best of summer

I am probably in the minority here, but no one could be more excited than me that summer is nearing its close. Facebook was deluged with "first day of school" pictures with accompanying sad face posts lamenting the end of summer, and while I am sure it's only a matter of time before everyone starts talking about pumpkin patches and football and pumpkin spice lattes (OF COURSE), most people actually hate to see summer go.  

Even as a kid, I didn't love summer.  I may have enjoyed the blissful lack of responsibility that comes in the first few weeks without school, but after that I was ready to see my friends again.  Growing up on a ranch was more than a little crippling on one's social life.  I was also one of those ridiculously annoying children who loved every second of school, and didn't even hate homework that much.  I missed crisp white notebooks and pencils and schedules.  

Now that I have a kid of my own, I find the reality of summer daunting.  My little guy thrives on a routine.  I genuinely believe he feels better, mentally and physically, when his life is predictable. There are some aspects of summer that are undeniably lovely-long days stretching into the early evening means lots of light for scooter rides at the park, the (PRACTICALLY DESERT-LIKE) heat that makes swimming so refreshing and exhilarating, weekly trips with Daddy to the ice cream shop.  It's been fun, but the combination of frequent traveling, friends and family being away on vacation, and the general interruption to regularly scheduled programming is tough.  

Despite my overly enthusiastic welcoming of a new season, there were definitely some great highlights to the summer.  Fun beach jaunts, fishing in Colorado, train rides and train museums, water parks and swimming pools.  Of course, there was good entertainment and eats to enjoy, too.  Here are some of the things that made summer a little easier to get through:

best reads:

Stir: My Broken Brain and the Meals that Brought Me Home, Jessica Fechtor-I have a food memoir/food writing problem.  Cannot get enough of these types of books.  I packed my spare copy (the fact that I HAVE a spare copy should tell you something) of A Homemade Life in my shiny new emergency kit (for earthquakes and the zombie apocalypse, of course).  

Americanah, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie-One of our book club's reads for the summer, and I loved it.  I haven't felt so thoughtful during the course of reading a book and after in a long time.  It felt especially relevant to read such a book at this time in our country, too.  

Broken Monsters and The Shining Girls, Lauren Beukes-Terrifying and entirely refreshing. As my dear SIL puts it, "like Stephen King but better."  

In the Unlikely Event, Judy Blume-Oh, Judy Blume!  I loved what Duana, a regular contributing critic at my beloved Lainey Gossip, had to say about it.  "People always say that Judy Blume's books prove she still understands what it was like to be a young person and a teenager.  I agree, of course-that's what got me into her books in the first place-but I feel more as though she's helping me to be an adult." (http://www.laineygossip.com/In-The-Unlikely-Event-by-Judy-Blume-book-review/39743)

The Martian, Andy Weir-Matt Damon and the creative social marketing campaign for the upcoming adaptation of this book intrigued me.  I'm so all over the map with my reading this summer!  Sci fi! Horror! Memoir! Judy Blume! Anyway, it was actually a riveting read, IMHO.  I was genuinely anxious multiple times, and it was especially easy to invest in the main character knowing he'd be played with panache by Matt Damon.  

best tv:

Jane the Virgin-An absolute gem, a DELIGHT.  I adore this show and can't wait for the second season to begin.  Diverse, funny, and heartwarming without being overly sentimental.  Gina Rodriguez (Jane) is wonderful.  

Halt and Catch Fire-A much more serious, but equally strong show about the motivations and machinations of a trio of tech-savvy geeks and entrepreneurs in the "Silicon Prairie"-Dallas in the 1980's.  I haven't seen characters as compelling or been as genuinely invested in a show probably since watching The Wire.  All three of the leads are fantastic (and fairly unknown), but the supporting cast is solid.  Lee Pace, in particular, is infinitely watchable.  It's hard to look away when he's onscreen.  

best treats:

These need no elaboration.  They are all incredibly delicious, and with the exception of mashing crackers up to make a pie crust (in the case of the lemon pie), all quite easy.  Only the exorbitant price of limes could keep me from making the limeade every day, and I have become an utter devotee of the homemade popsicle. 

-SK's frozen coconut limeade and blackberry yogurt popsicles

-Orangette's raspberry yogurt popsicles

-Bill Smith's Atlantic beach lemon pie, courtesy of Food 52. 

best guilty pleasures:

Taylor Swift's Bad Blood-Delightfully over the top and ridiculous, I have watched this video more times than I should mention.  My little guy too. Yikes.  He loves Taylor Swift and is inexplicably drawn to this song.  Side note: I don't mind your friend collecting, T, but you lose points for including Jessica Alba in your star-studded video. 

Entertainment Weekly subscription-I'm supporting the print industry! 

UnREAL-I haven't finished it yet, so I can't offer any final commentary, but so far I am hooked on this take on reality television.  It's a behind-the-scenes look at a faux Bachelor-style show, and not nearly as funny as you might think based on that description.  It's on Lifetime, if you can believe it, and considered a sleeper hit of the summer. 

what we're reading now

Not a lot has changed around here on the reading front-books continue to serve as a great source of entertainment in our household.  Here are the ones that have been in heavy circulation lately.

Lemons are Not Red. We are big fans of Laura Vaccaro Seeger's newer book, Green, so I was thrilled to see that the library had multiple copies of this book on hand.  Another clever concept book, featuring cut-outs on each page that open to the next, revealing matching colors, it is incredibly appealing for the young and the old.  Even though we first discovered it months ago, A is still known to frequently shout out, "Moon is not black, moon silver!" or "Grass not blue, grass green!"  Of all the books on our current list, this is the one I would recommend most highly.

The Very Busy Spider.  To be honest, we've been familiar with this book for almost as long as I've been keeping track of our favorites.  Before I had a baby, I wasn't incredibly enamored with Eric Carle's classics, a fact I think I might have even written about before.  The fact is, they're exactly the kind of books young children need and relish: repetitive and predictable patterns, bright and basic colors, familiar themes...  It's no surprise that most of Carle's books have been wildly popular for decades.  The Very Busy Spider is probably the title that I have enjoyed reading the most.  I'm a sucker for farm themes, and this book has the added benefit of a tactile feature-the web is embossed onto each page.

The Bear in the Book. Another generous gift from our librarian friend, this book sat forlornly on the shelf for quite a while before we picked it up one day.  I had initially written it off as being a bit too long, but quickly became enamored. It's a story-within-a-story, told from the viewpoint of a little boy reading a story about a bear with his mother.  There is a lilting, sonorous quality to the book that I haven't come across in a long time.  SH and I have even found ourselves talking about it after A is in bed.  And obviously, he loves it too.  It's not just a favorite for mom and dad.

Steam Train Dream Train.  I have written before about our local bookstore, one of the best things about our neighborhood.  We have been lucky to attend two book signings there, one for Caldecott-winning author Jon Klassen and the other for illustrator Tom Lichtenheld.  Lichtenheld is the artist behind Goodnight, Goodnight, Construction Site, another book that A loves, so it was especially exciting to meet him and pick up a copy of his newest book.  At first, I wasn't impressed-the concept seemed a little abstract for my little guy.  I couldn't have been more wrong-he asks for it on almost a daily basis.

