On butter

What can one say about butter that is not self-serving rationalization for indulging in the richest food on the planet, except for the fat around a cow’s liver? I, for one, love butter, but I think that this is a relationship that is best left alone. Overindulgence in butter is the road to perdition in many ways–cholesterol, heart disease, obesity, hypertension. Yet, I won’t put oleo on my toast because using a petroleum product would be worse. You see, butter has that taste that just sucks you in and hypnotizes your taste buds and seduces your good judgement. You ever sauté garlic in butter? Maybe throw in a few over-sized shrimp, a pinch of hot red pepper and a quarter cup of white wine? You’d know if you had. Butter is a synecdoche for all of our overindulgence and overeating, and butter stands out as a symbol of our own success which may be our very undoing. In itself, there is nothing wrong with eating some butter. I’m from a dairy state, Minnesota, where the local denizens having been consuming dairy products for over a century and a half, and the only long-lasting result is extended life-spans. We have collectively stopped smoking, and although we still drink a bit and carry around an extra pound or two, we are pretty healthy in spite of the butter we consume. What would pancakes be without butter? What would chocolate frosting be without butter? Lumpy and tasteless. Take away their butter and people would stop making toast and life would cease to have meaning. Can you really eat lobster without a nice butter sauce to dip it in? Chicken fried in butter is much better than chicken fried in mystery oil. Yet butter gets a bad reputation because of all that juicy cholesterol. I often wonder if it might be less the cholesterol we consume and more our own inactivity which hurts us. So getting off the couch and into the wide open spaces is more important than skimping on the butter for our bagel.

On the fine art of napping

Don’t know why it’s called a cat nap, although it does seem like cats can sleep at the drop of a hat. I haven’t perfected my own technique as of yet, but it is not for want of trying. I managed to jam in a cat nap this afternoon between work and bell practice, and it felt really good–shoes off, feet up, comfy sofa, lights down low, no noise at all–ideal. I felt pretty good after my nap, but some people just feel worse after a fifteen minute nap. They wake up all cranky and out of sorts, sore and stiff, un-rested. The secret to the perfect cat nap has to be the ability or the opportunity to lie completely flat while sleeping. If you sleep in a chair, your neck will feel sore and stiff–your head falls forward, which hurts and wakes you up. Total relaxation can be achieved only when your head no longer needs support. You must also have a place to sleep that is free of interruptions such as people, phones, or random noise. Any kind of ambient stress must be eliminated completely. Achieving a calm spirit is absolutely necessary for falling asleep quickly. If you are worried about being discovered or interrupted by a phone call or colleague you cannot get your body to calm down and slide down the slope into unconsciousness. The cat nap is a micro-simulacrum of death, falling off of the cliff into the blackness of eternity, but only for fifteen minutes. Getting the wheels of the mind to stop spinning, to push all considerations out of your mind just long enough to let the sandman work his magic, to sleep the sleep of the just plain tired, that is the secret. Apparently, napping is good for you, but it also goes against our work ethic of work until you drop no matter what. I consider napping not only beneficial, but necessary for good mental health.

On the fine art of napping

Don’t know why it’s called a cat nap, although it does seem like cats can sleep at the drop of a hat. I haven’t perfected my own technique as of yet, but it is not for want of trying. I managed to jam in a cat nap this afternoon between work and bell practice, and it felt really good–shoes off, feet up, comfy sofa, lights down low, no noise at all–ideal. I felt pretty good after my nap, but some people just feel worse after a fifteen minute nap. They wake up all cranky and out of sorts, sore and stiff, un-rested. The secret to the perfect cat nap has to be the ability or the opportunity to lie completely flat while sleeping. If you sleep in a chair, your neck will feel sore and stiff–your head falls forward, which hurts and wakes you up. Total relaxation can be achieved only when your head no longer needs support. You must also have a place to sleep that is free of interruptions such as people, phones, or random noise. Any kind of ambient stress must be eliminated completely. Achieving a calm spirit is absolutely necessary for falling asleep quickly. If you are worried about being discovered or interrupted by a phone call or colleague you cannot get your body to calm down and slide down the slope into unconsciousness. The cat nap is a micro-simulacrum of death, falling off of the cliff into the blackness of eternity, but only for fifteen minutes. Getting the wheels of the mind to stop spinning, to push all considerations out of your mind just long enough to let the sandman work his magic, to sleep the sleep of the just plain tired, that is the secret. Apparently, napping is good for you, but it also goes against our work ethic of work until you drop no matter what. I consider napping not only beneficial, but necessary for good mental health.

