It’s time to indulge in a little lit crit, my friends. Specifically, a book review.
I’ve held off on doing these because, well, it’s just too easy to be snarky about them. D’you see me writing a book? Certainly not. And yet, the magpie pleasures of the literary critic is to dip into texts and pick out their favorite, glittering moments, and to speculate not-too gleefully on the shortfalls. Still.
Recently, I picked up Gluten-Free Girl’s book. She was given the book contract based on her blog, but only partly – she’s no fresh off the boat writer, but has taught writing and been writing for years. Even without knowing that, I can see the strong style and structure shaping her blog posts. I rather like her blog, and she’s got a sweet story…so I bought the book.
I’m now in the slightly awkward position of trying to review the thing without having it in front of me. It’s the cardinal lit crit sin (can’t quote revealingly from the book? tsk, tsk), but I’ve lent it out. Yup, I read it, I lent it, I made a mental list of people who would enjoy it. Must’ve been a real stinker of a book for me to do that, yes? No. 'course not.
The focus of the book is simple: listen to your body. If something is wrong, figure it out – even if it means a major lifestyle change like going gluten-free. Far too many people with celiac (like people with von Willebrands disease) go undiagnosed. Don’t be one of them. And then, once you are trying to live this new life, ignore what you can’t have, and explore the wonderfully tasty world of what you can have. Buy produce from the farmers who grow it (it really does taste better that way, and not just because you are feeling morally superior), invest in some good cookery equipment, some excellent ingredients. Oh, and if you fall in love on the way, well, check your karma for fine print about package deals. (Note: the GF-G’s love story is a really darling one.)
I was a bit disappointed, though hardly surprised to find that there’s a rather large number of recipes that just don’t fit us. When you are focussed on excellent flavors and tastes, the blend of flavors is more precise, making it harder to eliminate one flavor (butter? nuts?) and still have a good, strong whole. But I’ll be playing with her recipes regardless, and I’ll report in if anything really mouth-opening pops up. And if you are just avoiding gluten, I heartily recommend trying her recipes, not to mention her blog. Let me know what happens!
Stylistically, the book is a bathroom read, a new parent read, something you put down and pick up again. It’s just not built to be read cover-to-cover, which is just fine by me. In fact, it’s built a lot like a blog that grew into a book…funny, that. It’s constructed of shortish pieces, some discussions and some narrative, and tends to reiterate its philosophy a lot. I tried to read it straight through, and it just didn't work. When I went back and tried to read just bits, I was happier.
This is by no means a criticism of Shauna, mind you. Having just finished my first really serious writing experience, I’m now a bit shocked at how easily the editing process can pull apart the fine strands that bind a text together. (Article by committee, anyone?) It’s hard, hard, hard to knit a text seamlessly together afterwards, and frankly the process can do worse than letting the text be episodic. Shauna maintains the spirit of her blog, has some useful interludes (and I'm with her on the olive oil, if anyone is wondering), and has certainly proven why her blog's so popular. Yay for the Girl!
Finally, a small grump. This is a book written by a person without children. Shauna’s focus and attention to food is remarkable, and her joy in it is palpable. But could she keep it up, between diapers and runs to the playground? I’m very, very curious to find out.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
wearing babies and...duck!
It is a touch noisy in Boston right now. Wonder why? Good work, guys - and ya gotta love the Lester story. Nice.
Off to bed, as our town celebrates in it's own, too-liberal, too-hedumacated to get drunk and roar joyously fashion. Duck, said the Man calling from the home of a friend with cable TV. Duck - they just won the 'Series. We-el, okay. But frankly, the helicopters overhead (no, really) do seem overkill right around here.
Coming soon: I've been collecting kid moments on scraps of paper. Plus, the Man quit the Evil Empire, and is between jobs (and on COBRA). He'll be guest blogging a bit.
*************************
In the mean time, this has been sitting on a back burner.
The Eldest's new school continues to delight me - the other mothers and fathers, seeing me carrying the Toddles in this have responded with curiosity. One mum went so far as to buy one herself, and then stopped me in the parking lot to enthuse. Still, I hate to be fickle but no sooner had I bought my beloved ergo from Zina, than she turned around and introduced me to this. I think I'm a Organic Avocado sort of mama, but oh, my. They are light, they roll up into a leetle sausage, and they carry a toddler with ease. Oh yes, and there's the whole Fair Trade, supporting cottage industry thing. Ah, the heck with it - they're purty.
