Usque ad Hilaritatem (part 2)

The wine:

Jorio by Umani Ronchi.

Preface:

Jorio hails from a delightfully literal family of wines known as Montepulciano d'Abruzzo which are made in Abruzzo, Italy and feature the Montepulciano grape. They are table wines, but remember that for wine the term table is not a compromise but a calling. We need these wines like the world needs garbage men: easy to take for granted but you'll miss them when they're gone. Everybody can't be Pomerol. Anyway, Abruzzo is in the back heal of the boot, approximately yonder:

If you happen to run across a Montepulciano with 'Riserva' slapped across the label, it means the wine was aged for a minimum of two years in oak, but don't get too excited. Older really isn't necessarily better, especially for high-yield, less sophisticated wines like Montepulciano. Many base-level Montepulcianos are quite nice younger, and may actually benefit from it because the fruit comes through more easily. Think fresh not young. Our friend Jorio, in fact, was aged only eleven months and is a very viable table wine and does his family proud.

Montepulciano d'Abruzzo is permitted to feature up to 10% Sangiovese, the work-horse of Italian wine. And a quick word on this. Italian wines are excruciatingly frustrating to keep track of in one's head, and the real culprit to my mind is Sangiovese. It creeps it's way (one feels) into every damn blend, and unless you're sensitive to the differences, makes many Italian wines taste suspiciously similar. This shouldn't be a problem with Jorio though, thank Dionysios, because its juice is honest-to-goodness 100% Montepulciano. Which to my mind could be described as a somewhat drier Sangiovese. Oh well.

Excursus:

A deep ruby color verging on purple, and largely opaque. A heavy wine, one sees, because the way it clings to the side of the glass. Nasal investigation will reveal dark, ripe fruit like plum maybe or even raisins. There's a bit of sugar there too, like molasses or caramel. Once inside your mouth the first thing you taste is the fruit again, but this time definitely plum, undercut by some good acidity and tannins to balance. The acid races backwards and is most of what I get on the back end. A tart wine, it needs food, Italian food really.

I haven't liked Montepulciano much in the past. One in particular comes to mind, although I don't remember the name. It tasted like cardboard and acid and put me off the whole grape for a while. But Jorio is pleasant and reasonably priced (by my own unrealistic standards), right around mid-to-low-20's. Don't ever pay too much more for Montepulcian d'Abruzzo than that, please, but Jorio, I feel, is worth what you'll pay.

Cheeses:

Podda Classico, (good) Piave, Pecorino Toscano (2+ years), Idiazabal, Taleggio, Ros, and my favorite for this wine: Ossau-Iraty.

Otherwise have it at your table with some extra tangy Marinara or Bolognese sauces, and my gut tells my a rustique pate. Lots of bread and olive oil.

Bibliography:

Here's what the maker's web site has to say.

Deep ruby red, recalls plums and red cherries on the nose, followed by balsamic and salty notes on a background of ripe liquorice. With eloquent and clean tannins in the mouth, it comes across as full and vigorous, with a long and intense finish.

Most of that I can see, although liquorice is going a little far. Here's a random internet blurb I pulled up on the wine:

It was a delicious wine from start to finish. I must say I was totally impressed by this wine from the moment I smelled the bouquet it to the last drop. Looking at the wine, it was bright cherry red with vibrant pink edges. On the nose it displayed lovely vanilla, cherries and blueberry pie. Hints of loam and rich truffles

Apparently everyone agrees that it's cherries not plum I was tasting, but blueberry pie is absurd, and truffles just absolutely bonkers.

Conclusion:

Caring matters.

I Have Measured Out My Life in Coffee Spoons...

Last Saturday I had the opportunity to play a concert which featured Joshua Roman as soloist. It was a singular experience for me; I have never been closer to someone that good at my own instrument (after his first rehearsal with us he actually came back out and played in the section a little -- he was sitting right next to me!). I cannot say enough good things about his playing: fluid yet lush, effortless yet passionate.

After the first rehearsal, I came home a little discouraged. Let me explain. I am sure that Joshua spends many hours a day practicing; you cannot reach such heights without years of dedication. But even if I were to lock myself in a room and do nothing but practice, I would never ever be as good at the cello as him. Again that pesky word effortless; I could sweat and strain and maybe make some of the same shifts, but he slid through jumps with an ease which I could never match. That is one of the marks of greatness, that he makes difficult things look easy.

I think there are two basic responses to being confronted with greatness like this. They are separated only by a thin line, but they are miles apart. First, the sin driven response. I came home discouraged that night because I knew not only that I would never play the cello like that, but that I would never produce art on that level. My vanity in my cello playing has diminished over time, worn down by lack of practice and a realistic measurement of my abilities. But there are other storehouses for my fragile self-image. In particular my writing: I like to think of myself as a good writer, someone who loves language and ideas and can generally harness them and drive them in the direction I want them to go. But chances are good that I will never make my living as a writer (as I sometimes dream of doing). I suffer, I confess, from a need for self-justification. It isn't that I want to be rich and famous as an author, but I do crave the self-satisfaction of knowing that I have created something lasting and worthwhile. The music which Roman creates is intrinsically, instinctively wonderful: I long for a taste of that experience.

As usual my wife has a good bit more sense than I do. We talked about my insecurities, worked through my petty self-image. I realized some very important things. I will never be a Dostoyevsky, will probably not ever even be a Buechner, but that is emphatically ok. In the end it does not matter if I do not reach dizzying heights with my prose; it is enough that I do what I can with the time and talents given to me. God does not need my scarce talents as a writer to bring about his Kingdom. Rather he has given me the skills He has in the amounts He has in order that I might glorify Him. Maybe that is one reason I feel compelled to write on this blog, as a part of good stewardship over my talents. Better that I make use of what I do have.

But what of the other response? If my initial reaction was intermixed with sin (which it certainly was), there was perhaps an element of the longing I felt that was pure and good. I think that the longing I felt had to do with being an amateur -- not in the pedestrian sense of the word, someone who is not good enough to be a professional (though that certainly applies to me), but in the root sense, someone who performs an action out of love for it. In that sense I am assuredly an amateur cellist: I play because music lifts my soul, exhilarates me like few other things. I can point to a handful of moments in my life as a cellist that I would call truly transcendent, and those alone are more than enough compensation for the years of hard work and frustration. I think Dostoyevsky was on to something when he said "Beauty will save the world." Not in an ultimate sense of course (unless you mean the beauty of Christ), but beauty does point (no, stronger -- guide) our souls to the source of beauty. That is a part of the longing I felt when I heard Joshua Roman play: I had the desire to break through the mundane and experience transforming beauty, but not the ability. In The Symposium Diotima tells Socrates that the desire of love is to give birth to beauty; in this case I felt a little like Hannah before the Lord blessed her with Samuel.

I feel like this in life quite often. There is a thirst that reaches down into each one of us, a basic desire which seems to elude satisfaction. Yet Christ promises a deep, abiding slaking of that thirst. How do I reconcile that promise with my life? Truth is, I spend most of my time avoiding the spring which would satisfy. Grace is mystifying, complex, quite simply beyond me. I cannot comprehend, but I long for it. Thank goodness that art does not imitate life: "it is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but of God that sheweth mercy."

Beware the Tin Fiddle

So far our Symposium is crawling along, with plenty of empty days; for this I refuse to apologize, however, for reasons which I will make clear in a little bit. I have enjoyed re-reading and thinking and typing about Supper of the Lamb, and have even more so enjoyed reading Andrew's take on things (and salivating over poutine). One unsubtle encouragement: please comment on our posts! We both really enjoy getting feedback. As those notable culture critics the Backstreet Boys once said:

All you people can't you see, can't you see/What your love does to our reality?/Every time we're down, you can make it right/And that makes you larger than life

Yes, we are as insecure as the Backstreet Boys, so please help us along. And now on to the post!

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Robert Capon wears many hats in the course of writing Supper of the Lamb. At times he is simply cooking enthusiast, at other times his training as theologian creeps in. Perhaps my favorite guise, and his most thought provoking one, is as iconoclast. Capon simply does not have patience for the idols of American quick cuisine, and he makes no bones about his displeasure. His general term of distaste for the infinite variety of gadgets and quick fixes which permeate the American kitchen is "tin fiddle". He asks the reader to imagine a conspiracy between all the violin makers in the world to foist upon the public violins made of tin: through advertising and dominance of the market, they will eventually succeed in pushing their monstrosities upon most people. Professionals no doubt will continue to saw away on wooden instruments, but the common man will be left with little choice. In the same way, Capon suggests, the American public has been duped by any number of substitutes for good old fashioned hard work and hard eating. Convenience and nutrition have become the rallying cries for home cooks, but they come at a high cost. He therefore calls us away from "plain cooking and fancy eating" and back to "fancy cooking and plain eating".

Capon wrote this book in the 1960's, and his words have been prophetic: if anything, the situation is much more dire now than it was at the time. Instead of focusing on doing things correctly, we have asked again and again the dreaded question "How much time will it take?" We now have not only frozen vegetables but entire Fancy Feasts (TM) at our fingertips, just waiting to be defrosted. Furthermore we have almost quantified food out of existence. Everything we buy comes neatly packaged with nutrition information, and that is expected to be the last word. Don't eat butter -- eat this butter substitute with less fat! If Capon's is a voice crying in the wilderness, those of us who wish to repeat his sounding joy are more like lone survivors of a horrific nuclear holocaust.

I propose that all of this comes down to a basic confusion of means and ends. In our relentless drive to make life faster and cheaper, we have categorized things such as food as means to an end, rather as an end in itself. Food is no longer something to be enjoyed, to revel in over long supper with old friends; it is "fuel for the body", something to keep us going and satisfy our occasional cravings. Therefore we give it little to no thought: our only concern is how best to get our hands on it in a way which causes us as little inconvenience as possible. We do this in most areas of life. Our music has been dumbed down to the point where we can only digest three minute, ready for radio sound bites. Our education system (I speak from experience) values teaching children WHAT to think rather than HOW to think. In both of these cases our folly is self evident but often overlooked. As I type I am listening to Brahms; the intricate design of his symphonies moves me in ways that pop music could never do. One of the most disheartening things about teaching is seeing how unaccustomed my students are to loving what they learn. Knowledge is something to be heard, processed, stored away and finally spit back up onto a test page; no wonder we remain squarely in the realm of facts and never progress to real wisdom.

But I digress; these posts are ostensibly about food, and it is precisely in the realm of the gastronomical where we see some of the most blatant butchering (har har) of clear thought. We fail as a culture in two distinct areas: both how we eat and how we avoid eating. Let us start with the first.

The way Americans view food preparation really speaks to the gods we worship. We seek after faster and faster ways to get things done. Canned sauces, pre-made piecrust, ready to bake cookies: all give the same basic message -- Who has time to cook? The root cause spins down too far to follow in this post; let us simply say that we essentially work too much and use our leisure time in an appalling manner. We kill ourselves at our jobs so that we can earn more money so we can buy bigger houses and bigger cars and bigger tv's so we can feel good about the fact that we work so hard and ignore our families and... you get the point (my head is spinning already). We hope to find satisfaction in our hard work; we never do, but that only drives our determination all the more. As a result we are always seeking but never finding. One major problem with this lifestyle (there are many) is that it is essentially unnatural: we ignore the simple things which matter (God, family, food, etc) and seek to be filled up by junk food of both the literal and spiritual kind.

So 90% of what we eat comes precooked and prepackaged. Need a sumptuous Italian dinner? Simply boil some precooked noodles, slap on a little Ragu, and there you go (or better yet, microwave a pre-cooked lasagna for 5 minutes). But probe a little deeper, and the story starts to unravel. How much enjoyment do you actually get from such a meal? You are missing the first joy, which is the process of cooking. There is nothing quite like chopping up your own tomatoes and onions and garlic and letting them stew for several hours till they reach just the right flavor, or the wonder of stirring a roux and watching it work its thickening magic. There are ten thousand such intricate mysteries waiting to be explored and meditated upon by the cook who is willing to take the time. Second, and perhaps more important, you miss the joy of taste. Too often we settle for adequate taste instead of exquisite flavor. Our food inhabits the tepid middle ground, always bland and safe. Where are the depths of richness which true food of the earth achieves? Most of what we eat has the faintly lingering scent of the laboratory about it. Do not even start me on fast food; my wife has exhorted me to keep these posts relatively brief, and a full discourse on that subject would push me perilously close to Karamazovian length.

Our desire to take the easy way out extends beyond our intake of food to another subject: the ways in which we hope to rid ourselves of what we eat. Leslie and I went to Barnes & Noble the other day and saw an entire display devoted to a myriad of dieting books, each one promising to help the reader shed pounds "the fast and easy way". Of course one big problem with diets is that, taken as a whole, they simply do not work. They promise us ease in an area where ease is not possible. But they drive us to an even worse error: they push us to see food (and life) as something over which we can exert utter mastery; they encourage us to see food as something to be controlled rather than something to be celebrated.

Please do not misunderstand: I do not advocate eating whatever you want whenever you want. Certainly moderation is to be encouraged, and we live in a time when food has in fact gained mastery over us -- this must be combated. But the way to do it is certainly not by claiming that we can have our cake and eat it too, which is precisely what dieting promises. Capon's solution is rather to fast: to engage in concerted times of doing without. Not only does this help us avoid excess, it reminds us that true eating is a sometimes thing. There is a time to feast, and a time to fast, but we seem content to take the middle road on everything. I think ultimately this is a spiritual problem: we are Epicureans, hoping to avoid pain at all costs. We would rather have long extended periods of completely boring food than simple (but good) eating followed by times of glorious excess. Fasting, Capon reminds us, is good for the soul as well. Dieting tempts us to believe that we can gain glory without pain, but fasting tells us to enter into that pain, to bear with it. Is this not the way of the cross? In some small way we imitate Christ by fasting, by choosing to embrace the pain that comes long with denying our own desires. In this creaking, groaning world we cannot hope to see glory without pain; even God submitted His own Son to suffering in order to lift the world to glory. How can we expect to do our part in raising all things up if we do not imitate our Savior in bending down? Maybe fasting seems like a small part to play, but I firmly believe that the small things are essential in the kingdom.

Usque ad Hilaritatem (part 1)

This is Foie Gras Poutine. If there ever were a dish to compete for 'most unnecessary', surely Foie Gras Poutine is it.

Exegegis:

Poutine is a traditional Canadian lower-class dish. (I say it with respect, remember always no matter what else I say, that I delight in hot dogs more than a grown man reasonably should). Now Poutine for us Southerners need only be explained thusly: it's french fries with gravy on top; a traditional rib-sticking feature of the Canadian everyman's after work meal. Already at this humble point we have crossed the border into what the modern world would call the dietetically perverse, as so many ordinary meals do these days. But a certain Chef by the name of Martin Picard took it several dozen steps further.

Martin Picard is the head Chef and founder of a Montreal-based restaurant I (desperately) would like to patronize one day. It's called Au Pied de Cochon, which is French for 'the foot of the pig'. Martin Picard has stuck with a die-hard extremism to the classical forms of good French cooking, that is to say, butter, fat, salt, meat, wine, pig's feet, cream, pâte, bread, pastry, duck, love, happiness...

... and in that sense, by returning to a time when nobody cared about the calorific content of their food but rather its taste, he has become a revolutionary in the most literal sense: innovation by coming full circle. With his typical disregard of health-conscious, bean-sprout-devouring, omega-47Q-fatty-acid-Z-obsessed modern culture, Martin Picard invented the Foie Gras Poutine.

Foie Gras is the liver of duck or goose which have been bred and fed for the specific purpose of possessing extraordinarily tasty livers. It is very fatty. It is very rich. It is excellent with Sauternes (by the way)...

Foie Gras Poutine's gravy is made by blending a good bit of goose liver into the gravy, and then, for good measure, slapping a solid chunk of pan-seared Foie Gras onto the whole mess at the end. It is the only $23 dollar French Fries you'll find anywhere, and it probably takes a year off of your life-expectancy every time you eat it.