Little Tug. Some trips to the library are fruitful, and some of them result in a bag full of old favorites, like Paul Galdone's fairy tales.  I found this book on our most recent trip, and it was such a pleasant surprise.  It's a super simple story, with old-fashioned, vintage-style illustrations.  Possibly my favorite thing about it is hearing A ask me to read it-his rendering of the word "tug" is one of the cutest things I've ever heard.

Horton Hatches the Egg.  Oh, how I fondly recall the days when A would scoff at this beloved classic, throwing it aside after I'd only read a page or two!  Don't get me wrong-I am thrilled that he loves books so much, and also happy that he is building up a tolerance for longer books.  It's just that reading one of the longest children's books in the HISTORY of children's books on repeat at the ridiculously early hour of 6 am has begun to be a bit too much.  Even if hearing "Horton! Egg!" is extremely adorable.

Happy 200th Birthday, Charles Dickens!

I couldn't resist posting Google's logo celebrating the bicentennial of Charles Dickens' birth.  In honor of the day, I would have loved to include a quote from one of my favorites, like Little Dorrit or Our Mutual Friend, but I'll have to go with this one from David Copperfield, which is readily accessible.  I'm lucky enough to have my most adorable sweet niece and SIL over for a visit, which has been more like a holiday, and the lovely rosy-cheeked girl is napping blissfully right next to my bookshelf stuffed full of Dickens and various other Penguin classics.  

It was Miss Murdstone who was arrived, and a gloomy-looking lady she was; dark, like her brother, whom she greatly resembled in face and voice; and with very heavy eyebrows, nearly meeting over her large nose, as if being disabled by the wrongs of her sex from wearing whiskers, she had carried them to that account.  She brought with her two uncompromising hard black boxes, with her initials on the lids in hard brass nails.  When she paid the coachman she took her money out of a hard steel purse, and she kept the purse in a very jail of a bag which hung upon her arm by a heavy chain, and shut up like a bite.  I had never, at that time, seen such a metallic lady altogether as Miss Murdstone was.

I'm a bit ashamed to admit that I've never actually read David Copperfield.  I've been reading it to baby A, giving him a good head start for an appreciation for Dickens.  In his seven months of life, we've gotten all the way to Chapter 4.  I think we're doing quite well.

the african queen

Design Sponge is certainly one of my favorite blogs, but I can't say that I visit it every day.  Perhaps I feel intimidated by the designing that I'll never be creative enough to recreate?  The "living in" feature, however, always reels me in, and today's selection, The African Queen, is one of the best so far. The African Queen was one of the few mom-approved movies that we were able to watch as children, and I've probably seen it hundreds of times.  I didn't read the novel until I was older (one of those times when seeing the movie first killed my motivation, a shame really), but I loved it as well.  My sister often says that Katherine Hepburn's laugh is just like our grandmother's, who we loved more than you can imagine.

I heartily encourage you to visit "living in: The African Queen"-yes, I've linked it up not once, but twice.  The Edwardian silk camisole!  The antique gin bottle!  I can imagine Rose Sayer pouring every last drop of gin into the murky swamp waters now.

Side note 1: How embarrassed am I that I have never seen Casablanca (GASP!) yet am utterly familiar with Bogart as the crusty sailor escorting the missionary Katherine Hepburn out of Africa?

Side note 2: The movie holds such fond memories for me that when the special edition Blu Ray came out, I purchased it immediately.

Here's the mildly inappropriate trailer, in all its Technicolor low quality glory:


Perhaps I'll watch it tonight.

"Place a beehive on my grave and let the honey soak through..."

When I read The Secret Lives of Bees for the first time, I genuinely enjoyed it. "A sweet book," I thought, as I shoved it back into my overly packed bookshelf. Took me hardly more than a few days to finish, and definitely left me with that warm, fuzzy feeling characteristic of a sentimental, yet well-written novel that pleases with a happy but not too sappy ending. I can't say that the story lingered in my mind for long, however. Nary a second thought was devoted to it, and I didn't even think to recommend it to anyone.

I could not have been more wrong about my initially underwhelmed response. As I prepared to depart on my recent road trip with my MIL and SIL C, I opted to borrow a few good audiobooks from my mom's incredibly well-stocked library. Critical to a good audiobook is the presence of a good reader, and my mom, in her infinite wisdom, pulled out The Secret Life of Bees, praising the reader's performance. C had never read the book, and I thought it might be nice to hear a familiar story, without the pressure of concentrating on it too much while driving. We slipped in the first disc of eight early in our journey on the first day.

We were captivated immediately, from the very first moment of hearing the thick, perfectly delivered South Carolina accent of the reader. The story of Lily Owens, Rosaleen and the Boatwright sisters came spilling out, weaving its way into our minds and seizing control of our heartstrings. I could not believe what I had missed before! Hearing the story again was like finding a precious pearl in the crevices of a wave-worn oyster's shell. I laughed at Rosaleen's dry humor and Lily's affectionate pronouncement of Zach, the "ass-busting" lawyer. I cried to think of May shoving in the millionth slip of paper emblazoned "Neil and June" into the stone wall. I felt, REALLY felt that pang and longing that belong to first love when Zach and Lily discovered the purplish elderberry honey, lingering by the hives as "bees swirled around" their heads. Let me tell you, this book is SO GOOD.

For the rest of the trip, it was like an addiction. We turned it on almost immediately upon climbing into the car each morning. Being stuck for two hours in Hoover Dam traffic became tolerable because we were granted more time with the story. It was difficult, truly difficult, to pull that eighth disc out of the package, knowing it would be the last.

Immediately upon returning home, I found my copy of the book, thumbing through to find my favorite parts. There are many to choose from, so I think I'll narrow it down here to a select few.

She laughed again. "You know, some things don't matter that much, Lily. Like the color of a house. How big is that in the overall scheme of life? But lifting a person's heart-now, that matters. The whole problem with people is-"
"They don't know what matters and what doesn't," I said, filling in her sentence and feeling proud of myself for doing so.
"I was gonna say, The problem is they know what matters, but they don't choose it. You know how hard that is, Lily? I love May, but it was still hard to choose Caribbean Pink. The hardest thing on earth is choosing what matters."

Some things were not possible in this world. Children did not have two parents who refused to love them. One, maybe, but for pity's sake, not two.

There was a photograph of a woman smirking in front of an old car, wearing a light-colored dress with padded shoulders. Her expression said, "Don't you dare take this picture," but she wanted it taken, you could see that. You could not believe the stories I saw in that picture, how she was waiting at the car fender for love to come to her, and not too patiently.

"Did you know there are thirty-two names for love in one of the Eskimo languages?" August said. "And we just have this one. We are so limited, you have to use the same word for loving Rosaleen as you do for loving a Coke with peanuts. Isn't that a shame we don't have more ways to say it?"

