Crooked timber? 

A lovely path: heading in one direction, we find it littered with branches, on the return trek, it is littered with... other things. 

Law School: a place where enduring friendships emerge and where you're supposed to learn how to think like a lawyer. These are not mutually exclusive.

If someday you are lucky enough to have a class as together and as bonded as my Torts section from the Fall is, you don’t have to imagine you will never again come together as a group when the semester ends.

In spite of horrendous time/place scheduling issues, a reunion was indeed orchestrated and it took place at the Orpheum last night. [For non-Madison readers, this is an old movie-house-turned-restaurant (and theater).]

It was perfect. You’re all terrific. Thank you!

Are they announcing our arrival? 

The table is set... let the festivities begin! 

Posting on a quiet Friday afternoon

Yesterday, in an email exchange with a blogger and friend, we noted how little we actually knew about each other. One could argue that bloggers are people in search of stages, with not always a very interesting story to tell, that they seek audiences, that they reveal too much for no good reason.

And yet, my blogger friends (at least a good many of them) are some of the most guarded people I know (me included). If Ocean speaks for me, it does so quietly, I think, and the story it tells often is not an obvious one.

And isn’t it always like that with people? How many of their stories do we really know? I am reminded of a conversation I had a few years back with a relative of mine (whose identity and relationship to me, for obvious reasons, shall remain an Ocean mystery). We were sitting around a kitchen table, talking (this is a favorite spot and manner of communicating for me) and suddenly he got up, paced back and forth, faced me and said: “I killed a person once. You never knew this about me, did you? With my own bare hands.”

No need to worry, I do not think I am predisposed, by virtue of my relation to him, to commit heinous acts of this sort, yet it did strike me then that not only did I really not know of this particular episode of violence in his life, it is not the only thing that I did not know.

It seems to me that the dissatisfied person is the one who cannot live with that degree of mystery. The calm person accepts this inability of ours to find out much about the other, through blogs, conversations, or otherwise, even as he or she enjoys both the experience of perusing what little information is made available, and the experience of putting forth a little of his or her own life for someone else to take a look at.

A post card from Madison: rewriting the month of February

A reader from Massachusetts sent me an evocative note describing an early February outdoor ritual that she has put in place, and now I am wondering if I have been unfair to this month. She is right – there is something about the light outdoors that is a unique February phenomenon. And it is beautiful.

I cannot show it off well, not from a simple post of two photos that I took this morning during a walk along the Highlands, but if you look at the play of sunshine against the trees and snow, you’ll understand that there is a magic there and it does not appear in March, or April, or May. It belongs to February.

the tones are gently calming, the harshness has been put aside until next year... 

a misty blue sky and ink shadows on the snow 

Role reversal

I received a notice of a preferred customer sale at Sherry-Lehmann (one of the top wine merchants in NY). Apparently I have been selected as one of their “Best Clients.” This surprised me, as in the last twelve months, I have purchased a total of 4 bottles of wine there, none costing more than $20. My love for good wine must have wafted over from Wisconsin – in other words, they could smell a sucker from a thousand miles away.

I left the brochure on the kitchen counter for several days, thinking it is a bit ridiculous to purchase wine in NY, given that Steve’s in Madison sells perfectly acceptable wines. But I am mad at Steve’s because they have not restocked their wonderfully inexpensive yet full-bodied Sicilian Cusumano Chardonnay 03 and so I picked up the brochure from Sherry-Lehmann this morning and examined it more closely, reveling in my Preferred Customer status.

And I was tempted. Wouldn’t you be? A special private shipment is coming in from the south of France of Les Romains, Terroirs Historiques – Grand Cru quality at an every day price. “Light, pale yellow gold…citrus fruits…Chardonnay richness…competes with many top Burgundies…” Say no more!

...full-bodied... every day price... tempting... 

I call.

You’re from Wisconsin? Madison Wisconsin?
Yep.

I used to live there. You probably were not even alive then… 1969 -72.
I was alive.

So you want a case of Les Romains?
Yep.

Don’t you have a good local wine store there?
Yes, but I am mad at them for not having any more of the Sicilian Cusumano Chardonnay 03.

So you want us to ship you a case of this from the South of France?
Could you please? Isn’t it a nice, full-bodied wine with citrus fruits and Chardonnay richness?

Oh yeah. It’s a good enough wine. It’ll come sometime in mid-March. It’s still in France. I used to live right off of Park Street, near the Belt-way.
That would be Beltline. So do you have anything else, as long as I have you on the line?

Well yes, sure, but do you want my advice? Go to your local wine merchant and buy some wine from him. We’ll get this case out to you soon though. Take care now!

Why would I undertake the incredibly unrewarding task of simul-blogging the Apprentice?

Because I had a terribly long week and I need a diversion. It’s that simple. Ann suggested it, and it seemed preferable to surfing through yet another three dozen blogs and then falling asleep on the kitchen floor (remember: I have had almost no sleep in the last twenty four hours). Why not simply read a book? I need a new influx of reading material. Tomorrow I am sending out a dozen emails with the Q: have you read anything recently that you’ve loved?

Here’s the caveat: I have never seen the Apprentice. I am an Apprentice novice. I know about The Trump of course, and that’s reason enough not to ever turn on the show. Another issue that I have to face: I am so tired that I am concerned that I will not stay awake long enough to even see the beginning of the Apprentice, let alone the conclusion (is there a conclusion? does someone win? I do not know). If I suddenly stop, forgive me. Imagine that I am then asleep. Most likely on the kitchen floor.

CONTINUED:
Sixteen candidates are left. Who will be fired next? Oh. We only lose one tonight? Fifteen to go? To be resolved in fifteen weeks of shows? The Apprentice seems terribly long suddenly. Like a commitment to a semester of classes.

Okay. Suddenly someone is playing the guitar. It’s Danny. I don’t get it already. I am fired as a simlublogger.

No? Let me continue then.

A lot of people are talking about feelings. And teams! How did I miss that? Are there teams? Okay, I am rooting for this one! (Is there another?) (I am in over my head. On the Apprentice?! Yes, my IQ is higher than 100!)

CONTINUED:

Here’s Mr.Trump. The pink tie, the horrible hair, the bad performance – it makes me think that this man is famous ONLY because he is rich. Oh. That’s not an original point?

Now we are talking about Nescafe. I hear French-style music in the background. Actually I am reliving a nightmare: I have stepped into a class and I seem to have missed the first dozen lectures, yet I still have to take the exam. This is the Apprentice for me: the nightmare class that I joined mid-stream. Tomorrow I will get one hundred emails telling me I have completely misunderstood the show (ie not studied well enough for the exam).

This show makes me feel like a failure even though I have not been fired.

I am only twenty minutes into it. I know! I can fire myself from simulblogging!

Ocean, YOU ARE FIRED!

Stuffed with rose jelly, glazed, and with a sprinkling of candied orange peel

My sister writes from Poland and reminds me that today is Fat Thursday – the day everyone in the country eats one (actually more like two or three) of these:

glazed until it glistens 

And now I know I have come full circle, because I remember blogging about Fat Thursday last year in February. If I began inserting reruns of posts would anyone notice? [This is merely a hypothetical question; Ocean remains true to its posted date.] Who digs into archives these days, given the wealth of current, freshly posted blog material out there?

Blogs seem tired if they have an older date attached to them, possibly because we associate blogs with commentaries on developing news stories. If I click on to someone’s blog today and I see a January post mark, I am disappointed. I think to myself – how stale! So why prowl around someone's even older material? And yet, believe me, my own Fat Thursday this year looks pretty much like my Fat Thursday did last year. And I am certain that people are standing in line in Poland waiting to buy a dozen doughnuts right now. Just as they did last year and the year before.

Last night’s conversation over burgers on the Square

For some, it was a theoretical musing. For others, a very real dilemma:

In a search for meaningful relationships in life, which is the better choice: a passionate engagement with a person who has obvious faults, ill-suited to your needs and temperament, or a calm and steady affection for someone who inspires little else?

[Two of us gave a thumbs down to either option, preferring the risk of continued search than an engagement with mediocrity or petulance. Our third burger-eater is still waffling.]

Satin Pajamas

If you're like me and crave blog-terruptions when working late at night, may I suggest taking a flight over to the European best-blog awards (aka the Satin Pajama Awards)? The winners, announced this Tuesday, are worth a visit and if you want to completely abandon yourself to blogo-mania, you can spend a wonderful night just following the various European links found on these sites. Yes, I know, why stay up all night to work if you're going to be so easily distracted? Why indeed...

(If you follow the blog commentary on the awards themselves, you'll note some regional sniping and grousing over which country produces the fairest of the blogs. Who says blog-biting is a product of the American right - left divide...)

Poles on the Pope

It’s hard to take seriously those who say that the Pope is just struggling with a bout of the flu. Haven’t they noticed that the Pontiff cannot hold his torso in an upright position anymore? And still, the Poles have hope, as if their privilege will end with the end of the Polish papacy. Consider this statement by Walesa:

"Every person past the age of 50 has some ailments and that is why we must understand…''

Indeed, the Pope, Mr. Walesa and I (according to Mr. Walesa) are swimming in the same sea of ill health. It may be the only time a comment is made that places the three of us in the same boat over anything. Oh, and the fact that we’re Polish. That’s it. No other similarities are readily identifiable.

I’m ready for my Benidorm leave

It’s February in Wisconsin – possibly the worst combination of place and time-of-year on the planet. The groundhog may feel ready to reach into storage and take out his bathing trunks, but I know this is all show and no substance. We have ahead of us a number of months (not weeks)where the dominant color outside will be a muddy gray.

