What I Like Most About My Body is Not a Noun

If I were asked what I like most about my body, I wouldn’t answer with a noun.

This came to me last night, as I was lying awake and letting my mind wander, and I started mulling over some celebrity interview, of all things. This celebrity was asked what she liked most about her body, and she said her wrists. She likes that she can put her fingers around them.

You know, that’s a pretty good question. It’s taking the usual standard of negative body image that we—mostly women—have generally felt, and it’s standing it on its head. What do you like? And, you know, that’s a pretty good answer. Wrists are lovely in general, and I’m sure hers are, too.

I was thinking that I like my wrists, too. I mean, I can put my fingers around them and all, but what I really like about them is what amazing joints they are. They can move my hands in just about any direction, allowing them to do almost anything! And they can hold them there for hours on end, just like they’re doing right now at this computer keyboard. Amazing.

If I were asked what I like most about my body, I’ve decided that I wouldn’t answer with a noun. Very simply, a noun is an object, and I’m so much more than an object. As well-intentioned as that question and its usual response are, they’re still using the language and philosophy that have objectified women for millennia. They’re still discussing us as passive things to be viewed.

If I were asked what I like most about my body, I would start with, “I like that.” I like that it’s carried me through so much, for so long, and that it’s cared for me—for itself—every step of the way. No matter what, my heart’s kept beating, my lungs have kept breathing, my muscles have kept moving, and my blood vessels have kept squeezing into those shockingly tiny vessels all over my body. It’s mind-blowing! I can’t think of a system more elegant or efficient, and I declare that no one can engineer one better.

If that’s too passive an answer for you, though, maybe you’d prefer to list your body’s extra accomplishments. In my case, I love that it carries me up mountains! I love that it can ride all over a hilly city on a bike! Heck, I love that it climbs stairs. In fact, I really like that it’s weathered some pretty nasty diseases and nightmarish food poisonings and has kept on trucking right along!

Or even, I like how great it feels when I stretch each morning. I like how nice it feels when I lie down each night. I love that, after a good workout, it feels all euphoric and wobbly, simultaneously telling me that I’ve done great and that I need a break. Now that’s amazing.

And I think that answering that way isn’t sidestepping the question or somehow glossing over the idea that one dislikes how they look. I love how I look. As an object, my body is a beautiful one. But that’s kind of boring when I think about every cool thing that it does. A thing is so much more interesting when it’s alive and moving, don’t you think?

I hope that this is only contributing to or restating a huge pile of feminist lit that’s already out there. I honestly don’t have the time to do the research right now (I have things to do, ha!), but I assume this is a conclusion others have reached before. That said, I think it’s one that cannot be emphasized enough.

As I think about my beautiful friends far and wide, swinging from trapezes, running marathons, climbing mountains, giving birth, kayaking, and dancing for hours, I can only marvel at how stupendously magnificent it is that they can and they do! It’s silly and stupid that anyone—of any gender—be reduced to a list of body parts to like or dislike when we can do that much.

We are so much more than nouns!

My Great-Great-Great Grandmother's Poetic Battle for Love

Charles Hinton Lofland and Martha Jane Turner Lofland

One of the few treasures I own is a beautiful quilt that was hand-pieced by my great-great-great grandmother, Martha Jane Turner Lofland (1858-1939). The embroidered inscription on the backside of the quilt bears her name, and it has given her almost epic qualities in my imagination. In spite of this, I knew very little about this ancestor until last night.

"Who are these people?" I asked my mother, pulling a gold-framed diptych off her wall. I'd seen the portraits before, but I was suddenly struck by the dark tones of the beautiful woman on the right, not knowing that it was the very creator of my beloved quilt. "She could be half Native American, even," I suggested. My mom hmmed over that one, saying that she was pretty sure that Martha Jane Turner's line was pretty well-documented. 

We're fortunate to have had many very thorough genealogists in the family, and, before I knew it, my mom had pulled out a hard-bound book documenting the Lofland family line. Sure enough, Martha Jane's father was a Methodist minister born in Henry County, Georgia, before moving to Texas and marrying a woman from Tennessee. All the family names and locations were organized and recorded--no indication of racial mixing as far as anyone could tell. 

The really interesting bit, though, came from one of Martha Jane's daughters (the author of the book), who recorded a story Martha Jane had told. It was about her competition with another young woman for the affection of her future husband, my great-great-great grandfather Charles Hinton Lofland, in 1877:

"Charlie would go occasionally with a girl, named Fannie Whitenton. I thought they had up quite a case, and I was worried over it. I got after him for going with her, and he said, 'Oh! JANE, you know I don't care anything for Fannie Whitenton. You are the only girl that I have ever loved.'"

It turns out that Fannie Whitenton had written and dedicated a love poem to Charles, and Charles pulled the poem out of his pocket and gave it to Martha Jane, who "went home and answered it" with a love poem of her own! Both poems are reproduced below.

But first, my 21st-century interpretation of this 137-year-old girl fight:

First of all, poor Fannie Whitenton! All that I can gather is that she was actually a pretty good poet, and that she was absolutely in love with my great-great-great grandfather, right down to the little details about him, such as the sound of his "hasty step" and his "kind sweet tone." And not only to lose the guy that was kind of leading her on by "going with her," but to have him give her love poem away to her competitor?! Harsh.

