A Taste of Quebec

I do not use it very often, but my favourite cookbook is A Taste of Quebec by Julian Armstrong (1990). When I go to Quebec, I always make a point to eat the French-Canadian treats I cannot get at home: maple sugar pie, cretons, smoked meat sandwiches from Schwartz's... (Um, okay, that last is not French-Canadian, though it is in Montreal.) Happily for me, though, I can have my beloved tourtière de Québec whenever I like, for I have a very good recipe for it in A Taste of Quebec.

I can make this meat pie blindfolded now: 675 grams of lean ground pork simmered in water with onions, celery, a bay leaf, pepper, savory, rosemary, nutmeg and a pinch of cinnamon for an hour and a quarter, oatmeal added in the last three minutes, cooled off a little, poured into a pie shell, and topped with a crust. Into the oven it goes at 425 degrees F for 15 minutes, and then at 375 for 25 more. Tourtière is served with potatoes and "ketchup vert" as this relish is known in Quebec. (I found a version of it in Boston under the name "piccalili.") If the pie is for a fancy dinner, I purchase a full-bodied red wine.

My mentor is French-Canadian, and he feels that it is wrong to add oatmeal to tourtière. I argue that a Scots influence does not make a tourtière less authentically quebécois. He has the French translation of my cookbook but is not convinced. I believe he thinks the best tourtière is his mother's. He may be right.

On the weekend I picked all the green tomatoes left on our vines, and my mother made several jars of ketchup vert. Thus, Elspeth and I had a real feast tonight.

Cup of Tea

It's the panacea of the former British Empire: a cup of tea. My grandmother drank many cups of tea as she smoked cigarettes; she would pour out a cup for me. Coffee is an upper. It isn't good for me, and I shouldn't drink as much of it as I do. But tea is a relaxant. Tea is a destressor. Tea makes everything better or at least bearable.

In my youth I came across a friendly grown-up, a friend's mother and foster mother to us all, who was deeply distressed about something. "Oh dear," I said, not knowing what to do. "Would you like a cup of tea?" She started to laugh, but to this day I am not sure why.

Many people like cake with tea, but I think full-bodied cake goes better with coffee. Tea deserves something delicate, like cucumber sandwiches or thin cookies. Still better, though, is tea without any other distraction save music or good conversation.

The Italian Holiday

Today I bought a lottery ticket. It is a funny thing to do: pay two or three dollars to dream one's little dreamy-dreams. But on the way home, it is fun to think about what one would do with (for example) nine million dollars. Unless I were overwhelmed by a great greasy greed, I would give a million to each of my parents and siblings--right away, so as not to become overwhelmed by the great greasy greed. I would try to invest most of the rest at 3% and live off the interest. Needless to say, I would pay off my loans. Then I would enjoy writing magnanimous annual cheques to my favourite college.

Now apparently experts say lottery winners must allot themselves some "mad money" to spend in a wild spending frenzy, or else they will be in danger of spending all their millions. I think what I would like to do is rent an Italian villa by a lake for the spring and summer and fly wonderful female friends there. Yes, I imagine a house of happy, excited young women claiming their rooms and planning to do nothing but 1. go for scenic walks 2. sun by the lake 3. go to dance clubs in the nearest big town 4. visit art museums 5. examine clothing stores 6. go to church. Of course, the unstoppable Magdeburg would also work on her thesis.

Elspeth would paint and play instruments. Quintabulous would play the piano. Red Mezzo and Alisha would sing. Magdeburg would drive, and cook, and scare away snakes. Alberta Sunbeam would take fine art photographs. Miss Liz would shop, and cook, and discuss systematic theology with me late into the night. I would review my Italian and practise it in the shops. We would burst, en masse, into the Uffizi. We would run down the beach and splash each other mercilessly. It would be the holiday of holidays.

In the autumn, I would go to Heidelberg and get serious about learning German.

A Dream Come True

Tonight I went to see a performance of sound poetry. I did not like the advertising: the star sounded like a hubristic old ass. But downtown I went because the theatre belongs to my dear friend Elspeth.