On making bread

I know I can buy a loaf for less than it costs me to make a loaf, but I don’t care. There is something transcendental about mixing water, yeast, salt, and flour and kneading it into a loaf of bread. Bread has always been a synecdoche for all food, for wages, for a living. Bread is a central part of Christian symbolism and a major part of worship. The transformation of wheat into bread is mysterious, complex, and fills me with wonder. As a small child I watched my mother make bread, knowing full well that she was repeating the lessons she learned as her own mother made bread, who was repeating the recipe and actions that her mother had taught her. I came to making bread later in life, but I had learned my lessons. I believe that making bread is a tradition that should be honored, not forgotten. I don’t mind getting messy, or getting out the bread board, or spending time with my hands in the dough. I don’t mind that it takes hours to get a loaf mixed, kneaded, and baked. I don’t measure anything exactly. I love the idea that no two loaves are ever exactly the same and that I don’t have to “wonder” about how many weird and dangerous chemicals have been added to the bread to keep it soft and fresh for weeks. I love to let the bread rise under a dishtowel while I do something else. I don’t kid myself: I am not an expert baker, but I assume that bread has been made this way for many millennia, and I love being a part of that tradition. Bread is such a fundamental part of the human condition–the variations are almost infinite. Sometimes I had cinnamon, other times cardamon adds a different twist to the taste. Whole wheat flour gives the bread a nutty flavor that is best savored slowly. Kneading bread is a nice workout, therapeutic some days because you can really put your whole body and spirit into pounding, folding, and working the dough. The best part of making your own bread, at least for me, is the sense of accomplishing something original, creating a new thing with my own art, my own recipe, my own energy and effort. There are so few things over which any of us have any control, but baking bread, at least for a moment, can give any of us the illusory feeling of power and control. Yet it is not a complete mirage because at the end of the process you have a couple of loaves of bread that you can slice and eat and enjoy. The process of bread-making is an odd interplay of dry ingredients interlocking with water that creates a whole new thing when fire and heat are added. Who would suspect that flour, with a little coaxing from yeast and salt, could be turned into a crunchy, springy, nutty, moist, chewy phenomenon that can light up as a midnight snack or help wake up a sleepy day beside a cup of coffee? I like my own bread toasted with a little real butter on it. My own bread is nothing like the bread you can buy in a store. My loaves are not perfect, a bit crusty, unsliced, doesn’t come in a plastic bag with a twist-tie closing off the open end. Making bread grounds me in a way that my digitally mediated existence doesn’t. Currently, my bread has been divided into two loaves which are rising in the oven just before I bake them. They’ll be ready around midnight.