Martin Picard, in fact, was criticized by the culinary elite for his introduction of this dish into the menu of a purportedly also 'elite' restaurant. And to be fair, it was originally created as a sort of joke, something entirely unexpected to surprise a favorite regular, who ended up loving it so much the dish made it to the big leagues and has since become one of the more successfull dishes Au Pied de Cochon offers. But what bothered critics, besides how low-brow even ordinary Poutine is, was the engorging excess, the unabashed richness, the artery-clogging, no, the artery-destroying health-heedlessness.

Foie Gras Poutine is unnecessary. It doesn't do any more to fulfill the purpose of food than astronaut, freeze-dried protein and vitamin chips might, in fact, if the purpose of food is indeed simply nutrition, Foie Gras Poutine does it rather worse. It's all fat and starch. It's bad for you. It's useless.

Homily:

And this is its glory. I agree with Asher. And both of us, for that matter, agree with Robert Farrar Capon. The world was never meant to be used; it was meant to be enjoyed. The world, the whole deliriously spinning universe, was made to be enjoyed.

It is a gorgeous old place, full of clownish graces and beautiful drolleries. and it has enough textures, tastes, and smells to keep us intrigued for more time than we have.

So let me repeat: Foie Gras Poutine is unnecessary, but let's take that as a compliment. Everything good is unnecessary but the original Good. He didn't need any of all this when he made it. He made it out of love, because he thought it was good, tov. As Capon puts it, He likes it.

The Supper of the Lamb has many deeply worthwhile things to say, but it was this point I felt was driving all the different thoughts of the book. The world is Good. Life is good. To be is good. To eat, and especially to eat together, is good. And not to say that a man who doesn't feel this way about things isn't Christian, or can't be a Christian, but that he isn't thinking like one. He's making a mistake, and I think a more costly one than he realizes.

What do you suspect we'll be doing for all eternity? Singing hymns and nothing else? I will confess to you I felt a good deal of dread as a child thinking I would have to stand around bellowing the same hymnal mediocrities I even then recognized as substandard for the rest of an infinite time. Dreadful. That's not to say there won't be singing. There will be, and (praise God!) much better than we're used to. But I suggest to there will be more, that the Marriage Supper of the Lamb will be, in a sense, only a taste of what's to come after, the wine an Apéritif, the food Hors d' Oeuvres.

This life eternal that is given to us is a life of peace, and peace is good. Christ is the Prince of Peace, after all. And although I readily agree that our lives now cracked, broken, at war, that there are things that need doing, that our self is sinful and thus more often than not needs denying, restricting, yet there are people who have taken the struggle of this present darkness and fetishized it, made an idol of it in fact. They paint the struggle as the whole of Christianity. They are the workaholic pastors, the obsessive penitents. They are the self-aggrandizing pedants of the Law, the Pharisees.

I don't mean to be judgmental. All of us are these people to some degree. Every religious man is also a religious hypocrite. This time is one of struggle, but we take this struggle upon ourselves wanting to be rid of it. It is a weariness, and glory to the day when it's done!

For myself I have come to believe that precisely to the extent that you value your own self in terms of your religious powers (your honesty, your earnestness, your chastity, your generosity), it is to that extent that you will find Heaven a disappointment. You have not developed the sensibilities of Heaven, because honesty, earnestness, chastity, generosity, all the virtues, are not the point of existence in eternity, they are the pre-requisites, and they are long since accomplished for you by Someone Else. The point, what we are to be doing all that long, long time, is loving things, loving each other, above all and through all, loving God.

What is the chief end of man?

Man's chief end is to glorify God and enjoy him forever.

Loving things now, loving wine and beer and cheese and company (the crown of good food), and loving dancing and loving art and loving sport and the world generally, it is all training for Heaven. In this race we will all stumble in of course, because that's who we are, but whatever shape I'm in by the time I get there (rather rounder than not, I suspect), I'll be ready for a drink.

Doxology:

May God bless you and keep you,

May God make his face to shine upon you,

And give you peace.

Symposium!

Hey All,

I'm sure many of you are convinced that bringing Andrew on board was just the beginning of a phasing out on my part; gradually I would shift more and more responsibility to him, until eventually he was left holding the bag while I ran away scot free to frolic in fields of laziness.

FEAR NOT! I have returned with a vengeance. Furthermore, we are officially entering a new era in this blog's history. For the next few days, Andrew and I will be collaborating on a virtual conference of sorts; we will both be posting entries about various aspects of the book The Supper of the Lamb, which I have mentioned here before. In case you missed it, SotL (as I will heretofore call it) is... well, not really able to be categorized. It is unlike any book I have read: part cookbook, part food writing, part spiritual meditation, part cultural criticism -- all woven together with a thread of good humor and common sense. It is the kind of book that you want to share with everyone you know, but you aren't sure whether most people will tap into its peculiar sensibilities. For that reason it makes an ideal subject for our first collaborative effort. It contains "many multitudes", themes which are best explored by multiple authors. Without further ado, let the first Semi-Annual Symposium begin!

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Last Monday I attended TU's annual Snuggs Lecture in Religion. I went because the speaker was this guy, and he sounded completely awesome. The lecture was about the intersection of religion and science. I went cautiously expecting another lecture on the topic of evolution and creation (really, is there any more boring subject?), but was pleasantly surprised to discover that the lecture was actually about much more significant issues, the deeper problems that lead science and religion into conflict. The lecture really picked up steam as it went along; it started out with an interesting but perhaps overly technical analysis of necessity versus contingency (according to Scruton the new or "evangelical" atheists take as their foundation the assumption that all things are contingent), but the final section was an analysis of the sacred as it appears throughout human situation. Scruton's basic argument seemed to be that there is no scientific or genealogical explanation which can sufficiently account for the idea of the sacred in human life. His two big examples of the sacred were sex and death (duh), but what really stuck in my mind was the idea of cooking, eating, and drinking as sacred acts. I even boldly raised my hand and asked Dr. Scruton about the connection (knowing him to be a gourmand and an oenophile), and he agreed and gave some nice ties between eating and the divine.

Hopefully you begin to see where I am headed. Robert Farrar Capon titled his book The Supper of the Lamb, partly because of the recipe which winds its way through the book (Lamb for eight persons four times), but also because of the sacramental implications. Let's start with the obvious: The Lord's Supper (the Eucharist if you are a bit more high church, simply "communion" if you take it with wafers and Welch's or, God forbid -- and I mean that literally -- pizza and grape soda) is the perfected, transcendent meal. It is the sacred come to us, the Lord dwelling with us. Yet I think Capon (and Scruton) would say that this is simply the most extravagant example of sacred food. Every day we are presented with the possibility of tasting the divine. Capon says "Only miracle is plain. It is the ordinary that groans with the unutterable weight of glory." The smell of onions frying in butter; the wonder of braising meat; the ineffable mystery of pastry dough: all these point us to the meeting of God and man at the table.

Christ says in Revelation "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me." We know this verse, yet I think we often cut it off before the end. When Christ enters in He does not simply wander into our house to admire the furniture and perhaps take off his shoes for a bit. He comes to eat; to sit at the table and enjoy our company course after course. If sex is the most intimate act attainable between two people, then surely eating is the closest we can come together as a community. We break bread together, and at the same time our hearts open up to each other -- and that is completely laying aside the issue of wine (which makes glad the hearts of men), that wonderful glue which binds heart to heart.

Food clearly shows us the heart of God, that glorious excess which helps to define His goodness. That food should not merely sustain but should bring us to rapturous heights; that Christ brings not merely water for nourishment but wine for celebration: these are miracles of extravagant grace that should point us finally to that most sublime extravagance, God become man.

Yet where do we find ourselves today? Far from sacred, food has become lumped solidly in with the secular. We analyze, categorize, and prioritize. All bows before before the altar of nutrition; all is reduced to calorie, carb, cholesterol. If the sacred is concerned with what is beautiful, then the secular busies itself with what is useful. As we have reduced sex down to an easily manipulatable biological function and offered it up prepackaged, so too we have converted food into a tool for survival, precooked and packed in neat little boxes waiting to be unfrozen.

Even the Church has fallen prey to the traps of the world. Every Sabbath, most Christians follow their formal worship by honoring (and eating) a sacred (and often literal) cow. The Sunday lunch has become an institution, and Denny's from coast to coast fill up every week with overweight, waddling Evangelicals waiting to stuff their faces with ham and eggs. We have forgotten the art of the family meal cooked slowly at home, blinded by the convenience of eating out. By abandoning the restraint that comes as a result of cooking your own food, we have embraced a culture where food is a notable exception to the clarion call for self-control (I am waiting for the new translation where Paul exhorts us to cultivate the jelly doughnuts of the Spirit). Or take the ghastly Protestant approach to alcohol. Instead of wine and beer leading us to celebration, we have banned them as dangerous objects, things to be shunned lest we indulge in excess. Yes, drunkenness should be avoided, but it is more evil by far to call unclean that which God not only calls clean but delights in. By thinking of food and alcohol merely in terms of their end results, we have lost the magic of the things themselves.

Capon calls us to rally against this relentless drive toward convenience and dullness. He desires to shock our palettes awake, and in the process awaken us to the mystery of the ordinary. Eating (and hopefully cooking) is something we do every day, yet it should be to us a source of wonder, for in it we experience the divine. In my next post I will more fully explore this perilous change from sacred to secular. For now, go open a bottle of Pinot Noir, whip up some homemade stock, and savor awhile the foretaste of glory we have been given.

Your People Call Them Vampires

But he, straining for no more than a glimpse

of hearth-smoke drifting up from his own land,

Odysseus longs to die...

My heart swells at the thought of home, my own Ithica, page 498. But there's a long way to go yet, comrades. Take heart!

... And one more thing. And really this could have happened to anybody, an honest mistake, but something to keep in mind and a lesson for everybody and one we should all take to heart- Twelfth Mate "Cheeky" James Bailey (recently demoted), has pointed out that my own personal Calypso is not, in point of fact, when all things are considered, summed up, and put into a neat and tidy row, named Stephenie Meyers, but rather Stephenie Meyer. Like I said, honest mistake. I'm not even going to try to save face in some preposterous manner and pretend I thought the novel was written by committee or something, or that she is Legion. No, no, I just wasn't paying attention. This ought not in any way reflect upon the credibility or rigor of my efforts.

That settled, let's um... sally forth or something and get a move on. Rough seas ahead.

Chapter 5

Blood Type

and

Chapter 6

Scary Stories

And

Chapter 7

Nightmare

If I may vent some frustration at this point. The invitation made by Edward to drive Bella to Seattle is made in Chapter 4. Presumably on this trip something awesome, violently vampire-esque, or both is going to happen. Three chapters and a solid 70 pages later, they haven't gone yet. No one has died, and there is a definite lack of mood-setting, darkly gothic ambience. Not even an Igor with a hump on his back and loads of stitches, who answers everybody's requests with an exaggerated 'Yeth, maaaarth-ter'. (That's asking a bit much, I admit.) I'm losing my vampire motivation, my BLOOD drive, if you will... har har. It's all being sucked away (get it?) by these sorts of exchanges:

I had to look away from the intensity of his stare. I concentrated on unscrewing the lid of my lemonade. I took a swig, staring at the table without seeing it.

"Aren't you hungry?" he asked, distracted.

"No." I didn't feel like mentioning that my stomach was already full- of butterflies. "You?" I looked at the empty table in front of him.

...

...

...

Precisely.

But we won't get anywhere complaining and lolligagging about. Here's what happens. Bella comes to school and she gets invited to sit next to Edward at lunch, and here we enjoy the already cited repartee. They flirt outrageously (all three senses: it is too much, it is very strange, and I am outraged), and Bella faints in science class because blood is being drawn. Edward saves her by seducing the secretary so Bella can get out of school.

Afterwards, Bella goes on a camping trip and meets an Indian boy named He-Who-Advances-Plot or Squawking-Foreshadow or something. Anyway Running-Gag tells Bella that the Cullens aren't allowed on Indian ground... because they're vampires! Hooray! Someone finally says it!

So Bella of course gets depressed and franticly researches vampires... on the internet. Yes, the internet. If you must, go ahead and google 'vampires'. (Please, filters on for this one.) How many credible resources sprang up? Anything that reassured you that here, finally here, you might find a sober, academic approach full of gravity and reason? Well, Bella does. She discovers the following:

Stregoni benefici: An Italian vampire, said to be on the side of goodness, and a mortal enemy of all evil vampires.

She finds this very reassuring. Oh, and then she has a nightmare.

Now, this Stregoni Benefici is apparently an actual mythological figure and not of Stephenie Meyer's creation. Or at least several websites claim so. Obviously, if there is any credence to this story, we would have to look through Italian history for some powerful figure, some knight of goodness, who stands out in a unique way. Could it be Da Vinci? I doubt it, too much of an egghead. Dante? What a ponce! Garibaldi? Please. We may never know who the real Stregoni Benefici is, but let's just say I have my theories.

Best sentences:

- His voice was like melting honey.

-"I love them," I enthused, making an effort to smolder at him.

-... but there was no sign of Edward or any of his family. Desolation hit me with crippling strength.

Woolfing it Down

For she could stand it no longer. Dr. Holmes might say there was nothing the matter. Far rather would she that he were dead! She could not sit beside him when he stared so and did not see her and made everything terrible; sky and tree, children playing, dragging carts, blowing whistles, falling down; all were terrible. And he would not kill himself; and she could tell no one.

-Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

Of course he wasn't interested in me, I thought angrily, my eyes stinging- a delayed reaction to the onions. I wasn't interesting. And he was. Interesting... and brilliant... and mysterious... and perfect... and beautiful... and possibly able to lift full-sized vans with one hand.

-Stephanie Meyers, Twilight

If I really did have to describe Stephanie Meyers right now, I would say she's like Virginia Woolf, minus her sensibilities, competency and feminism, but plus vampires. Now, I''m no... (Woolfian? Woolfite? Woolfeur? Considering the subject matter I'm going in a different direction.)

Now, I'm no Woolf-man, but I have done several minutes worth of research on the global repository of human knowledge that is Wikipedia. Virginia Woolf, as it turns out, was among the writers who pioneered a narrative stream-of-consciousness technique in the early twentieth century along with fellows like Joyce and Faulkner. And there are times when Stephanie Meyers sounds a bit like her.

I am aware there are people with English degrees reading this, so nobody get their aesthetics in a twist just yet. Here's the similarity. Woolf is the only one of those three I mentioned whose style of stream-of-consciousness narration is both purposefully melodramatic and purposefully feminine. I say purposefully feminine because she had political and social reasons for taking on what she considered a feminine voice (she was a favorite of the early feminist movement). I say purposefully melodramatic because I've felt a rather strong undercurrent of irony in how she depicts the wild mood-swings of her characters. Stephanie Meyers of course isn't so subtle or accomplished, but the narration absolutely draws upon the stylistic influence of writers like Woolf, Joyce, and Faulkner. (Everybody does. Their influence is ubiquitous and subconscious; I doubt strongly Meyers is modeling herself after them on purpose.)

Meyers uses stream-of-consciousness of a sort, and if it sounds like anybody, it sounds like Virginia Woolf. Stephanie Meyers character Bella certainly is feminine, in the most culturally stagnant, stereotypical sense, and my God, is that poor girl melodramatic. Reading her mind (the narration is first-person) is like reading the prose equivalent of a mood-ring stuck on a mad she-chimp in heat.

Bella and Edward.

She might be insane:

Grrr.

-Stephanie Meyers, Twilight

I rest my case. Anyway, here's the chapter synopsis:

Chapter 4
Invitations

I'll give you three guesses to figure out what happens in this chapter. Got it? That's right! Bella gets invited to the school dance. Repeatedly. And that's what happens in this chapter. This chapter is about Bella being invited to the school dance no less than three times. The school dance. This is a vampire novel, by the way.

So she tells them all she's going to Seattle that weekend, and (gasp!) Edward invites her to go with him and the curtain closes. It's a date!