Elspeth's dream has been achieved at last. The theatre she built in her backyard hums with life and noise and art. As I sat in a comfortable salvaged cinema seat, I marvelled at how wonderful the space was. The stage was a soft grey tile with a huge white film screen against a black wall for backdrop. Black fabric lined the sides. A great white Hindu mask smiled down upon the readers.

The supporting cast sat in a row: a red-faced man with curly strawberry-blonde hair and a beard, a woman with a bunch of blonde curls obscuring one eye, and a tall youth with a bowl cut, a drooping moustache and slightly beetling brows. The men wore blue jeans; the woman cargo pants. Across from them stood the star, a skinny, whitehaired bearded old man in jeans, cheap blue tennis shoes, a stained mustard shirt and glasses. After he got worked up, he took off his shirt, revealing wiry arms and an old man's skinny chest.

The show was startling, but it couldn't repress my glee that Elspeth's dream had come true. She had a theatre; she was a real impresario. And how wonderful it is to see a dear friend's dream come true!

A Woman's Voice

My favourite book of poetry is Mary Barnard's 1958 translation of Sappho's verses. Nobody really knows much about Sappho, but scholars agree that she was a 7th century Greek lyricist and a woman. She may have been a mother; she may have run an academy of sorts for girl disciples; she may have been a priestess of Aphrodite. It is fashionable today to insist that she was a lesbian, but I resist slapping Sappho with such labels. She wrote,

Of course I love you

But if you love me,
marry a young woman!

I couldn't stand it
to live with a young
man, I being older.

I have two Asian students now, and I learn so much from them about the beauty of words. Today I sat across from a gentle Asian nun in a grey habit as she slowly and carefully read from the slim orange book I gave her:

It's no use

Mother dear, I
can't finish my
weaving
You may
blame Aphrodite

soft as she is

she has almost killed me with
love for that boy

It seems astonishing that such an ancient and enduring poet was a woman. And yet there it is, her voice sounding through twenty-six centuries and the carefully chosen English words of a woman translator:

I have no complaint

Prosperity that
the golden Muses
gave me was no
delusion: dead, I
won't be forgotten.

Cherry Bakewells

People love to laugh at British cooking, but British food, done right, is absolutely delicious. I am an Old Canadian on my mother's side, and our British heritage often asserts itself deliciously at the dinner table. Sunday dinner when I was a child typically featured a roast beef or roast chicken, mashed potatoes, peas and gravy--delicious gravy made in the pan from the meat juice, flour and the little crackly bits stuck to the bottom. Mmmm! Sometimes there was also Yorkshire pudding. Ah, for the Yorkshire pudding of my childhood! (Why doesn't my mother make it anymore? Ponder, ponder. Perhaps for our health?) And as far as I'm concerned, a meat pie with a tankard of ale is comfort food.

Meanwhile, I love British pastries. My favourite, which I would choose over any fancy French petit-four or lavish Austrian cake and perhaps even over a delectable Quebecker tarte au sucre d'erable, is the cherry bakewell. Cherry bakewells have a buttery crust, a ground almond middle and a heart of delicious jam tucked into the very centre. The tart is iced with a crunchy white disk of almond-flavoured sugar and there is actually a cherry on top. When children say "pretty please with a cherry on top" are they, in fact, unconsciously giving homage to the mighty cherry bakewell? I think so.

Quiet

I wrote today on Seraphic Singles about liking quiet. This is perhaps odd for I grew up in the hum of the distant highway, and I live now under the sound of an airplane corridor. A plane is roaring overhead right now. The highway hum was nicer; it was my ocean.

Once I told a jazz fan that what I liked best was the silence between the notes, and he hailed me as a true believer. I like the silence I can have with old friends, too. With old friends and with family, you can sit in companionable quiet. I don't like it when cafes play loud or otherwise raucous music, for my hearing is beginning to go, and competing noise makes it difficult to hear my companions.

