If you know me in real life, I know you are ready for me to just shut up already about this book, but I can’t help myself. I recently finished The Unnamed by Joshua Ferris and then had the pleasure of hearing him read from it at the University Branch of the Seattle Public Library two days ago. Apparently, I belong to a new group of 2 — people who love both of Ferris’s books. I think the other person is Joshua Ferris.

Ferris’s first book, Then We Came to the End, was one of my favorite books of 2007. Written in the first person plural voice, it captivated me from the first sentence to the very last word, thanks to masterful writing, abundant wit, a topical story (about the decline of a Chicago ad agency), and some surprisingly touching moments. Lori wrote about it here back in January of 2008. I know that some people are not fans of the book (Misha!), but others are (Linda!) and some even became fans after giving up on it once and then giving it a second try (Nancy!). [Quick aside, when I talked Nancy into trying it again, she loved it and then talked about it on KUOW. Lily and I heard her review it on air while were in the car and Nancy mentioned that she had abandoned the book, but then a friend talked her into trying it again. I told Lily, "Hey, that was me! I'm the one who suggested that she try it again!" Lily's response: "She's not talking about you. You're so full of yourself." See, it always helps to have a jaded pre-teen around to keep it real, even when she's half wrong.]

So, when I heard that Ferris had another book coming out, I immediately put it on hold at the library, before we actually had copies in house, and was rewarded with one of the first copies of The Unnamed that arrived. I hadn’t read any reviews of it, but did see that several people on Goodreads had rated it a measly single star (out of 5). OUCH! But, heck with them, I was going to read it anyway and thank goodness I did. The idea that drives the book was so intriguing to me: the main character is a man who sometimes has to get up from whatever he’s doing and start walking. He can’t control it. He walks and walks. Is it a physical ailment? Is it mental? Is it more?

As Ferris stated on Saturday, this book is more demanding than the first one. It doesn’t deliver the same entertainment that Then We Came to the End did. Thus, he’s found that people who loved the first book, don’t enjoy The Unnamed. But, people who have not read the first one love the new one. That’s why I felt compelled to tell him that I love BOTH books. As some of my library patrons have told me, though, I have a high tolerance for sad. The Unnamed is a sad book. Ferris said he did not want to lampoon the man’s ailment or make fun of it. He wanted to keep the tone serious because the disease is serious.

Ferris knows people expected him to write another book like Then We Came to the End. ”Expectations be damned,” he said. He hates the pigeonholing that takes place by publishers, book sellers, and the market. He even described pigeonholing as a fetish. Then We Came to the End is often compared to the TV show, “The Office,” for example, but Ferris takes exception with that comparison. His book is far more complex, he says, and I agree.

Ferris read a long section of The Unnamed on Saturday, which gave a great indication of what the book is about and its style. I don’t have a recording of that, but I do have a link to a book trailer for The Unnamed, with audio by him. Also, here’s a podcast of an interview that David Sedaris did with Ferris which includes a bit of Ferris reading from the book. Sedaris also loves the book.

As I mentioned in my brief, 5-star (take that, haters!) Goodreads review of The Unnamed, I think this would be a great pick for book groups. In addition to being so polarizing — you either love it or hate it — it also explores some fascinating ideas worth discussing. If you read it, please let me know what you think. I can’t wait to talk to you about it!

I recently read The Help by Kathryn Stockett, a book set in Jackson, Mississippi during the early Sixties focusing on racism and female relationships. The three main characters, all women – two black maids, and one white recently college-educated woman born and bred in the South – are all well-developed and the novel is (to borrow some words from the as yet non-existent Book Reviewers’ Stockpile of Descriptions) powerful, magical, heartbreaking, and my favorite, comically poignant.

As usual, I’ll let other, more capable, reputable, sometimes even paid reviewers tell you more about the book, because like Hannah, they’re so much better at it than I. While I was reading the book, though, I was thinking about what it was like to be a child during the Sixties in the South. My father was stationed in Jacksonville, Florida for almost four years during 1965 through 1968, and while I read this book I was struggling to think of what racial injustices must have been imprinted on my tow-headed four, five, and six-year old brain.