"You know, Lily, people can start out one way, and by the time life gets through with them they end up completely different."

I can't wait to read it all again.

Dear Dutch baby

I just returned from a much-needed trip home to see my family. While the crisis we're enduring persists, it is an infinite relief and burden lifted to be able to be all together, in the same room, even if it is a hospital room.

A trademark of prolonged hospital stays is the necessity of friends and family members facing the inevitable thrice-daily decision of where to eat. Unfortunately, most hospital cafeterias leave something to be desired (Jamie Oliver, where are you when we need you?!), but truthfully, quite a bit of the time it just feels good to get out of the building for a while, sucking in fresh air and sunshine.

On one of these ventures, my sister decided to take my dad to an old pancake house, one of those establishments that's been around forever, retains a crusty, old-fashioned facade, and serves its regulars by the hundreds throughout the day. While it boasts a typical diner menu, the restaurant's specialty is German-style Dutch baby pancakes. When I received a MOST enthusiastic text message from my sister, describing in detail the "heavenly" Dutch baby, I agreed that they were something I would have to try when I arrived. Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought that the idea of a Dutch baby sounded familiar, but I couldn't remember where I'd heard it.

The morning after I arrived, we headed straight to the Ol' South Pancake House, ready to devour some Dutch babies. My sister was practically bursting with anticipation, whilst I reveled in the scene. I've always loved diners and breakfast spots in particular. There is something so satisfying about getting up early to eat a good breakfast. I wrapped my hands around the sturdy, thick-handled mug of coffee and we chatted about light, insignificant matters (very comforting in our circumstances) while we waited on our pancakes.

The waitress appeared less than ten minutes after we placed our order, balancing two plates that each held two Dutch babies, and two bowls of warm halved lemons. Fascinated, I watched as she unfolded a Dutch baby, which at that point looked something like a thick omelette-some kind of cross between crepe and pancake. Laid flat, I could see that it was covered with a generous amount of melted butter and a pile of powdered sugar. The waitress squeezed the juice from the lemons directly on top, a flood of tart juice engulfing the pancake. In a matter of seconds, she folded the baby back up again, and pushed the plate across the table, ready to go.

My first bite=HEAVEN. Tart, citrusy warmth cut through the golden, buttery cake, a perfect melding of lemon and sugar...pure deliciousness. As I made quick work of my second Dutch baby, thinking for SURE that it was the best breakfast I had ever had, I finally remembered why they seemed familiar. One of the chapters of Molly Wizenberg's (aka Orangette) book, A Homemade Life, boasts a story and recipe for the Dutch baby. I love the way she described her inaugural Dutch baby meal, and I thought it would be generous of me to throw in the recipe for good measure.

Molly's thoughts on the Dutch baby:

"When Jimmy pulled the Dutch babies from the oven, they were tinged with gold and gorgeously rumpled, like omelets with bed hair. Rebecca and I had no trouble putting away an entire baby each. Doused with lemon juice and dusted with powdered sugar, they were miraculously light, their eggy richness countered smartly by the citrus. I scooped up every last clump of lemon-soake sugar and scraped my plate until it shined."

Dutch Baby Pancakes with Lemon and Sugar
adapted from A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from my kitchen table, by Molly Wizenberg

This recipe is based on the one Jimmy uses, only with a more moderate amount of butter. He likes to make his in two 6-inch cast-iron skillets, but I make mine in a single, deep 8-inch skillet. (A 9- or 10-inch would also work.) If you don't have a cast-iron skillet of the appropriate size, you can also use a metal or Pyrex cake pan or a pie plate.

For the pancakes:
2 tablespoons (1 ounce) unsalted butter
4 large eggs
1/2 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 cup half-and-half
1/4 teaspoon salt

For the topping:
Freshly squeezed lemon juice
Powdered sugar, sifted

Preheat the oven to 425. Put the butter in an 8-inch cast-iron skillet and place over low heat. Alternatively, put the butter in a similarly sized cake pan or pie plate, and place it in the preheated oven for a few minutes. As the butter melts, use a pastry brush to coax it up the sides of the skillet.

Meanwhile, in a blender, mix the eggs, flour, half-and-half, and salt until well blended.

Pour the egg mixture into the warmed skillet. Slide into the oven, and bake for 18-25 minutes. The mixture will rise and puff around the edges, like a bowl-shaped souffle. The Dutch baby is ready when the center looks set and the edges are nicely risen and golden brown.

Remove from the oven. Drizzle-or splash, really; abundance is good here-with lemon juice and sprinkle generously with powdered sugar. Serve immediately.

West Texas

There are a million blog posts that I heartily wish I had completed before I jetted off once to the wilds of my home, West Texas, for the most blissful, wonderful week of the year. It's a family reunion of sorts that I PROMISE I will expound upon later, but for now, all I have is a few minutes to throw together a collection of pictures hinting at my week away from San Jose.

The most scenic drive imaginable-my dad and I heading out in the mule to turn on a generator.

The cleanest, coldest, most delicious water in the world, pumped straight up through the hard-packed Texas dirt.

The object of my fascination. (you know, my amateur herpetology endeavors-have I really not written about that yet???)

The tastiest Mexican food in the charming city of Alpine, and our annual dinner spot every year.

The perfect first book (of hopefully several) that I'll luxuriously page through this week. It's SO good-I love Anne Elliot!

While I look forward to returning to my "normally scheduled programming", this week is eagerly anticipated every year, and I'm very happy to be home.

Top 5 Tuesday

At first, I wasn’t too keen on this choice, books that made me cry, for Top 5 Tuesday. After all, I’ve already documented my intense emotional responses to One True Thing, Gilead, and Les Miserables, all of which would clearly belong on this list. However, as I’m waist-deep in the works of William Wordsworth and various sundry articles about him in my vain quest to write a cohesive paper for tomorrow’s class, I’m not going to spend too much time worrying about that fact, and instead present five wonderful books that are completely and utterly worth revisiting, and certainly all made me cry.



5. War and Remembrance, by Herman Wouk. I loved every single word of Herman Wouk’s two-part World War II drama, but it was the sequel, Part II, that actually made me cry. Of course, I won’t mention the particular scene which led to my tears-no spoilers here! Suffice to say, both books combined make for a wonderful, riveting story that I highly recommend. Once you’ve finished, you can pick up The Caine Mutiny, a completely different yet equally entertaining tale.



4. Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott. Though it’s been many years since I first thumbed through this book, I’ll never forget it. It’s like a rite of passage for a young girl, determining which March daughter one identifies with the most (Jo), sharing in their joys and tribulations…oh no, Beth’s getting real sick! Better put the book in the freezer!