Now, were I an employee of the large British food chain, ASDA, things would be different. The company has implemented a package of work-leave options for employees that is consistent with the British government’s desire to move more employers toward a greater appreciation for the “work – life balance.” One of the many* offerings is the so-called Benidorm leave (named after a Spanish beach resort) – available for employees over 50 who wish to spend winter months in warmer climates. I qualify! Oh, could I go for a Benidorm leave!

* Other benefits include: time off to conceive a child (recognizing that some couples need a little extra time and space…), grandparents’ leave, the usual maternity and paternity stuff, time off for religious festivals, etc. For those who are willing to forgo a salary but still want their job held for them, the company offers even more extensive “time off from work” options. If you have been an employee for at least three years you can take between 6 months and two years off for a career break.

Back to community service: Ocean wants to take a stand on the matter of gifts and urge you to make friends with the post office

Tonya recently posted a question on her blog: what does one send in a care package to a (obviously favorite!) college kid?

It’s so easy to fill a box with pleasurable items for a kid. But why do we neglect ourselves? When Tonya and Ann were in a serious car crash, I wondered if either would have liked a care package… There is nothing (I think) as uplifting as an unexpected mail gift.

Perhaps I am reacting to a week-end of stress, but I do have this nagging thought: why is it that we celebrate and honor the obvious and neglect the days when a gift wrapped in tissue paper and decorated with a cloth ribbon would have meant a lot?

I am reminded of the obsessive gift giving I encountered while traveling in Japan last spring. Could it be that they have it figured out and we are still muddled and confused? Instead of selling trashy candy bars at airports and train stations, why aren’t vendors displaying gift boxes for us to purchase and deliver to the important people in our lives?

Hand me the mike, I have something to say! [Or not.]

Ann, who views herself as a political moderate, is saddened by the vicious way in which she is discussed and linked to by lefties.

I have to both agree and disagree with her. Because, as a “lefty*,” I have to say that, in the days when Ocean was more engaged in political commentary, I was plenty slandered for it on right-leaning blogs. Not many, but then Ocean addresses a smaller audience than Althouse.

But I do agree with one aspect of her post: I, too, am saddened by so much of what I read in blogs, and comment threads are even worse. It’s as if writers are grabbing the mike and running to the stage without having once practiced the song they are about to force onto the audience. At first it seems funny and then it just seems sad, desperate, irresponsible.

The blog is a stage and unfortunately anyone can grab the mike. And I admit, sometimes, in fascination, I log on and listen, mesmerized by the lack of restraint, a demonic pleasure derived from seeing someone so exposed, so childishly out of control. But the experience always leaves me feeling empty. Writing and ranting that is neither clever nor funny hardly qualifies as banter. And most often, it pushes the boundaries of meanness.

It’s not just the left or the right. Thoughtlessness and meanness are, unfortunately, universal. Though thankfully, I have come across far more kind posts and blogs than snarky ones. Now if only blogs had a two-hour delay before publication, so that people would have a chance to think about what they had just typed with that first rush of adrenaline and reconsider going up on stage with it...

* I think Ann would agree that I do not shy away from talking about politics with moderates or even (gasp) right-leaning types, though I routinely walk away from people who feel they have to shout their ideas and use screechy language to be heard.

Pittsburgh: sunny side up

Breakfast out on the town

Good morning, how many?
Table for four please.

Smoking or non?
[This is still an option in Pittsburgh]
Non.

I’ll take you'ns (Pittsburgh tries hard not to be outdone by y’all) there now. Coffee?
Yes, thanks. Could I have skim milk on the side?

Skim? We don’t have skim. Just regular 2%.
Okay, 2% then. Can you warm it up a little?

Oh gee, I don’t know. I’ll check. You want it warm. Okay, are you ready to order?
I'll have the oatmeal, please.

Just oatmeal?
Yes. Do you have honey?

Honey? I guess so. I’ll check that for you. Be right back.
(comes back with huge jar of honey)

The oatmeal comes with fresh fruit?
Sure: here’s some melon and pineapple chunks for ya.
[is there a worse combination?] Thanks.

Remaining guests to me: if you make one more difficult request, we’re leaving.

What’s so difficult about oatmeal with honey and fresh fruit (that are not pineapple or melon) and a cup of coffee with warm skim milk? I never even considered asking for a latté.

Pittsburgh reconsidered

Are sunsets over a suburban-commercial wasteland worth noting? You decide.

a room with a view? 

Redefining Pittsburgh

Allegheny, Monongahela, Ohio. Krispy Kreme, Starbucks, Max & Erma’s. Eat ‘n Park, King’s, Hoss’ – what do they all have in common? They surround you from all sides, like a fence with too few gates.

Looking out the Hampton Inn window, I’m tempted. Forget the highways, the world looks wintry-nice.

hills and highways 

But once outside, I cannot go anywhere without feeling that I am going to get run down from all directions. There is nowhere to walk. Since when did walking become the riskiest of activities? Not having a place to release some energy makes me too restless to be much good for anyone and so I set out anyway. But I am reminded of yesterday’s sign on the local road: “Watch out for aggressive drivers!” it said. I forge ahead. Surely no one will run me down on purpose. Will they?

I walk thinking how once Pennsylvania had associations for me that were all-Americana: like the picture on the Pennsylvania Dutch cigar box. Like Indian names (Monongahela has to be the coolest word to say out loud). Like cracked bells and Amish buggies. Now it’s more like all-American. Bob Evans for breakfast, Panera for lunch, Chili’s for dinner. The local chains (Eat ‘n Park, King’s, Hoss’) draw the neighborhood crowds (what neighborhood are we in though? A non-neighborhood of hilly suburbs with small brick homes). Increasingly one hears people speaking with the brassy twang of the southern Ohio and West Virginia counties that are not too far away. Pittsburgh, once ethnic, now mixed up, lacking an identity.

I walk and walk, looking for a destination until finally I come across a strip mall and I think I’ve hit rock bottom. The central focus of the little shopping center is a store ("Low Carb Headquarters") where you can buy all Atkins stuff. Gift certificates too. I think back to a blogger’s offense when he was told that Slender Fare might provide some good menu options. Is giving an Atkins gift certificate going to make you popular with anyone?

...and t-shirts too, with pictures of juicy hamburgers... 

I head back to the room with the view of the Turnpike and hills. Sometimes the walk isn’t worth the effort.

Ocean’s contribution to scientific argument

Now that Larry Summers opened the door for the possibility of evaluating innate ability based on scientific knowledge gained from observing the behavior of one’s little daughter (or those in one’s immediate surroundings), I felt empowered to do the same. If his girl was girlish because she called her little trucks a daddy and a baby truck, I think I can offer sensible anecdotal evidence as well that would contribute to the debate.

For instance, this afternoon, I watched the captains of both my flights (to Chicago and then to Pittsburgh), to see if they would take out a bottle to feed the engines formula. It didn’t happen. Moreover, they both landed the planes safely, without so much as a bounce and a shudder, and so I concluded that my two women pilots were the exception to the Summers rule.

I did note that the first pilot sped our little plane to the gate and I wondered if maybe she missed her calling as a speed car racer. Maybe as a next career.

Pittsburgh: always looking back

I have been going to Pittsburgh just about every year since 1976 (a little less frequently in recent years). The city has transformed itself, I know. The downtown area, the neighborhoods surrounding Carnegie Mellon and Pitt, they’ve become urban-presentable, in ways that Milwaukeeans can only dream about (sorry – not enough home-state pride, I know).

But that first visit, now almost 30 years ago, was the one that defined the city for me and I haven’t been able to shake it. I can’t think where else I am so unmoved to make adjustments over time. Pittsburgh is now as it was introduced to me then, by members of the family I’d married into.

Today as I pack my bag to catch a flight to this steely city, I’m thinking about that first encounter with it.

I always thought it was like no other American city (I am making no value judgment here). It’s so hilly! And so many rivers, hemming it in, tightly, from all sides.

But it is because I learned about it from people who had lived for several generations in the once-tight ethnic communities, that I see it from the expanse of time. Pittsburgh postcards in my head show steel mills, Kennywood (the amusement park where I was told you took *your girl* on a Saturday evening), the Incline for a panoramic view, and the river boat rides for polka dancing. I know where you once went to get Italian cookies and Jewish breads, where the Croatian clubs were and what took place within. Sure, I visited the Warhol Museum and the Pitt International rooms. But the city is really, for me, the city of postwar times, when young adults were making up their future within its blocks.

Maybe each generation, ours included, has a fascination with the lives of people who entered adulthood just before we were born. Maybe that’s why I’m stuck on examining so minutely the years immediately after the war (just prior to my birth), on both sides of the ocean.

Have you ever flown into the sunset in the same instant that your family flies into the sunrise?

One could, I suppose, draw great symbolism from this, but I haven't quite figured out what it is. As I was booking my return flight to Madison for Monday and a return flight for other family members living on the east coast on that same date, I came up with the most unusual reservation: same airline (United), same point of departure (Pittsburgh), same time (5:45), opposite destinations (Chicago and New York).

Do the two planes share a runway and pass each other at take off? Should I wave?

Some weeks are a breeze; some are not.

That this week has tested the “difficult” to “impossible” continuum is an understatement. That I am unscathed toward its end is attributable entirely to those of you who have ridden with me, chatted with me (on email or otherwise) late and early, and allowed me to keep chipper and sane as I navigated endless hurdles that cropped up. Thank you thank you.

Light posting ahead (Saturday through Monday) as I travel to attend to business elsewhere. I will have my computer with me, but be patient: Ocean will be surfacing here and there, as time and circumstances permit.