On making bread

I know I can buy a loaf for less than it costs me to make a loaf, but I don’t care. There is something transcendental about mixing water, yeast, salt, and flour and kneading it into a loaf of bread. Bread has always been a synecdoche for all food, for wages, for a living. Bread is a central part of Christian symbolism and a major part of worship. The transformation of wheat into bread is mysterious, complex, and fills me with wonder. As a small child I watched my mother make bread, knowing full well that she was repeating the lessons she learned as her own mother made bread, who was repeating the recipe and actions that her mother had taught her. I came to making bread later in life, but I had learned my lessons. I believe that making bread is a tradition that should be honored, not forgotten. I don’t mind getting messy, or getting out the bread board, or spending time with my hands in the dough. I don’t mind that it takes hours to get a loaf mixed, kneaded, and baked. I don’t measure anything exactly. I love the idea that no two loaves are ever exactly the same and that I don’t have to “wonder” about how many weird and dangerous chemicals have been added to the bread to keep it soft and fresh for weeks. I love to let the bread rise under a dishtowel while I do something else. I don’t kid myself: I am not an expert baker, but I assume that bread has been made this way for many millennia, and I love being a part of that tradition. Bread is such a fundamental part of the human condition–the variations are almost infinite. Sometimes I had cinnamon, other times cardamon adds a different twist to the taste. Whole wheat flour gives the bread a nutty flavor that is best savored slowly. Kneading bread is a nice workout, therapeutic some days because you can really put your whole body and spirit into pounding, folding, and working the dough. The best part of making your own bread, at least for me, is the sense of accomplishing something original, creating a new thing with my own art, my own recipe, my own energy and effort. There are so few things over which any of us have any control, but baking bread, at least for a moment, can give any of us the illusory feeling of power and control. Yet it is not a complete mirage because at the end of the process you have a couple of loaves of bread that you can slice and eat and enjoy. The process of bread-making is an odd interplay of dry ingredients interlocking with water that creates a whole new thing when fire and heat are added. Who would suspect that flour, with a little coaxing from yeast and salt, could be turned into a crunchy, springy, nutty, moist, chewy phenomenon that can light up as a midnight snack or help wake up a sleepy day beside a cup of coffee? I like my own bread toasted with a little real butter on it. My own bread is nothing like the bread you can buy in a store. My loaves are not perfect, a bit crusty, unsliced, doesn’t come in a plastic bag with a twist-tie closing off the open end. Making bread grounds me in a way that my digitally mediated existence doesn’t. Currently, my bread has been divided into two loaves which are rising in the oven just before I bake them. They’ll be ready around midnight.

On cleaning

Though I am not the neatest person that ever lived–I file by the top-down pile method–I certainly appreciate a clean kitchen, a clean bathroom, clean floors, empty waste baskets, and an empty garbage can. Having a dirty, smelly, full garbage can is not only nasty, it attracts bugs, which is something I just cannot abide. Paradoxically, I am dead lazy when it comes to mopping or dusting, but I am good at doing the dishes, emptying waste baskets, and throwing away unwanted papers and junk mail. I can throw things away, but I have to focus to do it. I can’t stand to see some unidentified black speck on the bathroom floor, but I don’t get up in the morning vowing to mop every last floor in the house. And I hate to vacuum, which makes lots of noise and makes me sneeze, both of which are activities I can do without. I profoundly admire those who have the cleaning bug because immaculate floors are one of life’s great pleasures. I tend to leave piles of stuff all over the place, but with a little bit of a nudge (okay, by hitting me with a two-by-four) I can be convinced to go through a pile and throw most of it away. Books are problematic. First, old books smell a bit and they attract dirt, which are two big negatives for clean freaks who see books as one of their big enemies. New books are not as bad as old books. My oldest book was published in 1798. Dirt is both smart and ubiquitous. Regardless of how hard you try to keep it out, it creeps in everywhere–the garage, the entryway, the bathroom, the living-room. You track things in with your shoes, which are always very dirty, and you bring things in from the outside–food, papers, whatever–which will bring dirt with them. Cleaning is one of the monumental non-stop propositions that must be forever on-going or you will lose, miserably. Clothing is a great example of the perpetual nature of cleaning. In just one day a family of four will generate a load of wash, but it’s not just a load a day–the trajectory of dirty clothing is geometric over time, not arithmetic, so dirty clothing multiplies faster than just a load a day, especially in a hot climate like Texas or Florida where sweating is a national pastime. Soap, cleansers, and detergents are our only hope of ever turning the tide on uncleanliness, and in the end, we must look the other way anyway because real cleanliness is a mirage, is unattainable. Yes, we can make things look clean and picked up, but this is a veneer. Don’t look too close because you may find dust on the staircase or a cobweb in a distant corner, not to mention the stray dust-bunny that may roll up at the most inopportune time to spoil your immaculate “better homes and hovels” effect that you have set out for visiting relatives who think you are great housekeeper and a neat freak. All you can do resist the rising tide of dirt, but you will never defeat it. The mere passage of time is enough to bring tons of dust and dirt to your front door even if you aren’t there to dirty things up. Dirt is malicious. By practicing the age-old art of cleaning on a daily basis, perhaps even hourly, we can hold back, just for awhile, the inevitable influx of dirt and grime.

