishing.

In Hannah Coulter, Berry continues his ongoing story of a place -- Port William, Kentucky -- and the people who make their lives there. These are the same people who are in Berry's other novels: Jayber Crow the barber; the Coulter Brothers, Burley and Jarrat; the Catletts, the Feltners and the Wheelers. Into this "membership" of Port William (as Burley Coulter calls it) comes Hannah as the young bride of Virgil Feltner. Hannah has only been married to Virgil a short time when the U.S. enters World War 2. Like all the young men at that time, Virgil is drafted and goes to war, and like too many of them, he goes "missing in action, presumed dead."

Now a young widow with a baby daughter, Hannah continues to live with Virgil's parents. Eventually she is courted by Nathan Coulter, one of the lucky ones who returned from the war. The rest of the book tells the story of the life Hannah and Nathan made together on the farm adjacent to her former in-laws.

The story is narrated by Hannah, as an old woman who has lived to see the turn of the 21st century, looking back on her life and the lives of her Port Williams neighbors. It is a simple, quiet story, but the writing absolutely shines.

I dog-eared many passages. Here is a favorite:

I began to know my story then. Like everybody's, it was going to be the story of living in the absence of the dead. What is the thread that holds it all together? Grief, I thought for a while. And grief is there sure enough, just about all the way through. From the time I was a girl I have never been far from it. But grief is not a force and has no power to hold. You only bear it. Love is what carries you, for it is always there, even in the dark, or most in the dark, but shining out at times like gold stitches in a piece of embroidery.

Another:

The chance you had is the life you've got. You can make complaints about what people, including you, make of their lives after they have got them, and about what people make of other people's lives, even about your children being gone, but you mustn't wish for another life. You mustn't want to be somebody else. What you must do is this: "Rejoice evermore. Pray without ceasing. In every thing give thanks." I am not all the way capable of so much, but those are the right instructions.

And another:

My mind, I think, has started to become, it is close to being, the room of love where the absent are present, the dead are alive, time is eternal, and all the creatures prosperous. The room of love is the love that holds us all, and it is not ours. It goes back before we were born. It goes all the way back. It is Heaven's. Or it is Heaven, and we are in it only by willingness. By whose love … do we love this world and ourselves and one another? Do you think we invented it ourselves? I ask with confidence, for I know you know we didn't.

Wendell Berry's writing speaks to my heart and soul.

Father of "Balloon Boy"?

Wendell Berry

Enduring much snark and eye-rolling from my teen-aged daughter -- who thinks her mother has gone way over the top when it comes to food-related things -- I went to hear the farmer/poet/essayist/novelist Wendell Berry speak on Sunday afternoon. Here is something that was truly mind-blowing: After so many free tickets were distributed that his presentation had to be moved to a larger venue, he ended up speaking to a capacity crowd of 2000! Let me repeat -- Berry is a farmer/poet/essayist/novelist from rural Kentucky, not a rock star! I think he was a little blown away by the crowd as well.

I had no idea what to expect from his talk. I guess I had it in my mind that he might address the politics of agriculture, perhaps because he writes about that sometimes and he was here on the heels of Michael Pollan. That would have been great. What he did though, was to read aloud one of his short stories -- Making It Home from the collection entitled That Distant Land. It was enthralling. One of my all-time favorite novels is Berry's Hannah Coulter, and hearing him read aloud his own words reminded me of why I love that book so much. The language of his writing is luminous.

He also took questions from the audience. The thing that he said that has stayed with me is that we Americans keep thinking that the big problems should have big, global solutions, which in some ways absolves us as individuals of taking responsibility. However, in reality, big problems are solved by many, many people finding small, localized solutions, and in most cases individual contributions will go unrecognized and unrewarded by the larger world. But each of us must still work on solutions in our own way. It reminds me of this passage from Britain Yearly Meeting Faith & Practice, or of Margaret Mead's famous quote: Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful people could change the world. Indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.

I did purchase a copy of Hannah Coulter, but I didn't wait in line to have it signed, because the line was too long. (Rock star …) If you haven't read any Wendell Berry, he kind of has something for everyone. I recommend giving his writing a try.

The Ant and the Grasshopper

Without a ready source of tomatoes for canning this year, I decided I would be like the grasshopper and enjoy the last lingering days of summer and buy canned tomatoes this winter. Around about last week when the weather got chilly and I wanted to make chili, I realized the folly of my ways. To top it off, a friend told me that commercially canned tomatoes -- even the organic ones -- came in cans lined with plastic. Gack! Like some poor sea creature caught in plastic 6-pack rings, I could feel myself choking on the stuff! In unseasonably cold weather -- snow, even -- I took myself down to the farmers' market on a mission to buy tomatoes. Surely someone had stripped their plants the night before in anticipation of the first frost!

