The Duchess of Dork

I established my dorkdom at a young age. The summer I was ten, I spent every day reading. Every day. While my sister and best friend whizzed by on their bikes to find adventure, I sat in a lawn chair out in front of my house with my nose buried in my latest book. Carolyn Keene provided enough adventure for me, thank you very much. One day a neighbor walked over and in hushed tones asked my mother if I was sick. "No," my mom said, "that's just Rosemary."

I found out the hard way that not everyone embraced dorkitude with quite the same fervor as I, guys in particular. I distinctly remember sitting around one day in high school with a group of girls and guys, one of whom was my crush at the time. We were sharing our future dreams, and I started rhapsodizing about living on a windswept coast in New England, in a big white house just like the one in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. I described a quaint little town with a big library full of dusty old books. When I stopped for breath, I noticed my crush looking at me with a blank face. "That's your idea of fun?" he said. Clearly, there was no future for us. As a brand new teacher, one of the first things I did when I got my paycheck was to become a member of my local PBS station, and proudly sported my Channel Thirteen totebag each morning as I walked in the door. One day a male co-worker pointed to it, saying, "You know what that bag says? That bag says I don't want to get laid any time soon. " Ouch.

Further evidence of Dork-O-Rama:

 On a trip to London back in the 80s, I made my husband rent a car so he could drive me to Chawton so I could tour Jane Austen's house. Before it was cool, I might add. Did I mention it was our honeymoon? One of a multitde of reasons I know I married the Right Guy.

I have a collection of Great Women in Literature magnets. The Masterpiece Theatre music gives me goosebumps. I read Middlemarch every year. I have a Will Shakespeare action figure. (Complete with First Folio!) A Room of One's Own makes me cry. And there can never be enough costume dramas for me. If it's got corsets and great coats, I'm there.

 Those of you who rule dorkdoms of your own know what exactly what I'm talking about. Sadly, there are those who never will. But I don't have time to think about them right now--there's a lawn chair outside with my name on it.

♥ ♥ ♥

The Accidental Gardener

I wouldn't say I have a brown thumb, but it's definitely a sickly yellow. In general, I neglect house plants to the point of death, and my husband coaxes them back to miraculous life. (And I dearly hope this is not a metaphor for our parenting.) I periodically plant fall bulbs, only to find them sprouting somewhere the squirrels thought more aesthetically pleasing. I buy perennials from catalogs or the local garden center, put them in and pray they return the following season. When they do, I am invariably surprised:

However, this does not mean that in spring I am not surrounded by colorful and healthy bloom. They just happen to have been planted by someone else. The beautiful purple flowers pictured at the top of this post hang over my back fence, where I enjoy them as much as if they were planted on my side.

Lining my driveway are four dogwoods currently in full bloom, courtesy of Darling Husband. Despite the width of my driveway, I did manage to tear some smaller branches from one of the trees one day as I was backing out. (Sorry, honey.)

And today, my beloved spouse presented me with this for Mother's Day:

His faith his touching, is it not?

♥ ♥ ♥

Southern Exposure

                                                                                           My college roommate was from south Jersey, a foreign and exotic land where people call sub sandwiches "hoagies," pronounce "coffee" as CAH-FEE (when everyone knows it's CAW-FEE), make obscure references to "Pineys," and root for the Phillies. When they refer to "the city," they mean Philadelphia. (We say "the city" and we mean the real one.) Though we spent a lot of time making fun of each other's accents, we had two important things in common--classic films (see previous post) and a love of the Jersey shore. In the summers I sometimes visited with her and her family in Stone Harbor, my first experience with the south Jersey beaches. Quieter, less crowded, and without the carnival atmosphere of some of the places I was used to, I came to appreciate towns like Avalon, Margate, Ocean City, and of course, Cape May, which will get a well-deserved post of its own. So if your idea of the Jersey Shore comes from a certain reality television show, you need to take a long drive down Parkway South, where the exit numbers are lower, the sand is whiter, and the people are really friendly. Even if they don't tawk like we do.

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Here to Stay: An American in Paris

On Saturday night I watched An American in Paris and two days later I'm still hearing Gershwin's jazz riffs in my head, still listening to the swelling strains of "Our Love is Here to Stay," and still wondering how Gene Kelly manages to make ankle-length pants, white socks and black shoes terribly, terribly sexy.

 I'm not generally a fan of the Techicolor era of movie musicals--I'm a diehard Astaire/Rogers gal--but I'm a sucker for this film. Kelly's character, Jerry Mulligan, is an ex-GI turned starving artist on the streets of Paris after WWII. Leslie Caron is Lise, a lovely shop girl with a secret. On first glance, the two don't seem to be much of a match. Until of course, they dance together.   While the film is best known for its wordless 17 minute ballet sequence at the end, for me it will always be defined by one number: the courtship dance to "Our Love is Here to Stay." Kelly is attempting to woo the resistant Caron, who leans shyly against a wall. But once the violins start, Kelly pulls her into a gentle embrace, and the two begin a balletic exchange that is at once sinuous and chaste. And while Caron is a delicate and nuanced dancer, it's Kelly who blows you away. Fleet-footed, graceful, athletic, and undeniably masculine. No matter how many grand jetes he executes, you never for a moment forget he's a guy. (Dance training tends to build muscle in rather interesting ways.)  I hadn't seen this movie in years before Saturday night, and as this dance began I actually let out an audible sigh. Just for a second, I felt as though I were dancing along the banks of the Seine. And it occurred to me that a good dance is a lot like a well-written love scene, with two people who dance around each other before they finally connect in the most satisfying of ways. A scene that builds to certain heights and then quietly falls. A scene that pulls the reader into a world she wishes she could inhabit, even if it's only for a couple of hours.