On cleaning

Though I am not the neatest person that ever lived–I file by the top-down pile method–I certainly appreciate a clean kitchen, a clean bathroom, clean floors, empty waste baskets, and an empty garbage can. Having a dirty, smelly, full garbage can is not only nasty, it attracts bugs, which is something I just cannot abide. Paradoxically, I am dead lazy when it comes to mopping or dusting, but I am good at doing the dishes, emptying waste baskets, and throwing away unwanted papers and junk mail. I can throw things away, but I have to focus to do it. I can’t stand to see some unidentified black speck on the bathroom floor, but I don’t get up in the morning vowing to mop every last floor in the house. And I hate to vacuum, which makes lots of noise and makes me sneeze, both of which are activities I can do without. I profoundly admire those who have the cleaning bug because immaculate floors are one of life’s great pleasures. I tend to leave piles of stuff all over the place, but with a little bit of a nudge (okay, by hitting me with a two-by-four) I can be convinced to go through a pile and throw most of it away. Books are problematic. First, old books smell a bit and they attract dirt, which are two big negatives for clean freaks who see books as one of their big enemies. New books are not as bad as old books. My oldest book was published in 1798. Dirt is both smart and ubiquitous. Regardless of how hard you try to keep it out, it creeps in everywhere–the garage, the entryway, the bathroom, the living-room. You track things in with your shoes, which are always very dirty, and you bring things in from the outside–food, papers, whatever–which will bring dirt with them. Cleaning is one of the monumental non-stop propositions that must be forever on-going or you will lose, miserably. Clothing is a great example of the perpetual nature of cleaning. In just one day a family of four will generate a load of wash, but it’s not just a load a day–the trajectory of dirty clothing is geometric over time, not arithmetic, so dirty clothing multiplies faster than just a load a day, especially in a hot climate like Texas or Florida where sweating is a national pastime. Soap, cleansers, and detergents are our only hope of ever turning the tide on uncleanliness, and in the end, we must look the other way anyway because real cleanliness is a mirage, is unattainable. Yes, we can make things look clean and picked up, but this is a veneer. Don’t look too close because you may find dust on the staircase or a cobweb in a distant corner, not to mention the stray dust-bunny that may roll up at the most inopportune time to spoil your immaculate “better homes and hovels” effect that you have set out for visiting relatives who think you are great housekeeper and a neat freak. All you can do resist the rising tide of dirt, but you will never defeat it. The mere passage of time is enough to bring tons of dust and dirt to your front door even if you aren’t there to dirty things up. Dirt is malicious. By practicing the age-old art of cleaning on a daily basis, perhaps even hourly, we can hold back, just for awhile, the inevitable influx of dirt and grime.

On talking

One of my favorite activities is having a nice, long, drawn out conversation with another person about almost absolutely nothing, solving world peace, why people won’t signal a turn in Texas, the pro’s and con’s of gun control, the weather, food in the United States, why flying is never boring no matter how much you’ve done, the fear of flying, garbage, cell phone, sports, Italian politics, the Mona Lisa, Boccaccio, and a host of golden daffodils. Sip a double espresso and listen as a friend goes on about their day, their concerns, what they had for lunch. I don’t always have time to do this, but my day is always better when I give myself a little recess from the stress of the day and let someone else tell me how their day went. Of course, I do my share of talking as well. Perhaps it is more important to actually have friends with whom you share a certain intimacy who will sit and listen to you as well. I know I’m not the most enthralling or interesting speaker myself, so listening to me ramble about making bread or leading a search committee is not the most dynamic conversation in the world. What is probably more important than the topics being discussed is the time spent with the other person. American work ethics, however, do not lend themselves to taking a coffee break and just chatting about the world. I guess there may be something to “all work and no play make Jack a dull boy.” To have a good conversation and meaningful interaction, paradoxically one does not have to talk about anything profound or transcendental. In fact, perhaps it would be better if one is not talking about anything profound at all. A slow give-and-take is all a body really needs, but perhaps the conversation is better if it’s not a strenuous debate on presidential election politics. Talking about the weather in Texas is just about mundane enough to qualify for the perfect conversation between two people who really want to hang out together, but who also don’t want to complicate their lives by talking about something that stirs conflict. Intimacy is seldom about conflict and more often about subjects and beliefs held in common. I would suggest that most people do not base their intimate interactions on debate, conflict, or strife. In fact, most people need intimacy to reaffirm their own identities by seeing themselves in others. Talking, a coffee conversation fits the bill entirely. Sure, one might spend some time laughing at the latest political fiasco coming out of Washington, or why handguns on a college campus is insane, or whether one might boost, or not, a flagging economy with economic incentives or tax relief, but it will always be more interesting to discuss which drunk starlet has been sent back to jail for violating her parole or who is going to win the Oscar for best-supporting actor. Life cannot be just work. There has to be more. I find that while talking to another person, my mind tends to work on other problems which I might being trying to solve at any given moment. I’m sure my blood pressure goes does, as do my levels of stress. Having a nice long chat with a friendly person is like going out for recess and letting off some steam, and breaking the day’s routine can only be a good thing. We spend our whole lives wallowing in our daily routines, mindlessly bending our wills to schedules, time tables, and calendars. Now these aids help us to get our work done, which is good, but too much of anything can be a negative thing. In the isolation of work schedules, we eschew human interaction and robotically dedicate our time and energies to work, just work. Getting out and talking to another person may be just the ticket for breaking out of our zombie-like dedication and working on our overall good mental health.