Lori & sister Sherry, Jacksonville, FL

The amazing thing is that I can remember nothing like that. Was I so young and naïve (oblivious) I simply didn’t notice? Or perhaps it was because my more immediate world was silently ruled by a sort of caste-system specific to the military; rank. Half the time we lived in Florida we lived on a military installation surrounded by barbed wire, with entry gates manned by Gun-Totin’ Guards. In this environment the rank your father held determined what neighborhood you lived in, what clubs your family could eat in, what pools you could swim in, and more often than not what children you played with. That’s just the way it is on a military base, even today. Rank and privilege. Racism on base, though? Not so much.

The other thing this book got me thinking about was having a maid. It wasn’t until I was half-way through that I recalled my family actually had a maid for a short time when we lived in Japan. My mother was working outside the house, my dad had moved up in rank, my older brother was working part-time, and my older sister was already married and gone, so they must have needed some help for keeping up the household and ten-year-old me.  She was a small, quiet Japanese woman, probably not working for much of a wage, considering our very middle-class state.  I don’t think she was with us very long, though, as I don’t even remember her name. (This embarrasses me. I remember as an adult one of my cousins was in the army, and he married a Korean woman, and when I met her for the first time at some family function, I was told her name was Okusan. Now, in Japanese okusan means “wife,” and I know he was using this word in the same way for her, so I riled myself up into a bit of indignation that none of my greater family could bother learning this woman’s real name and just called her what my cousin called her. Now I find myself nearly 40 years later not remembering what our maid was called and I am ashamed. Of course, I never bothered to find out Okusan’s real name, either. Come to think of it I don’t remember what my cousin’s real name is; we always called him Bud… I am a worthless dog.) What I do remember about this maid are little visual snippets of her in her white smock-apron folding the laundry and ironing in front of the air conditioner, wisps of black hair blowing around her smiling face. I also remember I had a foot-deep wading pool that she actually cleaned, just for me! No easy task in hot n’ humid Japan in the summer – before her it looked like a nasty kind of science experiment. But most of all, I remember one time when I set up a step ladder, climbed to the next to top rung (there’s a sternly worded warning on the ladder for any higher up, after all) and jumped out into the air, hands high and reaching for the cross of the T of the clothes line for a big, breathtaking swing. The next thing I remember I’m on the couch inside the house with the sweet-faced maid looking down at me with a very relieved, slightly pale, look on her face. My hands had slipped off the bar at the height of my swing, but my momentum carried my body until I was horizontal with the hard, dusty ground and I crashed down on my head and back. I knocked myself out and she had carried me inside.

This is one of the wonderful things about a good book. Not only can it entertain, it can spark further thought, provoke memories, (good and bad), and just plain make you feel. Read The Help and feel something.

We took a break from watching Project Runway on DVD on Monday night to go see one of my all-time favorite people in the world — Ms. Patti Smith. I bought tickets back in September and then waited and waited and waited for January 25th to arrive. Her performance was absolutely worth the wait.

Patti was in Seattle to promote Just Kids, her brand new memoir about her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe. It’s getting great reviews and I’m eager to read my copy soon, especially after hearing various radio interviews with her about the book, reading an excerpt from it in Rolling Stone magazine during a work break, and hearing her read from the book in person on Monday. (I have to tell you that it took every ounce of my willpower to stay in my house on Monday morning when I heard Patti being interviewed on KUOW by Steve Scher and not rush to the U District so I could wait outside the door of the radio station, with stacks of Patti Smith albums and books under my arms and a Sharpie. I remembered, though, that I would most likely look and behave like an idiot, and stayed home.)

I know I’m not the most objective person when it comes to relating what a Patti Smith event was like. I am a rabid fan, so I lack perspective. Heck, the moment she walked onto the stage, I was already fighting back tears. But, believe me when I tell you that this was a remarkable evening.

Charles R. Cross, former editor of The Rocket, introduced Patti. He’s also a huge fan. He showed us the ticket stub he still has from Patti Smith’s first concert in Seattle, from 1978. Price of admission? $2. It was one of those KISW “Catch a Rising Star” shows, believe it or not. I appreciated the way he spoke about the effect that Patti’s album Horses had on him. He bought it from Discount Records on the Ave when he was a young college student at the UW and took it back to his dorm room and played it over and over. A few years later, I did something similar when I was a college student up in Bellingham. I own two copies of that record (on vinyl) because I literally wore the first copy out (but was never able to part with the trashed copy).