Second, bless my own great-great-great grandmother, Martha Jane. I can imagine her sitting there at home with this other girl's poem to beautiful Charlie Lofland on her desk, crying her eyes out and trying to write something decent in response. Emphasis on trying, because the literary critic in me has to say that her poem's not that great. I was kind of feeling it in the fourth verse ("There is not enough paper in this world, / There are not enough pens and ink..."), but then she goes and threatens to hang herself if she doesn't see Charles again? ("Run away!" my mom shouted to Charles, 137 years too late.) Good thing she was gorgeous and an amazing quilter--otherwise my family line might not have continued past Limestone County, Texas!

Third, Charles Hinton Lofland really must've been something to have inspired a poetry war over him! I mean, you see the portrait: he's a good-looking guy. I'm curious about his "playing the field," in a way, and his taking two years after this whole scene to marry "the only girl that I have ever loved," who was already 19 years old when she penned that poem to him.

There's so much we don't know. But I love it when such personal, human details pop out of the past to make us marvel at its everyday and how very, very real it was.

Fannie's poem:

"STAR OF MY HEART

I miss thee each lone hour,

Star of my heart.

No other voice hath power

The joy to impart.

Darkness is on the hearth,

Naught do I say,

Books are but little worth,

Thou are away.

I listen for thy hasty step,

Thy kind sweet tone.

But silence whispers me

Thou art alone.

Voices true and kind

Strangers are to me

I have lost all heart and mind,

Thinking of thee.

Yours truly,

Fannie Whitenton

Dedicated to CHARLES LOFLAND"

and Martha Jane's:

"Written by MARTHA JANE TURNER and dedicated to CHARLES LOFLAND May 1, 1877 -- Two years before they married.

MY LOVE

One evening as I sat alone

Thinking my love of thee,

I was thinking what a sad world to me

This world would be without thee.

I was thinking of the past;

I was thinking of the last

Perhaps he would ever say to me.

All these sad thoughts I burst into tears,

Oh my Lord what shall I do?

I feel like one that was left alone

In this wide world to toil.

Sad are those thoughts to my mind,

But then I have it to bear.

There is not enough paper in this world,

There are not enough pens and ink,

There's not enough hands, there's not enough tongues,

To tell what I do think.

I've thought of you my love, I've thought of you my dove,

I've thought of the one I love best,

I thought and I thought and I cried and I cried

'Til I feel like my heart would break.

Oh, if I knew I would never see his face

To tell him I loved him again

I would go right straight, I would hang myself 

To some high swinging limb.

Oh, if I knew that some other girl

Could step in and take my place,

I would pray to God to take me away

Where I'd never more see his face.

But I expect to go with a bowed down head

With a sad look upon my face

'Til I get a few words from my sweet turtle dove

And see a bright smile upon his face.

Written in answer to Fannie Whitenton's dedication to CHARLES HINTON LOFLAND ('Star of My Heart')"

The Real American Revolution, vs. Morsi and the Arab Spring

A few years ago, a friend of mine pointed out that the real revolution in America was not when it gained its independence from Britain in 1776 (or 1781, depending on whose authority one relies).

The real revolution in America was when George Washington’s presidency ended and the second president John Adam’s term began. According to my friend, this was the first time in history that power changed hands in this manner with absolutely no bloodshed. I doubt his “first in history" claim, but the whole thing was very revolutionary. This was the point at which America’s new democracy was tested: John Adams was voted into office, Washington stepped down, and no one started a civil war over the succession. Unbelievable!

This American Independence Day, I’m particularly aware of how good we have it in this country. In spite of all the times we feel we’re being screwed over by those in power (both public and private), I’ve got to admit that our country is pretty amazing. Our Constitution has been tested and amended and upheld time and time again, and our leaders continue to change power again and again (with only a few assassinations).

My heart goes out to the people of Egypt, and to so many others, who have tried the “great experiment" of democracy and have not quite made it there. It seems so easy to overthrow an old government and set up a new one with democratic laws. But it’s so hard to keep that new government from ending up like the old one, from accumulating and holding onto power like the old one. And, when that happens, it seems like all you can do is try again—and hope. Best, best wishes to them.

The Fantasy and Reality of The Natural History of Ireland

            In 1602, twelve-year-old Philip O’Sullivan Beare fled Ireland for a life of exile in Spain. The English had just defeated Ireland's old Gaelic order in the Battle of Kinsale, and young Philip's cousin had led his remaining followers--women and children included--on a treacherous 250-mile march to Leitrim and the sea, fighting English and Irish opponents along the way. Out of the roughly 1000 that began the march, 35 people made it to the end.

            Philip O’Sullivan Beare was received hospitably in Spain. He was given an education, and he authored several manuscripts, many of which are known today. Although he remained in Spain until his death, O’Sullivan Beare continued to hope that his people would return to Ireland and oust its English occupiers, and he did what he could to make that happen. He drew up battle plans, and he wrote propaganda promoting Ireland and emphasizing connections between the Irish and their Spanish allies.

            In the late 16th and early 17th centuries, several accounts were being circulated which depicted Ireland in a negative light: an attempt at propaganda in favor of the English occupation of Ireland. O'Sullivan Beare attempted to refute those accounts—particularly those of Giraldus Cambrensis. In 1626, O'Sullivan Beare completed the Zoilomastix (now published as The Natural History of Ireland), emphasizing the land’s incredible wealth of valuable resources and marvelous features.