(*Key scene around 5:40)


3. A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving. This was my first experience reading John Irving, and I’m glad it’s where I started, because even though he’s one of my favorite authors, his particular brand of humor/drama is a bit twisted, and I’m not sure I would have fully appreciated him if I hadn’t started with Owen Meany. Owen is the most unique character I’ve ever read, and his story is indelibly etched on my mind. My husband told me how much he loved the book very early in our dating days, which is what led me to reading it-I must admit, that recommendation made me love him even more.
just a hint, from one of my most favorite passages:

“DON’T BE AFRAID,” Owen told me, “YOU CAN DO ANYTHING YOU WANT TO DO-IF YOU BELIEVE YOU CAN DO IT.” The lenses of his safety goggles were very clean; his eyes were very clear. “I LOVE YOU,” Owen told me, “NOTHING BAD IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO YOU-TRUST ME,” he said.

2. Christy, by Catherine Marshall. This is a quintessential teacher’s book. My mom sang its praises for years before I finally picked it up, and it’s one of the few books that she actually kept a copy of for herself. She is the polar opposite from me when it comes to books-instead of hoarding and collecting at an alarming rate, she very carefully selects the ones that she absolutely cannot live without. Needless to say, the tale of city girl Christy Huddleston and her experiences teaching in rural Appalachia is heartwrenching and tear-jerking on more than one occasion.
(*By the way, please ignore the 70's era paperback cover picture, which smacks of cheesy romance and melodrama-this book is GOOD!)




1. Lonesome Dove, by Larry McMurtry. It’s difficult to put into words exactly how much this book means to me. Its presence was palpable in our house while I was growing up, and I eagerly awaited the day when I would be “ready” to read it. As I’ve mentioned before, my mom has always suggested books according to “readiness”, which she defined not in the terms of age or regarding the appropriateness of content, but according to a level of maturity that would ensure I would appreciate the book properly. Give it its due, so to speak. As usual, I’m glad she made me wait, because this absolute GIFT of a book is unquestionably the most incredible story that I’ve ever read. There wasn’t just one scene that made me cry, but many, and truth be told, it’s the kind of book that one is sad just to finish.

Alright, those are mine. What books made YOU cry?

A Homemade Life

As is my usual routine when there is a new book I desperately want, I picked up Molly Wizenberg's (a.k.a. Orangette) book within days of its release. I could go further into my strange neurosis about how I worry every time that I go to a restaurant that my favorite dish will have run out that night, or how I rush to a movie theater much, much earlier than necessary in order to procure the PERFECT seat (in my defense, does ANYONE like sitting in the front row, or being separated from their movie companions?), or how I have an irrational fear that enough printings weren't ordered of that very book I desired...but that is not what any of you need or wish to read about. I know I'm crazy!

Anyway, I eagerly anticipated Molly's book, and boy, it did not disappoint. Lilting, lovely prose, accompanied by delightful and heavenly-sounding recipes that were carefully plucked from a the life of a woman who appreciates that the memories that one cherishes can be evoked and revisited with a comforting pot of soup or a dark chocolate-coated coconut macaroon. I drank up every word, wishing that each chapter were longer, or that Molly's entire blog were in book form, or even that I might ever have the luxury of sitting down with her, chatting about food in France, life and love.

I have to include just a *few* excerpts-I hope they entice you to run right out and buy the book, or at the very least, add Orangette to your daily reads. Even if you're not a foodie, I can't imagine how you couldn't be swept right up into Molly's world. I'm going to be making her banana bread and French-style yogurt cake this weekend for Easter desserts.

from "La Boule Miche"

Each morning after that, while my mother was getting dressed, my father and I would walk around the block to the bakery. It was always the same order for me: a pain au chocolat and a chocolat chaud. I'd perch myself atop one of the black mushroom caps, kicking my feet against its stem, and lean over the counter to sip the hot chocolate form its white ceramic cup. Sometimes, for an afternoon snack, he bought me one of the small, oblong breads-pain passion, they called them-from a basket by the register. Later in the day, if I got hungry before dinner, I would stuff a little square of chocolate, the kind they give you in cafes when you order coffee, into its doughy center. My father beamed.

from "The Best of All Possible Worlds"

We loved the foreignness in each other, the mispronounciations and bridged gaps. The first time I spent the night in his narrow bed under the eaves of his parents' house, he woke up early and went out for enormous croissants from the bakery around the corner. We sat sleepily next to the kitchen window, drinking hot chocolate from cafe au lait bowls. I invited him to my host family's house for the infamous bouchon-fueled sleepover, and the next morning, we ate oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies for breakfast on my bedroom floor. He invited his friends to join us for a homemade dinner of raclette-buttery cow's milk cheese from Savoie, melted and poured over boiled potatoes, pearl onions, and lacy sheets of ham-and I invited my friends to meet us at Le Beliere, a tiny bistro with lots of smoke and a piano in the corner. It was there that, after a carafe of cheap red and a bowl of mussels in broth, he introduced me to tarte Tatin.

from "The Change Thing"

Soup is a perfect lunch food. It's filling, but unlike a salami sandwich with provolone and sauteed peppers (which would be my second choice), it never makes you want to unbutton your pants or sleep for the rest of the day. My favorite take on the theme is a tomato soup with slices of sweet fennel, fennel seeds, and a few sprigs from our thyme plant on the side stoop. When I was fifteen, I wrote a poem about wanting to immerse myself in a vat of marshmallow fluff, but today I'd much rather take a warm soak in gently simmering tomato soup, preferably with an eye pillow. I'd be happy, in fact, to do it every day. I doubt it would ever get old.

I'm back.

So I've been away a while. And I do have a post planned that will elucidate my absence. However, in these first few warm, wonderful moments back in my own home, all I want to do is write a few quick lines. I had an irresistible urge to write, just to remind myself that I'm slowly returning to my normal routine. It's comforting. Even though I don't have much to say.



I WILL mention the book that I absolutely raced through today, The Hunger Games. Another bit of juvenile fiction, it was utterly captivating. I had half a mind to pre-order the second book in the trilogy today, despite the fact that it's not even coming out until September. It's very different from the Twilight saga, but no less intriguing.

Alright, on to the many missed episodes languishing on my DVR, this evening's Duke game, and Pizza Hut's version of a whole-grain crust. We'll see how good that is.

Top 5 Tuesday

In the last few days leading up to my college graduation, my beloved roommate gave me a simple lined journal as a gift. We’d had great fun throughout the year posting our favorite quotes from a variety of sources on a large piece of white butcher paper that we conveniently positioned in the center of our apartment, so in honor of that tradition, she inscribed a few pages of the journal with some of our most cherished lines, along with a personal note. I began to use the journal frequently, to keep track of touching, impressive quotes or powerful passages that I didn’t want to forget. I was prone to snatching whatever writing implement I could find and quickly scribbling the words wherever they might fit on the page.

When we moved from New York to Austin, however, my little book got lost in a pile of boxes, and for these past two years, I’ve just neglected the hobby. Imagine my joy and happiness when I unearthed it on one of my many unproductive unpacking days. Yes, moments like that, when I find something really GOOD, cause me to become completely distracted. My literature journal is one of the reasons why my garage isn’t quite the organized storage facility that it should be!