One mother, assigned to us as our mentor family, is also a member of the local babywearing group. She said to me, looking at the Toddles happily squirming in a back cross-carry wrap, Hmm. Maybe we should have a baby wearing event? A sort of how-to? A father heard us in passing, and called over his shoulder, Let me know what I can do to help! We'll sponsor!
Turns out he and his wife own a fantastic local toy shop, complete with a small pile of baby carrying gear. How wonderfully coincidental.
Off to bed, as our town celebrates in it's own, too-liberal, too-hedumacated to get drunk and roar joyously fashion. Duck, said the Man calling from the home of a friend with cable TV. Duck - they just won the 'Series. We-el, okay. But frankly, the helicopters overhead (no, really) do seem overkill right around here.
Coming soon: I've been collecting kid moments on scraps of paper. Plus, the Man quit the Evil Empire, and is between jobs (and on COBRA). He'll be guest blogging a bit.
*************************
In the mean time, this has been sitting on a back burner.
The Eldest's new school continues to delight me - the other mothers and fathers, seeing me carrying the Toddles in this have responded with curiosity. One mum went so far as to buy one herself, and then stopped me in the parking lot to enthuse. Still, I hate to be fickle but no sooner had I bought my beloved ergo from Zina, than she turned around and introduced me to this. I think I'm a Organic Avocado sort of mama, but oh, my. They are light, they roll up into a leetle sausage, and they carry a toddler with ease. Oh yes, and there's the whole Fair Trade, supporting cottage industry thing. Ah, the heck with it - they're purty.
One mother, assigned to us as our mentor family, is also a member of the local babywearing group. She said to me, looking at the Toddles happily squirming in a back cross-carry wrap, Hmm. Maybe we should have a baby wearing event? A sort of how-to? A father heard us in passing, and called over his shoulder, Let me know what I can do to help! We'll sponsor!
Turns out he and his wife own a fantastic local toy shop, complete with a small pile of baby carrying gear. How wonderfully coincidental.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
marking time
Recently, I had a birthday.
These things sneak up on me, in part because I was busy thinking about the Toddles' birthday party (4 two-year olds plus parents plus sibs, 4 grandparents, 1 caregiver plus roommate for moral boosting, 1 craft plus many toys plus fabulously, Zina-frosted cupcakes = happy, presentless Toddle-party. Easy peasy lemon squeezy, as the Eldest likes to say.). And heavens, but that birthday of mine seems to surprise me every year. Time is fluid in the Imperfect household - think you've got a hold on it, and it will be October when your bones are still thinking about summer's warmth and hiking. But go hiking anyway - it's nice in the crispness.
Hurriedly, I made a gift list. Shelves, I wrote with the Man looming over my shoulder. Sports massage, pretty toes, gift certificate somewhere - the Man started looking ominous, grumbling about women who expect him to work all day and still be creatively gifting them at the end of it.
Okay, okay. I'll try harder.
As we squabbled amiably, the Eldest was preparing his own birthday gift to me.
Happy Birthday, Mama. I'm not allergic to chickpeas anymore...
This must be the best birthday I've had in a long, long time. Thirty sailed past me happily, a pish tush of a thing. Who could be bothered fretting over it? But this, this, this is like when his body stopped making antibodies, or inhibitors to his clotting meds. I remember the breathless fear that came with the news - fear, of course, because when you've had your head down and plodded onwards for a while, it's actually scary to hope that change is coming, or is true. So yes, fear. And breathlessness, and hope. And finally, a growing belief that it might actually be true. And still, fear - if this is true, what else might follow? What if it is taken away? Oh, but what if-if-if-if. Ah, shaddup and enjoy it, ya silly woman.
Happy Birthday, Mama. With all of the births and rebirths and evolution that one can pack into that sentence. Oh, my - it might just be true..