            In the book, O’Sullivan Beare sets down an encyclopedic account of Ireland’s plants, animals, natural features, and miracles. He tries to be as thorough and accurate as possible to prove that he is a greater authority on the contents of Ireland than any of its critics. He makes use of all the resources he can, from ancient accounts of Pliny the Elder and Aristotle, to the records of contemporary travelers, to his own memory of his childhood in Ireland.

            Keep in mind, however, that this was the early 1600s: large portions of the world were still strange and unknown, and they were rarely understood. It was difficult, if not impossible, to verify a first-hand account, and most resources were second- or third- or fourth-hand accounts which often relied on the authority of the ancient Greeks. As a result, a great deal of O’Sullivan Beare’s claims—which may have been plausible at the time—are known to be wildly inaccurate today. The book weaves a world of magical realism, where what could easily be a modern scientific account proceeds to slide directly into a flight of fancy without so much as a batting an eye. When a modern audience attempts to read it with the uncritical eye of a 17th-century readership, reality can become unglued. It becomes difficult to pinpoint what has been scientifically proven and what has not. One finds oneself asking, Does this really happen? Did it happen?

Some of my favorite entries:

“Hedgehogs…are protected by firm spines on their backs, but their belly is covered with a harmless wool. They roll on fruit, lying on the ground, which becomes affixed to their spines. They carry them to the holes of trees and hedges which they inhabit, holding just one in their mouths. When they sense a hunter they roll themselves into a ball with their snout, feet and every underneath part contracted so that nothing can be grasped except spines... (81)”

“River horses are similar to land horses. The fact is so true that they sometimes are not distinguished when feeding among horses. The unhappy death of a man of Obuillus, (O’Boyle) quite well-known among the Irish, explains the belief. This man by misfortune mounted a river horse fitted with trappings while it was feeding among the land horses. The river horse travelling by the nearby lake threw himself along with his rider into it. The river horse itself did not appear again nor did O'Boyle survive (169, 171)."

"Let me come now to the Sylvia (the robin)...Small in body, it is held in the highest sympathy among the Irish because, pious and courteous, it tries to cover lifeless bodies and deserted corpses of men with moss and grass (137)."

"[Ireland] begets no poisonous animal, and no noxious reptile. In truth, a certain and swift death is their fate at the first touch of Irish air, if by chance they are brought from elsewhere. Furthermore, whatever is taken out of Ireland has been proved to be an antidote to poisons (49)."

"Loch Neag is the most beautiful lake in which, if the branches of the berry-bearing holly or a slip are brought in, from those after a year trees are reported to grow which are wooden in the upper part that stands out from the water, stone in the bottom part which is fixed to the earth and iron in the middle part surrounded by water (263)."

            It might be easy for a knowledgeable resident of the 21st century to snort in derision at some of the claims in this work. Those tempted to do so, however, should attempt to see the world through the eyes of a 17th-century scholar in mainland Europe. If it makes sense for a hedgehog to roll into a ball for defense, why would it not make sense for it to use its spikes for carrying food? And what proof could one use to refute claims that robins cover dead bodies with moss? And what reason would one have to doubt that Ireland's special air kills poisonous animals? Inaccuracies such as these provide entertainment to the modern reader, for sure, but they also provide a very informative glimpse of 17th century life and natural knowledge.

            In a way, this glimpse that the Zoilomastix give us is proven even more genuine by the state in which it was found and translated. The original Latin work was lost for more than 300 years before it was found in a Swedish university. It was only recently translated to English by Denis C. O'Sullivan at the University College of Cork, in Ireland. It appears that the first three chapters have been lost—the manuscript begins, mid-argument, on the final

page of chapter four. Portions of the text have been struck through or added to the margins, sometimes in a different handwriting, and sections occasionally appear out of order, as if O'Sullivan Beare were intending to edit and rearrange the book at a later time. This is a work in progress, and the reader can see how much work has gone into it already. The reader

also gets a feel for how critical O'Sullivan Beare can be of what he considers dubious claims. And he seems fully aware of his potential for fallacy and incompleteness. Throughout the book, he throws in qualifiers, such as "it is said," or "if trust be put [into this account]," as if to emphasize that the knowledge is not empirical. O'Sullivan Beare concludes the work anticipating additions:

"This is my labour...although it will be considered less perfect by somebody else, nobody will deny that it will be easier to increase it by the addition of new facts than to begin and complete a whole work. What I have taken up I seem to have accomplished: that Ireland is not deserted, without roads, and boggy, as Gyraldus would have it, but that it is heaped with glory under many headings (267)."

I don't know how effective O'Sullivan Beare's propaganda was, or how much it helped Ireland's image in 17th-century Europe. I do, however, know many things O'Sullivan Beare could never have known in 1626. I know that hedgehogs do not use their spikes to carry fruit, and that Irish air does not kill poisonous creatures. I also know that, in spite of all of O'Sullivan Beare's hopes, the Gaelic order was never restored to Ireland, and England would continue to occupy the land for at least another 300 years. Such knowledge might have broken that scholar's heart.

            In a way, The Natural History of Ireland is like a time capsule from the early 1600s: a series of notes and wishes stashed away in some man's collection, mid-edit. In spite of all that has happened in the last 400 years, it gives us a very personal and wonder-inducing glimpse of what was, what was believed, and what could have been.


