Category Archives: good karma

On fake ice (skating)

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The city of Waco, Texas, in an attempt to create the simulacra of winter has installed a fake ice rink in the downtown area in order to make people think that it is winter. Today, it was a sunny 72F in central Texas–no winter here, not even a fake one. Apparently, you can skate on this “fake” or plastic ice, but it can’t be the same as skating on frozen water where the pressure of the skate blade creates a thin film of water upon which the blade slides, and as the skate passes, the water freezes again on the surface. The science of ice-skating is actually rather complex. There is also an element of violence in skating that damages the ice surface, so I can’t figure out how a plastic surface can duplicate that particular phenomenon. Plastic ice only functions with a synthetic silicone lubricant that allows the skater to move across the surface. Skates wear out more quickly, and the surface has to be cleaned more frequently. Ice is ice, and nothing can really take its place, no matter how closely the plastic surface simulates real skating. There is nothing like the real thing: ice-skating under the stars, frosty wind on your cheeks, ice glinting under the lights, skates gliding effortlessly over the frozen surface of the rink. Perhaps you are skating with a close friend, talking about nothing, frozen air filling your lungs, maybe a few errant flakes of snow dusting the surface and falling on your face. Plastic ice on a hot day in December doesn’t even come close to simulating those feelings.

On fake ice (skating)

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The city of Waco, Texas, in an attempt to create the simulacra of winter has installed a fake ice rink in the downtown area in order to make people think that it is winter. Today, it was a sunny 72F in central Texas–no winter here, not even a fake one. Apparently, you can skate on this “fake” or plastic ice, but it can’t be the same as skating on frozen water where the pressure of the skate blade creates a thin film of water upon which the blade slides, and as the skate passes, the water freezes again on the surface. The science of ice-skating is actually rather complex. There is also an element of violence in skating that damages the ice surface, so I can’t figure out how a plastic surface can duplicate that particular phenomenon. Plastic ice only functions with a synthetic silicone lubricant that allows the skater to move across the surface. Skates wear out more quickly, and the surface has to be cleaned more frequently. Ice is ice, and nothing can really take its place, no matter how closely the plastic surface simulates real skating. There is nothing like the real thing: ice-skating under the stars, frosty wind on your cheeks, ice glinting under the lights, skates gliding effortlessly over the frozen surface of the rink. Perhaps you are skating with a close friend, talking about nothing, frozen air filling your lungs, maybe a few errant flakes of snow dusting the surface and falling on your face. Plastic ice on a hot day in December doesn’t even come close to simulating those feelings.

On the fine art of napping

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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

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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

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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

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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 cinnamon toast

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I was reminded of this midwestern delicacy the other day when Garrison Keillor mentioned it in one of his status updates. Not that Garrison and I are great friends or anything, but being brought up in Minnesota during roughly the same period–he has a year or two on me–we share certain experiences in common, and cinnamon toast is one of those experiences. The recipe is simple: one hungry child, two slices of bread, a little sugar, a little cinnamon, a pat of butter, and a toaster. You swirl all of that around and you end up with a happy child with butter and cinnamon breath who now will stop whining. Perhaps what I like most about cinnamon toast is that it is a simple pleasure that never stops pleasing. You can serve cinnamon toast whenever you want to, but I find that as a snack, just after school was always the best. Although, as an adult, I find that just after midnight with a glass of fresh milk is the best time. You don’t have to be a genius to make it, and it’s hard to mess up unless you get the cinnamon and some other brown spice confused in which case it’s easy to mess up. Not too much butter, not too much sugar, and not too much cinnamon seem to be the best way to describe perfect cinnamon toast. Plain toast with butter is fine, but a little cinnamon and a little sugar go a long way in jazzing up a fairly bland experience. Crying children can be made quiet by cinnamon toast. An unhappy baby will find endless hours of fun playing with cinnamon toast bits. I’m not really sure why the butter-sugar-cinnamon combination is so appealing. I get the sugar and butter–energy–but the spicy element, the cinnamon, that’s the mystery. But maybe it’s a little mystery we all crave in Minnesota, on the tundra, in the middle of January–a warm slice of cinnamon toast that has been prepared for us by someone who love us. Just surviving the Minnesota winter is enough for most of us–we understand the relative value of even the small things in life. So when making cinnamon toast, don’t worry if the little can of cinnamon is a few years old, it’ll still work. What I like is when you sprinkle the cinnamon on the butter and it turns from light brown to dark brown–the cinnamon is active. You don’t have to grind your own special for the cinnamon toast to be very good. What you want is a little flavor, not to be overwhelmed by it. Cinnamon toast, in lieu of fancier desserts, is one of life’s great pleasures that needs to excuses or explanations. Recently I had cinnamon toast and a nice cup of Spanish café con leche, and the combination was very nice–two simple pleasures mixing together in the midst of a chaotic, fractured, non-linear sort of day. Cinnamon toast is as much about nostalgia for a simpler life as it is about smell, taste, and texture as it explodes in your mouth. Yet, it is also easy to forget if you are an adult. When was the last time you sprinkled a little cinnamon and sugar on your toast? Did you ever even learn how to spell the word, “cinnamon”? Two n’s, one m? So tonight, when it’s about have past late, and my stomach is on the prowl for something good, I’m going to go back in time and make myself a couple of pieces of cinnamon toast.