Pumpkins galore, potatoes, doughnuts, ostrich meat … Roma tomatoes, $20 for 25 lbs! I paid for a 25 lb. box, finished shopping (buying apples from novelist Jane Hamilton -- one of the perks at the Dane County Farmers' Market) and drove my car around to pick up my tomatoes. Thinking, "Hmmm … are those tomatoes going to be enough to carry me over until next tomato season?" With my car in the middle of the street, emergency flashers going, I quickly made a deal to buy another 25 lbs. of tomatoes.

This is the 3rd year I have canned tomatoes and the first time I did it all by myself. I canned half yesterday and half today, all in all 6 hours of intensive labor -- blanching, peeling and coring the tomatoes, partially cooking them, sterilizing the jars, filling the jars, boiling them in a hot water bath … Rather than trying to multi-task, I broke the process down into discrete steps -- a decision that I think saved time in the end. Hallelujah, all the jars sealed nicely, and lined up on the kitchen counter they look like sparkling jewels.

Bon appetit!

Food For Thought

On Saturday I attended the annual Food for Thought festival, put on in Madison by the REAP (Research, Education, Action, and Policy) Food Group. It is such a cool event, starting in the morning and going into the early afternoon, in conjunction with the Dane County Farmers' Market. I roused myself from my Saturday morning stupor to go and hear Michael Pollan speak. He was speaking under a large tent, with many people spilling out the edges. I settled myself on the sidewalk, pulled out my knitting (of course), and was thoroughly inspired.

There was some (what I consider to be) trumped up controversy surrounding Pollan's visit to Madison. This from a REAP email:

The president of the Wisconsin Farm Bureau suggested that Pollan is against farmers and in an op-ed called some of his ideas "disturbing and immoral."

A bus load of farmers showed up, wearing "In Defense of Farmers" t-shirts and calling Pollan's work "elitist". Personally, I think they lost a great deal of credibility when I found out that a big agri-business had chartered the bus and rallied them. I also wondered how many of them actually have read Pollan's work. It smacked of tea party politics.

Pollan called for a regional food economy, saying he is not a dogmatic locavore. A regional food economy has room not only for the small farms producing heritage and artisan foods, but the mid-sized farms as well. He emphasized the need for all farmers to diversify, noting that separating animals from crops (to paraphrase Wendell Berry) took a near-perfect system and created 2 big problems: what to use for fertilizer and where to dump the animal waste.

He also issued a passionate call for people to prepare meals at home using real food. I know that will raise some people's hackles -- but tell me, just how convenient is so-called "convenience food"? I was thinking, I can make a pan of mac & cheese in 25 minutes, plus baking time. The boxed stuff is not much quicker than that!

He also warned that the food industry is beginning to fight back, and it is important to vote with your dollars and be a food activist.

I also enjoyed browsing among the many displays from food-oriented businesses and non-profits. I had to resist the urge not to say something snide to the Whole Foods people. I went out of my way to greet chef Tori from L'Etoile and thank him for everything he does for my daughter's middle school (while munching on one of his homemade brats -- mmmm.) I picked up a recipe for making an anti-viral tea ('flu preventative) from Community Pharmacy.

Oh yeah, and I bought In Defense of Food from A Room of One's Own, my favorite independent bookstore. I was so happy to see them there and told the owner so, as I paid cash for my book. "Thanks, Suzy. We appreciate your support," and I thought, "She knows my name!!" Guess I'm a preferred customer now. (Yeah, yeah. Little things can give me big thrills.)

I was still a bit buzzed about the festival when I went a book sale at one of our branch libraries on Sunday. I bought a 1946 edition of Irma Rombauer's Joy of Cooking for $2.00! At first I was thinking it would just be a neat curiosity, but as I read through the recipes I realized that it has a lot of relevance to what Michael Pollan had been saying. Real food, prepared at home, on a family budget. I quickly cleared two froo-froo cookbooks off the shelf -- ones that I sometimes salivate over, but never cook from -- to make room for my vintage Joy. (And I just read that this is a virtually the same as the 1943 edition -- the one that Julia Child received as a wedding gift -- and has a collectors' value of $60 - $200! How cool is that? Of course, I will not be selling it.)

That was my weekend. Yours?