(Photos of script throughout this post are from the original manuscript of the Zoilomastix.)

Pain-Free Home Baking

It was my dad's birthday, and I decided to bake him a cake.

"That's great, Alice!" you're probably thinking. "You're a professional pastry cook. What could be easier than baking your dad a cake?"

Well.

It's not quite as easy as it sounds.

The cake turned out beautifully--it really was one of the nicest cakes I remember making. But WHOAH, it wasn't easy. To tell the truth, it was pretty frustrating.

You see, home baking is very different from professional baking, and my experience in the kitchen that morning has made me think a lot about the differences between the two.

As a pastry cook at a bakery, you can assume that you've got work space, all the tools you need, and all the ingredients that you need. (This is because you're not the pastry chef, who's probably constantly worried about inventory.) Since you use it several times a day, you figured out the bakery oven's quirks a long time ago (hot spots, the difference between its set temperature and actual temperature, etc). You're almost always working with a recipe that's tried-and-true: the bakery knows what works, has worked out the kinks, has worked out the method. If you're trying out a new recipe, you're going to be slower at it, but you've at least got a few other people who can weigh in with their opinions every step of the way.

At home, it's all on you. You aren't part of a team (well, unless you make a point to bake with a friend?) It's up to you to figure out your workspace, to gather your tools and ingredients, to figure out how much time to give yourself to do anything. And, if you're like I am at home, you're probably trying a new recipe. (There are so many out there to try! How could I stick to just one?)

So, while I waited for my "Chocolate Fudge Cake" (brought to you by the baking goddess Rose Levy Beranbaum) to cool, I decided not to write about this specific cake. At least, not yet. I decided to reflect on my successful-but-slightly-painful home baking experience and to write down my advice for a successful, pain-free home baking experience. Maybe you'll get something out of it. And maybe next time, I'll follow my own advice!

For Successful, Pain-Free Home Baking:

1. Figure out your recipe(s).

I love to cook. I love improvising while I'm in the midst of cooking something new and off-the-wall, grabbing some ingredient on a last-minute whim and tossing it into the skillet or roasting pan. It's brilliant!

Baking is not cooking. Baking is a much more precise science/art that requires forethought and chemical balance. Sure, there's always some wiggle room--you may decide to add cranberries to your scones at the last minute instead of currants, or maybe an extra whack of nutmeg--but each baking recipe pretty strictly adheres to a balance of dry to liquid, a balance of tenderizing elements to structure-providing elements. The recipe is important. Find it, figure out the changes (if any) you're going to make, write down the changes you're going to make, and then stick to your plan!

(Personally, I wrote down the ingredients for two different cake recipes when I set off for the shop, figuring I'd decide on one when I got there. Heh. Anyone want the extra container of sour cream I'm never going to use? I also apparently didn't give much thought to how I would decorate the cake, since the ganache-covering-and-setting process would've taken much more time than I allotted for myself. I ended up assembling a  lovely last-minute buttercream with incomplete ingredients--something I was only comfortable doing after a year-or-so of making simple buttercreams.)


2. Visualize the process.

Read through the recipe, imagine yourself doing each thing it instructs, and imagine yourself doing the changes you planned out (and wrote down). If you aren't sure how to do something, then find an easier recipe. Or teach yourself how to do it if you're up to it (well-written cookbooks and internet how-tos are beautiful things). Try to figure out how long it'll take you to do each thing. Imagine how long it'll take for the baked good to cool before you can decorate it (and overestimate this if you're in doubt.) Imagine what ingredients you're going to use, what bowls you're going to use, what tools you're going to use, and what the final product is going to be baked in/on.

And--I know it sounds a pinch OCD, but--write down all the tools and ingredients you'll be using. This way, you're making a point to yourself that you need these things, and you're not just thinking, "Yeah, yeah, I'll be cooling the cake." This way, you make sure you have a cooling rack. It takes a little time at the beginning, but it saves a lot of time and last-minute-scrambling-hassle at the end, when you're searching desperately for that cooling rack (or second cooling rack?) you thought you had.


3. Make sure you have everything.

I mean everything. Make sure you own and can locate every single thing you need before you even think about starting. This doesn't just mean ingredients: this means tools, towels, space and time!

If you've written this all down and thought it through, this usually means one trip to the shop at the most. I can't count the number of times I've had to run to the grocery store a second (*cough* or third *cough*) time halfway through baking or cooking something. This has been my learning experience.

But it's far easier and more forgiving to turn the heat off many partially cooked dishes to run out for what you need than it is to run out on something halfway through a baking recipe.

Keep in mind: baking soda (bicarbonate of soda) starts doing its thing as soon as it hits a liquid--it needs to go in the oven as soon as possible after that. Beaten egg whites and whipped cream both fall if they sit too long. Once yeast has been activated, it can foam up for a little while, but it'll need some sugars sooner or later, or it'll die. Recipes often call for butter at room temperature, and, if you leave refrigerated butter on top of the oven to warm while you run to the local supermarket, which inevitably does not sell cake flour, you're going to return (with or without cake flour) to find a pool of melted butter on the oven. Mmm. Trust me, it's not fun.

