In the US, I clipped coupons from the Sunday paper every week, just before tossing the circulars into the recycling bucket. I carefully scanned the coupons and clipped only those for existing products I would actually use, or newly introduced products I was considering testing out.
Since I have moved to Australia, I have missed the weekly ritual of clipping and sorting, and then planning what I could do with the products. The concept of coupons, especially the clipped-from-newspaper-circulars-manufacturers'-coupons, is foreign to Australian groceries.
Naturally I was very excited when my local branch of a national chain introduced a coupon-style program they called "Sticky Stickers." A sheet of stickers, printed with barcodes for an amount off a specific product or range of products (for example: $2 off a roast chicken from the deli counter or $3 off a 24-can pack of any Coca-Cola product) was included with the weekly circulars delivered with the mail. The idea was that the consumer would peel the sticker off the sheet and affix it to the matching product and then, at the register scan the product's barcode followed by the Sticky Sticker discount barcode, much like the process of using manufacturer's coupons in the US (though in the US, I would hold all my coupons until every thing had been scanned and a sub-total was displayed).
I dutifully used my Sticky Stickers in the way the supermarket chain had envisioned, but only because I am unfailingly honest, or at the very least not smart enough to figure out unscrupulous ways of using the Sticky Stickers discounts.
On my first visit during the Sticky Stickers promotion, I went to a staffed register where the clerk handled scanning and processing the transaction. On my second visit, dearest was with me and we purchased only a few items, so we went to the self check out registers (which work infinitely better here than they do in the US), asking the supervising clerk how to handle using the Sticky Stickers. We followed her instructions and received our discounts without any problems.
During my third visit, I was checking out at a staffed register and listening as another clerk was asking clerk at my register how to handle the Sticky Stickers. The other clerk replied that just the day before you could scan the Sticky Stickers barcode before the product's barcode. My clerk explained that: Yes, you could do that. But then corporate figured out that customers were applying the Sticky Stickers to products that were not the ones to which the discounts applied (for example, customers were going through the self check out registers and applying the $3 off a 24-can pack of Coca-Cola products to a roast or a pack of diapers, and not the Coca-Cola products). So corporate had to re-program the registers to cross-reference the Sticky Stickers barcode with the product barcode, so that if the product barcode was not scanned, the Sticky Stickers barcode would be rejected.
During this conversation, I could not help but laugh to myself. Really? People were dishonest? The supermarket corporate brass could not figure out that people would misuse the Sticky Stickers if given the opportunity? It was just another clue that I'm not in Kansas anymore -- if only because Kansas grocers long ago figured out that coupon barcodes need to be cross-referenced with the products to which the discounts apply!
In the meantime, it seems that the grocery chain in question has discontinued the Sticky Stickers program, which is too bad, because I loved the idea of $2 a roast chicken!
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Wild Birthday
My birthday fell on a Monday. Scheduling-wise this was not a great day for celebrations -- dearest works late on Monday nights and I have tap class. Dearest's present to me was an experience rather than a physical thing, so we had to plan it. We planned to celebrate on the Friday before my birthday. Dearest has some Fridays off and the experience might be better (and less crowded) on Friday rather than Sunday. Saturday was out because dearest had to work. We watched the weather all week, and were disappointed to see that as the week went on the chance of rain increased for Friday, and while dearest still would not tell me what he had planned, he assured me that as long as it was storming, we could still have the birthday adventure.
Friday dawned a bit overcast and dearest left the choice up to me. I said, let's go for it and so we did. We set off, and he was testing the GPS application (aside: I hate the phrase "app") on his new phone. The route the GPS planned took us along one of the highways into Melbourne. I think of it as the EastLink Route, but this could just be my interpretation and because we end up on the EastLink Tollway. (The other route into the City I think of as the Cranbourne Route because we go through Cranbourne before joining the CityLink Tollway.) I believe dearest planned to take the EastLink Route simply because the tunnels under the Yarra River on the EastLink Tollway are shorter than on CityLink, but I really have no idea. This was his gift, and I left the planning and management of the day to him.
As it turned out, that route was not the best choice, as we ended up getting stuck in traffic. Not long after entering the highway, our travels came to a screeching halt -- well, more like a slow advance. (Aside: ever since I evacuated from New Orleans for the first time, and took nearly 12 hours to go less than 10 miles, I have had a completely different perspective on traffic. Yes, it's annoying to be going slowly, but this traffic was moving. In the evacuation traffic, we turned the car on maybe once an hour to move only as far as one rotation of the tires, only to turn the car off and wait another 45-50 minutes to repeat the process. Any traffic that is moving is better than that.) We needed to fill up the car on the way, and the EastLink route ran past a truck-stop style service station at Officer that has a food court. The signs told me that the turn off for the service station was 3km on. The car's on-board computer said we had between 60 and 75 km until empty. I was nervous about the gas situation, but I figured we'd make it to the service station. Even so, I breathed a sigh of relief when we did. When e stop at the Officer service station, we usually get a nibble-type snack for the drive. This time was no different and I started my birthday celebration with a snack-size box of Kentucky Fried Chicken popcorn chicken, dearest has a box of french fries. (Aside: I can never have popcorn chicken without thinking of my cousin's wedding when my younger brother and I convinced my great-Aunt that we needed to make a run through Sonic on the way from the church to the reception because she believed my uncle that there was little to no food at the reception.) I grabbed a bottle of iced tea at the convenience store and we shared that.
