Wuthering WTF

Um... WHAT is happening here?
I innocently enter one of those Hudson Booksellers shops in the airport (um, Fresno? Sacramento? LAX? can't remember--there have been many airports in the past two months), and am confronted with this confusing display. Is that... my favorite novel? All sexed up like so? Right next to that monumental work of genius Big Girls Don't Cry? Alphabetization is definitely working it here. But I don't think that's the source of my confusion. Let's get a closer look.

It's kind of gothic-pretty. I think I like it. But why is Cathy dressed like a gypsy shrew? What's up with the flapper beads and the wild straight-from-the-moors hairdo?


And what's up with Heathcliff sporting the rebel-without-a-cause rockabilly-in-a-vampire-cape look? I'm so confused. This is what happens with Penguin makes a formidable marketing decision like "let's sex up that oldie-but-goodie that no one really reads anymore by having a famous fashion illustrator redo the cover."

Here's the bookflap's justification: "This book is part of a series of Penguin Classics Deluxe Editions designed with original cover art in watercolor, pencil, or ink by world-renowned fashion illustrator Ruben Toledo. blah blah name dropping blah... Toledo and his designer wife, Isabel Toledo, whose dress and coat were selected by Michelle Obama to wear at the 2009 inauguration of President Barack Obama, are the subject of a book and a museum exhibition entitled 'Toledo/Toledo: A Marriage of Art and Fashion.' blah blah... Ruben Toledo's book design for Penguin Classics represents the marriage of art and fashion to literature. His couture-inspired interpretations of these beloved classic characters and novels contribute a uniquely creative vision to the long history of excellence in book design at Penguin."

So just because Toledo's wife designed the coat Michelle Obama wore at her husband's inauguration, we're supposed to buy this new edition of Wuthering Heights? Since when does political celebrity name-dropping/the fashion industry yield a new interest in a Victorian novel? Do Toledo's illustrations update the story? Will Penguin's fashionista-piquing gamble work in an era of recessionista self-denial? Do fashionistas even read? (Shameless plug: check back in December for my MLA gofugyourself posts) This writer did not succumb, but then LOOK WHAT SHE'S WEARING!

The Great C19 Books-to-Film blog post

I keep forgetting to call my reader's attention to this other blog post that I actually got paid to do. Check out my list of cinematic adaptations of nineteenth-century stories for Amazon.com.

(here I am at Yale in November 2008 with David Francis' rare, working triunial magic lantern... that's how the Victorians experienced "moving pictures"...)

Bon Apetit? My Own Wife's Quick and Dirty review of "Julie and Julia"

1. "Julie Powell" was too thin for someone so frequently and loudly lauding butter: if Renee Zellweger can gain weight to become Bridget Jones, so can Amy Adams. I'm assuming Julie Powell really did gain some weight from her year of culinary experimentation, though I have not and likely will not read her book.
2. That brings me to point number two: I'd rather read My Life in France. After watching this movie, I want to know more about the childless Julia Child and less about the childish Julie Powell.
3. Julia Child in Paris appeared to be gloriously economically privileged. I find the mid-20th-century impulse of "servantless" middle-class housewives to master the art of French cooking as vexing as the early 21st-century impulse of middle-class foodies to emulate Alice Waters. It takes a lot of money to purchase fresh/local organic produce and a lot of time to make "slow food." Who can afford to do so, and who is excluded from making such "healthy choices"? It's worth thinking about.
4. The film is a pretty, persuasive paean to marriage. Indeed, I found myself falling in love with Stanley Tucci's Paul Child. What a wonderfully supportive, loving and sexy man, I thought (though I'm not sure if I mean Stanley or Paul, actually). And the scene where Julie's husband, personality-lacking what's-his-name, slathers chocolate cake all over his face was completely charming. It is gratifying to cook for someone you both love and lust after. While I can't quite put my finger on what the message about marriage in the film actually was (like, was it "get back to the kitchen, all you wives who love your husbands! but don't get so preoccupied with cooking that you neglect your husband's other needs"...?), I am left with this notion that "Julie and Julia" is at once heteronormative and it legitimates that pesky gendered division of labor that feminists have struggled with for decades.

