Ira Glass is the executive producer/host of the long-running NPR show "This American Life" which hails out of Chicago. Episodes of the show are available as podcasts through iTunes or can be streamed (or purchased) of the TAL website.
Each hour-long program is journalistic storytelling at its very best. One of my favorite stories is from 2001. It's the third act in a show called Them. It's about a black sailor during WW2 who washes onshore in Newfoundland and nursed back to life by a group of white nurses who have never seen a black man. They thought he was covered in oil and tried to scrub him clean. It is a story so touching that I sat in my car for fifteen minutes to hear the whole thing even though I was late for work that day.
Do yourself a favor and watch Ira talk about storytelling. If you've seen this, watch it again.
When I first wrote you last March, I said I was giving up on you because I had found another house. So, we made a bid on this new house and you know what? It turned out that you're the mortgage company on this house too. And now, here we are almost three months later and you have not decided if you would approve this short-sale. Not only that, but even though our bid has been on your desk, you have scheduled the house to be auctioned at the courthouse in Santa Barbara later this month.
If anyone is wondering how we got to this financial mess as a country I have many answers. But take this as a prime example. We are a country full of bureaucracy run amok. It's expensive for a bank to foreclose on a house. Not only are there court costs and administrative fees, but a bank has to recognize that they are taking a loss on the property. But putting it off like this does not change anything. In fact, adding in the costs of a foreclosure and the fact that the market is still declining, will only serve to make the loss greater.
The other side of bureaucracy run amok is that it's more than likely the right hand (the short-sale department) and the left hand (the foreclosure department) are even aware what the other is doing. And that's an expensive way to do business.
All I can say is aren't we glad we are spending a whole lotta money to bail out the banks?
Sincerely, Gina Who Still Wants a House and Would Buy One if They Would Just Let Her
When my brother and I were little, my mother bought The Story of Ferdinand, by Munro Leaf, likely as an outgrowth of her anti-war, Women Strike for Peace convictions. It's the story of a young bill who preferred to sit under a cork tree and smell the flowers instead of head-butt with the other bulls destined for the bull fights. But all that changes when Ferdinand accidentally sits on a bee and they see how fierce he can be. Taken to the ring in Madrid, instead of fighting he sits and smells the flowers much to everyone's disappointment . . . except his, of course, because he is brought back to the cork tree where he belongs.
I loved the story; I loved the illustrations by Robert Lawson. Like all children, I needed the message that we should be true to ourselves and our own nature.
I bought the book when my children were little and read it to them over and over again--enjoying it as much as ever. It never occurred to me what a long lasting effect this story had on my life until recently.
I remember the first moment I saw him, I was entranced by his gorgeous horns. We flirted. I called him Bully.
As the months went by, I would visit him at the Mission. He always seemed to take notice of me, and I would always stop by to admire his . . . horns.
But one day BigTea called while he was on one of his expeditions in the hills around the Mission. He had stopped by to say hello to Bully for me and he had noticed something he thought might upset me: Bully was really a steer. (And yes, BigTea had to explain what that meant.)
Well, it didn't make a difference to me, of course. Bully was beautiful with or without . . . his . . . you-know-whatsis.
Just this last Christmas, I bought The Story of Ferdinand for my granddaughter when I discovered she didn't have it. Not long after at a family dinner, BigTea and I were talking about our beautiful Mission, and I brought up my bull. My daughter-in-law looked at me wisely and summed it up in one word: Ferdinand.
Yes, I do have a Ferdinand complex. I have fallen in love with a bull (it doesn't matter what he doesn't have, he'll always be a bull to me). More importantly, I fell in love with and married a man who would much rather grow flowers (so I can smell them)* than participate in bull fights in Madrid.
Thank goodness for my mother's taste in children's books.
---- * while known more for their beauty than their fragrance, irises do have a light floral aroma--at least this one does!