When we re-entered the highway, traffic was moving slightly better and we were soon past whatever the hold-up was, though I never did find any real reason for traffic to be delayed. Even though he had not told me what he had planned, I had the idea that he was taking me to the zoo. And I was not wrong. Because of the slow-down, he told me our time may be limited at the final destination, and I admitted that I had guessed it was the zoo. I could not really tell if he was surprised or relieved that I had guessed the surprise, or just stressed by the drive. In any event, our worries about time were soon forgotten as we were exiting the highway, parking the car, and heading for the entrance to the zoo.
My experience with zoos is fairly limited. I have been to the Audubon Zoo in New Orleans and a couple of animal sanctuaries/parks in Australia. I always think it would be great fun to go to other zoos, but somehow I never get there. This was a treat to me. I did not know what kind of animals the Melbourne Zoo had on display, so I happily accepted a visitor's guide and set off on the adventure. I'm not really one to follow a plan, I'm much happier to just wander about seeing what I can and then checking the map to ensure I hadn't missed anything. Dearest let me lead the way, saying only that he wanted to see the elephants before we left. I had seen direction signs for seals, and I put those on my must see list, but everything else was more or less where the winds and the paths took me.
The day was a beautiful Lynn-ish kind of day, cool and overcast during the on and off showers, and beautiful blue skies the rest of the day.
It was a bit chillier than I would have programmed for a visit to the zoo, and as a result many of the animals were huddled in their dens against the cold, but there was still plenty to see.
We started our adventure having a chat with some zebras and giraffes:
Then we almost met the resident koalas
who turned their backs to us and ended up resembling nothing so much as furry lumps in the bare trees.
Then it was on to the aviary, where we saw many birds -- some I could identify, many more I could not, even with the helpful guides posted on the pathway.
The first bird I encountered I would identify as a spoonbill, after that I was pretty much hopeless.
There were some colorful parrots, or maybe they were rainbow lorikeets?
Most of them I just greeted as "Mr. Bird."
I saw this one as I peered over the railing to the bush land exhibit area below. He was standing so beautifully still I had to snap his picture.
These are black swans which were once thought not to exist. I love the way the feathers on their rumps are curly, but I still miss seeing the mute swans I know best. Silly question: if a mute swan mates with a black one, are the resulting cygnets polka dotted or solid grey?
It was at this point that I told dearest I had to stop as my phone was ringing. When I answered it, my mother was on the other end, hysterically telling me she was planning to evacuate in advance of what would become Hurricane Isaac. I spent twenty minutes or so calming her down and convincing her that her decision was a good one. I am sure that anyone who lived in south-east Louisiana or coastal Mississippi when Hurricane Katrina came through suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and neither my mother nor I are any different. The media does not help the situation during hurricane season, when they function as fear-mongers first and information disseminators second. The rest of the weekend was spent with the worry of Hurricane Isaac in the back of my mind, but I was at the zoo, surrounded by birds in flight, so after I assured my mother that she was right in making the decision, I re-focused my attention on my immediate adventure.
And I looked up to find a conference was going on. I think these were the birds dearest made a joke about election night, but I cannot remember what kind of birds they were or what the joke was.
I have no idea what these ducks are officially classified as, and my picture does not do them justice, but their most distinguishing feature are their bright electric blue bills.
After exiting the aviary, we wandered through the zoo, stopping here and there to see what we could. This was as much of the echidna as I saw. I promise there is an echidna's back hidden in the grass in this picture.
We saw kookaburras,
other birds,
including an emu,
a tapir about to get his dinner,
and creatures I christened "pen & ink warthogs," for they looked exactly like a pen & ink illustration come to life.
Then it was on to see more birds, which really looked like a flower arrangement from far away,
a lion who sharpened his claws just the way my house cat did,
snow leopards,
ring-tailed lemurs,
and this something in a barrel -- I really have no idea what this was, but I thought it was interesting all curled up in the barrel.
We passed muster when stopped by the meerkat sentry
so we could meet the rest of the gang.
We discussed the current market price for bass with some connoisseurs,
and met even more birds,
including fairy penguins (whose classification has officially be changed to "Little Penguins", but I think the older name is better, so that is what I will continue to call them),
and a Sumatran tiger.