Clear and clean your counter space so that you can spread out and do everything that you need to do without shuffling one bowl one way and the mixer the other. I personally try to clear off as much counter space as the kitchen allows because I inevitably take up more space than I could possibly imagine. Make sure you have space in the dishwasher or sink to throw all your dirty tools. Make sure you have room in the trash can/bin to throw away all your egg shells. Again, it sounds a bit OCD, but it's an ounce of prevention for things that are a b!tch of a pound to cure.

Pull out your ingredients, but make sure they're in a safe place that's not going to get wet. (Yeeeah, it sucks to find a 5-pound bag of flour sitting on a wet countertop.) Pull out your bowls and tools and try to consolidate them to one tool-grabbing spot.


5. Obtain and use an oven thermometer.

This isn't necessary, but it's pretty close. There are few things more frustrating to an infrequent baker than to realize halfway through the baking process that the cake just isn't rising for no known reason only to learn much later that his/her oven runs 20 degrees colder than it claims to. Just go ahead and invest in an oven thermometer. Try hanging it in a few different places in the oven over time to figure out hot and cool spots in your specific oven. And give yourself plenty of time to preheat your oven--at least 20 minutes. I've found that my own oven changes temperature drastically between the time the "preheat" light goes out and the time the temperature actually reaches a pretty level state. And that temperature is usually 15ºF cooler than my digital display wants to claim.


4. Keep checking the recipe as you go.

The easiest way to screw something up while you're baking is to assume that you know how to do it. If you've gotten into the habit of creaming your fats and sugars and then adding your dry ingredients, this is definitely going to be the one recipe that needs you to do things a little differently. If you've spent your life trying not to knead a quick bread, trust me: this will be the one quick bread that needs a little knead. It's nearly inevitable. Read and re-read the recipe as you go, and follow it every step of the way.


5. Be patient.


This is most important once you've placed something in the oven. Many baked things need an initial boost of very high temperature to rise once they've reached the oven--opening the oven door to check on them in the first few minutes can very easily destroy that process. Opening the door for more than a moment during the first half of the baking process just might destroy it. I usually try to leave the oven alone for at least half the estimated baking time before I feel comfortable opening the door, rotating things and moving them around to bake evenly, and seeing how they're coming along.


6. Clean as you go--quietly!

"Clean as you go," my mom and grandmother (and probably great-grandmother) always said, meaning clean up while you prepare your food. It's a great concept, but I'm really bad at this when I'm cooking. It seems there's always something to do in the direction of preparing a dish, or preparing another dish, or getting the table ready for the meal, and I always end up with a messy kitchen that's just a horrible chore to clean once everyone's bellies are full and sleepy.

One of the things that I really like about baking is that there's a pocket of time after I put things in the oven that's perfect for me to clean things up a bit. What's really important, though, is to clean up quietly. Large vibrations--like throwing bowls in the sink, dropping the loose front to the dishwasher, or stomping around like a two-year-old because you're angry that you have to clean up--can easily shake what you've got in the oven and keep it from rising, or make it deflate once it's already risen.

I like to challenge myself to clean up as quickly and as quietly as I can, in rounds that start on one end of the kitchen and work their way to the other, clearing counter space by moving things back into their places or into the sink or dishwasher, then wiping down counter space, then washing things off by hand if it's needed. This not only keeps me from feeling really frustrated that my kitchen's a disaster zone by the end of it all--it also suppresses the urge to open the oven door to check on my delicate creation before it's ready to face the cold kitchen air or the inevitable man-handling of even the most conscientious cook once he/she rotates it for even baking.


7. Keep a close eye when it's nearly done.

I think the real trick to baking something great is the ability to pull it out of the oven just when it's done, and not a moment sooner or later.

What this means is that, if a recipe tells you something's gonna take 15 minutes, keep a suspicious eye on it after 10. It should still look liquidy at that point, but at least you'll know if it's not. Start checking the thing after 12 or 13 minutes, by either feeling it gently (to see how far it is from "springy to the touch") or pricking it with a toothpick. Obviously, don't do either of these things if it still looks pretty liquidy and wobbly, as any disturbance may cause it to deflate. But if it's looking like the finished product, give it a poke. If it's cookies, they're going to firm up a lot after they come out of the oven, so the best way to tell is to look at their coloration and the firmness of their edges.

There's a decent chance the thing's done before the recipe says so. And, if it's something small like mini cupcakes or mini cookies, the matter of 30 seconds or 1 minute changes everything. At this point, it becomes a nuisance because you're literally re-setting the timer and re-checking the thing every time you turn around, but this is the point where it's really worth it. There's nothing sadder than walking back to a cake after 3 minutes of down-time to find that the toothpick comes out clean and that the cake is a lot drier than it probably could've been if it'd only been checked after 1 additional minute, instead of 3.

The more often you do a specific recipe or kind of recipe, the better feel you'll have for how something looks along the way, and you'll be able to give something 5 or 10 extra minutes instead of the 1 or 2 a decently paranoid baker might allow, just because you know that something will need that much more time. You'll know that something's browning faster on top than you'd like for it to bake through, so you can place it lower in the oven (or closer to one of the "cool spots" your thermometer has found) too keep it baking through without burning. But when you're trying out a new recipe, or trying to scale something up or (more importantly) down, it's much better to be safe than sorry. Keep an eye on your thermometer, keep an eye on your minute-to-minute timer, and keep an eye on your baking until it seems just right.