An unusual beginning to an Ocean day: a poem by Robert Frost

(bold emphases are my own)

An Old Man’s Winter Night

All out of doors looked darkly in at him
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him—at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again
In clomping off;—and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
A light he was to no one but himself
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon, such as she was,
So late-arising, to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep;
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man—one man—can’t fill a house,
A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
It’s thus he does it of a winter night.

Poles serve as examples of complete incomprehensibility

I am at the gym. I have the usual props: cell phone, book, earphones. Some combination of the above keeps me from focusing on the boring repetitions. Then I hear it: clear, lucid, beautifully articulate, accent-free Polish. It’s coming from the TV screen. Have I finally cracked my noodle and plunged into the deep dark tunnel of insanity, for real?

Why no. It is a commercial for EdwardJones financial consultants. The beautifully articulate Polish speaking gentleman serves as an illustration of someone you DON’T want for a financial wizard: he is the incomprehensible one, the Person To Avoid. Apparently EdwardJones doesn’t have any of THOSE. EdwardJones, you and I are never doing business. Ever.

Where politics should never obfuscate, tarnish or in any way take away from a commemorative event

Sorry, Ocean readers, but a somber note is in order.

Today marks the 60th Anniversary of the liberation of Oswiecim (Auschwitz). Vice President Cheney is attending a commemorative ceremony in Poland. As are a number of world leaders. And, please let’s not forget the survivors. And a handful of men who once participated in the liberation of the death camp.

This was the wrong time to make a speech about a commitment to fighting tyranny around the world – a very thinly veiled allusion to a certain inaugural speech of a few days back.

Typical

5:30 Wednesday: seminar ends.
8:00 Wednesday: make my way home, scramble eggs.
8:30 Wednesday : make a whole batch of calls that needed to be made.
(email and post comments on blogs throughout)
10:00 Wednesday: turn on The Daily Show.
10:15 Wednesday: feel guilty, turn off the Daily Show.
10:30 Wednesday: take out lecture notes for next day’s class, start playing with them.
Midnight: decide I need to rewrite some of the conflict of laws and full faith and credit issues – after a brief nap.
2:30 Thursday: brief nap was too long. Oh well. Plow ahead.
5:30 Thursday: sufficiently happy with lecture that I take time to write blog post.
6:30 Thursday: break for granola and laté .
7:00 Thursday: tweak lecture more (I could do this forever).
8:00 Thursday: I tweaked too long. I rush to shower, get ready and fly out the door.
8:25 Thursday: pick up Ann.
8:30 Thursday: pick up Tonya. (Both are ready and waiting – thank you!)
8:35 Thursday: realization floods me: I did not “send” the lecture to my office computer!
8:45 Thursday: drop off Tonya and Ann.
8:46 Thursday: begin breaking speed limits to get home.
9:05 Thursday: press “Send” on my computer and wonder if I am really a sane person.
9:20 Thursday: drive into Grainger garage.
9:27 Thursday: Turn on office computer, print out 9 single-spaced pages of lecture notes, pick up important phone call.
9:30 Thursday: Begin teaching.
11:00 Thursday: collapse.

Various thoughts about eating good food

Another night of work, another night of trying to concentrate while my mind wanders. This time it keeps heading back to the topic of food: good food v. bad food (working through cases makes one think in terms of one thing versus another).

At McDonald's

One of the headlines from yesterday’s press was about the law suit filed against McDonald’s, alleging that through misleading advertising, it lured children to its golden arches and caused them to become fat. I do think that McDonald’s (unfairly) gets the sympathy vote because of these news stories, which indeed make the plaintiffs appear nothing short of ridiculous. I remember when the press paraded the hot-coffee case some years back as an example of our uncontrollable desire to push responsibility onto another. The facts of that case (which were actually extremely sympathetic to the plaintiff) as well as the procedural details were pushed aside. I wonder if this will be a rerun. I myself know nothing about the pleadings or allegations (beyond the scant info relayed in the news) and still I’m ready to say that the suit sounds ridiculous. In fact, I felt sorry for the McDonald's employees who were shown as background for the news clip on the law suit. Hang in there! I wanted to tell them. You’re not making kids fat! Keep flipping those patties! This from a person who absolutely hates McDonald’s. Imagine the sentiments of those who actually buy food there. I wouldn’t be surprised if McDonald’s is actually behind the suits, thinking that spending a few million on settlements is worth the free publicity and sympathy that it generates for the big M. The kiddies are probably sons and daughters of big-time investors in the fast food mega-chain. (One spins fantastic tales of this nature late at night).

Organic brown free range

Still another food thought – this one came to me just moments ago. Is it worth spending more for good quality food products? The answer is that, in the long run, you save. For example, I have been buying organic brown eggs. They are so good that each night this week I have happily cracked them into the frying pan without even considering other food options. Had they been just mediocre, I would have cooked something else, pricier perhaps. I came home very late last night and nothing, nothing could have pleased me more than that simple preparation of scrambled eggs. Add a salad, some Margaret’s Artisan rosemary flatbread*, a glass of white wine – it’s a feast.