On the whole, it was a great day at the zoo. We wandered through the three gift shops, in search of the perfect cuddly for my newest cousin, but could not find anything that was suitable, so we left with only our pictures and memories, which may be the best way to visit a zoo anyway.
After the zoo, we set out in search of dinner. Neither of us had any real idea where we wanted to go, but when dearest brought up the map of the area on his iPad, Sammy's Trattoria, Bar & Pizzeria caught my eye and taste buds. Dearest dismissed that as being too ordinary for a birthday dinner, so we kept looking, driving further down Sydney Road, through the area known as Brunswick and into Coburg. In Coburg, we kept passing pastry shops and my mind wandered from dinner to dessert. We finally decided we had gone about as far as we could, so we turned around. Sydney Road is not unlike Tulane Avenue in that there is no real place to make a U-Turn, so we finally decided that the best way to head back the way we came was to make a series of left turns. In so doing we wound up on a street running parallel to Sydney Road, and when we pulled into a parking lot to get our bearings, dearest was intrigued by a sign painted on the side of a building "Bluebird Records." He had to investigate. I was getting a bit cold and felt the beginnings of a headache coming on so I let dearest investigate on his own. Dearest was soon back, with no records as he never did find a record shop, but he brought Greek pastries for a celebration, and truth be told, I was happier with the thought of pastries.
Back on track, we managed to get back to Sydney Road and set off in the direction we had come earlier. When we were back to the Brunswick end, we decided to park as soon as we could find a suitable location and set off on foot in search of dinner. Dearest had seen a "continental grocery" in passing and a sign in front of a pub caught my eye. We headed to the grocery first, where we explored an entire aisle of pasta!!! and bought some gluten-free corn and rice flour cavatelli, then I wandered to the pastry counter and found several things worth trying. Dearest said I should just pretend it was my birthday and indulge myself accordingly. So I did. I finally decided on one Struffoli, two Sfogliatelle, and two pieces of Turkish Delight. After dearest found some interesting beers, we checked out and headed in search of dinner. We wandered into the pub that had caught my eye -- it was called The Penny Black -- but decided that it did not have a menu that was what we wanted. In the end, we decided on the first place that had appealed to me -- Sammy's Trattoria, Bar & Pizzeria. We were not disappointed!
We split an order of focaccia, which was a cross between a cheesy-garlic bread and a cheese quesadilla, as an appetizer. For mains, dearest had a Napoletano pizza topped with olives, capers, garlic and oregano, and I had an Americano pizza, just a fancy description of a pepperoni pizza. The starter was the best thing I have had in a while, and I am still working on a way to re-create it at home. This is why I need to have dinner parties! I need to be able to share my experiments with more than just dearest.
After lingering through dinner, we were on our way back home. We came home the Cranbourne route, stopping for dearest to make a run through JB HiFi -- he was looking for a new release album, and found it before getting home about 12 hours after we left.
On the whole it was a fantastic birthday celebration. And the pastries lasted the rest of the weekend. It's a good thing I'm not in Brunswick/Coburg often, I would be at the pastry shops everyday indulging in one thing or another.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
A Bit of Brownie Bliss
Dearest's birthday was last Friday, and I had planned to bake a spice cake with cream filling and fluffy frosting, but I only had 3 eggs and I needed those for the Macaroni Mickey Mouse I had planned for his birthday dinner.
Then dearest decided what he wanted was an indulgent lunch out at a local cafe with an eclectic menu, featuring a large number of vegetarian options. On the way home from the indulgent lunch (a tofu burger and a latte for dearest, a chicken & gravy roll and a white grape & passion fruit mineral water for me, and an order of veggie wedges split between us), walked down to the bank, passing a record shop on the way -- dearest bought Hugh Laurie's Let Them Talk album based solely on the photo on the back of a New Orleans Sewerage & Water Board Meter Box Cover. Next door to the record shop is a bakery, and I stopped in to see what was on offer for a birthday-ish dessert. I found eclairs (and a meringue caterpillar) and picked those up.
Even with the eclairs, I still felt the need to bake something over the celebratory weekend. I had thought I wanted to bake cookies, but I have noticed that I get so sick of looking at and shaping the cookie dough long before they are finished that don't want to eat any for a couple of days, so I checked out recipes for bar-style cookies or brownies. While searching, I came across a recipe for Chocolate-Buttermilk Brownies in one of my three editions of the Better Homes & Gardens New Cookbook, the 2007 Celebrating the Promise Limited 14th Edition to be exact, and I thought "excellent! I have leftover buttermilk that is going to go bad if I do not find a use for it." And thus, my search for a celebratory dessert was complete. The brownies complimented a dinner of tacos and Spanish rice very well, and the leftovers will carry the birthday celebration through the week.
Chocolate-Buttermilk Brownies
Brownies
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup butter
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 cup water
2 eggs
1/2 cup buttermilk (or soured milk)
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
Frosting
1/4 cup butter
3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
3 tablespoons buttermilk (or soured milk)
2 1/4 cups powdered sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
Then dearest decided what he wanted was an indulgent lunch out at a local cafe with an eclectic menu, featuring a large number of vegetarian options. On the way home from the indulgent lunch (a tofu burger and a latte for dearest, a chicken & gravy roll and a white grape & passion fruit mineral water for me, and an order of veggie wedges split between us), walked down to the bank, passing a record shop on the way -- dearest bought Hugh Laurie's Let Them Talk album based solely on the photo on the back of a New Orleans Sewerage & Water Board Meter Box Cover. Next door to the record shop is a bakery, and I stopped in to see what was on offer for a birthday-ish dessert. I found eclairs (and a meringue caterpillar) and picked those up.
Even with the eclairs, I still felt the need to bake something over the celebratory weekend. I had thought I wanted to bake cookies, but I have noticed that I get so sick of looking at and shaping the cookie dough long before they are finished that don't want to eat any for a couple of days, so I checked out recipes for bar-style cookies or brownies. While searching, I came across a recipe for Chocolate-Buttermilk Brownies in one of my three editions of the Better Homes & Gardens New Cookbook, the 2007 Celebrating the Promise Limited 14th Edition to be exact, and I thought "excellent! I have leftover buttermilk that is going to go bad if I do not find a use for it." And thus, my search for a celebratory dessert was complete. The brownies complimented a dinner of tacos and Spanish rice very well, and the leftovers will carry the birthday celebration through the week.
Chocolate-Buttermilk Brownies
Brownies
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup butter
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 cup water
2 eggs
1/2 cup buttermilk (or soured milk)
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
- Preheat oven to 350F
- Grease 13x9x2-inch baking pan
- In large mixing bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking soda and salt.
- In saucepan, combine butter, cocoa powder and water; Bring just to boiling over medium heat, stirring constantly.
- Add cocoa mixture to flour mixture and beat on medium speed until thoroughly combined.
- Add eggs, buttermilk and vanilla, beating for one minute. Batter will be thin.
- Pour batter into prepared pan; Bake 30-35 minutes or until toothpick inserted in center of cake comes out clean.
- While brownies are baking, prepare frosting
Frosting
1/4 cup butter
3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
3 tablespoons buttermilk (or soured milk)
2 1/4 cups powdered sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
- In saucepan, combine butter, cocoa powder and buttermilk and bring just to boiling, stirring constantly.
- Pour cocoa mixture into mixing bowl.
- Add vanilla and powdered sugar and beat until smooth; Frosting should be a pourable consistency.
- When brownies are done, remove from oven and pour frosting over top, spreading evenly.
- Cool brownies in pan on wire rack at least one hour before cutting into 24 bars.
My Observations:
- I chose this recipe because I had buttermilk leftover that needed to be used (and I always need options for things to do with leftover buttermilk), and in order to avoid having less than 1/4 cup left, I actually used about 2/3 cup in the brownies and about 1/4 cup for the frosting rather than the amounts recommended in the recipe.
- I had to add a bit of water to the frosting keep it a pourable consistency.
- My brownies mounded in the middle during baking and as a result, the frosting kind of pooled along the edges of the pan. They collapsed as they cooled, but as the frosting had set, I did not try to re-distribute it.
- The frosting will sizzle when it hits the sides of the pan, and will run down around the brownies.
- My brownies cracked pretty seriously in the middle, and the frosting ran down to fill the cracks, but when I cut the brownies, the frosting oozed out like a lava cake producing a very yummy surprise!
- The recipe says it makes 24 brownies at 244 calories/35 g carbohydrates per brownie, but we decided that 24 brownies would be too small to be satisfying, so we only cut 12.
- You will need a fork and a plate to eat these brownies but you will be rewarded, they are rich, dense and fudgey, definitely the best homemade brownies I have ever had! After many tests, I really find that cocoa makes a better baked chocolate dessert than melted chocolate -- the end result is richer, denser, and moister.
- I was under the impression that any homemade brownies could never be as good as the ones made from a boxed mix. I was so very wrong. This recipe has spoiled boxed mix brownies for me forever.
Running with Dangerous Ideas
Our usual Monday night routine is to come home after my tap class and relax. Dearest likes to watch Q and A -- a Question and Answer panel show that I can only assume must have had actual questions and actual answers at one time but now is really nothing more than a televised talk-radio show, where the audience, whether in the studio or via emailed videos or tweets, asks questions of the panelists based on the top media stories of the week (note I did not say top news stories, for in my experience the top news stories are rarely the ones promoted by the media and are usually not controversial enough to make for a good give-and-take-but-mostly-give-lively-proclamation-of-opinions-but-definitely-nothing-approaching-an-actual-conversation). I can take or leave Q and A, but dearest enjoys it so we watch it. Well, to be more precise, dearest watches and I do my best to ignore it.