8. Take notes.

This is something I think I picked up from Rose Levy Beranbaum's approach to baking. She has a few good stories about disastrous baking attempts early in her baking career. But she was destined to be great, I think, because she was always determined to figure out why something went badly, or why it went well, and she's always been meticulous in recording her recipe tweaks and their end results.

So I've gotten into a habit of making notes every time I bake something at home. If I use a different flour than is called for, or if I suspect my baking soda is pretty old (or extremely fresh), I write it down. If the bake time is different from the recipe's, I make note of it--it's a good thing to know. And if my biscuits turn out to be the fluffiest things I've ever seen, I'll be sure to do it all the same again! Likewise, if the thing's a disaster, I won't have wasted my time: I'll at least have a guess or two about what went wrong, and I'll hopefully fix it the next time around.

This isn't tedious or time-consuming. Just keep a pencil and a sticky note on hand, write down anything you might want to remember later on, and stick the note on the recipe for your future self. Even though it may not cause your home-baking experience to be painless this time around, it might help you in the next go-round!


9. Enjoy what you've got!

Love and share what you've got, even if it's disappointing. There's such a slim chance that it's an absolute failure that's worthy of the bin/trash.

This is something I still need to work on. I view an end product with a critical eye, picking apart what's imperfect, what needs improvement, what could change next time around. This is a useful quality in a way, but it's kept me from enjoying what's ultimately a treat--which is meant to be enjoyed, and nothing more.

Even if your cake has collapsed, it's probably still delicious--that much butter and sugar has to taste good! And I'll bet you money that your underbaked cookies are not going to give you salmonella--they will only give you a warm, happy feeling of smiley love. And your overbaked cookies will be perfect when they're dipped in milk or tea or coffee, provided they're not black.

Nowadays, we can get our sugar and fat fixes for a few cents apiece from humongous manufacturers that extrude every single thing flawlessly into identically soulless packages that fall down unimaginably inhuman metallic chutes and into fluorescently-lit megastores that can easily cater to our every whim without even minimal human contact.

The home-baked good is one of the few things left that trumps this, that defeats this idea with a simple act of beauty, and care, and love, and time.

You can present someone with something you've baked yourself, and you can say, "There. I made this. I created this. I took the time to make this one thing just for you, and I did my best to make it great. And, you know, I don't do this all the time. It's a special, once-or-twice-a-year kinda thing I do, and so it didn't turn out picture perfect. But I can see you're delighted that I did this just for you, so let's spoil ourselves and eat a few slices of cake. And let's relish every single bite. Because this is a beautiful, intimate treat."

And, you know, I guess that's my soul laid bare, right there. It's a beautiful baked treat--be it bread or cake or whathaveyou--that's set out and so thoroughly enjoyed that it just makes everyone swell with happiness. Yeah. I think that's as close to the meaning of life as I've gotten so far.

Et voila. Not a work of cake-art, but a cake a father could love!

So, what do you think? Any tricks or tips you've figured out during your home baking adventures?

Why do sentient puppets and robots give us the creeps?

(As a foreword: This is a ramble, an exploration of a topic, or--following the theme of this blog--a pile of thought-crumbs. I’ve tried to organize it and coherently explain what I’ve been mulling over, but this is not a well-structured, water-tight argument about anything. I’d love to hear what your thoughts are—they may be much more well-formed than mine!)

I recently went to the Center for Puppetry Arts in Atlanta to see this year’s Xperimental Puppetry Theater. I’d always been interested in the idea of a non-children, “18+ only” puppet show, and I personally see puppetry as one of those art forms with a lot of potential of which few people actually take advantage. (For some reason—possibly because it’s just always been that way?—art forms like this often devolve into bad comedy and kitsch. Another example of this is musicals—amazing things can be done in this form, but, in my opinion, they rarely are.)

Picasso the Gorilla, made by Julia Hill and Brandon Ross, performed at this year's XPT

The show was an interesting collection of various artists’ short live performances and films. It bounced between a kids’ show gone wrong, claymations of people flying out of windows, images of horror as Death expanded from what was once a pile of plastic trash bags, and a piece in which sensors on puppets mapped shapes onto the digital screen of abstract art that was floating behind them.

The part that really caught my imagination, though, was the film The Wind Up Boy, directed by Beau Brown and Darrell C. Hazelrig. In this live-action film, an old man finds a life-sized wind-up boy figurine that looks like an antique toy. After turning the wind-up key and finding that nothing happens, the man heads away, returns, and finds the wind-up boy in another room, looking at family photographs. When the boy turns towards him, the man’s first reaction is to pick up a fire poker and make to bash in the boy’s skull. Fortunately, he realizes that the boy only wants to hug him, and a heart-warming relationship ensues.

movie poster for The Wind Up Boy

At that point in the film, though, I latched onto the feeling of horror that the man—and, surely, the rest of the audience—felt when the boy “came to life.” If you were in his situation, wouldn’t your first, gut reaction be to destroy that thing? Wouldn’t that be your first, gut reaction to any humanoid, man-made thing taking on a life of its own?

a scene from R.U.R.

It reminded me of a little internet blurb I saw back in January, celebrating the 90^th birthday of the word “robot.” In 1921, a Czech play called R.U.R., or Rossum’s Universal Robots, was the first documented use of the word, which is rooted in the Czech word robota, meaning “servitude, forced labor, or drudgery,” and is in turn rooted in rab, meaning “slave.” The play’s set in a factory that produces artificial people, called “robots,” which work for humans. The robots are unhappy with their situation, so they organize, rebel, and kill all of the world’s humans but one. Wikipedia does a good job of fleshing out the whole piece in greater detail. The play—like all good science fiction—really runs as a metaphor for movements in contemporary human society. But what I find really interesting out of all this is that the word “robot” has been closely linked to the fear of rebellion since its very creation!