First, there’s the cover with that spell-binding photo that Robert Mapplethorpe took of her. How could someone so skinny be so easily confident and powerful? She looked like a much tougher and cooler Mick Jagger. Then, to hear those first words on the album, the opening lyrics of her version of “Gloria”:  ”Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine.” Women just didn’t do that! (And not many men did, either, at that time.) 

So, imagine how amazing it was when the first thing Patti read on Monday night was the poem “Oath,” which starts exactly the same way (and was originally published in Creem magazine in 1971, by the way). Somehow, this 40-year-old poem still sounds shocking and new, just as forceful and beautiful.

Patti effortlessly moved on to reading sections from Just Kids, delighting us with stories from her early days in New York. I think that many people are unaware of just how playful Patti Smith is. She’s a natural comedian, quick-witted and not afraid of poking fun at herself. When she read aloud from her book on Monday night, she often inserted little stories or comments that are not in the book and they were hilarious. Or, she would simply look up from the book mid-story, raise her eyebrows and gaze at us above her reading glasses as if to say, “I think we all know where this is headed.” She was so funny and warm. She clearly wanted us to enjoy ourselves and she seemed genuinely grateful that we were there, spending time with her.

Next, she answered several questions from the audience and continued to shine. Charles Cross asked the questions, which audience members had written on slips of paper. One of my favorites was a question about whether there was anyone new Patti would like to collaborate with in the future because she has collaborated with so many celebrated people in the past (like Bruce Springsteen and Sam Shepard). She answered, “Russell Crowe.” Cross asked whether she wanted to collaborate with him as a singer or an actor. Her answer? “As a girl.”

And, I just have to note that she looked incredible. How does she remain so stylish and cool? She wore her standard type of outfit — white tuxedo shirt, blue jeans, man’s suit jacket, and black boots, plus a tight knit hat — but I can’t imagine any other woman in her 60s pulling that off.

After the Q&A section, Patti played a few songs on guitar and sang, which was heavenly. I can honestly say that I think her voice is better now than ever. Of course, the acoustics in Benaroya Hall are fabulous, but even if she had been standing in front of a bus stop, I think she would have sounded great. She told us that her husband taught her just a few chords before he died and that he didn’t want her to tell anyone where she learned to play guitar. But, she played competently enough during the songs “Grateful,” “My Blakean Year,” and “Beneath the Southern Cross.” Finally, she sang an a capella version of “Because the Night,” inviting the audience to sing along during the chorus, which we happily did. Hey — be sure to click the song titles to go to the YouTube video links of each performance, captured by an audience member. You’ll also get her stories about her inspirations for each song and more, which give you a lovely sense of her personality and creative process. Also, how endearing is her use of the word “writ”?! She gets stronger with each song, so be sure to watch more than just “Grateful.” And, the ending of “Because the Night” is perfect.

Joe and I are both members of WABL, Washington Beer Lovers (I became a member not because I’m so crazy about beer, but because Joe couldn’t find his membership for an event and wanted the extra taste-tokens, so I signed up). Recently, through the organization, we found out about a special Belgian Beer Dinner to be held at the Corson Building in Seattle’s Georgetown area – the hippest, happening-ist craft beer spot in the state right now. It sounded like the perfect foodie and beer lover romantic date night, so I eagerly made reservations.

Summertime view of The Corson Building

The Corson Building is a hundred-year-old Italian-style villa snuggling up against railroad tracks, a mortar-pitted alley (our little Jetta is still panting from the exertion of being pushed like a Humvee on our off-road search for a parking spot) and almost directly under a freeway off-ramp. But Friday night, once we passed through the charming wrought-iron gates, and the house twinkled at us enticingly, promising warmth and epicurean delights within, we breathed easier, and our hungry stomachs perked up in anticipation. When we pushed through the arched door, we were greeted with a sincere smile and a glass of Hop von Boorian from the sommelier, a plate of gourgeres warm from the kitchen and what was left of my Friday-afternoon-at-work-yecch evaporated with the first bite of fluffy, cheesy goodness.