I decided for this week’s top 5 to include five of my favorite random scribblings. They’re from a variety of books that I have loved. Some are just a line or two, others are full pages from the book. I’m not going to elaborate on any of them just now-I think they’re perfectly eloquent and meaningful without my analysis. Now that I’ve found my journal, I can only hope to add more and more for memory’s sake.

5. from The World According to Garp, by John Irving.

“If you are careful,” Garp wrote, “if you use good ingredients, and you don’t take any shortcuts, then can usually cook something very good. Sometimes it is the only worthwhile product you can salvage from a day: what you make to eat. With writing, I find, you can have all the right ingredients, give plenty of time and care, and still get nothing. Also true of love.”

4. from The Wings of the Dove, by Henry James.

“The inconvenience-as always happens in such cases-was not that you minded what was false, but that you missed what was true.”

3. from Beach Music, by Pat Conroy

My mother wanted someone to feel about her the way Sherman did about Elizabeth and she knew that my father would never be that man. I used to stand on our dock looking back at that sun-struck house of my childhood and tell myself that I would one day love a woman the way Sherman did. I wanted to walk the whole world until I found a girl I could write letters to that her descendants would hang up on library walls. I would march to the sea with that girl’s name on my lips, and I would write her name in the sands until the tides washed over it. The story marked me. But it changed my mother’s life.

2. from The House on Mango Street, by Sandra Cisneros

People who live on hills sleep so close to the stars they forget those of us who live too much on earth. They don’t look down at all except to be content to live on hills. They have nothing to do with last week’s garbage or fear of rats. Night comes. Nothing wakes them but the wind.

One day I’ll own my own house, but I won’t forget who I am or where I came from. Passing bums will ask, Can I come in? I’ll offer them the attic, ask them to stay, because I know how it is to be without a house.

Some days after diner, guests and I will sit in front of a fire. Floorboards will squeak upstairs. The attic grumbles. Rats? they’ll ask. Bums, I’ll say, and I’ll be happy.

1. from Cold Mountain, by Charles Frazier.

When she reached the place, the boy had already gathered up the horses and gone. She went to the men on the ground and looked at them, and then she found Inman apart from them. She sat and held him in her lap. He tried to talk, but she hushed him. He drifted in and out and dreamed a bright dream of home. It had a coldwater spring rising out of rock, black dirt fields, old trees. In his dream, the year seemed to be happening all at one time, all the seasons blending together. Apple trees hanging heavy with fruit but yet unaccountably blossoming, ice rimming the spring, okra plants blooming yellow and maroon, maple leaves red as October, corn tops tasseling, a stuffed chair pulled up to a glowing fire hearth, pumpkins shining in the fields, laurels blooming on the hillsides, ditch banks full of orange jewelweed, white blossoms on dogwood, purple on redbud. Everything coming around at once. And there were white oaks, and a great number of crows, or at least the spirits of crows, dancing and singing in the upper limbs. There was something he wanted to say.

An observer situated up on the brow of the ridge would have looked down on a still, distant tableau in the winter woods. A creek, remnants of snow. A wooded glade, secluded from the generality of mankind. A pair of lovers. The man reclined with his head in the woman’s lap. She, looking down into his eyes, smoothing back the hair from his brow. He, reaching an arm awkwardly around to hold her at the soft part of her hip. Both touching each other with great intimacy. A scene of such quiet and peace that the observer on the ridge could avouch to it later in such a way as might lead those of glad temperaments to imagine some conceivable history where long decades of happy union stretched before the two on the ground.

Let the record show that I miss my sweet roommate! She was the very best! Some of my most fond and memorable moments from college were shared with her!

more pearls of wisdom from Pally Thompson

Way back when, I wrote a post inspired by Bobby Rex's Greatest Hit. I didn't include all the best bits, but as of late, I've felt that I can't NOT have my favorite passages in my blog. I loved the whole experience of reading Bobby Rex's Greatest Hit, but these words struck me at the core with their raw veracity.

"That's now," I say. "I'm talking about then. They had a car with the roof blowtorched off that they called the Sardine. It was a heap, and the one time I rode in it, I thought I was going to die."

"Why do you still like them?" he asked.

"It's easy to like people you don't really know anymore. You can even forgive them." Then I look at him meaningfully. "It's the people you know who are always the hardest to love. You expect so much from the people that you love that you are bound to be disappointed."

I feel that these words have a painful, truthful poignancy. Isn't it true that we expect the most from the people we love? We hold those individuals up to almost impossible standards, so we shouldn't be surprised when they're the ones that eventually let us down. I don't mean to sound resentful, or negative-I happen to think those words are a beautiful illustration of what makes us all human.

This is why I loved Bobby Rex.

On Chesil Beach

I've been reading a few pages of On Chesil Beach tonight, a novella by Ian McEwan that I have come to cherish. My beloved sister-in-law recommended it, championing its tragic beauty and insisting that I would certainly appreciate it. I'd read Atonement, so I was familiar with Ian McEwan, and there is nothing nicer than reading something that a family member or friend was impressed or touched by. Not the most uplifting story, in fact, On Chesil Beach is downright depressing. It's the briefest of stories, essentially describing the first evening spent between a newly married couple and its shocking, sudden end. I almost feel silly writing a brief synopsis, because there really aren't appropriate words to adequately express the aching poignancy that pervades the novella. It makes my heart hurt. I'm going to include several passages, some that are quite long, but I just couldn't eliminate any of them.

The first passage is the one that nestled in my mind immediately, and even when I haven't picked up the book in a while, I remember it with amazing clarity. It's such a lovely depiction of innocent first love, that time in the earliest days of a new and exciting romance when you're not quite sure what the other is thinking. You only know that your mind is completely absorbed and enamored by them, and that you can't quite reveal all of yourself yet.

...he found Florence waiting for him in the shadow of the pavilion. She knew his hours, and had taken an early train and walked from Henley toward the Stonor Valley, with a one-inch-to-the-mile map in her hand and a couple of oranges in a canvas satchel. For half an hour she had been watching him as he marked out the far boundary. Loving him from a distance, she said when they kissed. This was one of the exquisite moments of their early love, when they went slowly, arm in arm, back up the glorious avenue, walking in the center of the lane to take full possession. Now that it was inevitable, the prospect of her encounter with his mother and the cottage no longer seemed important. The shadows the lime trees cast were so deep they appeared bluish black in the brilliant light, and the heath was thick with fresh grasses and wildflowers. He showed off his knowledge of their country names and even found, by luck, by the roadside, a clump of Chiltern gentians. They picked just one. They saw a yellow jackhammer, a green finch, and then a sparrowhawk flashed by, cutting a narrow angle around a blackthorn tree. She did not know the names even of common birds like these, but she said she was determined to learn. She was exultant from the beauty of her walk and the clever route she had chosen, leaving the Stonor Valley to go along the narrow farm track into lonely Bix Bottom, past the ruined ivy-covered church of St. James, up the wooded slopes to the common at Maidensgrove, where she discovered an immense expanse of wildflowers, then through the beech woods to Pishill Bank, where a little brick-and-flint church and its churchyard were poised so beautifully on the side of the hill. As she described each place-and he knew them all so well-he imagined her there, on her own, walking toward him for hours, stopping only to frown at her map. All for him. What a gift! And he had never seen her so happy, or so pretty. She had tied back her hair with a scrap of black velvet, she wore black jeans and plimsolls, and a white shirt, through a buttonhole of which she had threaded a rakish dandelion. As they walked toward the cottage she kept tugging on his grass-stained arm for another kiss, though of the lightest sort, and for once he happily, or at least calmly, accepted that they would go no further. After she peeled her remaining orange for them to share along the way, her hand was sticky in his. They were innocently thrilled by her clever surprise, and their lives seemed hilarious and free, and the whole weekend lay before them.