The quiet sounds I like best are as follows: the rain, purring, waves lapping the shore, my parents talking downstairs, the wind in the trees, the crunch of dry autumn leaves, a baby breathing, nuns singing their office when I am still abed, my mentor chatting with a student in another room. The best sound would be of snow falling, only snow makes no sound when it falls. It is the most exciting silent thing in the world.

Little Dogs

From time to time I wonder if I would like a little dog. Hitherto I've been a cat person, but one of my brothers is very allergic to cats, and I like him better than any cat. Nevertheless, I would like a pet. One that would follow me around would be ideal. One that would wiggle with joy when I arrived home from a trip downtown--that would be nice.

The most important thing about this ideal dog would be that he was as hypoallergenic as a dog can be, for my brother is so frightfully allergic to things. The last time he was in town I mopped, dusted and vacuumed like mad and counted it a victory that he slept easily through the night. The second must important thing would be that he not bite my nephew. The third would be that he was small. Thus, I think my ideal dog would be either a pug or a Boston terrier. I would not mind the snuffling and wheezing. In fact, I think I would like it.

Lavender

One of my favourite books is Herbs for the Mediaeval Household for Cooking, Healing and Divers Uses by Margaret B. Freeman (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1943). My mother gave my father a copy for Valentine's Day, 1969. It is a beautiful volume illustrated with copies of 15th century woodcuts. Of lavender Freeman writes: "The Mother of God was very fond of lavender flowers explains the Hortus Sanitatis, because of their virtue in protecting clothes from dirty, filthy beasts. She also had great love of this herb for the reason that it preserves chastity... If the head is sprinkled with lavender water it will make that person chaste as long as he bears it upon him."

I love this mediaeval depiction of Mary as a careful housewife. But I also love the idea of a flower bringing chastity to those who wish it. For the perpetually single, it is a great gift not to be troubled by the fruitless desires of the flesh.

Die Ruhe

On the happiest and most peaceful day of my life, I went up and down the Rhine valley in a little car driven by a seminarian friend. Our northernmost destination was a Benedictine abbey from which my friend wished to buy wine. Only when we approached did I realize that this was the Abbey of St. Hildegard von Bingen. We visited the remains of St. Hildegard herself in a little town nearby.

It was a truly beautiful day. We had a hot bright blue sky as we passed the steep vineyards, and then a powerful rainstorm as we crossed the Rhine on the ferry. The rain pelted down as we climbed to Anbingen and then the Abbey, but the reconstructed convent was just as beautiful by rain as it would have been in the sun. We tasted the wine, chatted with a Sister and browsed the giftshop. Later we sat in the shelter of the information room while we waited for Vespers.

Afterwards, we made our way back down the valley, stopping in now this, now that ancient town. We drank Rhine wine with the new pastor of a perfectly preserved because utterly isolated fourteenth-century village church. We stopped at a desanctified Cistercian monastery and marvelled at the tiny frogs in the damp, darkening grounds. I listened to my friend sing the "Ode to Joy" with his tape of the German Reunification performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. As he sang, the lights of Frankfurt appeared before us.

My friend will be ordained to the priesthood on the 10th of May in Germany. Whatever happens, I want to be there.

Burning the Candle at One End

I enjoy cooking and tidying and doing other household tasks for my mother. On Friday I told my mentor that I was sorry I hadn't done more of that in the recent past. Today I realized that it would have been very difficult, as the last time I lived at home, I was getting top grades in five graduate classes a term, had three part-time teaching/ministry jobs, and volunteered for many school activities. What I have now, as I recover from burn-out, is time to relax, breathe and clean the kitchen floor. I like it.

Best Friends

I don't think I have that romantic feminine ideal, the "best friend," unless we were to consider Jesus as my best friend. However, friendship, as human beings conceive of it, usually implies a certainly equality. My oldest friend, by that token, is therefore my brother Nulli Secundus, who was the first member of my social/family circle who had no authority over me whatsoever.