The Tin Man

I mentioned this to a friend of mine. He’s familiar with R.U.R., but he pointed out that the play can only be credited with the creation of the word “robot.” Together, we started brainstorming examples of inanimate-turned-animate humanoid creations that go back much further than that.

The tin man appeared in the book Wizard of Oz in 1900, rusted to immobility and unhappy with his lot in life. Although he didn’t set up a blood vendetta against the people who did this to him, he did abandon his post in search of something more.

Before modern machines were widespread, though, the stories contained what can be classified as “organic robots.” *

frontspiece to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein

In 1818, Mary Shelley published the now-infamous story in which Frankenstein plays God and assembles a monster from various human (and possibly animal) body parts. This monster is fully sentient, and he ends up educated and self-aware, but he is so hideous that he is rejected from society and eventually vows revenge against his creator.

Golem, Wikimedia Commons

Jewish folklore contains the legend of the golem, a man sculpted from inanimate material (usually clay) and animated through the power of the word—by writing something on his forehead or placing inscribed parchment in his mouth. (I’m incredibly interested in the power of the word—in stories and in everyday life—but that’s another rant for another time!) The creation of a golem often brings trouble on the creator, however. In the most famous golem story, a rabbi in the Jewish ghetto in Prague created a golem to do chores in the synagogue and/or to defend the Jews against attack, but his golem turned mutinous and violent, so the rabbi had to deactivate him. I had the pleasure of touring the synagogue where this story is said to have played out—the body of the golem is supposedly still in the building’s attic.

And wait—while we’re on the topic of people being made out of clay, it wouldn’t be right to forget about Adam and Eve, a couple of activated clay people who eventually turned against their creator! Sorry if my casual description of the story offends anyone—I just want to make the point that this storyline is a major, very important one that has run through many cultures for a much, much longer time than any of us could imagine. (In fact, that is the human creation myth with which I’m most familiar—I’m confident there are other ones that are remarkably similar.)

I have vague memories of other stories in this vein, whether or not the creations end up rebelling. I recall an illustration of a Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Andersen story, showing a statue morphing into a beautiful woman and twisting around to kiss her sculptor. I’m also almost certain that the story appeared in the Greek mythology I studied in college. And voodoo would definitely have a thing or two to say on the topic of activating inanimate humanoids… If anyone could help me recall these—or any other—examples, I'd be really interested to hear it.

the golem and Rabbi Loew

So we, as humans, seem to be really fascinated with and really fearful of the idea that some humanoid thing might come to life and turn against us. It feels like this story runs so very, very far back that it’s rooted in that period of human existence before we convinced ourselves that the world is a rational, scientifically-explained place to live. It’s rooted in that period during which anything could—and, for some perhaps, anything did--happen. It’s rooted in that period during which tall tales were just as prevalent and possibly just as credible as small, everyday observations.** During this period, we were willing to believe a lot, and there are many core beliefs and superstitions that we carried long, long into the “Age of Reason.”

Almost all of those beliefs and superstitions died out. But why do we carry this gut-reaction fear of non-human humans in ourselves still today?

My brother thinks that the only thing we fear in this instance is something unknown. We have evolved the trait to be wary of the unknown. This makes sense: those of us who weren’t cautious of the unknown died before they could reproduce. And, since we’ve never actually encountered a self-aware puppet moving to the next room, we get the heebie-jeebies when we see it on the big screen.

There’s obviously also the fear of what we can’t control. We’ve been at war with other (predatory) elements of the natural world forever and ever. We’ve been at war with the Entire Natural World since, perhaps, the Roman Empire, would you say? We’ve wanted to control it. We’ve wanted to control everything. And we’re really unsettled by the things we can’t control.

But I want to go out on a limb and say that we are more directly fearful of humanoid things we can’t control than of uncontrollable things that do not resemble us.

I’ll insert an anecdote here: When I was a teenager, I went on several-weeks-long backpacking trips during a couple of summers instead of going to the classic American summer camp. One fairly dark night, the leaders had each of us head along the trail completely alone for about fifteen minutes. They didn’t explain what they wanted us to get out of it beforehand. Discussing the experience with the others afterwards, though, one thing stuck out in my head: whenever any of us jumped at creepy shadows or oddly-shaped bushes along the way, it was always because they took on the shapes of people. Always--even though we were in the middle of nowhere and had just as much logical reason to be fearful of bears as of other people. It was just that we were used to civilization, and we had trained ourselves to find the patterns that resembled other people. Other people were all we were really familiar with, and all we had really been raised to fear.

I think that we—at least, we Westerners—have tamed the world we know by killing off or driving away anything that is likely to harm us.*** At this point, the only thing we really, consciously, feel we need to fear is each other. And, funnily enough, those things our guts fear most are those that might have the same capacities as us.

a scene from R.U.R.

* In R.U.R., the robots were also organic, being constructed out of manufactured human organs. What I’m saying here is that there was a point on this timeline in which our modern, stereotypical image of metallic, gear-and-electricity-based “robots” appears, but that does not change the story itself significantly.