Here are the best sentences (the two from above are out of chapter 4 also):

-"You're welcome," he retorted.
-I tried to be crafty as I hid my horror.
-Stupid, shiny Volvo owner.
-His eyes were gloriously intense as he uttered that last sentence, his voice smoldering. I couldn't remember how to breathe.

See? Just like Virginia Woolf.

A Heaping Pile of Seconds

Oi... the first chapter was rough going, but I'm back for more and (secretly) enjoying myself in a perverse sort of way. Like a QT hotdog eating contest with extra jalapeno relish. I'm doing a two-fer here because you really don't want 24 separate blog posts about this.

Chapter 2
Open Book
and...
Chapter 3
Phenomenon

I'm justifying doing these two together for two reasons. First, like I said, this ought to be as short and merciful as possible, and second, nothing much happens in these chapters. Bella continues to narrate the story like a 40-year old divorcee (did I mention this? 16-or-whatever-she-is year olds don't talk like this: "It was ridiculous, and egotistical, to think that I could affect anyone that strongly."), and the story is moving along without much of anything happening. These two chapters first really introduce Edward as a character and that's about it. And boy is he... something.

I can't really say what I thought at first, to be honest. I was only introduced to Twilight when the movies came out and this face:


began to harass me every time I went to the check-out line at Krogers. He's the only thing I picture when I read about Edward Cullen, and I have to give the casting director for the movies some props here; Robert Pattinson is terrifying.

"I would like to eat your flesh."

I honestly do believe that he could be a vampire. Really, if he approached me I'd genuflect, and run to the nearest table and break off a leg so I could defend myself, Ron Artest-style. (If you don't get the reference, you will if you keep reading my posts about the NBA. That story will come up eventually.) Anyway, he's honest-to-goodness, poo-in-the-pants scary, and he's the only thing I saw reading these last two chapters. I was a little distracted to say the least.

My synopsis: Bella goes to school, already obsessing about Edward for some reason, but he's not there. He continues not to be there until he shows up again a couple weeks later looking rather less sallow. Presumably he's eaten someone.

"With some Fava beans and a nice Chianti. Fu-fu-fu-fu."

He then proceeds to be genuinely friendly and interested in her. She, in turn, proceeds to instantly fall in love. In the next chapter, it snows some, Bella complains like its the end of her freaking world, and she almost (almost!) dies in a car crash. Except Edward saves her.

And that's about it. I did, however, manage to unearth this gem of a sentence:

"I made the Cowardly Lion look like the terminator." (pg. 30)

Until next time!

"Don't turn out the lights!"

Further Reading:
The Onion Twilight Article

Roundball Semiotics: Basketball qua Jazz

What Fats is saying of course, and this ought to be sufficiently demonstrated by the sax solo at least, is the nearly axiomatic and essential truth: Jazz = Basketball, Basketball = Jazz.

The analogy has reached the cultural saturation point that even though I can't recall who first suggested it to me, or even if any one person in particular suggested it to me, I still associate on a guttural and more or less involuntary level (read: thoughtlessly) the game of basketball with the musical form Jazz. Certainly someone thought of the analogy first, but he's long faded into the background and morphed into an assumption. I've seen it sometimes criticized, because really, what else do bloggers have to do all day? But much more commonly it rests serenely in the background as an unconscious archetype by which we understand the game.

If you think about it too hard though, there are likely a host of racial subtexts and attitudes, possibly ugly ones, which contribute to the idea. Most of which I don't have the heart to explore except to comment on how telling it is that we're still surprised when white people engage in either activity. Sometimes with reason.

But then sometimes not; we all know Django had style, and Larry Bird is Larry Bird. Nonetheless, I think we find it much easier to accept the association of basketball with a stereotypically "black" art form like jazz or (increasingly) hip-hop than we do with an oppositely characterized "white" art form such as, say, baroque chamber music. But that's beside the point. The question is, does the analogy shed any kind of light on the nature of basketball in its own right? Would the analogy still work without all the race-issue boogeymen mucking up the picture?

First the argument. I think it is commonly stated that Basketball = Jazz for the following reasons.

1. Basketball and Jazz are both, at least in theory, a series of improvisations set within an ideal structure. In this sense, an A#7 to Fm7 chord progression is something like the high screen and roll, although possibly less emphatic.

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2. Said improvisation is at its best when cooperative. There are solo jazz performances of course, just like there are isolation plays in basketball, but both Jazz and Basketball are, I believe, at their most fascinating and most fully realized when the individual talents of the players merge in a skillful synergy, a sort of hive-mind gestalt.

3. Although this may apply more appropriately to Football (Soccer), there is also the continuity and flow of the game. In theory, if the refs aren't a little too chippy with the whistles, or if one of the teams isn't coached by Jeff van Gundy, Basketball is a game where the back-and-forth, give-and-take pace can take on the liquid contours of some of the more lengthy Jazz odysseys.

So far so good. The previous three points are the three I see made most commonly, and certainly, they all have their salient merits. What I don't ever really see, but which I submit for your consideration as point number 4, is something I hope will strengthen the analogy beyond the merely coincidental.

4. At least since the early eighties, upon the dawn of the Larry Bird v. Magic Johnson rivalry, and culminating finally in the Michael Jordan Era (MJE, a dating system based upon the ascension of Jordan into the league. We are, for example, in year 25 MJE) the game of basketball has always been extremely character driven in a way I think is highly reminiscent of Jazz.

Defense: More than most musical forms before it, I suggest Jazz was a star-driven art form. I don't simply mean in how it grew commercially, I mean in how it developed stylistically from catalytic influences of highly talented individual musicians like ole' Fats or Dizzie Gilespie. In many ways, Jazz artists failures can be attributed as much to their inability to cultivate interesting public personae as much as any lack of skill. Kenny G, remember, can circular breath ad infinitum, which truly is impressive... But does it matter?


I suggest basketball is similar. It's development has always been driven by individual talents more than basketball theorists like the coaches or owners. I hold this to be true of more than just the NBA by the way. Any pick up game you go to will always feature at least one very talented player trying to leave his own stamp on the game in his own way.

Basketball and Jazz are both extremely individualistic, even during moments of cooperation. The assist is as much of an opportunity to impress yourself upon the game as any other, and under this light, we could think of Basketball as an unexpectedly apt expression of Schopenhauer. Of course Jazz isn't competitive, so it's right about here that the analogy breaks down (as all analogies must), but Jazz remains extremely character-driven, and if we had to stretch things way too far, we could suggest that the performance is a kind of Schopenhauerian attempt to impress one's personality upon the song. But that would be ridiculous.

All right then kiddos! There's the first of my ramblings about basketball. Up next? Basketball teams as wine. But whatever else happens, remember: Basketball = Jazz, Jazz = Basketball.

Whyyy helloooooo theeeere (Resolutions)

The most productive thing I have done with my two "cold days" off from teaching (The cynics among my readership will at this point cry "Well, it certainly hasn't been posting on your blog like you promised" -- feedback duly noted) has been to start a book my father gave me for Christmas called Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies. I plan on posting a full review when I finish, but I wanted to offer some reflections it has provoked in me so far.

We live in a culture which worships speed and efficiency. If I don't get my hamburger 30 seconds after ordering, I sigh and tap my foot and wonder what the world's come to. Sadder still, I rage, rage (and sometimes even curse) when the Internet -- the Internet! -- fails to load at a speed commensurate with my oh so important and hectic schedule. Hello, my name is Asher, and I am addicted to speed. (My lawyer counsels that at this point I pause to clarify with utter certitude that I mean speed as in alacrity, not speed as in the harmful drug -- especially since some of my students apparently have started to read this.)

(Not the author of this post)

The truth is, I live for instant gratification. Anything short of immediacy burdens me with its inconvenience. The past few years I have consistently chosen ease over the more rewarding path. My immediate reaction on sitting down on my couch is, I am sad to say, not to reach for a book but to grab the computer or remote.

