Archive | Quoth the Raving

A Case of the Camilles

I have flu. I almost never get flu, but between my real-world worries and this up-and-down weather, my immune system is crying uncle. I admit I am feeling sorry for myself. Even when my back goes out, I usually just get very New England: stony and hyper-pragmatic. But there’s something about fevers and bodily fluids that robs me of my good sense. My adulthood, really. Case in point: I can’t remember if it’s “feed a cold/starve a fever” or “feed a fever/starve a cold” so I am glumly slurping broth as a compromise rather than doing a simple Google search.

Having flu is the only time I mind being alone. I want someone to fetch my homeopathetics (as I call them when I’m this tragic) and brew ginger tea and pick up my used kleenex and make my Jewish grandmother’s chicken soup and wave a magic wand over my deadlines. In the absence of this phantom fairy god-partner, I clutch permakitten Gracie, who’s grossed out by my runny nose but does her best Camille impression in solidarity. All patients may carry their best doctor inside themselves, but I keep flashing on Siri Hustvedt’s quote: “Every sickness has an alien quality” and thinking, “Right now I’m no Ripley.” Send carrier pigeons and magic carpets, please.

We’re All Hotel Clerks

There are moments when I feel I am nothing but the small clerk of some hotel without a proprietor, who has all his work cut out to enter the names and hand the keys to the willful guests.–Katherine Mansfield

I came across this in Tracy Daugherty’s Joan Didion biography, The Last Love Song, which I’ve been reading thirstily and disdainfully. I don’t mind the anonymity the quote describes, but I’ve been flashing on it as I’ve been watching the day turn to night. Sun’s turning all kinds of neon bruises that’ll disappear with her grand exit, permakitten Grace and I are admiring from the kitchen window, and there’s this feeling–immense, bottomless–of all of us passing through each other without leaving a dent. What’s interesting is how completely I’ve come to accept this. It’s not sad, not really. It’s just the fourth dimension, slicing through our existential chatter.

On Cooking and Serial Commas

I’ve had a very worky weekend–what I call a “serial comma” weekend because it has entailed editing, scheduling, and accounting tasks that just go on and on. Serial comma days are one of the downsides of self-employment. But because all this busy work has kept me home and the weather has been so temperate, I also find myself doing some serious cooking for the first time in months. Yesterday, I actually made meatballs. For a non-Italian* I make really good meatballs, which is a claim that always sounds both boastful and dirty. It’s true, though. I make really good meatballs: flavorful, spicy, light. The secret is the fennel sausage from the old-school pork store down the street. Even permakitten Gracie likes them a lot; I caught her swiping one from the pan. If only my matzo balls were so expertly rendered. (Cue my Jewish grandmother rolling in her grave. Next to lobster bisque, properly made meatballs may be the world’s least Kosher food.) Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy