Through a Glass, Darkly

Here’s one more poem for National Poetry Month, this one by Emily Dickinson. To be honest, I don’t really like Emily Dickiinson. But part of learning to like poetry is learning to like The Belle of Amherst. And really, the reason I don’t like her is because her poems always put “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing” in my head. Hopefully I can get over that one day.

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, plashless, as they swim.

I actually have a story about this one. In high school, we had an English Fair, where we could somehow illustrate literature. I’m not very artistic, so I never got into it, but sometimes we’d have classroom assignments that we were required to enter.

My junior year, our English class divided into groups and illustrated Emily Dickinson poems on a poster. My group had this poem, and we made the most ghetto-fabulous poster you have ever seen. There was a bird and a dead worm and a sidewalk and a sun. The perspective was all wrong - the sidewalk looked as if we were looking down on it, and yet the sun was also next to the sidewalk. The bird was enormous, in a “larger than the sun” kind of way. We loved that poster and worked very hard on it, but it was, simply, not good. And, of course, we won first place in some area of the English Fair - illustrating poetry, probably. That’s the only time I ever won a prize for anything artistic.

With a story like this, I should really not hate Emily Dickinson. I’ll work on it.

Would you rather hear about the M. Ward concert I went to last night, or the awkwardness I had at the grocery store this morning? Both? Really?

Okay.

I’ll start with the awkwardness. I am well-known for awkwardness at the grocery store, what with the apple-lanches and the having to ask tall people to get things off the top shelf for me. But today, today was the beginning of the tote bag revolution. I want to stop consuming so many plastic bags. So I took tote bags with which to carry home my groceries. (If you have tote bags you aren’t using, and you don’t want to join the tote bag revolution, will you please send them to me? I need more tote bags.) But let me get to that in a second. First let’s talk about how Mike hates certain scents so much that I had to stand in the dish soap section and sniff Palmolive until I could find one that I thought he would tolerate. Yes, that’s not embarrassing at all. Back to the tote bags now. I had several tote bags, and as I approached the cashier, I caught her eye and said, “I brought my own bags.” She . . . just kind of looked at me. And nodded. Now I am the crazy dish soap-sniffing, tote bag-carrying lady at the grocery store. Fantastic. When she started ringing up my groceries, she . . . put them in the plastic bags. So then I had to take them OUT of the plastic bags and put them in my bags. Not only do I sniff Palmolive, now I am crazy militant tote bag lady!

The cashier finally caught on to what I meant and started handing me my groceries for me to bag myself. She said that she had never seen anyone bring their own bags before. But . . . even Oprah is in on this bag thing! Surely I cannot be the only person at my grocery store who brings her own bags! (Apparently I am the only person at my grocery store who brings her own bags. And I only started today.) I told the cashier that I was trying to save the environment, and she seemed to like that. I also apologized for any inconvenience. I bet she will be telling people all day about the crazy militant tote bag (Palmolive-sniffing) lady. Oh, well.

How about M. Ward? Do you want to hear about M. Ward?

I am not the M. Ward fan in our family. In fact, I kind of have a problem with his voice. I have less of a problem than I used to, because Mike has worn me down. He has played M. Ward until my defenses collapsed, and there are times I almost think I like him. I KNOW! I hardly know who I am anymore!

Mike and Alisa went to see M. Ward back in September, but I didn’t go. This time, though, Mike insisted that I had to experience M. Ward live, so we drove to The Orange Peel in Asheville to see him. Here is the thing about me and Asheville. There’s part of that crunchy/earthy thing that appeals to me (see above, with tote bags). But I also like wearing makeup and tailored clothing. So I don’t think that I completely fit in in Asheville. Also, I like bathing. I decided last night that I am getting too old for the concert thing because I don’t like standing for that long, especially in a large crowd of unwashed people. Give me a concert with assigned seating, I say. Also, I like to go to bed much earlier than this concert allowed me to. Because I am old.