** I am thinking of Philibín Ó Súilleabháin Beara’s The Natural History of Ireland, written in the early 1600s, in which he describes all of the flora, fauna, geological features, etc. on the island as scientifically as possible. In the midst of it, as logically-minded as ever, he explains that there are two lakes on either side of the land. If you insert the branch of a hazel tree into one, it turns into the branch of an ash tree. The other lake turns an ash branch into a hazel branch. He also talks about water horses, which reportedly look just like land horses but that live underwater. Again, to the author, this is as logical an account of the features of Ireland as anything else.

*** The weather is another story, but it’s also on another scale. I feel like the “creeped out” feeling I’m discussing can’t apply to forest fires and floods.

The Black Bean Salad

I dedicate this first post to my mom, since this is her recipe for what she calls "the perfect food."

She'd have a good argument if anyone tried to oppose her on this opinion. My mom's black bean salad is a simple recipe for an amazing combination of flavors, textures, and colors. It's an eye-catching, delicious dish that's packed with vitamins and minerals (thank you, bell peppers), protein (mmm, beans!), and--though they're both apparently bad words nowadays--a few sugars and carbs from the corn to give you a nearly immediate energy boost.

In college, I made this salad with two girlfriends as part of a delicious dinner.
"I just want to warn you, Alice," said Kylie (as far as I remember), "I hate raw bell pepper."
Holly chimed in, "And I hate raw onion."
"Just trust me," I said--or should have said, if I didn't.

"Cutting these onions for you is an act of love," Holly mentioned a few minutes later, as fumes started getting to her eyes.

(That was the night, by the way, that Holly showed me a neat trick for getting the scent of onion and garlic off your hands. Just rub your wet hands on the metal faucet of the sink while washing them. The scientist in me wonders why this neutralizes the odor so well. The poet in me is determined to believe it's magic.)

That night, the salad was an unbelievable success.
"You've made me love bell pepper!" exclaimed Kylie.
"You've made me love raw onion!" exclaimed Holly.
I think there was also some talk of wanting to marry the salad and have its babies. If that's not a review worth publicizing, I don't know what is!

The beauty of the salad is that all of its flavors balance so well that it brings out each of the ingredients without any of them showing themselves too extremely. I think this is true of any good salad. But it never ceases to amaze me how perfectly the sweetness of the corn and the "greenness" of the peppers offset the intense, sulfurous bite of the red onion, while the beans give a bass note of earthiness and add a fullness to the salad that other vegetarian salads simply don't have. In fact, I often eat just a bowl of this salad and feel like that's a meal in itself.

But another beautiful thing is how very versatile this black bean salad is. It's wonderful as a salsa, eaten with tortilla chips or thrown into a taco. I love to pile it into sandwiches or on top of more substantial, meaty dishes. I've even toyed with the idea of heating it up and seeing where that takes me, but I haven't gotten to that point just yet.

Over the years, I've tweaked this salad in several different ways, depending on the situation and the ingredients I have on hand. When I've lived in places where canned black beans were rare or nonexistent, I'd often use chickpeas/garbanzo beans, or cannelini/white beans, or red beans, which probably provide the best substitute. Being a certifiable garlic nut, I usually use more garlic than you'd imagine. On days I don't have lime juice in the fridge, lemon juice works well. I add more salt when I'm planning to eat the salad without tortilla chips, and I cut back on it when I'm taking it to a party to play the part of a gorgeous salsa. The fresh cilantro gives the salad an extra green kick--one that I feel is almost festive--but I've never seen my mom put it in her version of the salad, and I never think twice about omitting it if I don't have cilantro on hand. And the different flavors and colors of the three different bell peppers is very nice, but I substitute colors when necessary. What's important is the proportion of bell pepper to onion to corn to beans, just as the proportion of acid to oil is important for the dressing. If you've got that, I can pretty much guarantee you'll love it. So do a bit of cutting and tossing, and dig in!

Black Bean Salad
1 each red, green, and yellow bell pepper -- diced
1 medium red onion -- diced
1 15 oz. can yellow corn -- drained
1 clove garlic (or to taste) -- minced
1 tsp. fresh cilantro (optional, or to taste) -- minced
1/2 cup olive oil
4 Tbl. red wine vinegar
1 tsp. lime juice
1 15 oz. can black beans -- drained and rinsed
salt and black pepper to taste


Combine the bell peppers, onion, corn, garlic, and cilantro in a bowl. Add the olive oil, vinegar, and lime juice; mix. Add the beans; mix. Season to taste with the salt and pepper.

As a side note, I find this salad decently quick and easy to prepare, but I've sometimes used what I call the "Jamie Oliver Method" when I'm lazy or need to cut some time off all the veggie chopping. For his chopped salads, Jamie Oliver sometimes chops everything up together on one cutting board, starting with what he wants chopped more finely, and adding ingredients as he goes along. In this case, I start by mincing the garlic, and then I throw the peeled and halved red onion on top of the pile of garlic. Pivoting my knife around its tip, I chop the garlic and onion, pushing the pile back together when it's gotten too spread out. I then add the seeded bell peppers, which I've often cut into halves or quarters, and I continue chop chop chopping, and pushing everything back together as I go, until it's all ready to go in the mixing bowl with the corn. Once you've got the feel for this method, you can really crank this salad out in no time!