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I found out this morning that somebody very dear to me might kill someone.
At some point soon, he’s planning an unnecessary (in my view, from my understanding) relocation. He’ll move back to his college town to take a job with a construction crew. He’ll be living with friends from across the nation. He’ll be driving across state lines to spend a few days socializing with them first. This news brought me to sudden and surprising tears, and it’s taken me all day to suss out why. I don’t fear for his safety – he is hale and healthy; he is kind and committed; he is intelligent, independent, and responsible. And in that last batch of traits, I think, lies the wellspring of my distress. I believe that “we are all in this together.” I also believe that sentiment is bullshit, when used to project a veneer of solidarity and sweep under the rug the ugly, honest-to-god mortal threat that COVID-19 poses to underserved populations, which are predominately poor and minority. I believe that “we are all in this together” truly means “we all get through this together.” It means that we are only as well as the weakest among us. It means that individual health has become a collective responsibility. It means that we can only view this pandemic as passed after everyone treats it with the respect and fear that it warrants. This someone who is very dear to me is intelligent enough to recognize the danger that his actions pose. This someone is independent enough to choose to keep the jobs that he already has, where he already is, in which he does not work with potential carriers. And his deep-seated sense of responsibility, of which I am outrageously proud, and enormous heart, as big as his size-13 feet, only make his choice all the more shocking and devastating. I know that his life was turned upside down, his summer plans (which were good ones, too) suddenly trashed, and that, as a man who cherishes every single friendship he has, our forced isolation must be wearing on him. I assume this is what underlies his risky move and sudden change, and in normal times I would trumpet his praises and crow about his industriousness to every open ear. I understand and admire his desire to shape his life into what he wants it to be – but, in the words of his Governor, “You can’t be doing that.” Because, in the words of our Governor, “You can’t have a livelihood without a life.” Let’s remember Mary Mallon, a poor cook who singlehandedly infected 51 people with a terrible fever in her line of work. Three of them died. We remember her today as Typhoid Mary. He could kill somebody and we’d only see it in the statistics. And that’s what worries me. Yes, his state is flattening the curve. Yes, they’ve met the criteria to start a phased reopening. But there are so many places that haven’t, and now is not the time to make their fight harder by introducing yourself as another potential vector of disease. Now is the time to knuckle down and rededicate ourselves to the recommended protections, because we see them working. In the lack of a coherent federal response, each and every one of us bears the burden of public health. Yes, it’s unfair. No, it shouldn’t be this way. Tough shit.
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noun delight (Entry 1 of 2)
Find the light. It's still there, just a touch more distant. Peace, Ian Have you felt it? That electric web hanging in the air, unseen yet omnipresent, each of us a node for its invisible voltaic filaments. It touches me when I log onto Facebook, when I tune into the treadmill’s TV, when I witness the exodus from the El. When I lock eyes with anyone on the street, we connect via this network and I swear I can read their thoughts. Spun by the mounting menaces of the last few months, the strands of this web carry an existential current and charge us with duty upon duty upon duty.
Australia ablaze and an ailing Antarctica. The coronavirus contagion. The election. Just to name the few at the top of my mind. The stakes, it seems, have never been higher. Runaway climate change will drown the world’s poor, yet big oil still slanders and smears (CW: sexual assault) those who working to mitigate the damage. As the globe enters a self-imposed quarantine, our leaders bury their heads in the sand and evict anyone with the knowledge to help. And then, of course, there’s the election. In such dire straits, fatalism is a particularly alluring outlook. The world is doomed; give up hope; this burden is too much for anyone to carry. But while individual efforts are not sufficient, they are necessary. You can’t eliminate the Great Pacific garbage patch, but you can wear a sweater instead of cranking up the heat. You can’t cure CORVID-19, but you can wash your hands and cough into your elbow. You can’t convince your ideological opponents before November (though hey, you might!), but you can fight for what you think is right – or at least, take a stand against what you think is wrong. Your actions matter. YOU matter. We are not yet locked into the darkest timeline, but it will take all of us to steer clear. I learn so much from my intergenerational friends. Looking forward, my quinquagenarian companion reminds me that life is too long to get lost and stressed in everyday minutia. After a long career with Chicago Public Schools, his eyes are squarely set on retirement to a bucolic Canadian hamlet. He has transcended petty workplace dramas and is confident enough in his familial ties to know that family troubles too shall pass.