Since we were the first people in, we managed to score seats during the opening band. But we wanted to be closer for M. Ward, so we gave up our seats and made a move toward the stage. I should tell you that before and during the opening act, we entertained ourselves by playing games such as, “What in the world is she wearing?” “Look at that awkward first date,” and, “Why are there twelve-year-olds at this concert?” Did I mention that I am old? Because I am. So old. There were mere children at this concert. There were also women wearing tapered pants who should not have been wearing tapered pants. No one should wear tapered pants that look like that. Our favorite game, though, was, “Drunk or stoned?” The guy directly in front of us was, we believe, both.

So, finally, M. Ward came on to the stage, and we were really close to him, and he played really nice music. He is incredibly talented. AND! Most importantly, his voice didn’t bother me so much in concert. I felt kind of bad for being so close, because we were surrounded by people for whom the concert was apparently a spiritual experience. That was how into it they were. I, however, only knew a few songs. I was an interloper.

I think I would have enjoyed it more if he’d had the full band (especially because, without the band, he did not play “To Go Home”), but, at the same time, when he was the only one making music, it was easy to see how talented he is. I definitely came away with an increased appreciation for his music. I might even let Mike put his CDs on my iPod.

My favorite part was the last song, “Rollercoaster.” M. Ward said that he needed someone who could play piano to come up on stage with him. I think we all thought he was joking at first, so we all kind of stood around awkwardly. But then, finally, a guy named Brian made his way up to the stage and M. Ward taught him the part he needed him to play. I have long told Mike that we need to make sure our children, especially our sons, know how to play piano. I feel that this vindicates me, because every time Brian played the piano, the crowd erupted. The whole concert had a very intimate feel, not just because I was one person from the stage, and Brian getting to play the piano on stage is a perfect example of that. Good times for all.

Anyway, I am glad I went, even if it was a late night (I’m so old). I am sure Mike and Alisa can give you a better review of what was actually played, but this will have to suffice from me. I am very busy, you see, planning my next awkward adventure at the grocery store.

Spoilers for Gilmore Girls episode “It’s Just Like Riding A Bike.”

Holy Moses, could I have loved this episode any more? Lorelai back in the diner! Jackson’s pajamas from . . . whatever season that was (season 2? Is that right?)! Lorelai pulling Oreos out of her purse! M. Ward playing on the jukebox! Sookie and Jackson acting like normal adults instead of being shrill! Lorelai on a bike! Paris jumping up and down when Rory opened that first letter (I admit it, I cried)! Rory saying, “Right, luck,” when Paris talked about her “luck” at getting into Harvard! And, of course, Luke and Lorelai acting like themselves! Oh, how I missed the bickering. Oh, how I missed Luke taking care of Lorelai even when her whims drive him nuts. Jennie Snyder wrote another one I liked earlier this season, and I said she could stay. Good call, me. hee hee.

I also cried a little bit when Rory got rejected, even though that was, plot-wise, what I wanted to happen. It was the right thing for the story, but it still made me sad. I liked Rory in this episode - she’s easier for me to like when . . . well, I hate to say that Rory has been handed everything on a silver platter, because I know she’s worked hard, but in many ways she is a golden child, and I like her a little better when she faces adversity, especially adversity that doesn’t have anything to do with a boyfriend (a Logan-free episode? Is it my birthday?). And the post-college job thing is hard, so I think it would have been really uncompelling if she’d gotten what she wanted right away. And, you know, since Paris brought it up, what about the fact that this time their roles were reversed, that Paris got what she wanted and Rory didn’t get her dream? Those two have been through a lot together, as their conversation at the end showed . . . it also made me feel like maybe the reason I feel ambivalence (leaning towards dislike) about Logan is that not just the show but specifically Rory feels some uncertainty and ambivalence about their relationship. I like that both she and Paris have these long-term relationships but they don’t really figure into “the plan” and they don’t know when to sacrifice and when to forge ahead. I can relate to those feelings, too, in certain ways, though this is the Gilmore Girls recap and not a time to be personal. hehe.