Dessert across the ocean brought to you by Ocean

Finally, I got an email buoying my spirits this morning. The crepes and strawberries were tried all the way in Japan with great success and joy. Ocean has provided a service to another. Yesssss!

* If you haven’t sampled it I highly recommend that you rush to Whole Foods and give it a try. Packages are sold next to the meat section. I’m reading the description now: passionately made using the finest all natural ingredients and 100% olive oil from a personal recipe…

Where Ocean yet again provides an invaluable service to the community by encouraging readers to take part in scientific experiments

I’ve heard many a complaint about the difficulties of pushing forward with research projects. One recent blogger sadly admits that even after having her data and interviews before her, the task of moving ahead and writing anything sensible about such findings sometimes seems daunting.

But today I’ve come to appreciate that for many scientists, the difficulties really begin with the collection of data. For instance, over at Mind Hacks (via boingboing), I read about the problems faced by those engaged in developing a neuroscience of sex. Imagine this challenge: how do you study the brain of a male right smack at the “peak” of his sexual climax (to better understand its activity as it relates to an orgasm)? Is it reasonable to expect that a man can perform while irradiated, undergoing a scan, in a room full of neuroscientists, and in an exact 50 second window of time? The article reports that 8 out of 11 men were able to oblige, all thanks to the women who were at their… side (they had multiple practice sessions beforehand).

As Ocean is very much pro-science, I want to note here that the researchers are looking for more potential subjects. True, this particular project seems to be based in Holland, but I’m sure you could call our own research-focused UW Dept. of Neurology and tell them you’d like to volunteer your sexual services for purposes of scientific research. I’m sure you’d get an appointment right away. (The Q is whether they’d release you after you showed up.)

How do you teach a two-hour seminar when your eye is twitching like mad?

It started before I tuned in to the presidential press conference this morning, I swear! Yes, stress does do that to a person’s eye, yes, I’m not the first to have a fluttering eyelid. Still, every time I look at my notes on international adoption it kicks up and goes into high-speed. Do professors call in sick for reasons of a sudden twitch of the eye? I wont. But if it doesn’t go away, I may have to wear a black badge. Looking like a pirate is preferable than looking like I am constantly, surreptitiously winking at the person before me.

The moon and bloggers were not aligned last night

It may have been the moon, it may have been the demands of the workplace, but all last night I was buoyed by emails from blogger friends who, like me, could not, would not sleep. Check out my Inbox. Four bloggers, helping each other through the night.

every hour a "you got mail" 

Why do I think that the night was especially difficult only for bloggers? Because I know for a fact that film stars, for example, had no trouble snoozing. NBC woke Hillary Swank from her heavy slumber minutes after the 7:30 am announcement of her Oscar nomination for Best Actress. I think she was on the East Coast (i.e. 8:30 a.m.) yet she herself admitted that her voice sounded groggy and hoarse from having just woken up. Laura Linney (Supporting Actress Nomination) sounded even worse, but at least she was summoned to the phone further to the west and so for her, it was pre-alarm-clock early.

Still, they were sleeping, we were not. A bloggers’ cursed night? A wicked lunar revenge against our lot? I’ll never know.

If a friend offered you a gift (worth up to, but not more than $50,000), what would you ask for?

Here are things running through my head as I work my way through the night:

1. Lots of airline tickets (in this way I would beef up my frequent flyer miles, because surely $50,000 worth of airline tickets would buy me life-long gold status in Frequence Plus or World Perks or something.)
2. …in the same vein, I could, I suppose, finally decide which coffee house I would commit to and buy 15,000 latés (tipping generously), punching one of those coffee cards each time so I’d get another 1,500 free ones.
3. A crumbling stone hut in Umbria, with the idea that it would grow in value, or if not, I could at least have some shelter on the day I do my “great escape” away from it all. It would have to be within walking distance to an Internet café.
4. ?? (Night is still young, room for more ideas, though one gets kind of nutty as the hours move along toward dawn…)

Cars

This afternoon I entered another universe. A galactic space of metal and metallic lacquer: moro blue, brilliant black, ocean blue (no, dear Ocean, this is not your world, keep quiet, lay low, I’ll get to you and a post soon enough). I am in Audi-land and Ann is buying a car.

…and you can have satellite radio, broadcasting clear signals of your favorite station anywhere in the country.
What if I am driving through the desert, will it broadcast in the desert?
Yes, of course, anywhere. It works especially well in the desert.

This car has the built-in system with one of the two brands of satellite radio..
But that brand doesn’t pick up NPR! What if I want NPR in the desert?
(Ann, don’t, please don’t pick a car based on the one hour you may conceivably spend in the desert without NPR.)

…excuse me while I cough again. I’m in the latter stage of a terrible cold.
(I back away)
…I got it from a friend, so yes, it was contagious, but my symptoms are different.
(he describes them. It seems ill-suited in this commercial upper stratum to be talking of your lung deterioration)(coughs again)
(I have to say this:) May I give you some free advice? Get a glass of water.

…I used to drive the Van Galder bus you know. It’s all about distance. And my wife, she had an accident and though she was found at fault, she was not.
(describes what happened, wife’s injuries and current state of her driving)

I’m feeling post-traumatic stress right now… Maybe I should not buy a car.
Ever? Ann, you need a car.

…unfortunately there are no cars with your desired specifications… Color is definitely an issue.
It’s not an issue for me! I’m feeling exhausted. But I need a car. Oh, but I have a pink house! But I’ll take any of the colors (she states one exception: for some reason she does not like the blackish green --If you’re going to make a green car, make it so it looks green!), I'll even take the whacky orange or bright yellow. Ocean blue would be my first choice. (She’s an Ocean fan, I can tell.)

Nina, I am worn out. This is taking forever.
(it does seem like forever, but we are in this astroland of Audis only 3.5 hours; But still, no car…)

Finally, a different, earnest young man finishes the deal.
Will my son hate me for the fact that you can’t sit up straight in the back seat? Will he think I don’t care about him?
Ann, this is about you: you will drive this car 99.9% of its waking hours. Your son will understand. He will be happy for you. We are happy for you. Be happy, you just bought a car!
[Sort of. As soon as they find one that they can get off the boat and roll out to Madison so that it is here by Friday. That's the goal.]

This one. I love it. Do I? 

Is that ever a classy rear end! 

Look at that grin as she flies through the blazing stars of the Audi galaxy 

Expect an Althouse blog post about her new baby. With pictures. 

Finally, signing on the dotted line. For a car that may be getting off the boat tomorrow. maybe. 

Chicken soup for the soul? No way! I’m all about desserts and other distractions.

After a day that is convoluted and not a little unusual, it’s so nice to come home to an email asking for a recipe for last night’s dessert. I don’t normally post such things, but tonight I will make an exception. Some people knit, some watch TV to unwind – me, I sing the virtues of food.

First though, an update to the post below: what does one do when two good friends are in a car accident thanks to the fact that they are rushing to pick you up, and both are somewhat injured (to say nothing of the destroyed car)? You watch a DVD together afterwards, just as a distraction. What would three women (+ obligingly tolerant son of one) select? SERIAL MOM. What the heck is that? Here’s a one sentence summary:
a wickedly funny--and nasty--comedy starring Kathleen Turner as the ultimate suburbanite: a woman so obsessed with suburban perfection that she kills a neighbor for not separating her recyclables.

BTW, minutes ago I dropped off the passenger in the accident, at her house. The theme of the evening had been that this is a *wake-up call.* We need to drive even more carefully, we said. This could happen to anyone. We need to drive like we were newly-minted, we need to take every precaution. So after these heartening thoughts, I then proceeded to back the van out of the passenger's driveway right into a snow bank. Eventually I shoveled my way out. Eventually.


Now for the food comment: there is no one place that deserves credit for the chocolate crepes with sautéed strawberries. I pulled together several threads from several sources. Chronologically, you should begin with making the crepes because the batter for crepes should always rest in the fridge for a while (one day would b e great) before you use it.

My version of the chocolate crepe is a direct steal from Pierre Hermé – my favorite French pastry chef. The strawberries are from Cucina Italiana – a food publication that I pretty much devour when it hits the stands six times a year.

CHOCOLATE CREPES

2/3 c all-purpose flour
3 ½ tbsp Dutch-processed cocoa powder (Valrhona is best, but not available here so I use Droste)
1 ½ tbsp sugar
2 large eggs (room temp.; hey – this is easy – just put them for a few minutes in a bowl of hot water)
! c whole milk (room temp)
3 tbsp beer (room temp)
2 tbsp unsalted butter, melted

Sift flour and cocoa, then whisk in the sugar.
In another bowl whisk eggs and milk, then whisk in the beer, then melted butter.
Pour liquid ingredients into dry ingredients and whisk well.
Pour batter ideally into Pyrex measuring cup, cover and refrigerate – overnight would be great.

Know how to make crepes once you have the batter? You should use a crepe pan. Spray GENEROUSLY with canola or other oil – you have to have the pan well greased or else the damn crepe will stick.
Pour in some batter, swoosh it around the pan and you can actually pour back the excess into the Pyrex cup.
Let it cook for a minute or two – until it looks cooked throughout . Flip. This part is hard, but if you practice with one or two, you’ll definitely get the hang of it: loosen the edges with a knife and then scoop it out with a thin wide blade (use your hands – it’s not hot!!) and turn it over. Cook for another minute – until it feels done.
I like to stack them, with wax paper between crepes. They can be refrigerated or even frozen. Since they are easy enough to throw in the pan, I just use all of them as I make them.