In the other direction, this month marks the birthday of and my one-year friendiversary with the two-year-old-soon-to-be-three-year-old next door: Mr. George. He is precocious, curious, kind, raised by a rad dad and awesome mom, and keeps alive my childlike spirit of wonder that I so prize. He also loves dinosaurs, which forms the bedrock of our friendship if I’m being truly honest. So for his birthday this year, I’m donning my apron and baking the kiddo a Mesozoic masterpiece worthy of his imagination and acuity. Most so-called “Dino Dig” cakes you’ll see are *sniff* *adjusts spectacles* specious. Entire skeletons lounge atop a single layer of soil, insinuating that one merely trips over a T. rex and eliding MILLIONS OF YEARS of geological history. What are we teaching our children?! Will constructing an educational excavational entremets be easy? No. But our children deserve better. I cannot in good conscience let Mr. George be hoodwinked by the lies that an inferior cake would lead him to believe. I must bake him a geologically accurate “Dino Dig” cake. I’ve never been one for New Year’s Resolutions. It’s a fine idea, I suppose, but they just never called to me and I steer clear of such endeavors if I lack proper motivation. Anything worth doing is worth doing well! Still, the air is filled with aspirations of transformation, and the cold hard truth is that most of these promises will go unfulfilled. This brings me to the specter of failure.
We fail at something every day – at least, I know I do. The weekend before Christmas, the improv biscotti I was baking spread and melted in the oven, resulting in something I can only call “crunchy blondie sticks.” Yet though they were far from the tidy, airy, crisply dunkable confections I had envisioned, they were a hit! My hobby baking has broadened my vision of success, and once the frustration faded (hoo boy, was there some frustration) I could appreciate them on their own merits. Take this blog post. I was supposed to publish one on the 1st of the month. Now I’m starting it three days late, posting it without properly editing it, and it’s pretty damn short to boot. But it’s here. So be kind to yourself this year. 2020 will bring enough strife, stress, and hardship without you adding to it. Breathe deeply. Get enough sleep. When you fall short – and whatever your efforts, you will fall short – forgive yourself. Chaining yourself to past failures only weighs you down on your next attempt. Love ✌️, Ian In an uncommon undertaking, Court Theatre is staging the entire Oedipus cycle – Oedipus Rex, Oedipus at Colonus, and Antigone – over the course of a year. Greek tragedy, reputed as boring and stuffy, is rarely done justice, when it’s done at all. Court’s dramatic enterprise supposedly juxtaposes the Oedipus story with contemporary black experience, unpacking questions of black agency and comparing the journey of the House of Cadmus with the Great Migration and Chicago’s founding.