One thing I did not like . . . Lorelai’s ENORMOUS PUFFED SLEEVES. What is this, Anne of Green Gables? That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. I liked everything else.

Last week was all about the metaphors with the hay bale maze, and this week I think the metaphor was the car, right? I like the old car? Where the old car is Luke? The new car (Christopher) cannot be the old car? And now the old car can have a new life? Am I reaching? Just agree with me, okay? hehe.

I don’t know what you think, gentle reader, but with all the Paris (and, seriously, the marked lack of Logan) and Sookie and Jackson being likeable and Luke and Lorelai bickering . . . I am pretty sure our show is BACK! I am excited about the last three episodes of this season. That was flat-out fun!

I actually read this book during Holy Week, but I was waiting until my book club discussed it to write about it, to see if the discussion would give me a different perspective. Holy Week was a great time to be reading this book, though, because it’s set during the first part of April, just before Easter.

Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven is the only Fannie Flagg book I have read, and I didn’t actually know what to expect. (Here is a surprising fact - I think I have seen part of Fried Green Tomatoes, but I am not sure I ever saw the whole thing. Are they going to take away my Southern Card and make me live where it is cold?) I knew it would be funny, but I didn’t know that it would turn me into “that crazy person who is laughing out loud in the waiting room at her dentist’s office.” Yeah, that’s not embarrassing at all.

This is the story of Elner, a woman who falls out of a tree and gets to go to heaven, and the hole she leaves in people’s hearts that makes them wonder what life is really all about. But that doesn’t begin to tell the story, really - it’s about small towns and families and and belief and staying positive and God and being nice to people and, of course, caramel cake. It was the kind of book that makes you remember that there are good people in the world, which is just the kind of book we all need to be reading after how awful the news has been lately. I laughed out loud, repeatedly. I cried at the end, the good kind of tears. And I wondered why I have waited so long to read my first Fannie Flagg.

I wish I had something more deep to say about it, but it wasn’t necessarily that kind of book. On the surface, it was simply a hilarious story of a wonderful old woman in a small town in Missouri, but underneath it had some very touching things to say about the ways in which we live our lives, the ways our lives touch others, the ways we should make each moment count. On the surface, there’s not a lot to say because there’s not a lot to say about a comedy of manners. And when you go deeper, there’s not a lot to say because the power of the message speaks for itself.

For Christmas, my brother gave me an espresso maker. This was mostly so I can steam milk, and I have gotten quite good at making coffee beverages that include steamed milk. For myself. No, I will not make one for you. I suggest asking Alisa, because she actually knows what she’s doing.

On Christmas Eve, one of my aunts gave my brother some Ghirardelli chocolate coffee. We made some on Christmas Day, and it was, as expected, delicious. Totally my new favorite. (And I’m not usually a fan of flavored coffee.) I raved about it to my aunt, who kindly purchased some for me, as well. Mine was chocolate caramel. Oh, the decadence. It makes our house smell wonderful. I don’t know if I can go back to just plain old regular boring coffee. Chocolate caramel coffee, people. If only they made it in decaf.

Saturday morning, I made myself some chocolate caramel coffee, steamed some milk, and settled in with The Good Husband of Zebra Drive. As Alexander McCall Smith’s books always are, it was a treat. I giggled as Mma Ramotswe made observations about people in general and men in particular (and when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni (mostly) proved her wrong). I drank my coffee as they enjoyed their bush tea. I cried when Mma Ramotswe wept over the loss of a friend and over every loss, big and small, that she’d experienced in her life. I was reminded of how good people can be – Mma Ramotswe taking in orphans, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni having such incredible patience with his apprentices, the integrity of Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s relationship.

As usual, not a lot happened in the book, but I enjoyed, once again, visiting with these people, with their gentle world view and wry sense of humor. It was the perfect book with which to enjoy my chocolate caramel coffee beverage. And that, my friends, is really saying something.

Last month, I decided to provide refreshments for my book club’s April meeting. Just cookies or something. Nothing too dramatic. And then I read April’s book, Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven by Fannie Flagg (which I am waiting to review until after my book club meets), in which a caramel cake is prominently featured. “I should make caramel cake,” I thought. “I can use Grandma’s recipe.”

Now, the last time that I made a layer cake was sometime before Mike and I got married. It did not go well. Let’s just leave it at that. Suffice it to say, this was going to require a little extra courage on my part, especially if I would be serving it to strangers, because even Mike, who loves me dearly, was appalled at my last attempt. Of course, strangers would not know what it was supposed to look like, which is always a plus. I decided to go for it.

I have Grandma’s recipe from her church cookbook. She gave me a copy of the cookbook when I . . . well, basically, I complained about not having one. And she gave me her copy. And I took it, because that’s the kind of selfish person I am. But, look! It has Grandma’s caramel cake recipe! I totally needed a copy of that!

Last night I baked the cakes. Even this was a perilous task, because I didn’t actually have two round cake pans anymore. I am fairly sure we had some at some point. We could only find one. So I bought two new cake pans that are guaranteed for 100 years. I hope my grandchildren find them useful, though I expect they will be having their meals created by computer like [geek alert] in Star Trek. [/geek alert]

Really, though, baking the cakes was not that difficult. What I was really nervous about was the icing. I have heard that:

-It’s like fudge. Or maybe even sludge.
-Once it’s on the cake, it doesn’t move.
-You have to keep the knife very very wet.

All these instructions, as you can imagine, made me fairly nervous.

Here is the first stage of the icing:

Starting to get smoother:

Not yet too nervous (oh, how foolish):

Cold coffee to help thin the icing (I used the Luke’s cup for good luck):

The icing is boiling. This is a good sign:

Stirring the syrupy mixture in with the powdered sugar (I was supposed to sift the powdered sugar, but I don’t have a sifter. I think this caused some problems later):

Starting to actually look like caramel icing:

I think you can tell from this picture, things are starting to get difficult. The icing, it does not move. Not an exaggeration.

An action shot:

What there are no pictures of is when I tried to use the hand mixer to smooth out the icing (I never could get rid of all the lumps) and . . . icing ended up all over the wall. Let us never speak of it again. Instead, let’s talk about how I am icing the cake so quickly that mere cameras can’t capture it:

There was a moment when I was sure that I was not going to have enough icing to finish the cake (remember, I lost some icing . . . but do not speak of it), but I used some coffee (thank you, Luke) and stretched it out enough that it worked out okay. It is not the most beautiful cake, but I will better know what the icing is supposed to look like next time. The main problem is that there were still some lumps, especially on the top. But, again, none of the ladies have to know that this isn’t exactly how it’s supposed to look. Let’s not tell them, okay?

In all, I am fairly proud of this attempt. I think I would add the powdered sugar more slowly and probably add more coffee. The top would be more smooth if I could have gotten the icing more smooth. But it was only my second attempt EVER at a layer cake, and my first with the incredible thickening caramel icing, so I . . . feel pretty proud just the same.

(I’m only including this last one because of how thin I look. As a reminder that I probably shouldn’t eat any of the cake myself. The icing has two cups of brown sugar and an entire box of powdered sugar!)

“To the Green Man”

Lord of the returning leaves, of sleepers
Waking in their tunnels among roots,
Of heart and bush and fire-headed stag,
Of all things branching, stirring the blood like sap,
Pray for us in your small commemorations:
The facet of stained glass, the carved face
Lapped by decorations on the column side,
And the entry in the reference book that lists you
As forester, pub sign, keeper of golf courses.
King for a day, or week, then sacrificed,
Drunk on liquor made from honey, urged
To blossom at your leisure, and caressed–
The temptation is to think of you without envy.
In Fewston, Yorkshire, near the open moor,
You are set in a church window above the altar.
Wreathed and strangled, amber-glazed, you wear
A look of non-surprise, a victim’s cunning,
Though your tongue hangs as dumb as any death.
Elsewhere, when you make your appearances,
Out of your mouth stems and oak leaves grow–
Like speech or silence? Your eyes are empty cups.
Pray, vestige-secret of the trees, for us,
Surprised and pleased to find you any place.

-Mark Jarman

Oh, yes, I did.

Where I work is only about ten minutes from the zoo, so when Mike asked me if I could meet his class there for lunch . . . well, actually, there was some confusion. I repeatedly said the wrong day. But other than that, there was no problem. I had an extra hour of comp time anyway, so I saved it for the zoo. This time, the weather was lovely, and I got to see Tort and Retort, the Galapagos tortoises. I was completely delighted.

Here is a picture with some people in the background so you can see how big Tort is. He weighs 550 pounds. That is more than me, Mike, my mom, and my brother combined. In case you were wondering.

Here is Tort with his girlfriend/wife/partner (they didn’t speak to me about their relationship) Retort. As he walked up behind her, we were slightly afraid that we were about to witness kinky turtle sex. And then slightly disappointed when that did not happen.

And here I am (again, perspective should help you see how large he is), full of turtle love. Now that I know how easy it is to get to the zoo at lunch, I will definitely be returning. After all, Tort and Retort will only be here until October!

Our bathroom has two sinks, and mine is the closest to the door, so, in the mornings, Mike usually knocks rather than swinging the door open and knocking me in the side. This is especially important because I could be putting on eyeliner and knocking me in the side could cause me to put out an eye. The bathroom is a dangerous place, my friends.

This morning, Mike knocked on the door and I said, “Candygram.” We both giggled. Not the most clever response, but, you know, no coffee yet. It was the best I could do. The choices were either, “Housekeeping,” or, “Candygram.” I went with, “Candygram.”

Mike proceeded to tell me that, when he went to Myrtle Beach with his sea turtle class, there was some kind of . . . event. And some of them had to dress up. (This was the first I had heard of this, and I was sure he was going to tell me he dressed as a sea turtle egg and WHY HAD I NOT HEARD ABOUT THIS BEFORE AND WHERE WERE THE PICTURES? Sadly, that was not the case. But wouldn’t you like to see that?) He said that one of his classmates dressed as a shark, so, of course, Mike kept saying, “Candygram.” And none of his classmates got it. At all. They had no idea what he was talking about. They’re all about ten years younger than he is . . . but how do they not know “candygram?” What does it mean for the future of this country if college students know nothing about the history of SNL, nay, the history of comedy in this fine land? Will future generations only think of Will Ferrell and Borat when they think of humor? Or . . . is “candygram” really that obscure of a reference? hehe.

The idea of delivering books to various tribes in Africa via camel really captures the imagination, doesn’t it? Can’t you picture it? And, in fact, that is how books are delivered in Kenya. The Camel Bookmobile.

Fiona is a librarian from America who is enchanted with the idea of a camel bookmobile, too. Inspired by the idea of taking books to people who have never before held books in their hands, she takes a leave of absence from her job and travels to Kenya to work with the program.

The thing about putting books in people’s hands, though, is that books are dangerous. They change people’s lives in ways that can’t be taken back. What does it mean to take this kind of information to a tribe that’s so isolated from the outside world? This book explored that question, but doesn’t offer any easy answers.

The ending, though not what I wanted, was exactly what it should be. No one survives this encounter unchanged, though not necessarily in the ways that you expect. It was a good reminder of the power of information, but, even more than that, it was a strong reminder to be respectful of other cultures who might not see our “assistance” in the same way we do. Fi went to help these tribes in Kenya, but, in the end, she was changed at least as much as the people she thought needed her help.