On cinnamon toast

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I was reminded of this midwestern delicacy the other day when Garrison Keillor mentioned it in one of his status updates. Not that Garrison and I are great friends or anything, but being brought up in Minnesota during roughly the same period–he has a year or two on me–we share certain experiences in common, and cinnamon toast is one of those experiences. The recipe is simple: one hungry child, two slices of bread, a little sugar, a little cinnamon, a pat of butter, and a toaster. You swirl all of that around and you end up with a happy child with butter and cinnamon breath who now will stop whining. Perhaps what I like most about cinnamon toast is that it is a simple pleasure that never stops pleasing. You can serve cinnamon toast whenever you want to, but I find that as a snack, just after school was always the best. Although, as an adult, I find that just after midnight with a glass of fresh milk is the best time. You don’t have to be a genius to make it, and it’s hard to mess up unless you get the cinnamon and some other brown spice confused in which case it’s easy to mess up. Not too much butter, not too much sugar, and not too much cinnamon seem to be the best way to describe perfect cinnamon toast. Plain toast with butter is fine, but a little cinnamon and a little sugar go a long way in jazzing up a fairly bland experience. Crying children can be made quiet by cinnamon toast. An unhappy baby will find endless hours of fun playing with cinnamon toast bits. I’m not really sure why the butter-sugar-cinnamon combination is so appealing. I get the sugar and butter–energy–but the spicy element, the cinnamon, that’s the mystery. But maybe it’s a little mystery we all crave in Minnesota, on the tundra, in the middle of January–a warm slice of cinnamon toast that has been prepared for us by someone who love us. Just surviving the Minnesota winter is enough for most of us–we understand the relative value of even the small things in life. So when making cinnamon toast, don’t worry if the little can of cinnamon is a few years old, it’ll still work. What I like is when you sprinkle the cinnamon on the butter and it turns from light brown to dark brown–the cinnamon is active. You don’t have to grind your own special for the cinnamon toast to be very good. What you want is a little flavor, not to be overwhelmed by it. Cinnamon toast, in lieu of fancier desserts, is one of life’s great pleasures that needs to excuses or explanations. Recently I had cinnamon toast and a nice cup of Spanish café con leche, and the combination was very nice–two simple pleasures mixing together in the midst of a chaotic, fractured, non-linear sort of day. Cinnamon toast is as much about nostalgia for a simpler life as it is about smell, taste, and texture as it explodes in your mouth. Yet, it is also easy to forget if you are an adult. When was the last time you sprinkled a little cinnamon and sugar on your toast? Did you ever even learn how to spell the word, “cinnamon”? Two n’s, one m? So tonight, when it’s about have past late, and my stomach is on the prowl for something good, I’m going to go back in time and make myself a couple of pieces of cinnamon toast.