The restaurant is small, but warm, with brick and stucco walls, more arched doors and windows, a lion-headed fireplace smack in the middle of the dining area, a step-down pantry area filled with cookbooks, bottles and clear jars filled with herbs I practically swooned over, and an Old Country kitchen filled with intriguing pots and smells. Lighting was soft and low, accented by white candles here and there. Seating was at three long tables of 10, with benches and chairs, serving was family-style on platters, the servers helpfully letting us know how much of each dish to take. Each of the five courses was beautifully paired with a Belgian-style local craft beer, and as a bonus the head brewers from Elysian and Pike were there partaking in the feast and talked a little about Belgian beers. To Joe the Homebrewer’s delight, one of the owners of Pike Brewing was also a guest, an eloquent man in bow-tie, responsible for the initial import of Belgian beers to the US some years back. Thank you, Charles!

The food was hearty, heavenly and decadent. We had the pleasure of sitting next to a quite entertaining couple – John, the husband, was a Tom Hanks look-a-like who has his own software company, and the wife, Ellen, was plucked from the Appalachian mountains of Kentucky; I found myself wanting to grab a pen and jot down all her colorful backwoods expressions, but there was no subtle way to manage it. When we were winding down the meal with the last course, slowly, yet valiantly, pushing our spoons through the densely rich dark beer spice cake topped with an incredible crème fraiche sorbet that’s sending shivers down my back as I type, Ellen leaned her trim little body back in her chair, manicured hand to her stomach, and said “My granddaddy would say he was ‘sufferin’ from comfort,’ that he had a ‘sufficiency.’”

When were in Paris for a week almost 10 years ago, we discovered the French have a word that describes the feeling your body gets when you’ve had too much rich food. I’ve had trouble tracking the actual word down, but if Joe’s memory serves me correctly, it’s something like “blehh.” When we got home a little after 11 that night, our bodies moving in slow motion from hours of pleasurable sensations, our bellies a bit distended, me grateful for my little stretchy black dress, we were definitely feeling blehh. Though, as we flopped onto the bed after kicking off our shoes, staring at the ceiling with sloppy, sated grins, we both agreed it was well worth it for a night, and that perhaps sufferin’ from comfort wasn’t so bad after all.

Where to begin? Our house has been the house of illness, sorry to say, with even the dog taking part. We’re all exhausted, but on the mend. Now it’s time to start catching up on everything that got ignored or delayed.

In addition to the physical ailments, a big cloud has hung over the house for the past few weeks, thanks to my current work situation. Without saying anything that will get me fired, I just need to say that a huge re-org is taking place and it’s excruciating. My precious work group is being split up and we are horribly distraught. We’ve cried. We’ve lost sleep. We’ve protested. We’ve lost faith. It’s all so terribly sad.

We watched more Project Runway while Lily was home sick, which helped. I will warn you that if you hang out with my family these days, you have to tolerate a lot of random quotes from that show. They’re now mixed in with all the lines we routinely quote from Saturday Night Live. Lily often does them in character. Her favorite source of inspiration at the moment is a hilarious skit that Mike Myers did way back when with Nicole Kidman. Mike Myers plays a kid who is tied up to a playground structure, wearing a harness and a helmet, because he’s hyperactive. He’s also hypoglycemic, so he’s “a hyper hypo.” Nicole is a conceited kid who is playing there next to him on the playground. Lily can expertly play either character, and sometimes she plays both. She always makes me laugh.

Reading has also been a good distraction, although I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve read some real crap lately. It’s been a mixed bag of memoirs, how-tos, photo-essay type books, and music-related stuff. I’m hungry for a good novel and plan to sink my teeth into one later today. One of the books I read recently had a line in it that I want to share with you. In Perfection: A Memoir of Betrayal and Renewal, Julie Metz describes how she dealt with the sudden death of her husband and then, seven months later, dealt with the discovery that he had a secret life she wasn’t aware of during their marriage. I appreciated the first half of the book much more than the second half because I think she wrote movingly about being left with a 6-year-old daughter and her grief. Later, when she starts to unravel what he had secretly been up to, the book becomes too soap opera-ish for even my tastes. Her descriptions of how people helped her after her husband died were helpful to me, though. They gave me ideas about how I could be of more help when I have loved ones who experience something similar.

One of the author’s friends, Sara, travels from England for a week-long visit. She promised to help sort through the author’s husband’s things. Sara tells the author, “This will be my gift to you.” I immediately thought, “I could do that. That’s something I could offer people.” Then, the author writes:

I knew she could get this job done. She was a librarian both by profession and by temperament; I could trust her to be ruthless yet compassionate.