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Happy Feet

Well, the thermometer hit 70 in Jersey yesterday, so it was time to break them out. Note the eye-pleasing fuschia color, the tropical design with its splashes of green and orange, and the pale lilac straps that are an exact match for the color on my toenails. And they're pretty comfy for a new pair; my toes are managing quite nicely after months of sweaty hibernation in dark socks. These two small pieces of rubber and plastic bring the promise of cool mornings and hot afternoons. Of feet propped up against the porch railing, and trips across the hot sand until the moment they can finally be kicked off and rinsed in the surf. And every step I take in them brings me that much closer to the summer that's out there waiting. Happiness at only $4.99.

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Mary, Mary, and Me

My stories all seem to feature grandmothers. Given that my own were so strong a presence in my own life, I think it's my way of keeping them with me. Both my grandmothers were named Mary, but two more different women you could not imagine.    One Mary was tall, big-boned, the kind of woman people termed "handsome." She started going gray in her thirties, but never dyed her hair. No matter what drama was enfolding around her, she kept her counsel and her cool. She suffered the losses of her husband and oldest son with a strength and grace I've never seen in another person.

Because she came to this country as a baby, she grew up without an accent, and Americanized herself with great success. I spent the first year of my life under her roof, and growing up, I felt extremely close to her. I have fond memories of trips to the five and dime store and the Grand Union, and I remember her endless patience as she attempted (unsuccessfully) to teach me to knit. When I got my first job, I used to go to her house on a weekly basis to do my laundry and have dinner with her. She's been gone for nearly two decades now, and I'm grateful that she lived long enough to know my oldest son.

My other Mary was pretty, petite, and unapologetically vain about her appearance--a trait I seemed to have inherited, along with her facial structure. Sharp-witted and sharp-tongued, she was unafraid to speak her mind. She was also a gifted seamstress. If you can get past the polyester, take a close look at the dress she's wearing in the top photo. Note the cute collar and the unusual seaming--her design, as were all her clothes. She made me every dance costume I ever wore, and mine were always the envy of the other girls! In many ways, I think she was a woman out of her time. She worked her whole married life, and once confessed to my aunt that she had always wanted to learn fashion design, but never had the money to go to school. It was from her I learned to sew, as well as to appreciate good tailoring. She retained her accent, her hair color, and her sassy attitude until the day she died--at the age of 102, by the way. I hope I've inherited her longevity as well. When I look at that picture above, I get a pretty good sense of what I'll look like in about 15 years. I could do worse.

I feel that Nature has played a cruel trick on me. As a middle-aged woman myself, I've come to appreciate my grandmothers in ways I never did as a young woman. I have so many questions I'll never be able to ask them, and so much to tell them in return.  In the meantime, I'll give my characters their nonnas. But I'll never stop missing my own.

                                                                                           ♥ ♥ ♥

If It’s Fifty Degrees. . .

It's warm enough to grill pizza. Throw on an old sweatshirt and get out there!  I made my first batch this week:

Grilled pizza, with its bubbly, puffy, charred-in-places crust makes even the most pedestrian ingredients (pre-made pizza dough, grocery store mozzarella, spinach from a bag) sing out loud. I did a spinach pie for me and sausage for the men in the house, and whenever I make this, I eat myself into a carbohydrate stupor. It's super easy to do so long as you watch the grill. For this reason you should have all your toppings at hand. Whether it's a homemade batch or from the grocery store, I divide the dough in half and oil it lightly. It's easier to handle in smaller sizes on the grill, as is a slightly rectangular shape. I use medium heat. Once your grill is hot, throw that dough on for about a minute, then carefully flip it over. The partially cooked side serves as the top of your pie. Before I add ingredients, I usually let the bottom crust cook for a minute or so, shifting the crust carefully to aim for even cooking. (Which won't happen, by the way. You will get some blackened spots, but I say, embrace the char!) Once your bottom crust is beginning to brown, then add whatever strikes your fancy, finishing with your cheese. Close the grill for only brief periods and watch that sucker like a hawk, because you'll go from brilliant to burnt in a matter of seconds. Figure on four to six minutes total cooking time, and let it sit for a few moments before cutting. Pair with the best cheap wine in the house. Enjoy!