My main resolution (much as I disdain the term) then is to simply slow down my life. Thankfully the process has already begun. Since getting married, I have become preoccupied with cooking as a leisure activity. I have always enjoyed cooking, but what I have discovered is the joy present in slow deliberation in the kitchen, in taking the time to do things well. Eschew short cuts in the kitchen -- they rarely pay off. The long simmering sauce is (in general) the most flavorful and rewarding. My guru in this has been Robert Farrar Capon, author of the strange yet wonderful cookbook/food memoir/spiritual meditation Supper of the Lamb (a book I am hoping to review alongside Andrew in our first real collaborative effort for this blog). In the book Capon warns against "tin fiddles", contraptions which promise to take the work out of cooking. But remove the labor and you lose not only taste but the very essence of cooking. Good cooking is a process which takes time; not only takes but gives, gives time for reflection, meditation, that simmering of the mind and hands which gives off a heavenly aroma.

So I am slowing down the way I produce food (and also, hopefully, the rate at which I eat it. I am a notorious, self confessed scarfer. Some primordial urge prods me to wolf down food at an alarming rate. This year I pledge to slow down the process, to truly savor each bite I take in to my body). But food is far from the only area which merits the cultivation of better habits. Caring for Words has confronted me with the need to treasure and savor the words I use. Too often I take the path of least resistance, fall back on lazy usage, pick an adequate word instead of the perfect word. My thought, speech, and writing are dwarfed versions of what they could be if I took the time to be contemplative.

Lectio Divina is the monastic practice of reading through Scripture contemplatively, of pausing in places to really suck the meaning from the verses as a dog worries a bone. I love to read Scripture, even to study it, but I rarely take the time to let it sink deeply into my life. Therefore lectio divina is an important part of my resolution for the year. Hand in hand with this is the need to create areas of silence in my life. Confession: silence makes me uncomfortable. When I encounter silence I feel like I have slammed into a wall: I emerge with my nose out of joint and feeling altogether put out. But silence, pure deep silence, is a precious gift. One of my favorite quotes comes from Kierkegaard's Journal, where he says:

The present state of the world and the whole of life is diseased. If I were a doctor and were asked for my advice, I should reply: Create silence! Bring men to silence. The Word of God cannot be heard in the noisy world of today. And even if it were blazoned forth with all the panoply of noise so that it could be heard in the midst of all the other noise, then it would no longer be the Word of God. Therefore create silence.

Silence creates the space we need for grace to act. Create silence. But, having created silence, speak. Conversation is another part of my resolution. Conversation which moves and breathes deeply, conversation which blows the dust off of our lives and dives in deep to the inner places. I desire to take the time to really know people, not rush through my interactions with them at a hurried pace. Extended face time tends to make me twitchy or unsettled, but this year I resolve to take the time to listen, really listen, and to speak when the time is right. To invite people into my life in ways that matter. To appreciate the slow winding of a conversation that takes a few hours to find its real center. People and relationships matter so much more than whatever small, self-centered agenda I have set for the day.

These then are my resolutions. Really they united in one purpose: helping me slow down my world, which spins so fast that I am constantly thrown off balance. Will you, my readers, help as I stubbornly devote myself to this task?

Maybe There Was a Glitch in My Brain

My wife Jenny and I were once stranded in Oklahoma City for a day, and spent much of it hanging out at a Borders pretending we might buy things. I took the time to read through the graphic-novel Watchmen for the first time (a rewarding experience) and Jenny sat down with a copy of Twilight. (And I would like to preempt any snarky comments about us using Borders this way; we were bored, out of cash, and eventually did make a minor purchase.)

Now, admittedly, we spent a good, oh, six hours at the Borders cafe, but in that amount of time Jenny managed to read through the entire first novel (498 pages) and its sequel (576). In one day. Not just one day, in six hours Jenny managed to read well over 1000 pages of teen vampire drivel. She couldn't stop, like a speed-reader literally on speed. I made fun of her. She claimed to hate them. But of course, once we returned to Tulsa, Jenny found someone who owned the other two Twilight novels and devoured them at a similar pace. What gives?

What, indeed, gives? I have taken it upon myself to find out, and have determined to do what I thought I never would. I'm going to read Twilight. And liveblog my thoughts... Here goes!

Chapter 1
First Sight

I have to admit, I was a little excited to read this. I'm a snob and everybody knows it, but I love vampires, and am secretly glad of the opportunity to read the book while pretending to have ulterior motives for doing so. Anyway, I was surprised right off to find an epigraph from Genesis gracing the first page.

But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil,
thou shalt not eat of it:
for in the day that thou eatest thereof
thou shalt surely die.
Genesis 2:17

This, if it makes sense of nothing else, at least makes sense of the front cover:

Ahh. That's why there's an apple. I detect a theme! I don't really know what it means at all yet, but I'm sure something or other forbidden will be offered at some point. We'll see.

The first chapter features our quirky, sassy heroine Bella leaving her hometown Phoenix to live with her estranged father in a sunless bit of Washington called Forks. (As in, a Forks in the road?) Anyway, she's extremely moody and sad, and chapter one details her anxiety driven first day at school. She doesn't fit, and cries a bit. There's also a preface in which somebody called the hunter tries to kill her... while sauntering. I assume only a vampire could accomplish this. Some of the writing is a little odd. My favorite sentences:

"The hunter smiled in a friendly way as he sauntered forward to kill me." (preface)
"And I never looked a free truck in the mouth- or engine." (pg 7)
"I wasn't in the mood to go on a real crying jag." (pg 9)
"Maybe there was a glitch in my brain." (pg 11)
"I glanced sideways at the beautiful boy, who was looking at his tray now, picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers." (pg 20)

They love bagels.

And the absolute best? Bella muses to herself as she approaches her new school:

"I can do this, I lied to myself feebly. No one was going to bite me." (pg 14)

Get it!? Do you get it!? Like a vampire!

Sadly though, no one did. But I'm a writer, and those of us who are in the Biz (as we call it) refer to this technique as Foreshadowing.

But really, it isn't so bad as I'm making it out to be, and if I were forced to be entirely honest, I would have to admit that I kinda sort of am enjoying myself. Like I said, I dig vampires.

I wonder what happens in chapter 2!

Turn and Face the Strange

Loyal readers will notice that there have been a few changes around the ole blog. Thanks to my wonderful (and technologically advanced) wife, I have a new template which I hope will liven things up a bit. Commenting on my previous template, Leslie had this to say "It's depressing and boring I don't want to read it." So there you go.

Appropriate, I suppose. I realized that the last few posts (since I've come back to semi-regular blogging) have been very ponderous, if not downright glum. That is certainly one side of who I am, but far from a complete picture. When I first started writing, my intention was to chronicle all things cultural; of late I have left a very large portion untouched. I hope to return to those things. In that spirit, I have come into the 21st Century and added a "gadget" to the site, albeit a gadget which mimics an arcade game from the 80's. Burger Time is perhaps the greatest classic arcade game, and reflects part of my taste: the goofy side which values silly pop culture oddities. If you need a break from my ramblings, just scroll down to the bottom of the page to relieve stress by being chased around by sociopathic hot dogs.

The most important change, however, is the addition of a new friend. As you may notice, this blog now has two contributors. In addition to me, TEP will now feature my good friend Andrew. Cheesemonger by day, novelist by night, Andrew currently lives with his wife and adorable baby daughter in Dallas, Texas. He has a sharp mind (and wit), and fills in some cultural blind spots: he promises to write about the NBA, among other things -- something I enjoy but am not particularly knowledgeable about. He also pledges to give to the site his silly side, which he swears is his best. I believe his first post will be a blow by blow account of him wrestling with that noted literary classic, Twilight. I feel sure that we can expect great things from him.

As for my rascally self, I will do my best to put up a new post tomorrow.

Maiden Voyage

Ahoy! to all (five? six?) readers of Asher's much storied blog. this is the maiden post of The Erstwhile Philistine's first second blogger ever! I haven't thought of any clever title's yet, so I'm going with my usual handle (Andrew, if you don't know me).

Credentials: Before I ever met Asher I did in fact enjoy the novel pleasures of a category we might call the... "less-than-competent". My tastes ran primarily to the B-grade Kung-Fu variety, but was not averse to the B-grade in general. However. I must admit this amateurish habit was inflamed by Asher himself into a kind of passion approaching (if only asymptotically) the level of everyone's beloved Philistine. I have witnessed R.O.T.O.R. and survived. I have eaten peanut-butter-and-scrambled-egg sandwiches and enjoyed. I am competent to comment, or I like to think so. In any case I can run my mouth with the best of them.

