Interview as Big as the Ritz

This is the Ritz-Carleton Hotel in Philadelphia, the site of one of my MLA interviews. There were six interviewers, including the chair of the department and an interested graduate student. There was one interviewee triumphantly wearing her MLA suit, thanks to the MLA air diet.

Here's a sampling of the best interview advice I received this year:

1. Don't forget to sparkle.
2. Don't forget to breathe.
3. Talk about how your dream course serves the students, not yourself.
4. Go into more detail about what happens in your classroom.
5. Be yourself.*

*Last night at an informal UW MLA-attendee gathering, my own dept. chair was laughing red wine out of his nose at something I'd said, and spluttered, "Did you show your sardonic humor in your interviews?" When I assured him I had refrained, he replied, "That's probably a good thing." So perhaps as well-intended as "be yourself" can be, as advice from one's beloved goes, it may not be the savviest advice to follow.

This advice all came to me from good friends, and I'm grateful to each of them for patiently listening to me while I relentlessly practiced answering fake interview questions, even at times when they hadn't actually asked me any fake interview questions. Thanks to these kind friends, my interviews went very well.

And now for something completely different... overheard at the MLA:

"... do call me. I love giving presidential addresses--so many people come to them..."
--Gayatri Spivak

"As [so and so] says in a very fine essay entitled 'Pointy Penises'..."
--Joseph Bristow

"Really, it should be fine to look puffy all the time."
--Paige Morgan

MLA Suit Fugue

Both definitions of fugue were in full force on Christmas night as I was packing suit variations for the Modern Language Association's annual post-Christmas convention in Philadelphia. The trick is to figure out how to stretch one's limited supply of professional clothing as long as possible--crucial if one plans to wander around the streets and hotels of downtown Philly for more than two days.

When I was packing my bed looked like this:

My boyfriend patiently looked on as I talked him through the Sunday outfit, the Monday (interview1) outfit, the Tuesday (interview2) outfit, and the Wednesday (just-in-case) outfit, and then he quietly waited for me to finish packing and re-packing my suitcase, wisely offering no helpful suggestions when I realized that my favorite gray Clarks heels would not make it to the convention after all.

After a 5.5 hour flight, I arrived at the downtown Doubletree hotel. A noisy demotion from Nob Hill's Fairmont where I stayed for the MLA convention in San Francisco last year. I unpacked, and my fugue state shifted from variations on a theme ...



to being more of a really disturbed state of consciousness, as I realized that I would need to re-read my entire dissertation (completed in 2007) in order to remember what it was about. Sweet dreams indeed.

Grandma's Favorite Cookies Not Tonight

These are my grandmother's favorite Christmas cookies. A basic butter cookie with an orange-honey glaze, the dough is very pleasing to put together because of the scent that lingers on your fingers from the fresh orange juice and grated orange peel. They are then dressed with a honey-orange glaze and topped with chopped walnuts. I cannot reproduce the recipe here, because it's a family secret. Got it? No recipe. Thus this entire post is a teaser.

And I'll tell you why that's fair: every year at Christmas-time, the Modern Language Association holds its annual job-hunt/meat-market/fish-bowl convention. Folks hoping to obtain a job teaching in the Humanities in an institution of higher education, many of whom are under-employed as adjunct faculty or office drones or baristas, are required to spend upwards of $1,000 traveling to this convention in order to give interviews, if they are fortunate to have them.


But if one were, hypothetically, following my family's recipe for these scrumptious cookies, one might consider pulsing the butter and flour together in a food processor, but not too long because it should be light and fluffy.




This year's MLA is in Philadelphia, the week after Christmas. Three years ago when I commenced my tenure-track professorship quest, after an agonizing eight hours in a shopping mall, I spent over $200 on the most charming black and grey tweed Calvin Klein suit (with a slightly flared skirt) to wear to my interviews. Since last MLA (in San Francisco) I managed to gain enough weight to not fit into the Interview Suit. This has provoked a crisis in our community.

In fact, these cookies can hardly be thought of as innocent in my, um, augmentation.

However, if one were to persevere and figure out the recipe, one might like to know that one must refrigerate the dough for at least an hour before rolling it out.

There will be NO dough in my fridge this year, as I am now desperately following the MLA diet. Yes, dear reader, this means that I have been granted two interviews. And in lieu of purchasing a larger suit for the slim chance of a campus visit, I will lose the ten pounds preventing me from wearing Calvin without busting the seams.

But if one had chilled the dough, one would eventually like to roll it out about 1/8" thick, select several cookie cutters, solicit some assistance, and cut out shapes to bake. See the charmingly plump dough-children? I will not resemble them two weeks from now, in Philadelphia.


After baking them one glazes them. One might be deserted by one's helpers at this point, because picking cookie cutters is fun, while painting cookies with glaze is tedious and sticky. But all under-bakers and assistants swiftly return to sample these treats. Except those attending the MLA, who are neither baking this year, nor sampling. No, we are a committed lot: we are eating air, and we will get a job!

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!


**UPDATE (May 30, 2010)**
This just found, via The Floating Academy: an article from the Guardian about another new cover for Wuthering Heights and the "Twilight Effect."

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!

Whither Miss Mulock?

I have been reading Sally Mitchell's study Dinah Mulock Craik (1983), part of Twayne's English Author Series. Mitchell's short book provides a brief biography of Dinah Mulock Craik and introduces her works more by detailed description than by literary analysis. The book is a fast read and offers an excellent introduction to an under-valued mid-Victorian woman author.

Dinah Mulock Craik has not been appreciated by American feminists, as Elaine Showalter pointed out in her 1975 article in Feminist Studies, because, especially after she got married at the old spinsterish age of 40, she began more frequently to express conventional ideas about male authority and wifely submission. But her continued commitment to mentoring unmarried working women, to promoting their education and training, and to fostering their professional ambitions, seems to me to anticipate many of the feminist dialogues of the so-called "New Women." She writes for unmarried women specifically in her nonfiction work A Woman's Thoughts About Women (1857).

After her mother died and her crazy father abandoned his family, at the age of 19 Dinah Mulock began to pursue a writing career in order to support herself and her younger brothers. By 25 she was a popular novelist with an established career and a lot of connections in the publishing and writing world. She gained financial security with the publication of John Halifax, Gentleman, in 1856. In 1865, Mulock married George Lillie Craik, a man 11 years her younger, and even more unconventionally, she adopted an abandoned baby girl a few years later (adoption was terribly suspect in England at this point--adopted children were not granted the kinds of rights that biological children/heirs would enjoy). And then she continued to produce a novel approximately every five years. She used the money from her books to design and build a house for her family. Was her husband emasculated by her industrious financial support? It seems a definitive biography of Mrs. Craik is required. Craik's concern for unmarried working women--exacerbated by the hysteria around the surplus of spinsters discovered in the 1851 Census (see W. R. Greg's essay "Why Are Women Redundant?")--never abated during her long, prolific career. Still, a much-quoted letter to Oscar Wilde seems to expose a kind of anti-feminism. She wrote to the fop:

For myself, whatever influence I have is, I believe, because I have always kept aloof from any clique. I care little for Female Suffrage. I have given the widest berth to that set of women who are called, not unfairly, the Shrieking Sisterhood. Yet, I like women to be strong and brave--both for themselves, and as the helpers, not the slaves or foes, of men.

In their discussions of Craik, Elaine Showalter and Sally Mitchell attempt to recover her for American feminism by reading her life story against her sentimental novels. They locate Craik's independence, self-reliance, and staunch individualism in counterpoint to her long-suffering, martyrish unmarried heroines who pine and pine for conjugal bliss. I'm not sure this is the most convincing method of redeeming Dinah Mulock Craik. One of the problems is that there is not much of a historical archive on which to base biographical claims. Indeed, some scholars (or armchair fans) have attempted to narrate Craik's life story by quoting her novels. I'll mull over the question of Craik's feminism more this weekend at the British Women Writers Conference in Iowa. I like her spunk, for sure--"I like women to be strong and brave..." Maybe I will add "Definitive Biography of DMC" on my to-do list. That would be right after the book on Victorian matrimonial advertisements, which follows my translations of Bhagyavati and Devrani Jethani ki Kahani, which is of course just second to the ongoing project of turning my dissertation into a book entitled Tying the Knot: Marital Fictions in England and India 1753-1907. Argh. I wish Miss Mulock were around to act as my mentor!

More Victorian Matrimonial Advertisements

My current research indicates that the lonely hearts advertisement has been circulating since the late seventeenth century: the practice of advertising for a spouse is about as old as newspapers themselves. Not surprisingly, the criteria for mate selection are quite different for men and women.

Men wish to be domesticated by beauty or money:

WANTED a WIFE, by a handsome young FARMER who is desirous of becoming domesticated, and of enjoying the society of a young, good-tempered female, who would tempt him away from his market festivities by her pleasing and gently persuasive manners. She must not exceed 20, unless she be a widow, whose family must not exceed six. Want of beauty would be no kind of objection, provided she possessed from 1,000l. to 2,000l. His rent, tithes, and taxes are all paid up, and he is wholly free from debt. All that he requires is love, peace, and happiness.

Or they just want someone to keep house and mind the pigs:

I heareby give notice to all unmarried women that I, John Hobnail, am at this writing five and forty, a widower, and in want of a wife. As I wish no one to be mistaken, I have a good cottage with a couple of acres of land, for which I pay 2l. a year. I have five children, four of them old enough to be in employment; three sides of bacon and some pigs ready for market. I should like to have a woman fit to take care of her house when I am out. I want no second family. She may be between 40 and 50 if she likes. A good sterling woman would be preferred, who would take care of the pigs.

Women desire love, affection, and a handsome drawing tutor:

AGENORIA says that she has natural golden-brown hair, fair oval face, laughing mischievous eyes, dark arched eyebrows, roguish expression of countenance, is eighteen, ladylike, sensible, merry, good-natured, highly respectable, and has good expectations. She longs to be married to a tall, studious, benevolent, affectionate, well-principled gentleman, who would think it a pleasure to instruct and assist her endeavours to obtain a thorough knowledge of English, French, and drawing; and in return she would try to be an apt pupil, and a loving and obedient wife.

Or they long for a mate who will tolerate their moodiness:

"Oh, woman, in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;
When pain or sickness rend the brow,
A ministering angel thou."

A Young WIDOW, highly connected, dark hair and eyes, considered pretty, good income, desires to marry, she does not deny that she might at times realize the two first lines of the couplet quoted above, but she can assure any gentleman willing to make the experiment that she is as certain to be true to the conclusion.

And then there's the one advertisement to which I am myself tempted to respond:

VEGETARIAN, a young man who does not use flesh as food; a Roman Catholic, humble, well-educated, and connected. A lover of temperance, truth, literature, fruit, flowers, and economy, income about 80l. a year, wishes for a wife with similar tastes, principles, and income, or as nearly so as possible.

Appreciating the definition of VEGETARIAN the advertiser wisely provides, I do wonder if he might think this correpondent too young?

Vive la casserole!

These recipes are both a tribute to my mother and a departure.

Tonight at Trader Joe's, I had the rare fortune of witnessing a small boy interacting with the bag of frozen peas that he'd just made his boon companion. This child was entertaining himself and his slightly older brother (while their mother blithely shopped on) by ecstatically smothering his face with the bag of frozen peas, alternated with giggling uproariously because who ever has thought of that and done it, really? He knew he was brilliant. I wish I had a photo of this hilarious event because words do not suffice. I was not thinking of tuna casserole (I swear) until I saw that boy with his frozen peas. Here's my mom's classic WCW recipe (I bet some of you dear readers will recognize it):

1 can Cream of Mushroom soup
1 1/3 cups water
1 1/3 cups uncooked Minute Rice
1 1/2 cups frozen peas
7 oz. tuna (1 tiny can only?)
salt and pepper and paprika
cheddar cheese

The instructions are undeveloped which is to say unembroidered: mix together ingredients in a casserole dish. Bake covered 20-25 minutes at 375 degrees. Stir half way through and top with Ruffles Potato Chips. YES!


But wait! What are those green things doing obscuring the picture of this otherwise gorgeous casserole? Well, those are "Not Your Mother's Green Beans," recipe courtesy of some Moosewood cookbook or another. My version is as follows...

In a recycled jar (with lid) mix one part olive oil and one part vinegar--red wine and Balsamic make a nice combo--with 2 Tbsp minced shallot, random "Italian" herbs, salt-n-pepa to taste (really, has anyone ever gotten enough of Salt-n-Pepa?). Secure lid; shake it like a polaroid picture. Meanwhile boil 1/2 lb. green beans in salted water. When beans are "al dente," drain and soak in dressing. Top with pine nuts. Well, toast them first, if you're not toasted already by the sheer joy of the recipe, the toddler with his peas, and the bottle of 2-buck Chuck you opened a little too early.

nota bene: the only thing to drink with this fine meal is 2-buck Chuck, obviously.

n.b. #2 When I was the age of that pea-faced boy, or a little older perhaps, I loathed peas and spent a long time delicately picking each and every one of them out of every single forkful of this otherwise tasty casserole. My parents just let me be picky, God bless them, for a while... until the lima bean incident that is. But we won't discuss that.

n.b. #3 Some of you are thinking as you view the photo, WHAT are those frozen corn tidbits doing there? or WHERE (the hell) did the potato chips go??? Well, this is the two-thousand-zeros, friends, and it's time for a little health to hit the tuna casserole recipe, n'est pas? Hence I use brown Minute Rice, lowfat Cream of Mushroom soup, three cans of tuna, frozen corn, and the "reach-for-the Epicurious-stars-in-the-'Burbs" homemade bread crumbs. I know you are all very impressed with me right now.

In the immortal words of Mom, Just Eat It, Or Else!


Bonus post...
Random kitchen utensil No. 1
"tuna can drainer"
REALLY! check this out: my mom said I could not live without it, and she was right, as usual.

Apple Bottom Jeans

Nelly clearly had something gustatory on his mind when he penned the luscious tune "Apple Bottom Jeans." This recipe is definitely dedicated to those fine gals who wear the boots with the fur. (Who is this Shorty, anyway? "Could we all be Shorty?" she asks hopefully.)

Apple Bread

1 cup flour
1/2 cup oat flour
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp powder
1/4 tsp nutmeg
1 beaten egg
1 cup sugar
1 1/2 cups peeled, shredded apple
1/4 cup cooking oil
1/2 cup chopped walnuts

First you grind your own oat flour. I put oatmeal into my beloved Krups coffee grinder, of course. Works like a charm.


Next you shred the apples. I used organic Washington State apples purloined from housemate #1.






In one bowl, combine dry ingredients, including walnuts. In another bowl, combine oil, sugar, egg, and apples. Combine wet and dry ingredients: stir until just moistened. Scrape batter into bread pan (which you've of course already sprayed with Pam or Pam-like substitute). Bake in a 350 degree oven for 50 minutes or so, until wood toothpick inserted near center comes out clean. Cool in pan for a short while; remove from pan onto wire rack. Slice off a chunk when you can no longer stand it.


One final note. Housemate #2 found this gem online.

Rachel Got Married and I was there, albeit late

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Like the gals at GoFugYourself.com, I find Anne Hathaway intriguing. She went from princess to topless and then recovered by Becoming Jane and Agent 99 almost in the same breath. Of course I was going to see Rachel Getting Married, the film in which Hathaway plays an "anti-princess" according to the screenwriter Jenny Lumet's NPR interview. And I finally have seen it, and I have three things to discuss.

1. The film elaborates on a family's stunning failure to set boundaries. Mother Buchman (Debra Winger) permits her drug-addled daughter Kym (played by Hathaway) to be younger baby brother's primary caretaker. Baby dies. Rachel Buchman’s groom sings an a cappella rendition of Neil Young’s song "Unknown Legend" as part of his wedding vows. Guests weep. Even the way the film came to be made shows the scarcity of boundaries in Hollywood. Jenny Lumet has been charmingly public about how she had her father, famous director Sidney Lumet, phone up and personally ask Jonathan Demme to read the screenplay. And a film was born. Ironically, the film features several scenes of 12-step meetings. For those of you who don't know, 12-step programs notoriously promote detachment and other forms of interpersonal boundary-setting even while encouraging participants to reveal their darkest secrets repeatedly to a room full of strangers, narrating and re-narrating their crises to such a point of prolificacy that the lines between human lives grow indistinguishable.

2. Anyway, such a thematic—-the no-boundaries thematic—-appears to be most fertile in the deliberately low-budget mode of handheld camerawork, verité if you will. With hopes of making certain people cringe, I hereby nominate Rachel Getting Married as a wildly successful American example of Dogme 95. My evidence? The close-up purity of Kym's black eye suggests the absence of filters. The constant strumming on various musical instruments is not merely gratuitous background soundtrack but actually rather irritating and intrusive noise, as witnessed when one of the characters finally begs the wedding band to stop their incessant rehearsing in the next room so that the family can have another one of their painfully honest discussions about their shared personal tragedies and sustained bitter resentments. One recalls Thomas Vinterberg's amazing film Festen (Denmark 1998), in which another family gathering turns into a series of grainy, grimey catastrophes. One wishes to revisit Vinterberg's amazing film, in fact. One might do so this weekend.

3. Finally, I have to ask, what was up with all the cultural appropriation? Since when does a wedding between a white woman and a black man necessitate exotic wedding garb in the form of poorly tied saris? Isn't such a union already sufficiently "multicultural"? If one boundary was going to be set in this film, it should have been this one: if an Indian is not getting married, the bride should not be wearing a sari and eating "aloo gaabi."

Oh well... at least now we all know where Robyn Hitchcock has been hiding all these years.