A couple of Mondays ago, I caught the tail-end of the show. I had purposely avoided most of it because one of the panelists was Germaine Greer and I cannot stand her. But as I said, I heard the last bit of this episode, which featured a panel of authors invited to speak at the Melbourne Writers Festival.
The question that I heard asked was about the phenomenal success of the book 50 Shades of Grey, and its sequels (which I freely admit I have not read, and have no intention of reading).
Yes, my imagination ran away with the idea of “gateway reading.” But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if this was not something we should encourage. When I was working, a co-worker once proudly proclaimed that she had not read a book in over twenty years. I could barely contain my shock and disgust at that statement. How can anyone not have read a book for twenty years? And how can that person be proud to admit it? I feel like a failure when it takes me more than twenty days to slog through a book! I certainly could never go twenty years without reading a single book.
I grew up in a family that valued reading. My parents were voracious readers and tried to share their love of reading with their children. They definitely succeed with me. I am fairly sure they succeeded with my brothers as well. When we would go out to dinner as a family, one of us would always stop at the front door and ask the others “books or no books?” A waitress at a local restaurant got to know us as “the book family” and stopped by, even if we were not seated in her section to check out what we were reading. It was very rarely that we were seen anywhere without a book, and even now as I prepare to walk down to the grocery, I have to stop myself from dropping a book in my backpack. Books are not accessories or diversions to me, they are as necessary as food, water, clothing and shelter. I am not complete without a book within easy reach.
The reactions of the general public showed that this view of reading as essential to life was not shared by most people. This worries me. What are people doing if they are not reading? How does anyone get through a day without reading? Where have we failed as a society?
The more I thought about the idea of “gateway reading” and book addicts, the more I decided that I am one. The idea appeals to me because I can see myself in it -- maybe not freebasing Fitzgerald, but still, I am a book addict. As I thought more and more about it, I decided that my gateway book had to be one of the collection of Beatrix Potter books I treasured as a child (and were packed in the boxes to move with me). I could not get enough of The Tale of Two Bad Mice or The Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit, and was known to sit on my closet floor in the gathering twilight and read both of them over and over. My love of reading only grew from there, through my mother’s hand-me-down Cherry Ames books, to my own teen-age-trash Sweet Valley High books, to now when I cannot walk past a bookstore without stopping to see if there is something new and interesting, or old and familiar on offer.
We, as a society, need to encourage people to read more. Dearest often quotes his mother saying “it doesn’t matter what people read, only that they read.” We need to make sure we instill that thought not only in or children, but in adults too. Why can’t more people bring books to dinners out? Why not have designated reading areas in restaurants, planes, waiting rooms, bars? Why not have public spaces designed with the reader in mind -- well-lit and furnished with benches or cozy booths to encourage quick chapters in the park at lunch or romantic encounters over a shared volume of Browning? Why can’t we encourage “gateway reading?”
My imagination took the idea of “gateway reading” to fanciful places, but why must it be so? Why don’t we live in a society that values reading more than posting status updates? Why aren’t celebrities ever photographed reading books? Why is reading thought to be shameful? Wouldn’t it be a better place if Jane Eyre or Arthur Dent were on the covers of magazines rather than Snooki or the Kardashians?
A couple of Mondays ago, I caught the tail-end of the show. I had purposely avoided most of it because one of the panelists was Germaine Greer and I cannot stand her. But as I said, I heard the last bit of this episode, which featured a panel of authors invited to speak at the Melbourne Writers Festival.
The question that I heard asked was about the phenomenal success of the book 50 Shades of Grey, and its sequels (which I freely admit I have not read, and have no intention of reading).
TONY JONES: Well, let's stick with 50 Shades of Grey. First the original question and I’d would like to hear Sefi. Why do you - to what do you attribute the astonishing success of this series of novels?
[. . .]
SEFI ATTA: At the same time hopefully as well. You know, it was clever marketing and good for her. I haven't read the book. You know, I don't know where it would lead. I don't think there is such a thing as gateway reading that would lead from casual reading to more serious reading.
Q and A Monday, 27 August 2012, “Mutilation and the Media Generation”At this point my mind wandered from the success of New York Times Bestselling pulp novels to the idea of “gateway reading.” In my head I flushed this out imagining serial readers at a Twelve-Step Program Meeting admitting that they started with the P.D. Eastman and Dr. Seuss books and then moved on to heavier stuff like E.L. Konigsburg and Judy Blume, and before they knew it they were addicted. They came home one night to find friends holding their dog-eared copy of War and Peace saying “This is an intervention, we have to stop your reading.” I had visions of book-junkies gambling their rent money on copies of Hemingway or Joyce in back alleys or “dime-chapters” of Dickens or Conan Doyle. I saw children hiding their stash of Dumas or Garcia Marquez under their mattresses so their parents can’t find them; gangs of addicts getting their fix by spending lost weekends in libraries.