As a techie myself, I always look at a show’s use of technical elements, and Oedipus’s were on point. The set, all white, cast their use of color in sharp relief: Thebans in white, the polis and populace united; Oedipus in loud purple, proudly broadcasting his royal lineage (later we see his blood is of a similar shade); Jocasta in a bitter green, jealously guarding what little she hasn’t yet lost; Creon in pale silver, a royal hiding among the commoners. It’s a simple, blank stage with a ground-level apron, a raised main playing area, and tall, steep steps rising in the back. Three channels were carved into the second level, one for each of the psychological incisions in Oedipus’s understanding of himself. It was grand and palatial, but the walls were textured and sectioned in a way reminiscent of a padded cell, taking the audience deeper into Oedipus’s interiority. The set was supplemented with some strong imagery – primarily color, as described above. An orb, glowing a soft orange, figured as a prenatal Oedipus, doomed from birth, but was also reminiscent of Apollo, god of the sun and the power behind the Delphic oracle whose prophecies bring doom upon the House of Cadmus. That connection relied on an a priori understanding of Apollo and Delphi, however. Court cut the text extensively, swapping the choral odes (and the exposition and context they hold) for dance breaks that just didn’t work. They were too abstract, detached from the rest of the show. That said, there were some stunning stage pictures created when this abstraction was used to support rather than supplant the text. The cast’s performance, though, was strong. Kevin Rolston, Jr.’s powerful, compassionate Oedipus; Christopher Donahue’s exasperated Tiresias; Timothy Edward Kane’s slippery, constantly hedging Creon. They forged through the play full steam ahead, clocking in at a brisk 75 minutes (!!!), imbuing it with a momentum rarely seen in classic productions. I think that’s the most consistent element throughout the show – immediacy. From the set to the sound to the movement, director Charlie Newell seems to have approached Oedipus Rex with an undeniable sense of now. I can’t say it all worked for me, however. His attempts to update the show with movement interludes interrupted the play’s narrative flow and, frankly, communicated nothing, a stylistic holdout divorced from the show on stage. The purported connection to the Great Migration is, as far as I can tell, completely unearned. Court’s production is timeless, untethered in time and space. History, by its very nature, is not. Perhaps the sequels will further illuminate their vision, but Oedipus fell flat. Contemporary audiences deserve classic shows, and vice versa. Oedipus Rex absolutely merits modern interpretation and contains many lessons for modern struggles; but like Oedipus’s lust for knowledge, Newell’s dogged drive for a relevancy proved a double-edged sword. The drama was gripping and powerful, but ultimately half-baked. Court Theatre put forth an admirable effort in this show but, like its hero, was ultimately blind to its own shortcomings. Home has always had an inexorable pull for me. If you’ll bear with my tortured metaphor, consider it a spiritual solenoid. Home is like a length of rosy copper wire wound around my life, and I a small iron core. The more I’m shuttled through this mortal coil, the stronger home’s magnetic draw. The attraction strengthens as Thanksgiving approaches, as my mind starts signaling for Exit 76 and cruises up the bypass towards my hometown, and memories buried by fresher accounts burgeon and resurface. Five, seven, and five:
The tempo lifts me away. I land in years past. Muscles ossify; Bags deepen beneath my lids; My heart fills with love. Artistic seeds sprout When sown in fertile soil, Like dear Friends’ embrace. Tradition? What’s that? Meaning and purpose elude us. We care for form and fun. We sling syllables, Sound for sound and word for word, Fulfilling; being filled. Haiku Battle "Best Of" beneath the break... When I roll, weary and roadworn, Back to the door that still leads home, You’re always just inside. And I skulk slow and silent, so not to steal your long-sought slumber It’s kind It’s comforting And it stresses me the hell out. I only want to sit Silent Solo Stories steeping, seeping back in. But, with your soft breath on the sofa, I can’t. The strains of the city and the shocks of the road Call for an airlock of sorts, A slow ssssssss to stave off bubbles of percolating parental pressure. Sometimes your sleeping spirit stunts such a shift and They simmer Seethe Shatter in spectacular fashion. I seem a Sweet and Simple Simon, Incapable of choleric collapse. But, cheated of my decompression, I might. Yet come sunrise, I would rather slink around this house’s creaks and coughs And tuck the stray corner of your blanket back beneath your chin, Than feel like a stranger when I finally head to bed. They say “You can’t go home again,” The seers Sages Swamis of the consanguine sphere. But as I settle onto those squeaky springs to sleep, I know:
I can. When you’re all alone, it’s always 4 AM. At 4 AM, the world is in reverie. The midnight oil has been burned to fumes, and the early-morning joggers and dog-walkers have yet to start their habitual rounds. 3 AM is boldly and edgily late; 5 AM is a time of industry and health; in the gap that divides the two, we reach a precious hour of in-between.