SAUTEED STRAWBERRIES

5 pints of strawberries, hulled
olive oil (I use enough so as to not have the berries stick: 2 tbsp is a good guess, but feel free to add some if you find your berries starting to stick)
sugar (the recipe says ¾ c of sugar or vanilla sugar; I think that’s too much: if you use half, you should be fine)

Take the berries and cup them up. Medium berries mean that you should cut them into thirds. I like to preserve the nice pointed tips, so I stop there, but I bet you no one will notice the shape. Just make sure that your pieces are big enough o hold shape and small enough to soften. One strawberry typically turns into maybe 4 pieces.

Heat olive oil in large skillet. Add berries and sugar. Cook over high heat, stirring– this takes maybe two – three minutes or so – no hard rules, taste!
Cool to room temperature.


I think it would have been terrific had I remembered to sprinkle powdered sugar over each served crepe. But then, how you serve the crepe is entirely an individual preference thing. Had I time, I would have also stuck a spoon of chocolate mousse inside each 'pancake.' Or, if I were desparate for time, I would have served the crepe plain, unadorned, perhaps with a drizzle of orange liqueur such as Grand Marnier.

Never ever let nasty thoughts run through your head when you're waiting for someone who is late

It's 3:15. My two friends aren't here to pick me up. The movie starts in 40 minutes, there's time.

It's 3:30. How dare they! One has seen the movie. It's probably her fault. She's sometimes late. (So am I.)

It's 3:45. This is ridiculous. Did I get the time wrong? (Check email, I did not.)

It's 3:55, the time the movie is starting. No calls, no nothing. Damn it, I'm cold.

I go in, I call. My ride picks up the phone. What the hell is going on, were you in an accident or something?

Yes, she says. I completely totaled the car.

( I drive and spend the rest of the afternoon in the hospital with the other friend. All is basically fine. Read about it here. Is it providential? The driver had been lusting after a new car...)

Is the ballerina dancing for an audience of angry men?

The main shower in this house comes with one of those faux-marble interiors, where patterns are randomly worked into the surface (it came this way and we have never bothered to change it).

I have always stood in this shower stall happily admiring what I recognize to be a ballerina in front of me. She seems to take life with a leap and a bounce -- a nice start to any morning.

But today I looked cheerily at her and saw, for the first time in 17 years, something else: she is surrounded by angry men! She is trying to bring joy, but it is a struggle! Take a look at my photos below. Is it just me, after a night with too little sleep, being dragged into a macabre circle of fiends, or were they there all along?

the dancer does a leap, while the man with one huge eye (and the other squinting) watched 

a huge flat face with Beethoven-like hair 

terrifying 

Blogger dinnerama

Tonight, A, B, B, & F had a blogger-dinner here and you can follow the events on their respective blogs.

Me, I wrote nothing. I was too busy dirtying pots and putting forth plates of food.

The thing is, nothing they post can tell it like it is: these guys are all wonderful and to be around them is like being back in Poland, among friends.

When you walk through a storm keep your head up high, and don’t be afraid of the wolves…

I thought of those lyrics this morning, at dawn, when I decided (Lord only knows why) to set out for a hike in Owen Woods. The drama of it is lost now, since I not only made it back without incident, but then, in my exhausted and caked-in-snow condition, proceeded to dig my house out – a task that I already bragged about in the post below (but let me repeat it here for emphasis: TWO AND A HALF HOURS OF SHOVELING!).

Sometimes I wonder why we all don’t just wait ‘til spring. I mean, the stuff does eventually melt.

Only a few photos from the morning hike. It was too cold and too blizzardy to keep taking the camera out.

Where’s the path?
 

Hey, great! Thank you, wild animal with the deep tracks. WILD ANIMAL WITH THE DEEP TRACKS?? 

It’s snowing hard now. A little too hard.
 

It was worth it. Not every morning can begin with such splendid views. 

Where Ocean once again provides an invaluable service to the community

In an effort to bring together those in need and those with surplus energy, Ocean is suggesting that you volunteer your services to older members in the community who may be in need of shoveling assistance.

Oh, you don’t know where to direct your good will? Ocean will attempt to match you up with an elderly* homeowner.

* Definition of elderly for the purposes of this post: over 50. And no, I am sure they will not feel insulted if, on the day of the next big snow you show up at the crack of dawn and surprise them with a cleared driveway. Time estimate for the commitment? It took me, for example, two and a half hours today to clear my driveway, sidewalk and steps.

Bloggers making fun of their professional associations

Note the audacity of JFW and Bozzo in Comments (same page)! Rather than heralding the efforts of their associations to instill pride in their discipline and profession, they mock and ridicule it all. Gentlemen, be glad that there is someone fashioning shirts, baby ‘jammies and flash cards. In 1978, when my husband was first on the job market at the ASA meetings (in San Francisco, in the days when I, too, considered myself one of “them”), I had to take things into my own hands. Here’s the shirt I made up for him to wear at the meetings:

I wonder why he still keeps it around...