On talking

One of my favorite activities is having a nice, long, drawn out conversation with another person about almost absolutely nothing, solving world peace, why people won’t signal a turn in Texas, the pro’s and con’s of gun control, the weather, food in the United States, why flying is never boring no matter how much you’ve done, the fear of flying, garbage, cell phone, sports, Italian politics, the Mona Lisa, Boccaccio, and a host of golden daffodils. Sip a double espresso and listen as a friend goes on about their day, their concerns, what they had for lunch. I don’t always have time to do this, but my day is always better when I give myself a little recess from the stress of the day and let someone else tell me how their day went. Of course, I do my share of talking as well. Perhaps it is more important to actually have friends with whom you share a certain intimacy who will sit and listen to you as well. I know I’m not the most enthralling or interesting speaker myself, so listening to me ramble about making bread or leading a search committee is not the most dynamic conversation in the world. What is probably more important than the topics being discussed is the time spent with the other person. American work ethics, however, do not lend themselves to taking a coffee break and just chatting about the world. I guess there may be something to “all work and no play make Jack a dull boy.” To have a good conversation and meaningful interaction, paradoxically one does not have to talk about anything profound or transcendental. In fact, perhaps it would be better if one is not talking about anything profound at all. A slow give-and-take is all a body really needs, but perhaps the conversation is better if it’s not a strenuous debate on presidential election politics. Talking about the weather in Texas is just about mundane enough to qualify for the perfect conversation between two people who really want to hang out together, but who also don’t want to complicate their lives by talking about something that stirs conflict. Intimacy is seldom about conflict and more often about subjects and beliefs held in common. I would suggest that most people do not base their intimate interactions on debate, conflict, or strife. In fact, most people need intimacy to reaffirm their own identities by seeing themselves in others. Talking, a coffee conversation fits the bill entirely. Sure, one might spend some time laughing at the latest political fiasco coming out of Washington, or why handguns on a college campus is insane, or whether one might boost, or not, a flagging economy with economic incentives or tax relief, but it will always be more interesting to discuss which drunk starlet has been sent back to jail for violating her parole or who is going to win the Oscar for best-supporting actor. Life cannot be just work. There has to be more. I find that while talking to another person, my mind tends to work on other problems which I might being trying to solve at any given moment. I’m sure my blood pressure goes does, as do my levels of stress. Having a nice long chat with a friendly person is like going out for recess and letting off some steam, and breaking the day’s routine can only be a good thing. We spend our whole lives wallowing in our daily routines, mindlessly bending our wills to schedules, time tables, and calendars. Now these aids help us to get our work done, which is good, but too much of anything can be a negative thing. In the isolation of work schedules, we eschew human interaction and robotically dedicate our time and energies to work, just work. Getting out and talking to another person may be just the ticket for breaking out of our zombie-like dedication and working on our overall good mental health.