She nailed it. Ruthless yet compassionate. That is a librarian trait. How else could we get our jobs done if we did not have that pair of qualities? For example, we routinely have to throw out beloved library items because they are damaged, worn out, loved to death, or, sadly, ignored and collecting dust. A lot of people can’t do it. The best librarians do it every day. But, they do it thoughtfully, with compassion. Obviously, this is much easier to do with other people’s stuff. I’m not as ruthless with my own belongings, unfortunately, which is why all of my shelves and cabinets and closets are overflowing. But, give me someone else’s collection of stuff, and I could definitely sort it, prioritize it, and recommend which pieces to keep and which to throw out.

As someone who routinely realizes that she has few real skills (thanks to being surrounded by tremendously talented and multi-faceted people), I’m relieved to find out that I do have this one skill and that it might be helpful to someone at a difficult time. So, let me know if, God forbid, you find yourself in the position of having to sort through a loved one’s possessions. I can help.

This weekend I was a balloon, bright and shiny, taut and bouncy with fun and life, straining upward towards new ventures. This morning I woke up, and found that overnight I had become the baggy balloon that’s scuttled under the bed to join the dust bunnies, deflated, used and sad. Why, you ask, why?

Yesterday I joined a group of around 300 hopeful applicants in a casting call for a new reality TV program for home/amateur cooks, Master Chef, to be hosted by Chef Gordon Ramsey on FOX. Joe forwarded me an invite we received on Wednesday, suggesting I go for it, and fairly confident in my cooking, and up for an adventure, I went ahead and started the process before I could back out. The first thing I did was fill out an 11 page application, filled with personal, difficult questions. I managed to be honest, yet enticingly clever, though. For the question “How would you describe yourself in one word?” I answered: imagiquirkcentric. I also drew a stick figure holding a sign over its head with a 7.5 as an answer to how you would rate your cooking skills on a scale of 1 -10. (My application was not nearly as clever, however, as Joe’s video application for Survivor, many years ago, when he ends up whipping his Utilikilt off and diving into Puget Sound, surfacing with a huge salmon bucking in his mouth. When we played it for Hannah’s family, she asked Lily “Can you believe he ran into the water naked?!” and Lily made a considering face and said “He’s not naked; he had socks on.”)

Application: check. Head shot: check. Dish shot: check. Photographer husband: check. Dish: check. OMG! What should I wear?!!

Sunday morning I sauntered up to the line in front of Sur La Table in Kirkland, purple suede cowboy boots announcing my arrival, black duster billowing out behind me, sun bouncing off my chicly coiffed hair like a copper crown, pointy chin raised up with confidence: Step aside mortals, a cooking goddess has arrived in your midst, bow down with your insulated coolers and chafing dishes, your silly, frilly aprons, and return to your hovels – you have no chance against my mighty cooking mojo and dazzling personality! It was sunny at first, spirits were high (Joe told me later I was jazzed all day, with an adrenaline high for about 3 hours – my sore muscles and mushy brain attest to this today), and as the show’s crew made its way down the line filming all of us potential new reality TV stars, coffee cups in hand, nervous excitement filled the air. One woman near me in line came down from Canada, another from Portland, a guy from Olympia spilled his coffee all over his fancy sweater on the way up and bought a brilliant white apron to cover it up, as he had no change of clothes. We’re all pulling for each other, back clapping encouragement, sneaking sidelong glances at what the new arrival is wearing, how white her teeth are, wondering what miraculous dish she is carrying. We’re posing beauty pageant contestants on the outside, all smiles and world peace, ruthless spatula wielding competitors inside. I sent Joe out on a recon mission to the front of the line where there was a window looking into the kitchen-classroom where all the action was taking place. He came back with some useful intel for me and my line-mates: judges in the back of the room, three tables set up with four stations each where applicants were plating their dishes. Looks warm inside.

Once we got up to the door Joe had to stay behind and I was on my own. After more waiting I was assigned a station and asked to set up my dish. I went for simplicity, my dish was Yucatan Shrimp Cocktail served in a large martini glass with an enormous olive, shrimp and lime wedge on a skewer. But this is when I started to feel nervous. Every time I ducked down to nab something out of my cooler-bag I took a deep breath before standing back up, worrying that this might be a bad thing to be doing because I might pass out. The next wait I spent looking around and complimenting other dishes, accepting a couple of tastes, murmuring approvingly (thinking, I could make that taste better), joking around in that I’m-totally-compensating-for-my-nerves-by-being-funny way. I suddenly realize my dress is one of those self-contained ones, bra-less, and worry about lack of cleavage, shoving my boobs towards each other with my hands, to make Joe, who is watching everything through the window, laugh. I succeed, but also make about 10 other people in between laugh, too.