Pajama Bread

This is a true story. The other evening after work, I put my pajamas on and went into the backyard to pick blackberries. Encouraged by the yield on the backyard bush, I went around to the front yard to pluck juicy ripe berries from the prickly bush on the parking strip. Was I giving my neighbors a little demonstration? Yes. Did I care? No. Well, not until it started raining and I realized I was locked out of my house. What happened was this: while I was in the backyard, *new* housemate #2 came home after a long day in his research laboratory, let himself into the house and locked the door behind him, went upstairs and lost himself in some video game or other (I imagine, generously). A half an hour later, when I wanted back inside, the door would not budge. I knocked on the door: nothing. Then I alternated between pounding on the door and ringing the doorbell for about 45 minutes to no avail. Then I got creative. I tried loosening all the screens on the open ground floor windows: nothing. I tried the basement door: locked, as it should be. Finally I tried the kitchen door: victory! Somewhat chagrined, I let myself in, collected myself, and went upstairs to confront my blissfully unaware housemate. He swore he had no idea I was pounding on the front door. And that, dear readers, is why I did not share ANY of the yield of my blackberry picking labors with him.

Behold, a very healthy yet tasty blackberry banana bread: a recipe I have slaved over for a few years now, and finally, I believe, perfected. The blackberries may be substituted for fresh raspberries or blueberries.

1 1/2 cups white flour
1/2 cup wheat flour
1/2 cup sugar
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
3 large overripe bananas, mashed
1/2 cup all-natural applesauce
1/3 cup skim milk
1 large egg
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup fresh blackberries

Mix dry ingredients in large bowl (flours through salt).
Mix liquid ingredients in smaller bowl (bananas through vanilla).
Introduce dry ingredients to liquid using that method called "folding" (i.e. do not over mix; use a rubber spatula and lots of compassion).
Now, if you are using ripe, fresh berries, comes the tricky part. Blueberries are sometimes more hearty and can just be folded into the final batter very gently. Raspberries and blackberries are a little more delicate. For this batch, I poured about 1/3 of the batter into the bottom of a "Pammed" bread pan. Then I sprinkled half of the berries on top. Then I poured another 1/3 of the batter into the pan, and sprinkled another half of the berries on top. Then I poured the final 1/3 of the batter into the pan, at which point, I looked at my bowl of freshly picked pajamas-in-a-rainfall-locked-out-of-house blackberries and thought, screw this, I'm loading this bread up with my crop. So I dumped the final extra berries on top, and put the whole thing in a 350-degree oven for an hour. When the bread passed the toothpick test, I pulled it out to cool 10 minutes, and overturned the loaf onto the wire rack with the help of the Russian Redneck who came over with a bottle of wine just in time (he has that sixth sense for determining when is the most fruitful time to visit me).

The beauty of this bread is that if you slice it into 8 equal parts, you get 8 equal breakfasts of 250 calories with 1 gram of fat and 5 grams of protein (and yes, lots of carbs, but nobody's perfect, you know?). I think I'll sport PJs around the neighborhood more often, just for kicks.

Russian Redneck Birthday Cake

This recipe is from the vault. Actually it's from Epicurious.com, but I made it this last May for my favorite Russian Redneck. It's dazzling: the pralines are quick-n-easy, the cake layers are packed with pecan pieces, the cake stays moist from lots of bourbon, and the frosting is fabulous.

First, the praline topping:
Who knew that tossing pecan pieces with egg whites and brown sugar and baking them could result in such yummyness? It's difficult not to eat them while making the cake.



Moving on to the cake batter:
It's pretty important to use cake flour and unsalted butter, but I did substitute lowfat milk for the whole milk, and it turned out fine. I also threw in a few more pecan pieces than the recipe called for. The cake bakes up beautifully; in fact, I suspect mine were a tad overdone.



The assembly requires bourbon, and lots of it. I believe my cake would not have turned out as gorgeous and tasty if I had not been sampling the Maker's Mark while I was putting it together. This is my favorite bourbon to bake with because its fragrance, to me, is pure vanilla and fine tobacco. The recipe suggests you brush a bourbon syrup over each of the layers prior to frosting it. I suggest you make thrice the amount of bourbon syrup and soak the layers in that goodness.

Finally, the frosting:
Vanilla Cream Cheese. Too comforting to be elegant, but I tend to think that all homemade frosting is impressive. I impressed myself with this one.





Those lovely lilacs are from my backyard. Seattle in Springtime is something else.


Here I am with a lit birthday cake. I may be a tad lit myself, come to think on it. It was a Russian Redneck's birthday party, and the Bud Light was flowing.

The cake is even better two days later with a tumbler of Maker's Mark...

One-Pot Wife

Having just sent off the final (we hope) revisions of my article, "Novel Conceptualizations of the Modern Housewife in Colonial North India," to South Asian Review, I find myself with a little free time on my hands. What else can I do but build the sort of one-pot meal that magically multiplies into dinners for several people for several days in a row? Apparently there's a long tradition of one-pot cooking in the domiciles of the unmarried. But one-pot cooking has also begun to take off in the artsy-fartsy foodie world. Here in Seattle we are lucky (*raising dubious eyebrow at self*) to have the naughty Michael Hebberoy to inspire us to gastronomical flights of fancy with his One Pot collaborations. I've met Michael, though he won't remember me, and I dutifully report that he is indeed nearly as charming as the newspapers make him out to be. I ate with him at Bumpershoot 2008 and came away aspiring to one-pottiness.

SO. Here's a little vegan one-pot number that I like to call "STEW OF IMPERIAL CONQUEST in one pot."*

*n.b. the recipe is a loosey goosey adaptation of Claire Criscuolo's "New England Boiled Dinner." I find my one-pot stew title more exotic and thus more appetizing.

Saute 1 small head of savoy cabbage, chopped, in olive oil with salt and pepper to taste for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.

While you wait for the cabbage to cook down, chop the following into bite-size pieces: 3 peeled carrots, 3 peeled parsnips, 3 rutabagas, 6 small red-skinned potatoes, 1 large yam, 3 celery stalks. If this sounds like a lot of vegetable intimacy (i.e. knife labor), this might not be the recipe for you. I love cleaning and chopping vegetables. It's Zen meditation with a steel blade.


Add carrots, parsnips, celery and 2 quarts of water to pot. Add 1 whole cup of chopped parsley, too.

Put lid on pot, raise the heat, and bring it to a boil. Then reduce heat and simmer on medium-low.

After a while, add 1/2 teaspoon each of dried sage and dried thyme. Cook, covered, for about 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the yam, potatoes, and 1 teaspoon fennel seeds. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Continue cooking, covered, until potatoes are soft.

Add 1/2 cup frozen corn, 1 package of veggie hot dogs (chopped), 1/2 package of veggie bacon (sliced thin), and 2 pounds of sauerkraut. Don't skimp on the kraut--find the good stuff in the deli section of your local grocery. Ah, here's an interesting factoid about sauerkraut: it's the perfect food for long voyages of imperial exploration and conquest because it keeps without refrigeration, and, as a good source of Vitamin C, it prevents scurvy. HENCE THE NAME OF THE STEW.

Cook a few more minutes until everything is heated through.

Serve with rye bread toasts and beer.

Apron Mania: a German disease?

I just found out I'm not the first person to use the title "I am my own wife." According to her autobiography, Charlotte von Mahlsdorf shares my mania for aprons. There's even been a Pulitzer Prize-winning play written about her. The Tony Award-winning play was performed in New York in 2004 and in Seattle in 2008.

If it seems like I am link happy right now it's because I googled my own blog and came up with all these goodies. Golly I wish I wasn't supposed to be writing a conference paper on the Deceased Wife's Sister Marriage Act. I'd much rather be ironing my aprons right now!