Anyone on the streets is there for a special reason. A wobbly-kneed undergrad dribbles out of their Uber after a night of debauchery. A bleary-eyed doctor straps her slumbering sons into her sleek sedan, hoping to beat the traffic as they head to the coast. A pair of red-eyed paramours, frustrated and forlorn, loses themselves in redolent reminiscence as they pace their separate streets. All alone, all at 4 AM. Yet the wee hours of the night also rejuvenate the soul. The poet Rives: “For most people, it’s a foreign land, so it feels special the way that Paris feels special – you only go every once in a while.” 4 AM, as a bridge between too-late and too-early, possesses an elixir-like quality of rebirth. Though dangerous if drunk too often or too deeply, the occasional draught of 4 AM offers a view into an alien world*. * At least, it’s alien to me. I keep old man hours – in bed by 9:30, 10 at the latest. My roommate starts cooking his dinner and I’m in my PJs trying to ignore the smell of stir-fry. At this juncture, the heart of this short expatiation, the author inserts himself, he has recently bucked his usual curfew, seduced by a time-honored tradition he never before enjoyed – the midnight movie. The venue: The Davis Theatre The bait: Mad Max: Fury Road (Black & Chrome Edition); The Goonies; Creepshow The Coke that warms too quick tastes crisper. The popcorn, never fresh, is imbued with renewed crunch. The audience sinks into their seats, lovers and loners alike. The lights dim, the credits roll, and we share the experience in silence (and sometimes not so silence). The statement “I was up at four in the morning” invokes twinges of sympathy – few who are awake at that hour wish to be and companionship is a rare luxury. Perhaps that’s why midnight movies feel so special – they can provide solitude and community hand-in-hand. For a moment, it’s 4 AM and we’re not alone. Hey y'all! I had a bit of a hectic June, between Loves & Labours and my laptop's untimely demise, so I don't have a full blog post this month. In lieu of my usual ramblings, I thought I'd yoink a post from my Facebook page about the struggles of making a life a
The tower stands alone on the moonlit plain, a clear target for the intrepid adventurers trundling towards it. They cover the final stretch on foot - with goblins about, you can’t be too careful. A quick clamber to the tower’s upper levels finds them vacant save for a sleeping gob, easily dispatched with a shot through the arrowslit.
The rabble on the first floor, however, poses a larger danger. Though engrossed in their cards, the goblins still outnumber our heroes and charging into combat may prove a deadly mistake. As the elven adage goes, “Work smarter, not harder,” and the party’s thief just happens to speak the monsters’ language. Creeping on tiptoe around the tower, he shouts in Goblin – “Korg, you cheater!” Korg, surprised and affronted by the accusation, throws down his cards, and, after our golden-hearted scoundrel injects a few more well-placed barbs, begins a brawl that leaves half the goblins dead before our heroes kick in the door and mop up the rest. So began the journey of Alton Tosscobble, the halfling rogue I played in my very first Dungeons & Dragons campaign. I can still feel the giddy rush when a 10-year-old Ian tore the wrapping paper from a 3rd Edition Player’s Handbook, a gift from my father. My older brother received the Dungeon Master’s Guide, and my future changed. Laced up. Legs stretched. She starts the creaky, croaky coffee pot and we swoop out into the blooming morning glow. First on our walk, we encounter a muss-haired, pajama’d woman with her dog leash in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. Without exception, Mother springs a bright “Good morning!” We get groggy stares for the most part, mystified by a moment of genuine connection and unsolicited well-wishes. Connect, even in the smallest moments We won’t run into another soul this early, but we still see signs of life. Plastic-wrapped newspapers, distributed after the morning dew, rest akimbo on driveways down the street. She sweeps them up, barely breaking stride, and flings them closer to their owners’ stoops. I join her after a couple of houses – an act of kindness, however small, is always a worthwhile endeavor. Compassion is not a finite resource. Nothing is beneath our attention. We gab as we walk. She talks about the garden, her job, folks at Meeting. Sometimes we touch on more personal topics. Decisions she has to make, conflicts she wants to resolve. I serve as sounding board and confidant – and as grateful recipient of this gift, privileged to know my Mother in this way. While she often asks my opinion, I rarely tell her something she does not