After Nulli, I would prefer to trace my "best friends" from the times in which I met them. My best friend from elementary school is probably a girl named Elizabeth, though I have not seen her in some years. My best friend from from high school days is probably Tashie, who lives in a different city now and is busy with her job, her children and her husband. My best friend from undergraduate days is most definitely Elspeth. My best friend from graduate English days is the Contessa. And my best friend from theology days is, I believe, Miss Liz.

I don't think any of these wonderful women would claim me as her "best friend," although I like to think I am high on their lists of friends, especially friends met at that period of their life. And certainly the friends I rely on most these days are Elspeth and Miss Liz. Nulli Secundus, of course, I can and will always count on to "get my back", as the saying goes.

When I was writing my novel, I felt very strongly that one character, Freya, was an ideal friend. Freya is irresistable to men but very much wants women friends, too. She does not have a mean bone in her body. She is a bit ruthless, getting whatever she wants, but she is always good-tempered and fun. She is a loving, creative force.

In thinking about Freya, I wondered if she weren't the personification of my imagination. Because if there's one person or thing I can count on, it's my imagination. All my life, my imagination has fed my mind and soul and given me countless hours of amusement or consolation. I wrote my first stories when I was six. For over thirty years, my imagination has stuck by me faithfully. And thus, my very best (created) friend must be my imagination.

An Unlikely Hero

It is odd to see a man born in 1892 play himself in a propaganda film. I find this silent clip strangely soothing. Perhaps film does capture a bit of one's soul.

A Mentor

This is my favourite book about writing. When I taught writing courses, I tried to remember to chalk Barbara Ueland's belief on the blackboard on the first day of class:

Everybody is talented, original and has something important to say.

Recently, I keep If You Want To Write on the desk beside my bed. It is the last thing I read at night.

Eden

Most of my earliest memories are of Cambridge, England. My father was doing a post-doctorate at the University, and my brother and I went to nursery school not far from there. We lived in a rowhouse, and I remember a row of houses, quite like this one. It had a park beside it, and a coat of arms on the wall, where in this picture there is ivy.

Our row was on the site of a former botanical gardens, and I remember playing often in a little wood. It was very beautiful, and I got an almost magical feeling from it. To this day, I still feel a strong connection to the English countryside.

The Mission

After I had finished the course work for my M.Div. degree, the Rector of the college blessed all the graduands by reading a commissioning prayer over us. The prayer was taken in part from Isaiah 50, and both the memory of the blessing and reflection on Isaiah 50:4-5,7-8 have been a frequent comfort to me.

The Lord God has given me the tongue of a teacher, that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word. Morning by morning he wakens--wakens my ear to listen as those who are taught.

The Lord God has opened my ear, and I was not rebellious. I did not turn backward.

The Lord God helps me; therefore I have not been disgraced; therefore I have set my face like flint, and I know that I shall not be put to shame; he who vindicates me is near.

A Quiet Space

My primary blog, Seraphic Singles, is a noisy, rollicking, jokey place. I plan to create here a quieter, more contemplative space. It will feature pictures, poems and proverbs I find particularly calming. Some will be quietly joyful, and some will be quietly melancholy.

Here is a poem I love very much. It is by German Ranier Maria Rilke (1875-1926), and its title means "Autumn Day." I will translate the rest below. The painting, "Tree in Autumn", is by Canadian Emily Carr (1871-1945).

Herbsttag

Herr: Es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren
und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.

Befiehl den letzten Früchten reif zu sein
gib Ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage
dräng sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr
wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird lesen, wachen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird auf den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

My translation, which is by no means perfect, is:

Lord, it is time. The summer was so long.
Cast your shadow on the sundial
and let the wind loose upon the meadows.

Make the last fruits ripen.
Give them yet two southern days.
Press into them perfection and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who now has no house will never build one.
Who now is alone will stay so a long time--
will read, lie awake, write long letters
and through the avenues, now here, now there,
restlessly wander, while the leaves drift.