Panelists: Germaine Greer, Anthony Appiah, Sefi Atta and Simon Callow
Yes, my imagination ran away with the idea of “gateway reading.” But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if this was not something we should encourage. When I was working, a co-worker once proudly proclaimed that she had not read a book in over twenty years. I could barely contain my shock and disgust at that statement. How can anyone not have read a book for twenty years? And how can that person be proud to admit it? I feel like a failure when it takes me more than twenty days to slog through a book! I certainly could never go twenty years without reading a single book.
I grew up in a family that valued reading. My parents were voracious readers and tried to share their love of reading with their children. They definitely succeed with me. I am fairly sure they succeeded with my brothers as well. When we would go out to dinner as a family, one of us would always stop at the front door and ask the others “books or no books?” A waitress at a local restaurant got to know us as “the book family” and stopped by, even if we were not seated in her section to check out what we were reading. It was very rarely that we were seen anywhere without a book, and even now as I prepare to walk down to the grocery, I have to stop myself from dropping a book in my backpack. Books are not accessories or diversions to me, they are as necessary as food, water, clothing and shelter. I am not complete without a book within easy reach.
The reactions of the general public showed that this view of reading as essential to life was not shared by most people. This worries me. What are people doing if they are not reading? How does anyone get through a day without reading? Where have we failed as a society?
The more I thought about the idea of “gateway reading” and book addicts, the more I decided that I am one. The idea appeals to me because I can see myself in it -- maybe not freebasing Fitzgerald, but still, I am a book addict. As I thought more and more about it, I decided that my gateway book had to be one of the collection of Beatrix Potter books I treasured as a child (and were packed in the boxes to move with me). I could not get enough of The Tale of Two Bad Mice or The Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit, and was known to sit on my closet floor in the gathering twilight and read both of them over and over. My love of reading only grew from there, through my mother’s hand-me-down Cherry Ames books, to my own teen-age-trash Sweet Valley High books, to now when I cannot walk past a bookstore without stopping to see if there is something new and interesting, or old and familiar on offer.
We, as a society, need to encourage people to read more. Dearest often quotes his mother saying “it doesn’t matter what people read, only that they read.” We need to make sure we instill that thought not only in or children, but in adults too. Why can’t more people bring books to dinners out? Why not have designated reading areas in restaurants, planes, waiting rooms, bars? Why not have public spaces designed with the reader in mind -- well-lit and furnished with benches or cozy booths to encourage quick chapters in the park at lunch or romantic encounters over a shared volume of Browning? Why can’t we encourage “gateway reading?”
My imagination took the idea of “gateway reading” to fanciful places, but why must it be so? Why don’t we live in a society that values reading more than posting status updates? Why aren’t celebrities ever photographed reading books? Why is reading thought to be shameful? Wouldn’t it be a better place if Jane Eyre or Arthur Dent were on the covers of magazines rather than Snooki or the Kardashians?
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Shuffling Around
One the the things that was boxed up and shipped with my belongings when I moved to Australia was my pair of tap shoes.
Like many girls, I took both tap and ballet classes growing up. I stopped them when I determined that, despite my fairy-tale dreams, I was not destined to be a professional dancer. This is for two main reasons: (1) I am not built to be a dancer, my center of gravity is in the wrong place, and perhaps more importantly, (2) I lack natural rhythm and timing.
Those reasons aside, I love tap dancing. I admitted before I choreographed a tap-dance routine to the rhythm of the copier in my office (and I really enjoyed practicing it when I wore shoes that had a hard sole so that I could mimic the sounds of tap shoes). Prior to Hurricane Katrina, I decided I wanted to get back into tap dancing -- all recreational, no recitals with no pressure to perform in front of people. I just wanted to have fun, and maybe get some exercise I actually enjoyed. I enquired of no less than 20 dance schools in and around New Orleans as to whether they offered adult, recreational tap classes. Not one of them did. I was astounded. I was willing to throw money at them, and they did not want it. I finally found an adult tap class offered by the Parish Rec Center and enrolled on the spot. A week into the term, I began to look forward to my Saturday morning tap classes. I was having great fun.
The gym that was home to the classes was destroyed by a tornado that tore through the area in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, and the classes were no longer offered. All the same, I kept my tap shoes on the shelf in my closet, and when I packed up my stuff for moving around the world, I deemed the shoes worthy of being included in the shipment. A few weeks ago, I was cleaning up in my bedroom and saw the tap shoes on the closet shelf. On an admittedly dilatory whim, I put on the shoes and headed to the kitchen and started tapping out a routine.
That was all it took. My feet had a bad case of dance fever. And I was not going to be satisfied with infrequent try-ons and play-sessions. I wanted tap classes. Off I went to the Internet to see if such a thing was offered anywhere around my new home. Lo and behold! There was!!