know. In most cases she tries to accommodate too many perspectives, too humble and kind to put herself first. I help return focus to the consummate compassionate striding by my side. The right choices are often the simplest. You know the just path. Just take it. By the time we return to the top of Forest Street, we’re out of breath and panting. Side note: That lady can MOVE. You won't find another woman who so flawlessly pairs serenity and vigor. Most strollers would slow and coast the last few blocks. The especially ambitious may continue apace. But we, we are no ordinary aurorambulators! Unless her knee voices its rancor, we may well make the corner of Forest and Center into our clubhouse turn, the stretch across the ridge into a fast track, and the final telephone pole into our finish line. Then place your wagers and let the real Kentucky Derby commence! I win our little race, of course, being so young and sprightly, but it’s not about the victory. It’s about finding memories in the mundane. Opportunities abound. Make the most of every moment. I’ve been blessed to spend the last couple of Mother’s Days with this glorious woman. Though this year will see no such reunion, she accompanies me everywhere. I love you, Mom. Thank you for the lessons, the love, the laughs, and for so much more.
This is the first installment of BakeLife, wherein I dissect the creative processes behind my proudest hobby bakes. Let me take you back to the fall of 2017. #MeToo explodes the media landscape. Hurricanes ravage the southern states and territories. Taylor Swift is about to drop Reputation. Cassini-Huygens sends its last breathtaking photos as it swan dives into Saturn. But I think we can all agree that one phenomenon stands out – the sweet, sentimental sailboat to Spookytown: Stranger Things, Season 2. Such occasions demand recognition – nay, celebration. I present my humble offering. Marvel at my modern wonder. The main bake was a straight-up, no-frills vanilla pound cake. What dessert better embodies the security and monotony of pastoral farmland? Safe. Sure to satisfy. Runs no risks. However, our plain cake brushes against a grotesque veil, terrifying but tantalizing, a foreboding fascination – in my imagination, a thin layer of tart cherry jam and dark chocolate shavings. What lies beyond the verge? The Upside-Down. An Eggo, because, duh. All this is topped with a healthy dollop of cream, because in rural America we bury our problems beneath a mountain of Cool Whip. Plus, it goes with the waffle. But our confection holds yet more secrets. A hidden horror has been baked into the cake itself. When you finally make it through the last airy pillow of Midwestern politeness, the true face of our prosaic pud presents itself: bare, fleshy berries, invoking the Demogorgon’s body-horrorest aspects (and infecting our simple sweet with the fruity flavors of the Upside-Down) Season 3. July 4th. Holy god, I’m ready. I saw the President charge the people for a wall, and we put it by. Then he charged it to us again, and we put it by again. And then he charged it the third time. We put it the third time by. At end, he suffered a compromise in name but scorned it in spirit, claiming undue power from the façade of a crisis and charging us regardless of our outcry. We have a word for a leader who unduly consolidates power: Dictator. In ancient Rome, this was a title conferred by the legislature, and they customarily resigned after the crisis had passed to avoid abuse of power. The office was abolished after Julius Caesar*, who refused to step down after his term ended. Sidebar: Caesar was not technically a dictator, the title having been retired before his time, but instead embodied an evolution of the role. He represented an “extraconstitutional office with virtually unlimited power,” meant to “restore the republic” (a sentiment with disturbing resonance today). For those new to the story of Julius Caesar, I refer you to Shakespeare’s classic play. I’d say to go skim it and then come back, but it’s not exactly a quick read. So spoiler alert, I guess? Reader beware, I guess? The parallels between our current head of state and good ol’ Jules run deeper, too. Shakespeare’s language seems eerily prescient. Just listen to some of Caesar’s lines. About the soothsayer who foretells Caesar’s downfall and is brusquely dismissed: He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. As a certain contingent clings to a diminishingly white America, can anyone say DACA? After taking power: Let me have men about me that are fat My mind turns to the administration’s ceaseless hiring-and-firing, the investigation into the campaign’s corruption, forgotten promises to drain the swamp, and The Daily Show’s Trump bingo card.