The next few passages are small, just little bits that immediately resonated with me during my first reading.

He drew her closer, until their noses were almost touching and their faces went dark. He said, 'So did you think then it was love at first sight?' His tone was lighthearted and mocking, but she decided to take him seriously. The anxieties she would face were still far off, though occasionally she wondered what it was she was heading toward. A month ago they had told each other they were in love, and that was both a thrill and afterward, for her, a cause of one night of half waking, of vague dread that she had been impetuous and let go of something important, given something away that was not really hers to give. But it was too interesting, too new, too flattering, too deeply comforting to resist, it was a liberation to be in love and say so, and she could only let herself go deeper.

It is shaming sometimes, how the body will not, or cannot, lie about emotion. Who, for decorum's sake, has ever slowed his heart, or muted a blush?

When the reader is given the history of Edward, the earnest groom, we learn of the tragic event that befell his mother. The passage describing her accident is a perfect example of the expertise of the writer.

There is a certain kind of confident traveler who likes to open the carriage door just before the train has stopped in order to step out into the platform with a little running skip. Perhaps by leaving the train before its journey has ended, he asserts his independence-he is no passive lump of freight. Perhaps he invigorates a memory of youthfulness, or is simply in such a hurry that every second matters. The train braked, possibly a little harder than usual, and the door swung out from this traveler's grasp. The heavy metal edge struck Marjorie Mayhew's forehead with sufficient force to fracture her skull and dislocate in an instant her personality, intelligence, and memory. Her coma lasted just under a week. The traveler, described by eyewitnesses as a distinguished-looking City gent in his sixties, with bowler, rolled umbrella and newspaper, scuttled away from the scene-the young woman, pregnant with twins, sprawled on the ground among a few scattered toys-and disappeared forever into the streets of Wycombe, with all his guilt intact, or so Lionel said he hoped.

"...with all his guilt intact."-Those words, and that passage, while very well written, cause me to cringe and twist with sadness.

Finally, the last lines of the novella...I'm not going to write the entire last page, because I would hope anyone who reads my post who hasn't read the book might be tempted to read it. Now, I would be remiss if I didn't make perfectly clear that the story is about two conflicted characters who each have burdens to bear. In other words, they have issues! Particularly Florence! While that fact hangs over the novella like a thick grey cloud, I want to illuminate the beautifully written passages, which certain apply to life and love, no matter the context.

Even in his sixties, a large, stout man with receding white hair and a pink, healthy face, he kept up the long hikes. His daily walk still took in the avenue of limes, and in good weather he would take a circular route to look at the wildflowers on the common at Maidensgrove or the butterflies in the nature reserve in Bix Bottom, returning through the beech woods to Pishill church, where, he thought, he too would one day be buried. Occasionally, he would come to a forking of the paths deep in a beech wood and idly think that this was where she must have paused to consult her map that morning in August, and he would imagine her vividly, only a few feet and forty years away, intent on finding him. Or he would pause by a view over the Stoner Valley and wonder whether this was where she stopped to eat her orange. At last he could admit to himself that he had never met anyone he loved as much, that he had never found anyone, man or woman, who matched her seriousness. Perhaps if he had stayed with her, he would have been more focused and ambitious about his own life, he might have written those history books. It was not his kind of thing at all, but he knew that the Ennismore Quartet was eminent, and was still a revered feather of the classical music scene. He would never attend the concerts, or buy, or even look at, the boxed sets of Beethoven or Schubert. He did not want to see her photograph and discover what the years had wrought, or hear about the details of her life. He preferred to preserve her as she was in his memories, with the dandelion in her buttonhole and the piece of velvet in her hair, the canvas bag across her shoulder, and the beautiful strong-boned face with its wide and artless smile. When he thought of her, it rather amazed him, that he had let that girl with her violin go. Now, of course, he saw that her self-effacing proposal was quite irrelevant. All she had needed was the certainty of his love, and his reassurance that there was no hurry when a lifetime lay ahead of them. Love and patience-if only he had had them both at once-would surely have seen them both through.

Those words are hard to follow, so I won't even try..

At home...

I have a "home for the holidays" routine that inevitably exasperates my mother. I always find my way back to what we call "the reloading room"-a spot where my dad used to actually reload the bullets for his rifle-which has since become a storeroom of sorts, in the same way one would use an attic. There are countless boxes of keepsakes, books, letters, and other odd items that have belonged to me at some point. I try my very best not to be a pack rat, and I have improved in the past few years, but I do struggle with determining exactly how valuable or memorable an object really is, and I've probably stored much more than necessary. Needless to say, I decided to try to help my mom out by sorting through a few of my boxes, and I was delighted by some of the things I found. Most of the happy surprises were books, which I piled surreptitiously in a corner of my old bedroom, knowing my mom wouldn't be that thrilled to see that I had indeed brought out a pile of books that certainly won't fit in my luggage. I also found an old notebook of mine, the first one to contain handwritten quotes and passages from books I'd read. A secret thrill always overcomes me when I reread words that have touched my heart, and I couldn't resist writing a post about them. After all, my blog is a very neat and tidy way to document memorable things, right?

The first, and best, passage comes from The Quotable Lewis, a wonderful selection of C.S. Lewis quotes that I received many Christmases ago. I love C.S. Lewis-not only was he an incredible man of faith, he was extremely intelligent, a combination of qualities that I value very much. The book has quotes referencing all sorts of topics, but of course the one that I remember most is about love.



To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket-safe, dark, motionless, airless-it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.

What I found in my notebook were a few hastily scribbled lines from Love in the Time of Cholera, the famous Pulitzer Prize-winning novel that I have actually not finished. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I actually don't remember at all what might have kept me from it. Thus, I cannot truly speak for the story and whether or not it is quite all it's supposed to be. I've heard mixed reviews. All I know is that this speech, declared by Florentino to Fermina, made a strong and immediate impression on me.



But before she could thank him for the visit, he placed his hat over his heart, tremulous and dignified, and the abscess that had sustained his life finally burst. "Fermina," he said, "I have waited for this opportunity for more than half a century, to repeat to you once again my vow of eternal fidelity and everlasting love."

My last find was a mere scrap of paper, stuck in one of my notebooks from school. It was from a class on American Literature, and we had been reading the short stories of Nathaniel Hawthorne. I vaguely remember "Rappaccini's Daughter"-I have a foggy sense that it might be about a strange Italian scientist and some sort of venomous plant he created-so I'm not sure of the context of the small quote I'll include here. There is something about the way that Hawthorne pinpointed that unwavering, sometimes nonsensical quality of love.

Oh, how stubbornly does love-or even that cunning semblance of love which flourishes in the imagination, but strikes no depth of root into the heart-how stubbornly does it hold its faith, until the moment comes, when it is doomed to vanish into thin mist!

Clearly, I'm all about the love tonight! What I should really be focusing on is the Aeneid and wondering how I'll be able to churn out a successful paper in one day, but I just can't stay away from the blog. Hopefully, more cooking and pleasure reading will be coming up for me soon-I clearly need more material.

Gilead

Gilead is a novel that I read more than two years ago, and though I don't remember all of its details, I can remember how profoundly touched I was as I slowly made my way through the last pages. Though it falls squarely in the category of serious, Pulitzer-Prize winning novels that I often proudly profess having read, it is more than just a highly acclaimed success. To even refer to it in that way gives me a bad, blasphemous feeling. Not a whole lot "happens" throughout the story-no big action sequences or dramatic events. It is essentially a letter, written by a reverend to his young son, an attempt to share a family history marked by work in the evangelical churches of rural Kansas as well as the contentious yet loving relationships between fathers and sons. The experience of reading the book is truly indescribable. It's as though you don't realize that the words, simple yet beautiful and nuanced, are quietly seeping into your soul, making a deep impression. I found my eyes welling with tears as I finished, and at that moment I didn't quite know why. I suppose it's because it's much more than a letter to a son, but almost more like a prayer of gratefulness for a life that has been difficult, but tremendously rewarding, as any life should be. The following excerpt marks the moment that my tears began, as I sat in a sunny seat on a New Jersey Transit train bound for the city (I always love it when I'm able to remember where I was at the moment of finishing a great book).

I can tell you this, that if I'd married some rosy dame and she had given me ten children and they had each given me ten grandchildren, I'd leave them all, on Christmas Eve, on the coldest night of the world, and walk a thousand miles just for the sight of your face, your mother's face. And if I never found you, my comfort would be in that hope, my lonely and singular hope, which could not exist in the whole of Creation except in my heart and in the heart of the Lord. That is just a way of saying I could never thank God sufficiently for the splendor He has hidden from the world-your mother excepted, of course-and revealed to me in your sweetly ordinary face.

My eyes fill once more as I read the sweet words again...

my One True Thing

To write, or read, about the loss of a parent, especially a mother, must seem an impossible thing to many. It's something that all of us must inevitably go through, but there is a stark difference between a natural, composed ending to a life and an abbreviated, painful suffering conclusion. No one wants to watch a loved one in pain, but for the caretaking role to be reversed, and the thought of shouldering the burden for your mother...it's enough to take your breath away.

My own mother suggested Anna Quindlen's One True Thing to me this summer, as she had recently read it and been thoroughly affected by its painfully poignant subject matter. My mom has always been a big advocate of "when you're ready" to read this novel, or watch this film, or discuss this topic. She thinks in order to appreciate, understand, and value things, you have to be at the right point in your life. Reading this book was something else I had to be "ready" for, which doesn't necessarily imply maturity or new depths of life experience, just a degree of readiness, according to Mom.

As usual, the wisdom of this book recommendation was immediately evident to me, as I treasured the story immensely. It wasn't an easy read, but I won't easily forget it.

Some of my favorite moments:

Ellen, finally unable to restrain herself on the topic of her father's infidelities:

"Mama, I can't talk to you about this."
"Ellen," she said, struggling to turn toward me, her hands like pale claws on the railing of the bed, her legs scissoring away the white sheets, "listen to me because I will only say this once and I shouldn't say it at all. There is nothing you know about your father that I don't know, too."
The two of us stared silently into one another's eyes, and I think that after a moment she gave a little nod and then lay back.
"And understand better," she added.
"All right," I said.
"You make concessions when you're married a long time that you don't believe you'll ever make when you're beginning," she said. "You say to yourself when you're young, oh, I wouldn't tolerate this or that or the other thing, you say love is the most important thing in the world and there's only one kind of love and it makes you feel different than you feel the rest of the time, like you're all lit up. But time goes by and you've slept together a thousand nights and smelled like spit-up when babies are sick and seen your body droop and get soft. And some nights you say to yourself, it's not enough, I won't put up with it another minute. And then the next morning you wake up and the kitchen smells like coffee and the children have their hair all brushed and the birds are eating out of the feeder and you look at your husband and he's not the person you used to think he was but he's your life. The house and the children and so much of what you do is built around him and your life, too, your history. If you take him out it's like cutting his face out of all the pictures, there's a big hole and it's ugly. It would ruin everything. It's more than love, it's more important than love."

During Ellen's trial, when she responds to a question about whether she loved her mother:

"The easy answer is yes. But it's too easy just to say that when you're talking about your mother. It's so much more than love-it's, it's everything, isn't it?" as though somehow they would all nod. "When someone asks you where you come from, the answer is your mother." My hands were crossed on my chest now, and the woman in the blue suit turned her rings. "When your mother's gone, you've lost your past. It's so much more than love. Even when there's no love, it's so much more than anything else in your life. I did love my mother, but I didn't know how much until she was gone."

And finally, in the epilogue:

We made her simpler after she was dead. No, that's not true, either. We'd made her simpler all her life, simpler than her real self. We'd made her what we needed her to be. We'd made her ours, our one true thing.

Les Miserables

I usually pride myself on my unwillingness to "quit" a book that has proved difficult to get through or is prone to long digressions that distract the reader from the central plot. There were times last year when I feared that Les Miserables would meet that fate. The French classic is quite the tome, and while I knew from its earliest pages that it was beautifully written, and utterly deserving of its literary notoriety, it was no easy feat to finish.

I began the novel sometime in March, which I remember distinctly because I visited New York and Princeton then, and I was able to enjoy the reading on the commute that I always cherished when I lived in Manhattan. Needless to say, I continued to plod through it in fits and starts, finally turning to the last page on our family vacation to the Bahamas for Thanksgiving. I don't know that I have ever felt quite so victorious! Not only was I overwhelmed with a certain pride in myself for persevering, I was rewarded immensely by the emotionally satisfying conclusion and utter certainty that I had just finished one of the best novels that I had ever encountered.

The protagonist Jean Valjean will be forever cemented in my memory as an incredible example of humanity, a perfect representative of someone who has struggled against injustice and the inevitable turn of the soul towards blackness and triumphed over it, finding a way to reconcile terrible circumstances with a peaceful life. He is perfect proof for a myriad of life lessons: that one can forget past mistakes; that one can make life better, even if resources are few; that hard work and conscientiousness are virtues that will result in some rewards; that love is powerful enough for sustenance...