Recreational adult tap classes are offered by a dance studio within walking distance of my house on Monday nights. Even better, the studio offered a try-it-before-you-buy-it session. I headed to the first session of the new term and was hooked. I am still not built to be a dancer, and neither my natural rhythm nor timing have improved since I was a teenager, but I still love tap dancing.
It's been a while and the steps are slowly coming back to my brain and my feet, but I am having a great time. The tap shoes have not been back on the closet shelf and it looks like they may not for quite a time.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Winning, Not Losing
"This is one of two 1 minute-30 [second] periods in her life where she can produce something extraordinary."
That was the quote from one of the announcers, building up to an Australian gymnast's floor routine in the Women's Team All-Around Competition.
I understand the desire to make moments in the Olympic more dramatic for the viewers at home. But really, does the announcer honestly expect us to believe that this 17-year old will never amount to anything more than a wanna-be-gold-medalist? She will never graduate from college? She will never get married? Never have children? Never stand in her kitchen and make a fantastic dinner for unexpected company from nothing but end-of-the-week pantry staples? Never donate her time to a charity? Never do something for someone with nothing expected in return? In the rest of her life she never have a moment to be extraordinary again? Really? Really????
Someone should be taxing the Olympic announcers/color commentators for their use of hyperbole. Yes, it is dramatic. Sports by their very nature are dramatic. The drama is there for the broadcasting, it does not need to be enhanced or manufactured by announcers in need of something to say. The drama comes from the events themselves -- there will always be someone who finishes first, someone who scores more points, or someone who goes further.
But that does not mean the person who finishes immediately behind the first finisher has lost, they have come in second. Second place is not LOSING a gold medal, it's WINNING a silver medal. Football teams in the US are fond of saying "On any given Sunday, any team can beat any other team." It's the nature of sports. The best competitor is the one that performs best on that day, at that moment. That does not mean that coming in second is losing.
As I have gotten older, my patience for poor losers has worn thin. But what I have discovered with this Olympics is by and large it's not the athletes who annoy me with complaints that they lost, it's the announcers and press brainwashing people into the belief that finishing with anything less than a World Record Gold Medal is a loss.
One of the stories covered before the Olympics started was that of a pregnant Malaysian shooter. Her competition was on the first day of the games. She finished 34th of 56 shooters, out of consideration to move forward to the next round. Her Olympics were over before noon on the first day. She was thrilled she did that well. She was not a loser. She was a winner.
Her story was not covered after the Olympics started. Once she was out in the first round -- once she had lost -- her story was no longer dramatic or newsworthy. The chance for column-inches greatness was gone. The fact that she was not unhappy with her results doesn't matter. To the commentators, it ceased to be dramatic and therefore not worth discussing.
The Olympic Creed reads:
That was the quote from one of the announcers, building up to an Australian gymnast's floor routine in the Women's Team All-Around Competition.
I understand the desire to make moments in the Olympic more dramatic for the viewers at home. But really, does the announcer honestly expect us to believe that this 17-year old will never amount to anything more than a wanna-be-gold-medalist? She will never graduate from college? She will never get married? Never have children? Never stand in her kitchen and make a fantastic dinner for unexpected company from nothing but end-of-the-week pantry staples? Never donate her time to a charity? Never do something for someone with nothing expected in return? In the rest of her life she never have a moment to be extraordinary again? Really? Really????
Someone should be taxing the Olympic announcers/color commentators for their use of hyperbole. Yes, it is dramatic. Sports by their very nature are dramatic. The drama is there for the broadcasting, it does not need to be enhanced or manufactured by announcers in need of something to say. The drama comes from the events themselves -- there will always be someone who finishes first, someone who scores more points, or someone who goes further.
But that does not mean the person who finishes immediately behind the first finisher has lost, they have come in second. Second place is not LOSING a gold medal, it's WINNING a silver medal. Football teams in the US are fond of saying "On any given Sunday, any team can beat any other team." It's the nature of sports. The best competitor is the one that performs best on that day, at that moment. That does not mean that coming in second is losing.
As I have gotten older, my patience for poor losers has worn thin. But what I have discovered with this Olympics is by and large it's not the athletes who annoy me with complaints that they lost, it's the announcers and press brainwashing people into the belief that finishing with anything less than a World Record Gold Medal is a loss.
One of the stories covered before the Olympics started was that of a pregnant Malaysian shooter. Her competition was on the first day of the games. She finished 34th of 56 shooters, out of consideration to move forward to the next round. Her Olympics were over before noon on the first day. She was thrilled she did that well. She was not a loser. She was a winner.
Her story was not covered after the Olympics started. Once she was out in the first round -- once she had lost -- her story was no longer dramatic or newsworthy. The chance for column-inches greatness was gone. The fact that she was not unhappy with her results doesn't matter. To the commentators, it ceased to be dramatic and therefore not worth discussing.