*********************
An Astonished Mama's Hummus
1 can of chickpeas (check that the can doesn't have things like citric acid, which is made of beets, citrus or corn - the companies often can't tell you which)
5 cloves of garlic, peeled and smashed with the side of a knife
1/4 cup of olive oil, and more as needed
juice of 1 lemon
salt and cracked, or coarse-ground pepper to taste
Squeeze the lemon, and pour the juice into a food processor. Drain chickpeas and rinse, dumping into the same food processor.
Place a small skillet on the stove, and pour the oil into it. Warm the oil over a medium flame. Toss in garlic cloves, and sautee gently. You want them to start changing color but not really browning - the goal here is just to mellow the garlic a little. Let oil cool a bit, then pour oil and garlic into the food processor.
Puree the mixture, and add salt and pepper to it. If the dip is a little too dry for you, add a bit more oil (or lemon, if you like it lemony. I do, the Eldest doesn't.).
Optional: add parsley, scallion, red pepper flakes, green olives.
Serve with wedges of something crisp, like cucumber or apple or green pepper, and watch boys ignore your lovingly sliced veggies or soup-spoons and wide open mouths. Dang.
************************
from joy, another gem: http://modan.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/09/04/queen-of-the-scottish-fairies/
These things sneak up on me, in part because I was busy thinking about the Toddles' birthday party (4 two-year olds plus parents plus sibs, 4 grandparents, 1 caregiver plus roommate for moral boosting, 1 craft plus many toys plus fabulously, Zina-frosted cupcakes = happy, presentless Toddle-party. Easy peasy lemon squeezy, as the Eldest likes to say.). And heavens, but that birthday of mine seems to surprise me every year. Time is fluid in the Imperfect household - think you've got a hold on it, and it will be October when your bones are still thinking about summer's warmth and hiking. But go hiking anyway - it's nice in the crispness.
Hurriedly, I made a gift list. Shelves, I wrote with the Man looming over my shoulder. Sports massage, pretty toes, gift certificate somewhere - the Man started looking ominous, grumbling about women who expect him to work all day and still be creatively gifting them at the end of it.
Okay, okay. I'll try harder.
As we squabbled amiably, the Eldest was preparing his own birthday gift to me.
Happy Birthday, Mama. I'm not allergic to chickpeas anymore...
This must be the best birthday I've had in a long, long time. Thirty sailed past me happily, a pish tush of a thing. Who could be bothered fretting over it? But this, this, this is like when his body stopped making antibodies, or inhibitors to his clotting meds. I remember the breathless fear that came with the news - fear, of course, because when you've had your head down and plodded onwards for a while, it's actually scary to hope that change is coming, or is true. So yes, fear. And breathlessness, and hope. And finally, a growing belief that it might actually be true. And still, fear - if this is true, what else might follow? What if it is taken away? Oh, but what if-if-if-if. Ah, shaddup and enjoy it, ya silly woman.
Happy Birthday, Mama. With all of the births and rebirths and evolution that one can pack into that sentence. Oh, my - it might just be true..
*********************
An Astonished Mama's Hummus
1 can of chickpeas (check that the can doesn't have things like citric acid, which is made of beets, citrus or corn - the companies often can't tell you which)
5 cloves of garlic, peeled and smashed with the side of a knife
1/4 cup of olive oil, and more as needed
juice of 1 lemon
salt and cracked, or coarse-ground pepper to taste
Squeeze the lemon, and pour the juice into a food processor. Drain chickpeas and rinse, dumping into the same food processor.
Place a small skillet on the stove, and pour the oil into it. Warm the oil over a medium flame. Toss in garlic cloves, and sautee gently. You want them to start changing color but not really browning - the goal here is just to mellow the garlic a little. Let oil cool a bit, then pour oil and garlic into the food processor.
Puree the mixture, and add salt and pepper to it. If the dip is a little too dry for you, add a bit more oil (or lemon, if you like it lemony. I do, the Eldest doesn't.).
Optional: add parsley, scallion, red pepper flakes, green olives.
Serve with wedges of something crisp, like cucumber or apple or green pepper, and watch boys ignore your lovingly sliced veggies or soup-spoons and wide open mouths. Dang.
************************
from joy, another gem: http://modan.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/09/04/queen-of-the-scottish-fairies/
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