This morning after my chiro appointment, BigTea decided he wanted to track down some nearby hot springs. So, we packed our snacks and hit the road, driving through the gorgeous spring weather and hills of tan and green scattered with moos and horsies enjoying the morning sunshine. After driving around a bit, we found the way past the freeway and the entrance to Gaviota State Park, where the Las Cruces Hot Springs are a .7 mile trek up a hill.
I did not make the hike. I hung back, planning to catch up on Middlemarch (I'm almost hopelessly behind on the book club), but instead discovered that I could actually get my email on my Kindle (and Tweet) and it was all over for me, especially since it didn't take BigTea long to hike the trail--exposing himself to poison oak along the way--take the photo and come back. We will return with swim suits and towels soon.
After that we cruised up the 101 between Highways 1 and 246--a section that we never drive because we either approach our new town from below or above, and wouldn't you know it? This part of highway was holding out on me. Something I'd been looking for since we moved was right there: a local organic produce stand. Classic Organic, complete with peace-sign integrated logo, was just what I've been looking for. We bought some beautiful red lettuce, Nojoqui sweet onions, and kale. The stand was empty--except for Shadow the cat--and we paid by dropping our money into a box and writing down what we purchased on the register. I'm going back for beets as soon as I figure out how to make borscht.
After that we went up toward Nojoqui Falls. Although we didn't make the hike up to the water, we found a lovely spot to eat our snack under the canopy of oak trees. Lizards basked on rocks nearby. Squirrels eyed our picnic basket. The scent of California sagebrush intoxicated me, and I renewed my vows to this state, wondering how I could have ever thought of moving somewhere else. Yes, California, I will visit other places, other climes, but I will always come back to you!
One thing about living in Lompoc that I've discovered (to my astonishment) . . . there is no deli here. Most of you might not be at all surprised. But me--who pretty much grew up in L.A.--it never occurred to me that people could exist without life's basics: homemade chicken soup, bagels, blintzes, lox, latkes, borsht, pastrami on rye, and so on.
I was so oblivious I didn't even notice until Passover was upon us. Oy.
That day I bought frozen blintzes, Thomas's bagels, and Kraft lox flavored cream cheese. They were all completely awful. Beyond awful. Way beyond awful.
I progressed through Elizabeth Kubler Ross's stages from denial (oh google, dear google, surely there has to be a deli around here somewhere) to depression (oy vey ist mere) before flirting with acceptance. But then I had a blinding revelation. I--yes me, Gina, the Undomestic Goddess--could make my own Jewish food. Somehow I would learn. And then I remembered that MovieMan (who was WorldTraveler this time last year) bought me a great Jewish Cookbook for Christmas.* Things were looking up.
As Mother's day approached, I thought about my mother and my grandmother and the line of Undomestic Goddesses I am descended from. I craved deli chicken soup with light fluffy matzo balls.
Surprisingly, I do know how to make chicken soup. When my mother was ill and dying from the lung cancer I made her a huge pot of chicken soup every week and she ate it all, even while struggling through chemo. But I didn't know how to make matzo balls. My friend Lisa (who is my cooking guru from across the country) assured me they were easy and with a bit of seltzer, they'd be light and delicate.
So . . . I started with the soup a day in advance. Onions, carrots, celery, lots of garlic, peppercorns, left over bits of chicken that I'd been holding in my freezer and a pack of cheap (but all natural) chicken legs from TJs.
Three hours later it was a rich broth.
I strained out the bones and wellcooked veggies and meat until it was clear, reserving the chicken fat (schmaltz) for my matzo balls.
The next day I decided to add noodles (in retrospect I wish I hadn't--they didn't really improve it), cooked up a carrot, and started to prepare my matzo meal into the stuff of memories.
I watched, I squeed, I made a little dance when I saw my matzo balls take on girth and look like, well, matzo balls!
And then the DH and I sat down for a lovely, nostalgic, hearty, comfort meal and I have another two quarts of the broth in the freezer.
___ * yes I realize this is a bit of an contradition, but we're Christmas-Jews in my family.
"A thief, a damsel in distress and plenty of conflict--what more could a reader want?...
Black adds sensuality and humor to this intriguing historical..."
---Romantic Times Magazine
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