On napping

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There are times in one’s life when the only answer to any given set of problems is to just sleep on it, turn off all the gadgets, stop worrying about email, close the door, put up your feet, and close your eyes–even if it’s the middle of the day. Napping is nature’s way of taking you out of the equation for a little while so you can gain a bit of perspective on whatever is bothering you. In our rat race world, napping while the fires burn is not considered the adult answer to getting things done. I am of the opinion, however, that mental fatigue is one of our greatest enemies to clear thinking and coherent problem solving. When you are tired, nothing makes sense, everything lies in ruins, chaos swirls around you, your head hurts, and you feel like throwing the computer out the window. You couldn’t write a coherent readable sentence if your life depended on it. When you feel sleepy and fatigued, when your eyes are heavy and close on their own, when you cannot hold up your head anymore, give yourself a break. You are no good to either yourself or anyone around you. Anything you do in this condition will probably just be something that you have to redo tomorrow. Perhaps it is time for a nap. I’ve always been able to put my feet up, tilt my head back, close my eyes, and drift off–at a moments notice. Now I also know that many people hate napping because they feel infinitely worse after sleeping twenty minutes, but that strange feeling of lethargy and disorientation doesn’t hang on very long, and in a couple of minutes I’m up ant at ’em again, refreshed and ready to rejoin the fray. A twenty minute nap is balm for the parched soul. There is something about unchaining the mind for a moment, letting go, and descending into the maelstrom of the unconscious mind. The problem with fatigue is that no amount of coffee or other stimulant can re-order a disorderly and tired mind. The mind may be awake when pumped up on coffee, but that doesn’t mean the the higher functions of problem solving or creativity are functioning at all. You might be able to stay awake, but should you really be at the wheel of a huge vehicle hurtling down the road at seventy miles an hour? Taking a nap is like rebooting the computer when nothing will work. The major problem with napping is that it seems sloppy by modern office standards and practices. Any given business does not what their employees napping on the job–bad for productivity, you understand, or is it? The trouble with sleeping on the job is that it smacks of slacking, lolly-gagging, and goofing off unless it is done with a certain aplomb. One must be organized and not snore. Strategic napping is all about not letting anyone see you nap, get your nap in, wake up, and get your feet back under you before anyone notices you’ve been gone for a few minutes. No more than twenty minutes, no drooling, no snoring, no sleeping in public, no sleeping during meetings, lectures, or sermons. Twenty minutes of shut-eye can rejuvenate even the toughest day. A little cat nap can turn work into pleasure, give you that solution which has been eluding you for days, calm some shattered nerves, realign a warped perspective, brighten a dark countenance. In our work-a-day world, we never rest or sleep enough. In fact, one of the worst habits most of us have is to rob ourselves of necessary rest and sleep, and we do this every day. Well, the next time everything is a mess, and nothing seems to work, close your door, set the alarm on your phone, turn down the lights, put up your feet, and nap.

On having coffee on Beacon Hill

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Walking around Boston today was a fascinating experience. Although I have been here before, I’ve never had a chance to visit Harvard, or the Commons, or Beacon Hill, or the colonial historic district and all its old historic sites. All of the Italian restaurants, the cobble stone streets, the brownstones, the T, Harvard, were all wonderfully folkloric, picturesque, curious. wonderful. Even the cemeteries were creepy and ancient. Yet, it was a strange accident of just going the wrong way which took me up Beacon Hill, past the new state house and up Joy street. The state house was closed because it was Saturday, so I meandered up into Beacon Hill with its brownstone row houses, fancy cars, narrow streets, Christmas decorations, piles of snow. I was a little chilled by the damp cold of the morning, so I walked into a small coffee house to get something warm to drink. I got my double espresso with a drop of milk and took a seat by the window to watch the people go by. Being Saturday morning, the place was bustling with all sorts of folks, tall, short, skinny, fancy, gym clothes, running clothes, rich, not so rich, me, delivery guys, double-parkers. And everyone wanted their coffee a little differently. Lots of people want their coffee with soy milk–cow milk being a problem. Many people didn’t want coffee, but they did want tea or cocoa. Some people had trouble deciding, but indecision may or may not have been their exact problem. The conversations were animated and people talked about Christmas, traveling, work, men, women, coffee, shopping, flowers, the price of clothing at Saks. But Meghan, the young lady making the drinks was unflappable even when people got a little testy about whether the whipped cream for the top of their quadruple caramel mocha (with sprinkles) was real or not–it is, by the way. She questioned me about how much milk I wanted, and she listened well, and aced my version of a Spanish “café con leche.” I like a strong coffee drink, not a milky milk drink with a little coffee in it. I was fascinated by Meghan’s persistence and patience as she maneuvered among a flotilla of persnickety customers. I know she wasn’t making that much money either. Baristas don’t make tons of money, but here she was, this hardworking young person, doing her job on a sunny Saturday morning in January. I was in the coffee shop about a half hour watching the world go by, interact with Meghan (and colleague, Jessica), talk to each other, get their coffee, and move on. In a way, this little coffee place is not really a microcosm of the world, but it was a microcosm of life on Beacon Hill this morning. When I travel I am often more interested in the coffee houses and beer joints than I am in the museums and historical monuments. Life is in the people who live in these places, who work behind counters, who serve the public, take tickets, brew coffee, make sandwiches, give directions, help a lost traveler. Meghan and her fellow Bostonians were very kind to me as I meandered from Boston to Cambridge and back to Boston. What I will remember about today will be the people. Harvard was closed, so I didn’t even meet anyone there–not memorable. Coffee with Meghan on Beacon Hill? Priceless.