Finally, I’m summoned to the judges’ table and present my shrimp cocktail. ta da! There are two judges, one a vegetarian who asks no questions, and the other a hip looking Japanese-American guy whom I totally love and relate to right away. With smiling eyes he asks questions about my food, how I prepare this and that, what I would serve with it, how long I’ve been cooking, etc. and we get sidetracked just a minute when I mention a recipe for Puerco Pibil I make from a Robert Rodriguez film, Once Upon a Time In Mexico, and he’s made the same thing, and how I loved how the recipe called for “the finest shot of tequila you can find.” Afterwards I go back to my station, pack up and leave out the back door through the store, handing my application off on the way, feeling good about the way things went, and as I pass the remaining line, wrapped around the building outside, I visualize my pointy purple boots kicking some Foodie booty!

Turns out I am not The Chosen One. Four others were selected for the second round, and I’m okay with that. It was an interesting, fun experience, and I would have kicked myself if I hadn’t tried. Tonight I made Hamburger Helper for dinner, serving it to Joe in the pan with two big wooden spoons, napkins tucked in our shirt collars. No wait, sorry, I thought about it, but just couldn’t do it. Even for a laugh.

Somehow I missed reading this book back when it was requisite in our youth. “You haven’t read Lord of the Flies?!?  Where were you?”  I don’t know, reading Red Badge of Courage, The Grapes of Wrath, The Scarlet Letter, or one of the many other books (all equally as cheery, I’m sure) we were ‘forced’ (ha! Gimme more, teacher, gimme more!) to read in school.  It’s one of those where you feel like you’ve read it because you’ve heard so much about it, although for some reason I thought it involved cannibalism.  Maybe I avoided it because it sounded so dark, which it is, though not as dark as, say, cannibalism.  I bought it a while ago and shelved it thinking I should get to it someday, just so I too could be in the know.  “Someday” turned out to be one of the first days of this new decade.

While I was reading it I kept thinking “Boys Gone Wild.”  My adult self was horrified at their regression, while the girl inside me was all “Those boys are so mean!”  I feel slightly guilty in that as a mother I related very much to the poor sow that gets interrupted feeding her wee piglets and hunted down and so violently killed. I wonder what would have happened if a plane full of school girls crashed.  Of course, these days, all the kids have seen Survivor and might have more practical knowledge on how to keep alive.  Would they form alliances, though?  Would they think they were in fact on a reality TV show and not alone on an island?

Are they still reading these books in school?  Lily, what are you required to read in school nowadays, and why?

Clearly, I didn’t make a New Year’s resolution to post here more often! Perhaps I should have. I’ve been thinking that Lori and I should have a little blog meeting, similar to the band meetings that the Flight of the Conchords have.

“Lori?”

“Present.”

“Good, very professional.” 

“Hannah?”

“Present.”

I suppose it’s time to finally update the banner after two years of blogging here, although I am very attached to that photo, which Joe took in Paris. And, I’ve been imagining adding a couple of new fixed pages that feature lists of what we’re reading (since there seems to be some interest in that) and such. So, Lori, let’s have a little blog meeting sometime in the near future, okay? Sharpen your pencil and bring a legal pad!

How were your holidays, everyone? Lovely, I hope. Ours were, thank you. One of the highlights was New Year’s Day. We visited my brother’s family, whom I almost never see, and I got to hold the smiliest baby in the world (my brother’s granddaughter) for ages. My arms were sore the next day. In a good way!

Here at home, Andy, Lily, and I recently indulged in marathon viewings of Season 3 of Project Runway on DVD, which I checked out from the library. Even though we’re years behind and knew who was going to win, we still loved every minute of it. We’re working our way through various seasons of the show on DVD, not in order, because who cares? It’s still fabulous! I am in love with Tim Gunn. Everything about him. His manners, his vocabulary, his wardrobe, even his catch phrases that probably annoy everyone else. “Make it work!” So suave. So elegant. LOVE HIM. Did you know that Tim Gunn’s mother was a librarian? Excellent!