The Olympic Creed reads:
The most important thing in Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered, but to have fought well.I think many of the commentators need a reminder of that.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Taking the Pie
Last Friday morning, New Orleans institution Hubig's Pies burned in a five alarm fire. No one was injured and the company has vowed it will rebuild and return it's iconic fried fruit pies to store shelves.
Nearly everyone in New Orleans was a fan of Hubig's Pies -- even those who said they weren't could usually be pressed into admitted a secret love for the paper-wrapped, frosted treats. My own personal favorite flavor was chocolate, but in a pinch peach or lemon would do just as well. I never went past a display without checking for a coconut for my Dad.
New Orleanians cried out for the return of the pies in their desire for post-Katrina normalcy. The owners had decided not to attempt a come-back after the factory was devastated by floodwater, but so many citizens demanded the pies that the owners felt they had no choice but to respond. It's a well-known secret that if you can flag down the delivery person before he makes it to the stores, you have first pick of the pies and can buy them directly from the delivery man. When the first pies were delivered after Katrina, the delivery men could not make it to the front doors of the stores without being mobbed for pies. It took well over a month for most stores to get a full order of pies delivered.
Hubig's are a local tradition, something uniquely New Orleans. Deliveries have always been limited to the distance a truck can drive out and back in one day. Only after Katrina did the company start shipping pies via next-day delivery to customers who purchased custom order cases through the company's website. It's a very local, very New Orleans company.
Nearly everyone mourned last Friday morning when they heard about the fire. I know I stayed up far too late into the wee hours of my Saturday morning following the story as it unfolded on the other side of the world. A part of me was heartbroken as one more bit of the city I call home was forcibly ripped from my hands and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I watched on live (streaming) television as yet another icon was destroyed.
I was overjoyed when the owners announced they vowed to rebuild and return the palm-sized bits of bliss to New Orleans shops and supermarkets. I was thrilled when I saw on the website that I could be an "angel investor" and pre-order a case of pies to help with the rebuilding efforts. Even my Australian husband is happy to help by purchasing a Hubig's t-shirt in support of the rebuilding.
The amazing outpouring of support for Hubig's Pies astounded me. And that's why I was disgusted to see this:
$500 for a Hubig's Pie is insane!
I would not be as disgusted if I knew for a fact that the difference between the $500 and the $1.30 (including sales tax) purchase price was being donated to the rebuilding effort. But I seriously doubt it will be. I cannot imagine the kind of person who would be so incredibly greedy and self-serving. It is worse than looting. I cannot even think of anything to accurately describe how disgusting this is.
Nearly everyone in New Orleans was a fan of Hubig's Pies -- even those who said they weren't could usually be pressed into admitted a secret love for the paper-wrapped, frosted treats. My own personal favorite flavor was chocolate, but in a pinch peach or lemon would do just as well. I never went past a display without checking for a coconut for my Dad.
New Orleanians cried out for the return of the pies in their desire for post-Katrina normalcy. The owners had decided not to attempt a come-back after the factory was devastated by floodwater, but so many citizens demanded the pies that the owners felt they had no choice but to respond. It's a well-known secret that if you can flag down the delivery person before he makes it to the stores, you have first pick of the pies and can buy them directly from the delivery man. When the first pies were delivered after Katrina, the delivery men could not make it to the front doors of the stores without being mobbed for pies. It took well over a month for most stores to get a full order of pies delivered.
Hubig's are a local tradition, something uniquely New Orleans. Deliveries have always been limited to the distance a truck can drive out and back in one day. Only after Katrina did the company start shipping pies via next-day delivery to customers who purchased custom order cases through the company's website. It's a very local, very New Orleans company.
Nearly everyone mourned last Friday morning when they heard about the fire. I know I stayed up far too late into the wee hours of my Saturday morning following the story as it unfolded on the other side of the world. A part of me was heartbroken as one more bit of the city I call home was forcibly ripped from my hands and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I watched on live (streaming) television as yet another icon was destroyed.
I was overjoyed when the owners announced they vowed to rebuild and return the palm-sized bits of bliss to New Orleans shops and supermarkets. I was thrilled when I saw on the website that I could be an "angel investor" and pre-order a case of pies to help with the rebuilding efforts. Even my Australian husband is happy to help by purchasing a Hubig's t-shirt in support of the rebuilding.
The amazing outpouring of support for Hubig's Pies astounded me. And that's why I was disgusted to see this:
I would not be as disgusted if I knew for a fact that the difference between the $500 and the $1.30 (including sales tax) purchase price was being donated to the rebuilding effort. But I seriously doubt it will be. I cannot imagine the kind of person who would be so incredibly greedy and self-serving. It is worse than looting. I cannot even think of anything to accurately describe how disgusting this is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)