There are an abundance of passages and quotes from the novel that I remember stirring my heart while I read, but the few I am going to include now, from the conclusion, are worth cherishing forever.

These lines all occur in the final scenes of the book, when Cosette and Marius visit Valjean, discovering that he is on his deathbed.

"If you take me back, Monsieur Pontmercy, will that make me any different from the man I am? No. God thinks as you and I do, and he has not changed his mind. It is better for me to go. Death is a very sensible arrangement. God knows better than we do what is good for us. That you should be happy, Marius Pontmercy and Cosette, that youth should marry with the morning, that you two children should have lilac and nightingales around you, that your life should be like a lawn bathed in sunshine and glowing with enchantment; and that I, who am no longer good for anything, should now die, that is surely right."

"Because things do not always please us," said Valjean, "that is no reason for reproaching God."

"Cosette, the time has come for me to tell you your mother's name. It was Fantine. You must not forget it, Fantine, and you must bow your head whenever you speak it. She loved you greatly and she suffered greatly. She was as rich in sorrow as you are in happiness. That is how God evens things out. He watches us all from above and knows what he is doing among his splendid stars. And now I must leave you, my children. Love one another always. There is nothing else that matters in this world except love..."

Cosette and Marius fell on their knees on either side of him, stifling their tears. His hands rested on their heads, and did not move again. He lay back with his head turned up to the sky, and the light from the two candlesticks fell upon his face.

The significance of the candlesticks is worth noting. Jean Valjean, after being wrongly accused and serving prison time in the dreadful prison Toulon, escapes and is determined to start anew, despite the damage that has been wreaked upon his humanity while in prison. He is the beneficiary of the hospitality and kindness of a village bishop, the owner of the candlesticks. When Valjean leaves the home of the bishop his criminal urges overpower him and he takes the candlesticks, planning to pawn them for money. He is accidentally apprehended shortly after his departure, and the police take him straight to the bishop's home, demanding whether or not the candlesticks belong to him. The bishop immediately claims that he gave them to Jean Valjean. This generosity and forgiveness, an act of mercy, prove to instigate a rebirth in Jean Valjean's character, and truly make him the man that he turns out to be.

Pally Thompson

Well, I certainly didn't think I'd be THIS slow with my posts. I felt sure that I would be posting with a much greater frequency. I've been meaning to write for quite some time now with regards to an EXCELLENT book that I read over the summer, "Bobby Rex's Greatest Hit." My mom recommended it to me, and, as usual, her recommendation was absolutely sublime. Bobby Rex was one of the best books I've ever read, and certainly the highlight over the summer, despite my delving into the quality literature that was required for my literature course. I had to blog about it, including my favorite quotes. You know, the kind of quotes that seize your heart and wrench it a bit, but in a good way, because you know you've felt exactly what was described and you understand the feeling that the character is feeling COMPLETELY.

"Bobby Rex's Greatest Hit" tells the story of Pally Thompson, a small-town Southern girl who has never quite let go of the desire for something more, even though she's not too keen on departing from the comfortable happiness of the familiar North Carolina hamlet where she resides. Bobby Rex, of the pithy title, is the stereotypical high school hunk who is destined for greater things, namely, stardom in the country-western music world. When Bobby Rex releases a risque chart topper entitled "Pally Thompson", Pally is instantly plunged back into her memories of high school, introducing us to the good ol' boy boyfriend and the wild, spirited best friend (with an unusual Southern name, of course), all while building up the suspense about Bobby Rex-why would he write such a song if nothing ever happened between them? Whether the reader is left satisfied or wishing that Pally truly had found something greater in her life, you just can't help to appreciate the book, for the warmth and pathos that emanate throughout. Everyone can relate to Pally. To quote a recent movie preview for a chick flick that undoubtedly suffered in the box office, "High school is never over!"

One of my favorite parts of the book comes from a conversation that Pally has with her mother. Pally's father, Speedy, died an tragic, immature death, but Pally's mother has always allowed him to LIVE in the stories that she shared with her daughter. Here she shares with Pally her sentiments about Orfax (the North Carolina hamlet I mentioned previously) and why she hasn't left.

"Anyway-" She took a deep breath. "You could hear the train coming for miles: the Southern Crescent. First a low-down rumbling in the earth. The willow trees seemed to stop swishing. The crickets hushed up. The approach of that train was a serious event. The air was black and serious and still. It had a weight to it, then the faintest sort of tremble. When it began to smell sparky, we held our breaths in order to hear the train better. And always Speedy would whisper in my ear: "Hey, girl, let's hop it."

Sometimes I knew he wasn't joking. And the insistence in his voice gave me gooseflesh. "We'd have a big time." And he'd hug me so tight I'd feel winded.

"Where does the train go?" I recall asking him once.

"Oh, D.C., Baltimore, New York City, Boston-take your pick."

"What will we do when we get where we're going, Speedy?" I'd ask him, making a game.

He'd sweep a hand through his dark hair as if the gesture stirred up better thoughts. "Oh," he'd say, "we'll find us a first-class hotel and have them send us supper on a tray with lots and lots of pink champagne. Then, after we eat, if you're not too tired, we'll go dancing."

"But if we hop a train tonight, this very minute," I said, "I won't have my red high heels, the ones I like best for dancing. You know the shoes I mean."

Then, he'd consider everything we'd said, for a moment, and say, "Well, then we'll just have to find us some place that's got sawdust floors like Woody's Danceland. You don't need shoes to dance in sawdust. You don't even WANT shoes. And there's bound to be a place like Woody's in a great big town like New York or Boston. A place where everybody dances barefoot.

"Well," I'd say, "if we're going to ride the Southern Crescent all that distance just to scare up a place exactly like Woody's, why bother? Why not stay right here?"

And Speedy, who was nearly always agreeable, would hug me half to death and say, "Okay, we'll stay this time. But NEXT time we come to the depot, be sure to wear your red high heels."

Then the train would roar past like a solid wall of thunder and, in a way, I'd feel we'd barely escaped going. I'd say, "Whew!" and cling to Speedy, because there was something almost too thrilling about the Crescent plowing through all that sleepy farmland, something so full of risk that I felt lucky to have been spared.

Isn't that just beautiful, somehow? Next time, be sure to wear your red high heels? I love it. And here, another moment, after Bobby Rex finally hits the road and leaves Orfax behind.

I felt like I was in mourning. I sat on the stone-cold radiator in the bathroom and cried my eyes out. Now I knew he was impossible. Now the phone would never ring. Bobby Rex Moseley was one chance gone from my life, and it seemed that as you got older, what you lost, one by one, were chances. People talked about losing your youth, your health, your friends, love. But it all boiled down to losing the chances for those things.

I loved this book, can feel my heart warming as I reread the words...Mom really does know best!!!