Okay, my friends, time for me to run. I will check in again, soon. I hope you will, too.

My father has this monster reel-to-reel tape player the size of a small refrigerator stashed quietly away in a corner of the rec room.  It’s still working, and one of the surviving tapes is from a holiday dinner in the sixties at my grandparents’ house in Spokane; a little family archive.  It starts out innocent enough, with my older brother, maybe about 6^th grade-age, making armpit farts and such, then it cuts to actual dinner at the table and sixish-year-old me is laughing my head off about something. Joyful sounds at dinner. But then my dad asks me to stop; that’s enough. Only I can’t and I laugh harder until he gets angrier and the laughter dissolves to tears, which I also cannot stop.  The tape ends.

We never got spanked in our house.  We were however expected to be perfect, in deed and mood.  And being human and children…well. To come under the disapproving glare of my father (The Look) was the equivalent of the torturous fires of hell.  You felt like an ugly, unworthy worm. To be fair, there were many more good times than bad, we just lived under a nervous shadow of sorts. My father was an only child in a quiet, orderly house, and he brought his perfectionism, as it was called back then (I believe now it’s a form of OCD) to his grown-up family life. The tense holiday dinner scene is just a small sample of what it was like living with him, and was repeated year after year. We all tip-toed around his potential wrath, but somehow something would always go wrong; the carving knife wasn’t sharp enough, the salt shakers not full enough, the potatoes were too cold, turkey too dry, there was a spoon that didn’t match the others, I wasn’t smiling enough, the design on the china plates wasn’t in perfect visual line with the eater.  Nothing was ever the picture-perfect Rockwell family meal he had in his head.

This year, as Joe and I, my brother, sister and their spouses sat at one end of the table Christmas dinner, finishing up our servings of salmon bisque I made for the occasion as a first course, because it was getting cold as my mom stood in the kitchen throwing some last-minute gravy together, my father jumped up and decided he needed a picture of all of us at the nicely set table. Only my brother-in-law had already put a manly slab of prime rib on his plate and started cutting up pieces to eat. This was cause enough for the disapproving dad brows to gather, storm clouds a brewin’, and for him to give up taking the picture because he didn’t want us eating yet (even though we already were eating the soup—as I pointed out to him in a not-so-patient voice-rising manner that I quickly brought down to avoid conflict because if anyone’s going to do it, it will be me). It was an eggshell moment.  As my sister, brother and I steel ourselves against The Look, Joe obliviously shovels into the stuffing.  Someone convinces my dad to take the shot, siblings nearly grimacing at disaster averted, stuffing on Joe’s plate, slab-o-beef on Wally’s. I’m sure it was a lovely shot.

At the end of the meal as some of the plates were being cleared and a few of us still sat talking, I grabbed the little Land o’Lakes butter tub. On any given day in my parents’ house if you pop the lid of this little bathtub shaped container you’ll find my father has carved the butter into a little mountain range, with the butter angled on two sides to form a perfect ridge in the middle. Having sat on the table during the meal it had softened nicely and was easy to flatten out completely, providing me with a smooth tablet to carve out HI DAD.  I showed it to my giggling sister, and went over to my brother already washing dishes to show him on the sly.  He laughed, then as realization struck said “Oh, no! He’s going to be so mad!”  As I put the butter away in the fridge, my brother summoned me back with a psst, and under his breath said “Do you remember the toast buttering lessons?” How could I not? To this day I spread butter evenly all the way out to the edges, and have passed on the teachings to others.  But I wasn’t worried about my father’s reaction to finding the tub after we were gone.  My brother’s the only one who calls him ‘dad.’

Here’s me, spillin’.  I’ve been staring at my bookshelves pondering and trying to reach into the increasingly older memory bank for what were my favorite books from last year, and this is what I’ve come up with. I know these weren’t all published in 2009, but I read them all this year, or in the case of The Lacuna, am still reading. I do feel like I’m missing something, but these are what surfaced:

The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister

My Life in France by Julia Child

The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters, Volume One by Gordon Dahlquist

The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters, The Dark Volume by Gordon Dahlquist

The Gone-Away World by Nick Harkaway

Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby

The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver

Border Songs by Jim Lynch

The Financial Lives of the Poets by Jess Walter

A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg