Gyme? What's a gyme?

So, I joined a gym today. Woo...hoo...? Although I'm excited about it, I never really saw myself as the gym-going type. Maybe because the thought of going to the gym makes me flash back to those elementary and junior-high school P.E. classes, where the non-athletic (me) got mixed in with the super-athletic (girls' basketball team) and were forced to compete against each other, with appropriately hilarious (embarrassing) results.

But I digress. The gym I joined is full of positive, helpful people, and they have child care! Most of the members seem to be regular people like me, in various states of fitness and non-fitness, just trying to improve themselves. So why do I feel so torn about my decision to join? I think it's because I hate to admit that I need help with anything. And I do need help with this. At home, I have a box of workout videos, free weights, and a big blue exercise ball, but I've never been more out of shape. It's obvious that I can't motivate myself, plus, it's hard to do yoga with a 2-year old crawling all over me. Help me, gym!

"I have lost to February"

February always seems to arrive just at the point when I can't take any more winter. Regardless of what the groundhog sees, February always teases me with some lovely, spring-like weather: just enough so I get excited about unpacking my sandals and summer clothes. Then February laughs and turns back into winter. Curse you, February!

I'm trying to make this blog more about my own thoughts and less about linking to other people, but often I find that someone else has said what I'm trying to say so perfectly that it would be a loss not to mention it. Today, I am thinking about a haunting Dar Williams song about two lovers whose relationship can't withstand the winter. It's called, appropriately, February:

And February was so long that it lasted into March
And found us walking a path alone together.
You stopped and pointed and you said, "That's a crocus,"
And I said, "What's a crocus?" and you said, "It's a flower,"
And I tried to remember, but I said, "What's a flower?"

On a day like today, when it is so gray and cold and it feels like it will never stop raining, it's hard to remember the meaning behind words like "spring" and "sunshine" and "joy."


(Melancholy by Edvard Munch)

The Merciless Peppers of Quetzlzacatenango

While not grown deep in the jungle primeval by the inmates of a Guatemalan insane asylum, the Bjut Jolokia or "Ghost Chile" pepper is actually the hottest pepper on Earth.

Chile pepper "heat" is measured in Scoville Heat Units or SHUs. Originally, as I learned in a particular delightful episode of Good Eats, these SHUs were based on the amount of sugar water it would take to completely dilute the "heat" of the pepper, as measured by a (probably reluctant) human panel. Originator Wilbur Scoville may have been a bit of a masochist, but scientists continued to name the Scoville Heat Unit after him even after they changed the method to a less subjective (and less painful) test using high-performance liquid chromatography.

The Bjut Jolokia tops out at 1,041,427 SHU, meaning that it would take just about all the water on Earth, mixed with most of the sugar, to dissipate its heat. And while you're mixing up that sugar water, this crazy pepper will probably burn a hole right through your tongue.

A Pure and Perfect Mango

Many of you who know me in real life will be aware of my personal grail quest: the search for the perfect mango. I've eaten just one perfect mango, several close-to-perfect mangoes, and entirely too many terrible mangoes. I just don't have the knack for picking the good ones. But that doesn't stop me from trying.

The one in the photo, which I ate yesterday, was slightly less than perfect. The texture was good: firm, slippery, never stringy (if there's anything that makes my skin crawl more than a stringy mango, I don't know what it is). The flavor was a little off, a little too astringent, perhaps, but I was pleased with it. So pleased that I rushed out to buy four more mangoes from the same box at the same store. We'll see how that pans out.

There was a poem I wanted to quote in relation to mangoes and my often fruitless (ha!) pursuit of them. I know I have read--or heard--this poem somewhere in my past, and I know there is a line about eating a pure and perfect mango. I've been obsessing about it for hours and I think I have narrowed down the poet: Carolyn Forché. I think I attended one of her poetry readings and heard the poem there. It makes me crazy that I can't remember for sure. I pored over my bookshelf and discovered that I do own a book by Ms. Forché: Against Forgetting. Unfortunately, this is a collection she edited, and does not actually contain any of her work. Even the internet is silent on the subject of Carolyn Forché and mangoes.

I'm sure the poem wasn't about mangoes at all, more likely it was a poem about war or civil strife. Yet somehow I remember that one line, the ideal of the pure and perfect mango.

Hoggy New Year!

Happy Chinese New Year everybody! Welcome to the year of the pig. In honor of the new year, the Chinese postal service has issued these adorable stamps that both smell and taste of sweet and sour pork. Fabulous!

I can't help wondering what they'll do to celebrate next year, the year of the rat.

(illustrations borrowed from my copy of Charlotte's Web)

Happy Valentine's Day!

I still remember an article I wrote about Valentine's Day for my high school newspaper. I put in a lot of great stuff about the pagan origins of Valentine's Day (similar to this article, in fact, but not quite so well written) and my editor, in his infinite wisdom, titled the article "Sacrificing Goats and Dogs." Romantic, eh?

If you are pro-Valentine's Day, check out this post by Shauna James of Gluten-Free Girl. I adore her blog anyway, but this post about finding her true love is particularly sweet and beautifully written.

If you are anti-Valentine's Day, check out the "Hate" menu at Chow.com. Heart tartare, bitter honey, and loads of stinky garlic to keep those pesky cupids at bay.

(ubiquitous angels by Raphael)

Melancholy

from dictionary.com:

mel·an·chol·y [mel-uhn-kol-ee]

–noun
1. a gloomy state of mind, esp. when habitual or prolonged; depression.
2. sober thoughtfulness; pensiveness.
3. Archaic. a. the condition of having too much black bile, considered in ancient and
medieval medicine to cause gloominess and depression.
b. black bile.

–adjective
4. affected with, characterized by, or showing melancholy; mournful; depressed: a
melancholy mood.
5. causing melancholy or sadness; saddening: a melancholy occasion.
6. soberly thoughtful; pensive.

The word "melancholy" sounds like a beautiful, sad little song in my head. Naturally, I always assumed that's what the word meant: beautiful and sad. I don't really have much to add to this, being in a melancholy mood myself at the moment, but this painting (Proserpine by Dante Gabriel Rossetti) is basically what "melancholy" looks like in my brain. Now you know.

A eulogy, of sorts

In October 1995 I was just starting college: young, idealistic, naive. I was priveleged to attend a writer's conference with such local writers as David Lee (Utah's first Poet Laureate) and Leslie Norris. Norris was a Welsh poet influenced by Dylan Thomas (whoever he was) who moved to Utah in his later life. I was equally priveleged to attend a poetry reading by Professor Norris, which included the title poem from his most recent book of poetry, A Sea in the Desert. I described Leslie Norris in my journal that night as "an incredible man...with broad gestures (but small hands) and a worn but scarcely hidden Green-Isled accent".

My favorite stanza from his poem A Sea in the Desert goes like this:

A man is moon to his own sea --
he draws it after him,
like a dog it follows him
the days of his life.

You can read the poem in its entirety here. I love the way the shape of the poem echoes the rhythm of waves on a beach. Something about the idea that we each tug our own ocean along behind us really resonates with me. When I first heard this poem, I thought that this metaphorical ocean described the pool of our experiences, our "baggage", if you will, which we can try to share with each other but at the same time can only be completely understood within ourselves. A lonely idea, certainly, but to me the ocean was always the epitome of loneliness.

I was shocked and saddened when I learned, on preparing to write this post, that Professor Norris died last April. It makes me feel fragile and melancholy to learn that this man, who so inflenced me, who I haven't thought about in so many years, has passed on.

I still have the dog-eared and copiously annotated copy of A Sea in the Desert I purchased immediately following his reading. I noted the date inside, 10/11/95, but wish I had thought to have him sign it. I guess in the end a man's poetry is as much of a signature as anything else he could provide.

(art by JMW Turner (Dawn After the Wreck) and Hokusai (The Hollow of the Deep-Sea Wave off Kanagawa)

"I assure you, we will not let the glaciers win."

I couldn't talk about global warming without linking to this hilarious Saturday Night Live skit, which imagines what the world might be like if Al Gore had won the 2000 election. Good clean fun, even for Republicans! If that link doesn't work, go here, scroll down to the Video Archive section, click on Political Satire and then choose the Parallel Universe clip. You won't be disappointed.

Global Warming: D'oh!

Global warming is real and it's "probably" our fault. Frankly, I'm surprised it took a team of scientists to figure this out, because who else's fault would it be? Oh right, the cows. Regardless of whose fault it is, here's a fun article from Newsweek about how we can't and won't do anything about it.

But I'm not here to get up on my soapbox about global warming. I'm no expert. I haven't read An Inconvenient Truth, I don't drive an electric car, and I haven't even seen the electric car movie (although I hope to do all of these things sooner than later).

No, I'm here to talk about the draft. Wait, I'm actually here to talk about the Bible. Again. I was watching The Search for Noah's Ark (one of my favorite Biblical subjects) on The History Channel the other day. In addition to searching for the physical location of Noah's big boat, various well-educated people were exploring theories about what (aside from the wrath of God, that is) might have caused such a large-scale flood that people would be talking about it for thousands of years. And the most interesting theory (to me, anyway), was that Noah's flood was caused by global warming. That's right. The Earth got too warm, the oceans started to rise, and the Mediterranean spilled into the Black Sea through a narrow isthmus. There is archealogical evidence of this, in fact, in the form of underwater beaches. While this may or may not be the origin of the Biblical flood story, it's certainly worth thinking about.

Am I saying global warming is not caused by humans, if it was happening thousands of years ago? Not really. The people in the Bible didn't have cars, but they certainly burned a lot of stuff (all those animal sacrifices, for one thing). I'm no scientist, but I don't think it's improbable that people could have been the cause of global warming all the way back then. What I'm really trying to say is that, when the oceans start rising, it's a big deal, and when they say that the oceans will rise 7-23 inches in the next 100 years, I find it pretty scary.

What should we do? Whatever we can, I guess. There are some good ideas here. Check out these awesome solar panels Japanese engineers are working on. Thanks, Japanese engineers! Maybe by the time I buy a house (or an ark) they'll have the technology perfected.


(edited to add that my awesome sister has listed some great suggestions for fighting global warming in the comments section: check it out!)

Hallelujah!

from dictionary.com:

hal·le·lu·jah /ˌhæləˈluyə/ [hal-uh-loo-yuh]

1. Praise ye the Lord!
2. an exclamation of “hallelujah!”
3. a shout of joy, praise, or gratitude.
4. a musical composition wholly or principally based upon the word “hallelujah.”

Also, hal·le·lu·iah.

[Origin: 1525–35; < Heb halălūyāh praise ye Yahweh; cf. alleluia]

Hallelujah is a word you can't say without singing. I know the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah has been done to death, but I really think Handel was on to something. According to the Bible, this is THE WORD (or at least, a translation of that word) the angels chose to announce their jubilation at the birth of Jesus. Whether you're Christian or not, you've got to admit, that's a powerful word. I can't think of any expression that better encapsulates a feeling of pure joy. In fact, I challenge you to say it and not be happy.

Actually, my challenge is masterfully met by that haunting Hallelujah song by Jeff Buckley (my sources tell me the song was originally written and performed by Leonard Cohen). You know, the one that has appeared in every movie, hospital drama, and "very special episode" of TV ever produced. Basically, in any scene where somebody is or might be dying. Love that song. After hearing it a million times, this line still makes me weepy:

"I've seen your flag on the marble arch
But love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah"

On a totally different note, the song You Can Call Me Al by Paul Simon contains one of my favorite lines of poetry ever:

"He looks around and around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity.
And he says hey, Hallelujah!"

Love it. Wish I wrote it. Hallelujah, indeed.


(stained glass by Marc Chagall)

A womb of one's own

During my pregnancy, I became a bit obsessed with my growing womb: that tiny, secret place inside of me that expanded, as if by magic, to fit an entirely new life. Now that my literal womb is empty, I have started to think about metaphorical wombs. That is, the tiny secret places inside us where we nourish any new creation: writing, emotions, music, art, whatever. I'm sure some readers will find this metaphor distasteful, however, I feel compelled to mention it here. After all, we use the expression "brain-child," is it too much of a stretch to talk about a "brain-womb"?

As I go through this process of rediscovering my inner writer and poet, I am tidying up my symbolic womb to make it cozy for the new thoughts that will take up residence there. I am hanging wallpaper and glow-in-the-dark stars, I am stocking up on fleecy blankets, I am choosing soothing music. Most importantly, I trying to keep the noisy, angry thoughts away from this sanctuary, this nursery.

(edited to add that the photo is of Henry Moore's Mother and Child, on display in St. Paul's Cathedral)

"Eat food. Not too much. Mostly Plants."

It's not my intention to make this a food blog, but I think everyone should read this article by Michael Pollan, published in The New York Times magazine. And I say this not to be preachy, but because I feel that it's a well-written and thought-provoking look at the shift that has ocurred over the last 20-30 years (i.e. my lifetime) in our (American) cultural relationship with food. It also conveniently emphasizes some of the same dietary goals that I have made for myself this year: eat more vegetables, eat more whole foods, eat more raw foods, eat more local foods.

I purchased the produce in my photo at a local farmer's market last August. Those figs were to die for. I miss summer.

I don't like Meyer lemons

I tried to like them, really I did, but I just wasn't impressed. I know that Meyer lemons are all the rage in cooking right now, but they still make me irrationally angry. Maybe it's because they are sometimes described as being "better than" a lemon, that is, sweeter and less tart. But I love lemons, and I love them because they taste like lemons. If I want something that tastes like an orange, I'll use an orange. I know, it's a silly quibble, and the recipes that I've linked to all look divine. But I'll be using REAL lemons when I make them. Sorry, Meyers.