Also: Yes, I am working on a series of posts on the Twilight novel, and yes, eventually I will write about basketball.

Just a Note

I got a little spam (of a nasty variety) in the comments section of the last few posts, so I am getting rid of Anonymous comments and putting up a word verification system. Sorry, I know that is annoying, but it is for all our good.

Far As the Curse is Found...

A very merry late Christmas to all two of you who read this thing. I had every intention of posting this post before Friday, but as usual all my good intentions went out the window in the bustle of pre-Christmas movement: family and food and wrapping presents and... not to mention Ryan and Tori's wedding two days before (as a side note, let me say how wonderful it is to be at a wedding just before Christmas -- it helps put me in the right frame of mind). So here it is, in all its delayed glory.

Anyone intimately acquainted with me knows that I am a fanatic for Christmas carols. It is a love inherited from my mother (and shared by my sister), a passion which directs itself in various odd directions. As a result, I have a vast knowledge of Christmas carols, both famous and obscure. Add to this my natural tendency towards arrogance, and the resulting alloy can be best described as a certain amount of carol snobbery. In general my tastes run toward the soulful and minor, and away from the maudlin and treacly. Accordingly I have developed a rather fixed rating system. My basic premise is that most carols we typically sing at Christmas are vastly overrated (that piece of festering crap known as "Away in a Manger", which is only slightly improved when sung to the vastly superior British tune), while a handful are criminally underrated ("Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence"). Of course there is a whole raft of wonderful songs which exist in a category well beyond underrated, closer probably to undiscovered. Hands down my favorite Christmas song is "Of the Father's Love Begotten", which is versatile enough to be sung at any time of the year but somehow gets neglected. Then there are the precious few which seem to be rated just right. A minor miracle of the season is that we sing "O Come O Come Emmanuel" as much as we do -- it is easily the best of the super-popular carols.

This post is not really about any of those categories or songs. It is about a new category, one I saw fit to invent myself this holiday season (granted, I suppose I invented the whole system, but bear with me). The category? The overrated/underrated Christmas carol. At this point some of you may scratch your head and wonder if this is merely some semantic game I play; those familiar with my idea of working in a recursive hospital (or my fondness for "meta" in general) know that I do love a convoluted turn of phrase on occasion.

Allow me to put your minds at ease. The overrated/underrated (henceforth known more succinctly as "o/u") category developed 100% organically (yes, it does contain carbon) as a result of my pondering over one carol in particular, "Joy to the World". It is, I argue, the quintessential o/u carol; that is to say, it is overvalued for its weaker points, whereas it strengths lay hidden.

First the overrated. Everybody knows "Joy to the World", especially the first verse. It merits distinction as one of the few carols worthy of playground distortion (who born and bred in public schools can forget "Joy to the world/the teacher's dead/ we barbecued her head"?). It is a staple of Christmas eve services and wandering carolfests everywhere. And it is a good song; solid words wedded to a catchy tune (that countertune near the end is especially fun to sing). But does it really merit its hallowed place in the carol canon? I can list off close to ten underappreciated carols (off the top of my head) that I would sing before I got to "Joy to the World". The other problem as I see it is that it is almost too catchy for its own good. It goes down so smooth and easy that we don't take the time to process what it is actually saying. Most popular Christmas carols are like lagers: we like them because they are smooth and not particularly complex. Joy then, is like an ESB. It isn't rich and thick enough to make us sip slowly (like the Stoutiness of "Let All Mortal Flesh"), so we miss the richness underneath.

And what a richness there is. Much of it lies locked in the wonderful third verse. Here lies the underratedness of the carol: a majority of carolers opt, due to time constraints or laziness, to cut one of the four verses, and it is ALWAYS the third verse that gets the axe. I think this is due to custom -- in church you always cut the verse right before the last, for whatever reason, so we do it without thinking (the one exception that riles my anger is when people cut the third of five verses from "Be Thou My Vision", but I must grind that axe in a separate post). What a shame! It is by far the best of the four verses. Here it is for your reading pleasure:

No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found.

Doesn't this give such a full, wonderful view of the hope of Christmas? Not merely a baby in a manger; the full hope of mankind coming to us in human form. Beyond cutesy nativity scenes, beyond even the bitter cross: Christ crowned in power and glory, coming to cure the world of that terrible curse, wherever it may be.

This is water for the thirsty soul. I have been longing this year for a taste of that redemption. It has been, of all the years of my life, the most curse-afflicted (or at least the one where the curse has been most obvious). Even more than the year my mother died, it has shown me the awful grasp of the evil one on this wounded planet of ours. This year I have seen families broken; people I looked up to as fathers have fallen far and hard; friendships have drifted or dissolved; I have seen hearts broken and lives in freefall; I have felt the bitter sting of betrayal; and of course I have known my own sin heaviest of all (when I have the wisdom to see it): my failings as a new husband and as an old friend, my neglect of the Word and prayer, the hidden darkness of my heart. The curse is not just widespread, it is all-pervasive. It is why children grow up without fathers and why our oceans are polluted and why old people die alone and even why bullies lash out at recess. The evil of sin which has been passed down from father to son affects all mankind, but it also radiates outward so that "all creation cries out as in the pangs of childbirth".

Enter hope. Christ comes not simply to warm our hearts but to kill the weeds and thorns which infest the ground. In the garden Adam was charged with tilling the soil, but after the fall it was promised that the toil would be hard and the fruit scant. That is what we feel in our lives: we strive and strive and have little to show for our efforts. That is why we cry out in groans like the very earth. And he comes, has come, will come again. The blessings will flow.

Already we have glimpses. I said earlier that this has been the hardest year of my life. But it has also been the richest, most fulfilling. I married a beautiful, wonderful woman. I got a real job which has proved rewarding. I have known the joys of friendship kindled. The blessings have not just trickled, they have flowed. Yet I am left longing for that last fulfillment of the promise. Far as the curse is found. Amen. Come Lord Jesus, come.

Merry Christmas with love to all who read.

Oh the cat's in the stable and the silver moon...

Well here we are again. Sometimes it feels like I have an "Affair to Remember" relationship with this blog. The passionate flurries of sweet embrace punctuated by long months of silence. So far I'm ahead of Jimmy Stewart and co., though -- it's only been half a year since I last wrote. The strange thing is, before abandoning this haunt due to a confluence of many wild events (primary among them marriage and a new job), I had several posts half-written. Appropriate, I think. In my mind I often equate the act of writing with that of taking a large and particularly painful dump. The struggle, the sweat, the pinpricked dilation as you push the transformed lump from your body. Sorry, I got a little carried away, but I stand by the metaphor. If this be the case, then "writer's block" takes on a new and glorious meaning. For some time I could feel the backup developing: I would writhe and clench to expel the thoughts from my body, but could not force the final push.

Consider this, then, the enema. We found a cat (or did it find us?). He lay there in the road; I swerved. Les, for whom compassion comes more easily, demanded I go back. As we approached the cat finally started to move, limping badly to the other side of the street. We followed, and the panicked frenzy of the next few moments (due in part, I must admit, to a certain hesitancy from me) found us with cat inside car, held delicately by Les. He spent the night, and has not left in the few weeks since. In truth, he is not an unwelcome houseguest but an adopted son. Les adores him, and he her, but even daddy has relented and had his heart softened by the good will of our Meshulam ("befriended" or "paid for" in Hebrew). We had a brief, heartbreaking encounter when the vet advised putting him to sleep (due to some blockage, appropriately enough), but he saved himself through that most primal of means: pissing all over the floor.

Les has been an inspiration to me in all of this. I have found myself profoundly affected by the plight of our beloved kitty and by my dear wife's response. As hinted at before, my inclination was to continue on our way that Sunday night, mourning a little for the dying cat but then moving on. In the end, he would have been just one more pitiable creature felled by the cruelness of the world. I have realized lately that the cynic in me looks on the world with despair. I am quite good (nearly expert, I'd say) in seeing the reality of a cursed and broken world. What I cannot see, most of the time, is the kernel of the gospel falling into the cold, hard earth. Why bother taking the time to have compassion on something so far gone?

This is why my wife is so good for me. She forces me to stop, to consider the power hidden in the small acts of love. Rescuing Meshulam from the street was of course a small thing -- miniscule, even. But every cup of water given is a victory of light against darkness. By these faltering steps we advance the kingdom.

Everyone knows the silly little illustration of the girl on the beach. Surrounded by starfish washed up by the tide, she walks along, throwing them back one by one. When asked how she could possibly be making a difference, she throws another back into the ocean and declares, "There. I made a difference to that one." Cheesy, of course; but more to the point, it falls far short of the mark. It is, in essence, a humanistic parable about the futility of the world. It says "There may not actually be meaning in helping others, but we create our own meaning by struggling against the futility." This is not what the gospel says -- not in its glorious entirety, at least. The gospel dares us to hope even bigger than this. Rescuing Meshulam from death did not merely help him; after all, he will die at some point down the line. Rather the full significance lies in the fact that, for a brief moment, the light shone in the darkness. Christ cares for all creation, and it is His will that we show compassion on animals no less than humans.

This whole episode feels tailor-made for Advent. The smallest, least significant act contains the greatest mystery of all: Christ born in a stable. The flickering light shining out into the swallowing dark, overwhelming it with its brightness. And, of course, the animals gathered around, giving voice to the creation's birthpains.

This is my post about minimalism. This is my post about. This is my post. This is my. This is. This.

Simplicity is something with which I struggle. Case in point: my first instinct for the previous sentence was to write "Keeping things simple", a more complicated verbiage than what I actually wrote. My writing could be described as many things (pompous and verbose come to mind), but "simple" is an adjective that does not leap to mind. I tend to strive ever upwards, stacking brick on brick in my Babel-tower of thought.

Maybe that is why I have a thing for minimalism in its many forms; we often love what we lack, and I wish I had the ability to write in sparse sword-strokes, piercing to the heart of bare meaning. Minimalism is wonderfully comforting. It is the beauty of the Spartans at Thermopylae's pass, and the warm words "I love you" spoken on a winter night. I have been thinking lately about it -- probably inspired by Leslie lending me Sufjan Steven's Seven Swans, a very minimal album which I have been listening to in a minimalist way, on incessant repeat -- and my thoughts have been straying in two distinct directions. I feel that there are at least two distinct types of minimalism; certainly there are two present in the Bible, and they seem to describe two types in art as well. One is the minimalism of despair, the other the minimalism of hope. Both are helpful, wonderful, and beautiful.

Part One: You Cannot Serve Both God and Mamet

"All things are full of weariness; a man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing. What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun. Is there a thing of which it is said, “See, this is new”? It has been already in the ages before us. There is no remembrance of former things, nor will there be any remembrance of later things yet to be among those who come after." -- Ecclesiastes 1:8-11

The first function of minimalism is to serve as a sort of memento mori, a totem by which we recall the futility of our labor. "Things fall apart, the center cannot hold" says Yeats. We batten down the hatches of our lives, prepare to weather all storms, vow we will bend but never break, but in the end we wear down to the ground. Of course men are never quick to accept defeat; art is in some sense a longing to escape the grave. But nothing is more pathetic than a man who tries to circumvent death through the work of his hands. He is like Ozymandias screaming through the centuries on his trunkless legs: "Look on my wonders ye Mighty." And we do despair, but not at the cold greatness of the man. Rather we despair that good can come from any man. If even the greatest among us fall and ground down by the sand, what chance does man have? The victory of history is shallow indeed.

This type of minimalism strikes me as very present in David Mamet's great play/film Glengarry Glen Ross. Mamet is famous, justifiably, for his take on dialogue. Meaty, masculine, brutal, his words smash the reader between the eyes. The play features a cast of desperate real estate men, pushed to the limit by the demands of their company. They must sell real estate or be fired, yet the prime leads are given only to the man who has consistently been the top seller. The other leads are broken down, no good: crazies and deadbeats. They have been canvassed to death. The salesmen despair, but they continue to try because they have no choice. They call up the same targets, spout the same weary lies, go through the same tired out motions. In particular Shelley Levene, the most veteran salesman, seems a man doomed to run in circles to the grave (Mamet brings this point into sharp focus by the end of the play). His daughter is sick and he needs the money, but he has lost the touch: he could not sell thermal underwear to an Eskimo, much less an icebox. He has no real hope, but he clutches at the straws of his repetition. In this way Mamet's dialogue is a masterstroke of minimalism: key phrases crop up throughout the play, but beyond this his characters speak in circles. They speak their minds piece by piece, as if they needed to gain the confidence to say everything. Their speech is much like the starting of a push lawnmower, a gradual sputtering built to a roar. But of course the roar is full of sound and fury.

In a sense Glengarry runs parallel to the book of Ecclesiastes. Vanity of vanities, all a vanity. Such are the lives of Mamet's men. They toil with the sweat of their brow, but do not know who will reap the reward of their labor. Even Ricky Roma, the slick salesman with the magic touch, sees his conquest vanish in the smoke of futility, set alight by his lies. Things fall apart: sales, minds, lives. The futile circuity of life shows us nothing new, only the vain strivings of men too foolish to realize how utterly consigned they are to failure.

Part Two: Through a Glass Darkly

Yet there is another side to minimalism. Simplicity and repetition are the guttural cries of Qoheleth, the trunkless legs of stone, but they are also, paradoxically, a reminder that all things are made new. This may not seem obvious on first glance, but it makes sense. Only when we strip ourselves of the grand illusion of human progress do we see the real building of history. It is like Babel in that it raises us to the heavens, but at the same time the Anti-Babel, not a tower grasping up but the ladder thrown down from heaven. It is the same old story, yet new every morning.

This is why the Psalms constantly call us back to remembrance. The exodus is not merely a remarkable event that happened long ago: it is the pattern of life. When we remember the cloud and pillar, we see the grace God gives day by day. So to the cross, that final exodus. As Christians we must constantly remember back to that discrete point in history; not because (as some have said) we are anti-progressive, but because we know the startling truth that all progress flows like the water from His side.

"History repeats itself". A cliche, very well. Even a true cliche. But I think we miss the full significance of the statement. We say it when mankind makes mistakes: "Oh there goes history repeating itself again". It is the soundtrack of the blooper real of human existence. We see the first purpose of life's minimalism, but not usually the second. History repeats itself every day: the sun comes up as surely as it sets. Babies are born no less than old men die. Grace upon grace flows to us.

Yeats apparently thought of history as an ever widening spiral: repetition intertwined with progress. This is false in one sense, in the sense Yeats intended. Where he saw some frightening new creature slouching to Bethlehem, we know that no birth can ever happen in that small town again. But in another sense he is on to something, for the circular nature of life does not preclude a building up of things. We do not merely spin in place, nor is the swirling descent to the ground an inevitability. Life in the Kingdom is a relentless moving forward; it merely refuses to move in a straight line. Rather than moving from point A to point B, the story of redemption is the curve of a story, the constant move toward the center from which all things flow.

Think of the miraculous music of Phillip Glass. Many Glass works start with just a pulse, an insistent rhythm which will not be held at bay. Simplicity itself, but strangely affecting. Little by little the piece grows. New instruments add their voice but always circle back around to that main theme, the lifeblood of the piece. People who find minimalism boring simply do not listen hard enough; they are novelty seekers. There in the barebones, the pulse, lies the essence of music, that to which all should return. Not that there is no development: on the contrary, the pieces often build up to dizzying heights. But all growth is focused on that center. In a sense, most great music is a type of minimalism, for you cannot have development and exposition without a theme. No matter the wandering, music returns home.

This, then, is the ultimate sad fact of the myth of progress: it is not merely foolish but empty as well. Man labors all his days to build a bark hut, while the city of God descends unnoticed to earth. Only grace can change the downward spiral of repeated actions into a Jacob's ladder of endless praise.