Picky Reader

I caught myself standing in front of the fridge again with the door open. I shut the door and went to stand in the pantry. There was all this food in the house yet nothing to eat. Or at least nothing I was interested in. Obviously I was not hungry but worse - bored.

Since I don’t have TV, with the 83 channels to endless flip through for hours at a time, I went upstairs to the library. When I moved into my house, I set up one of the spare bedrooms as a library or I suppose you could call it a study. I painted it a Ralph Lauren color called Balmoral Red with an iridescent Mother of Pearl ceiling. It is like sitting in a glass of red wine. Truly lovely. One long wall is covered with bookcases, full to the brim. The books are not only standing 2 rows deep but they are crammed flat onto of the top of the rows. There are books on the tippy top of the cases and on the floor next to the shelves. Honestly, They are starting to accumulate in corners like drifts of snow against the back of the house.

There are hundreds of books here, but nothing to read. I stood in the library much like I stood in the pantry. I picked up first one book, then another. I wandered into the bedroom to root around under the bed pulling out forgotten volumes. I rifled the piles next to the bed. I even looked under the pillows, where I sometimes hide books from the cats, one of who is a book biter, well to be really correct, more of a chewer.

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of un-read books around, but nothing grabbed me. Not a single volume fell on my foot demanding to be read. I am one of those people that need to “be in the mood” to read something. I guess I am a picky reader, like some people are picky eaters.

As a fall-back position, I am going to browse a collection of short stories called All Aunt Hagar’s Children. Short stories are perfect for when I am unsettled, have a short attention span or am bored to tears.

Food Glorious Food

I am a cookbook lover. I get ideas from them and find them comforting. I read them on snowy winter nights tucked into my flannel sheets, dreaming of exotic smells in far-flung locales. I browse them on summer weekends as the scent of charcoal and cooking meat wafts over the arborvitae hedge. I plan menus from them for summer parties that will go long into the night. I try new recipes on long-suffering friends, family and neighbors (luckily for me they are broad-minded and willing to try anything--mostly.)

I love to cook but I am also out there at the edge. In addition to reading about classic Euro-based cuisine, I read cookbooks from cultures other than my own. With a glint in their eyes and drool on their lips, my friends bring me cookbooks and spices from their world travels.

I am fond of throwing theme parties with food, music, and décor from one country or another. (I posted before about the Moroccan Kasbah party). All of these ideas come from idly browsing cookbooks.

I give you a partial list of some of my favorite cookbooks and encourage you to curl up with a cup of tea and a good book. Or put one on your Christmas list.

Tess Mallos. Cooking Moroccan.
Madhur Jaffrey. Indian Cooking
Lidia Bastianich. Lidia’s Italian-American Kitchen
Jacqueline Clarke & Joanna Farrow. Mediterranean Cooking
Nancie McDermott. Quick & Easy Thai
Rick Bayles. Mexico, One Plate at a Time
Marcella Hazan. The Classic Italian Cookbook
Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid. Hot Sour Salty Sweet.

Read to me

"Then Beo was king in that Danish castle
Shild’s son ruling as long as his father
And as loved, a famous lord of men.
And he in turn gave his people a son,
The great Healfdane, a fierce fighter
Who led the Danes to the end of his long
Life and left them four children,"

I first tried reading Beowulf when I was in my early 20s. Being a voracious reader, I assumed I would have no problem, however difficult, awkward or epic the story. At that point I had already read most of the classics, including The Iliad, The Odyssey and other long involved epic tales.

I was wrong. I could not find a rhythm in the reading. I would crawl into bed at night and struggle for an hour before putting it aside.

One night, I heaved a sigh and slapped the thin paperback on the nightstand. My boyfriend at that time looked up from reading the Canterbury Tales (he was in an Old English class) and asked what the problem was. I cursed Beowulf and its unknown author.

Beowulf is meant to be listened to, not read silently, he told me. He picked up Beowulf, opened the book to the beginning and began to read aloud.

What a difference!

As I listened to the tale of kings, and battle, monsters and glory I was one with all the generations of people who have listened to the telling of Beowulf. We finished the poem in two nights. When the story was done, I heaved a sigh of contentment for a story well told but sad that it was over.

On my way to the airport last week, I noticed that there is a movie version of Beowulf in the theaters. The name brought me back to 2 cold winter nights many years ago when I finally understood the power of the spoken word. I intend to see the movie; it is getting good reviews. I am thrilled that such a long-standing classic is being introduced to yet another generation of people in a way that they can appreciate.