Students of history or theatre know what follows such a power grab. The rest can probably guess. Beware the Ides, Mr. President. Your hubris will be your downfall. What happened to you?
Where did you go? We could have conquered the world, if our aspirations exceeded a quality muffin. We could have put Alexander to shame. And we would have been compassionate monarchs, beloved by all until our follicles failed and faded. In the mire of my meltdown, as I struggled to stay afloat, You pulled me from the quicksand and set me on stable ground. And you don’t know How much that meant. And you cannot fathom The depths of the disasters you averted. On the road to St. Louis, we talked without stopping. I’d never done that before. I’ve never done that since. I miss that. We’ve crossed the country, gallivanted the globe, Packed plates at 2 AM for tickets that never coalesced. Groggy grapes, bleary baguettes, and a nice hard cheese-- Covent Garden makes an unconventional picnic plot, But our attitude is odd, Made for midnights in a shoebox cinema, For mech suits and movie monsters, mild-mannered but unmovable. And then the bottom dropped out and you turned away. For your own good, you say, and I trust that. And even though you left, Though the A-shaped altar remains unadorned with your likeness, Your silhouette still points the way, A beacon even in your vacancy. The Light, a beckoning lighthouse, a Fresnellian force guiding forlorn forgotten followers through the fog.
The Light, a nascent sunrise, a promise of warmth when everything is cold and dark and your very exhalations curl before you. The Light, an illuming bulb, a design to share of oneself and banish miasmic myopia. The Light, an impelling laser, a keenly burning, ever-yearning dynamo burning through injustice and hate. The Light, winking starshine, a reminder that we are vast, that we extend beyond this marvelous marble, that this shared universe holds hope for us yet. May 2019 embrace you and yours in its glow. The hallway stretches before you, darkness creeping into the well-lit lobby as if testing the boundaries of its domain. Somewhere distant, a fuzzy scarlet glow cuts the murk from a side room, brightening as you and your classmates approach. You turn the corner and the confines of the passage fall away, the ceiling rising out of sight. Before you, sharply silhouetted by a strong red light, a still figure grasps a hanging rope in each hand, loops at the end holding his bare feet. Suspended, seemingly separate from the Earth, he is unaware of your approach; then, almost imperceptibly at first, he begins to sway, left and right, gaining speed and height with each pass. Dum de dum-dummm Back and forth. A faint vocalization pricks your ears. Dum de dummmmmm It’s familiar. The tune tickles a memory, but it escapes immediate definition. Dum de dum-dummmmm Ahhhh. Yes. There it is. Dum de dum, dum, dum This fool is singing the theme to Indiana Jones. A low chuckle rumbles through the watchers. His exaltation rises, seemingly without limit, when his energy is suddenly captured by a new sight. His swinging slows and stops and you follow his gaze to an apple on the floor. With painful caution, he lowers himself in his ropes until he hangs almost horizontal. Straining his neck, he bites at the apple, only to find it just out of reach. He tries again, and once more, to no avail. Gathering a surge of energy, he lunges at his quarry – only to knock it into the realm of the clearly unattainable. His eyes crinkle. His body sags in the ropes. He dangles, drained. Defeated. Prompt: Introduce Yourself. Discovery: You’re a different person every time you say “Hello.” My mise is almost complete. I’ve analyzed how I spend my time. I’ve taken steps to slow down my rush through my life. Now I’m almost ready to start living it—there are a couple more things to finish. To conduct a proper mise, you need the right equipment. The vessels you choose for your various ingredients reflect their purpose, quantity, and preparation. For instance:
I can’t say it better than Dan Charnas did in a piece for NPR: “But practiced at its highest level, mise-en-place says that time is precious. Resources are precious. Space is precious. Your self-respect and the respect of others are precious. Use them wisely. Isn’t that a philosophy for our time?” That’s an attitude I can get on board with.
He’s making a list, checking it twice,
Gonna find out what’s naughty and nice. Ian’s mise-en-placiiiiiiing his life. The entire raison d’être of mise-en-place (ooh, French) is familiarization for the purpose of preparation. You inspect the ingredients. You read the recipe. You go back to re-look at the ingredients. You revisit the recipe with that new perspective. Then you do the whole thing once more for good measure. You mentally separate the wet ingredients from the dry (or even better, pick up a pen and rewrite the list entirely), categorizing each component by purpose and place in the process. For a pumpkin pie, for instance, you’d organize the ingredients for the crust, for the filling, for the whipped cream (not optional), and stew up a strategy based on when each step needs to be completed. So, if I’m doing this whole mise-en-place-my-life thing, it stands to reason I should break it down into its component parts. To address any chronic problems in my day-to-day, I need to know what makes it up. BEEP BEEP – Breakfast – Gym – Work – Home – Gym – Cook – Dinner – E-Time – Sleep BEEP BEEP – Breakfast – Gym – Work – Home – Gym – Cook – Dinner – E-Time – Sleep BEEP BEEP – Breakfast – Gym – Work – Home – Gym – Cook – Dinner – E-Time – Sleep BEEP BEEP – Breakfast – Gym – Work – Home – Gym – Cook – Dinner – E-Time – Sleep Stop. How often do you breathe? I mean more than just turning air-oxygen into lung-oxygen. How often do you let yourself feel your heartbeat? When, if ever, do you take off your blinders and open yourself to what lives in your periphery? There’s an undeniable comfort in routine—operating on autopilot alleviates the anxiety of making decisions—but it’s also a ball-and-chain. Efficiency ends up trumping experimentation, and therefore preventing advancement.
“Slow down to speed up” is key to mise-en-place (the culinary devotion to preparation). Take it from Bill Telepan, a pioneer of farm-to-table dining: “I always say, ‘Look, I'd rather you take an extra minute or two and slow up service to get it right.' Because the one minute behind you are now is going to become six minutes behind because we're going to have to redo the plate." So, as I mise-en-place my life, I consider: What changes have I made to slow down?
In addition to benefitting my mental health, intentionally taking my time has opened me to engagement with the world. Slowing down changes my focus from completion of a task to doing it well, which includes awareness of what and who is around me. I consciously look beyond the check-box on my to-do list. It takes practice and presence of mind, certainly, and it’s not automatic for me yet, but I'm already happier, more confident, and more effective. I remember what Mom drilled into us: “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.” Stands to reason that should apply to your life as well. The art of cooking offers a buffet of life lessons. Meals are meant to be shared, right? The fruits of hours at the stove are best enjoyed with friends and family. So it seems somewhat ironic—nay, downright hypocritical—that meal-making should hoard such a large portion of morals and maxims. Care for your tools; Trust your gut and follow your nose; Stay flexible. All these nuggets of kitchen wisdom have their time and place, but I find one chunk of culinary custom universally applicable—the principle of mise en place. This is the first in a series of self-reflection posts where I look at my life through this concept. But I’m getting ahead of myself—I should start at the beginning (a very good place to start, so I’m told) and explain what exactly it is.