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Shakespeare at the Movies: Twelfth Night

                                                                                               There are many things to love about this interpretation of Twelfth Night--Trevor Nunn's direction, the kick-ass British cast,  the lush, evocative sets and scenery, and the innovative costume design. Nunn cleverly frames the film with the shipwreck that Shakespeare only alludes to (director John Madden does something similar in Shakespeare in Love, but more about that in a forthcoming post!) and sets the twins up as entertainers who often work in drag. Thus Viola comes ashore in Illyria dragging a chest containing her men's clothes and a handy fake mustache, a situation pretty much unaddressed in the original play. Three performances stand out for me: Toby Stephens lends the self-involved Orlando a warm humanity, and he is lovely to look at as well. Ben Kingsley makes a sharp-witted and observant Fool, who watches from the wings while insanity breaks out all around him. He also does a terrific job interpreting the songs from the play, specifically "Come Away, Come Away Death." ( You can see it here.) But Imogen Stubbs may just be the best Viola I've ever seen. Spunky, witty, and brave, her Viola is alternately heartbreaking and hilarious as she falls deeply in love with a guy who thinks she's a boy. Her scenes with Stephens have a wonderful chemistry, and it's easy to see why Helena Bonham-Carter (as Olivia) falls in love with her. The supporting cast is terrific, filled with lots of faces familiar from the BBC and other costume dramas. I particularly like Richard E. Grant as Sir Andrew, who gives the typically flat character fully human dimensions. Best of all, the actor who plays Sebastian, Steven Mackintosh, looks enough like Stubbs that you don't have to strain your disbelief too much when one is confused for the other. But hey, that's half the fun, isn't it?

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HEA or HFN?

                                                                                                        

I have been re-reading Stephen Greenblatt's wonderful biography of Shakespeare, Will in the World. It's one of those books that inspires you to read passages aloud to a half-listening spouse; in fact I've been gushing about it so much that my husband now refers to the author as "your boyfriend, Stephen Greenblatt." (So maybe I have a tiny academic crush.)

What I love about this book is that Greenblatt looks at Shakespeare's life primarily through the prism of his plays. In a fascinating chapter called "Wooing, Wedding, and Repenting," he theorizes about Shakespeare's marriage to Anne Hathaway--and in fact his view on marriage in general--by looking at the couples in a number of the plays, in particular the comedies.

Greenblatt reminds us that Shakespeare's characters, even in the lighter comedies such as Much Ado about Nothing and As You Like It, voice doubts and even cynicism about marriage. The chapter's title comes from Beatrice's lines in Much Ado, yet she and Benedick marry in the end of the play, "despite the clear-eyed calculation of the consequences," according to Greenblatt. Shakespeare employs common conventions of romantic comedies, but doesn't seem to believe in his own happy endings. However, Greenblatt reminds us that the magic in these plays resides in

"the joy and optimism of each of the couples. . . .The spectators are invited into the charmed circle of love, knowing that it is probably a transitory illusion, but for the moment at least--the moment of the play--not caring."

We can't think too carefully about the fact that Demetrius only loves Helena because a love potion has been sprinkled on his eyes (Midsummer). Or that Duke Orsino is a self-involved jerk who is undeserving of the loyal, loving Viola (Twelfth Night). We might have more hopes for Beatrice and Benedick, but only if we forget that they were tricked into loving each other.

In romance parlance, HEA stands for "happy ever after," but HFN means "happy for now." What Shakespeare knew was that happy forever is an illusion. But happy for now just might be possible.

♥ ♥ ♥

Comfort Food

                                                                                                 In my first novel, my main character Bea is "between men" as she puts it, happily single, and finds solace in cooking--maybe too much. Her cousin and a friend imply that perhaps food has become a substitute for other sorts of fulfillment:

"Bea's hopeless." Marie gestured to me in the manner of a lazy hitchhiker. "She takes cookbooks to bed, you know." "I do not!" My volume rose in direct proportion to the lie. I did take cookbooks to bed. They didn't hog the covers, snore, or leave their underwear on the floor. And in the end, they afforded me lots more pleasure.

Though my heroine and I have little in common (she's younger and has better legs) we do share this one little habit. I just love curling up with a good cookbook. I browse library sales in search of them, and the older the volume the better. My pride and joy is my sixty year old Betty Crocker, followed closely by my 1964 Joy of Cooking. I also have a 1959 Pillsbury Best of the Bake-Off collection whose flyleaf features lots of ladies in black cat's-eye glasses standing in front of appliances the color of Easter eggs. My modern favorites include the seminal Silver Palate Cookbook and Queen Julia's The French Chef. I also have more Italian cookbooks than anyone would ever need, including two in Italian. The language, that is.  And the voices in these cookbooks, like those of my favorite authors, are familiar and comforting. Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins make me feel as though I can throw the coolest party ever. Marion Rombauer's scholarly references and scientific formality help me believe in the power of culinary chemistry, and the possibility of perfection. And where would any of us be without Julia, full of warm encouragement and quick laughter, who let us drop the chicken and add the butter? But the real secret to my pleasure in cookbooks is no secret at all: in the pages of cookbooks, everything turns out right in the end. The cake rises. The flavors meld. The meat is tender and the risotto creamy. The reality, of course, is quite different. (Witness my epic Christmas Eve 2010 Lasagna Fail.) But cookbooks, just like my favorite comfort reads, always give me the happy ending I crave--even if life doesn't.

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