I know, it’s French. It’s italicized. It sounds fancy and foreign and hopelessly inaccessible, but trust me, it’s easy to grasp. Mise en place is just the devotion to preparation. Before firing up the range or preheating the oven, gather all your ingredients. Measure your flour. Dice your onions. Put everything in its place. Actually read the recipe. It forces you to familiarize with the task ahead, itemize what you must do and when you have to do it. It coordinates labor and materials, maximizing efficiency and keeping the whole process smooth and on track. Priorities become clear, separating and stratifying like a vinaigrette. Goals are explicitly established, illuminating the way forward when crisis inevitably strikes. So how does mise en place manifest beyond the domain of the delicious? For me, it’s an emphasis on living a present and conscious life. I don’t always succeed, but the effort is important. It’s the principle of the thing, you know. So stay tuned! Stay hungry! Over the next few months I’ll break down the pieces of mise en place and see what lessons it can teach us. Hanging in my closet back home is a beige button-up shirt. It’s too small for me now. The sleeves are too short, and I’ve developed a bit through the shoulders in this last decade. Given my growth, though, it still fits surprisingly well. The length is about right, the neck is a comfortable diameter, and I can easily give myself a hug, all of which makes me wonder how I wasn’t swimming in it as a youth. An Old Glory patch adorns the right shoulder, balanced by a Council patch and three numbers on the opposite side, all sewn with machine precision. On the left breast pocket, a golden flour-de-lis over a crimson heart is stitched with rather less finesse; you can count the loose loops of thread on one hand. And embroidered on the opposite pocket, in the same brilliant red, four words: Boy Scouts of America. In the wake of their decision to allow girls into the organization, they’ve been on my mind. Work until the job is done.
It’s barely past breakfast when he goes through the icy, finger-numbing drizzle to wrestle our automotive maladies into submission. He comes in for a late lunch, knuckles purple from the cold and hard knocks, and watches some YouTuber build a geometrically mystical and unnecessarily complicated table before returning to the ring. It’s almost dinner by the time we see his grease-smeared face again. About half the matches, he wins. The other times, he’s back the next morning to go another twelve rounds. Compassion is not necessarily kind. Love can be tough. Keep the greatest good in mind, balance all views. Nobody leaves fully pleased, but everyone’s needs are met. Inevitably, debate after discourse after drag, he’s the villain. But time and again, despite mistakes and intractability on all sides, everyone wins in the end. Share your joy. That familiar smile creeps over his face as he approaches, tablet in hand. I pop out an earbud as he leans in, sliding the video his newest fascination in front of my laptop. Smile and nod, smile and nod. Even if I don’t understand, his passion and generosity come through. Stay curious. He sees the world in diagrams, in circles and tangents and vectors and devices. He tweaks and tinkers, determined to parse the principal paradigms of his perception, to smooth and streamline until all the kinks are out. His vision is filled with twirling fancies that catch his attention before flitting off, drawing him into an idyllic dance of ideas; but before he disappears, he extends a hand and beckons you along. Keep growing. The cornfields blur together, populated with the anomalous tractor or silo, as we speed towards school. He, a Scholar; I, an Enlightened. Tensions rise and fall throughout our discourse as I endeavor to communicate the nuances and problems tangled with whatever Social Issue he tries to understand. By the sixth time we pass the cattle barn painted with a chipped quilt, despite the disparity in our life experience, he’s come around. For all of these lessons, for the ones still awaiting admittance, and for those I don’t know I’ve learned yet, I thank you. Love you, Daddy-O. Happy Father’s Day. There’s a bean counter in my brain.
I don’t know who hired him—I certainly didn’t-- Or who signs his checks—it’s definitely not me. He sits and ticks and tsks at tasks I take. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tsk. Thick glasses obscure his eyes, But I think they’re like eclipses, like The ones I got from my mother, but I shiver to look to closely. I want him to go away. I want to scream ‘You’re fired!’ Upend his bean-bag and burn those damn spreadsheets, But he’d just blink behind his bifocals and carry on his counting. |
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