So, I never wrote about “Gilmore Girls Only,” and I don’t really know why that is. We were on vacation when we watched it, and I did, in fact, take the entire trip to Charlotte as a shout-out to me. The show and I are kind of codependent.

Anyway, what I will say about “Gilmore Girls Only” is that it was a good step in the right direction for Lorelai and Emily. I liked that we had an episode that dealt with some of their stuff. Overall I really liked that one.

Over this little hiatus, I thought a lot about the show, I watched some old favorite episodes, and I realized that, despite all my big talk, I’m not sure I want the show to go away just yet. There’s just not enough time to get everything resolved. We deserve to have everything resolved. Which is why I love the rumors I’m hearing about having a shortened 8th season. That makes sense to me, just to get a little bit further along in these stories, to get the kind of stuff we thought we were going to get this season. Before the Palladinos did their evil.

So, about “Hay Bale Maze.” I actually liked this one, too. (Rebecca Rand Kirshner, people. She can write the townies. We had Gypsy! And Morey! I love Morey! And the Troubador!!! And girls dancing as bulbs! And Kirk wearing a minotaur head! And not too much Taylor . . . and here is where I admit that I kind of missed Taylor and was glad to see him. I am clearly losing my mind.) I was copying down recipes and was not giving the show my full attention, so let me think about what I liked.

-As you can probably tell, I liked having the episode mostly in Stars Hollow. It felt comfortable. Townies, town meetings . . . the things that made this show so funny and interesting from the start. The show can really be at its best when it’s in Stars Hollow, and I felt like this was one of the strongest episodes of the season.

-I know this is cheesy, but I liked the maze as metaphor thing they had going on, with Rory and Logan choosing the same path (for now) and the maze ending in front of Luke’s Diner. The people in charge at GG have made a lot of noise about this season being about Lorelai’s journey (and, heck, I think I’ve said that several times myself), so I liked the nod to that. I am anxious to see Lorelai back in the diner . . . I thought THAT was how this episode was going to end, with her taking the maze to the diner and opening the door. Instead, we got the apologies, which was, in some ways, more than I expected. But her going to the diner is still pretty significant. That’s one of the things I’ve missed in Stars Hollow - not having Lorelai in the diner.

-I liked Luke and Lorelai’s conversation at the end. I felt like it was kind of forced, but I liked what they were saying, even if it was more directed to the fans than to each other. I think the writers are really making an effort to move things in the right direction so we’ve got some closure by the end of the season (or series, if season 8 doesn’t pan out). Which, if this was about a journey, makes sense. We need her to have gotten somewhere. So, I didn’t love the conversation, but I liked what it stood for, that there’s an end goal.

-I liked April’s new hair and glasses. Shallow, yes, but she was really cute in this episode! With her new look and her cute way of talking. I have always wanted to hate her but found it impossible. Now that she is undeniably cute, I feel vindicated in some strange way.

What I didn’t like, STILL, was Logan. I still don’t know what I am supposed to think about him. I don’t buy his remorse or his conversation with Lorelai. I agree with her that I still have some serious concerns about him and how seriously he takes things (or, to be more precise, how seriously he doesn’t take things) and his money and entitlement. I wouldn’t want my daughter dating him, either.

Logan and Rory walking away together at the end was kind of confusing, I thought. I feel like we’re building up to them going separate ways, and I felt like that was what the conversation outside the maze was about - I got “ambivalence” from Logan rather than, “I am devoted to you.” (But that . . . now that I think about it, that’s not really a new thing for me to get from Logan. He is so hard for me to read.) So, despite them taking the same path for now, I am not sure I believe that’s long term.

And, to be honest, I think that Rory should have taken the Providence Journal job. We don’t all get to follow our dreams right away, and Rory, who has gotten to go to Chilton and then Yale and was the editor-in-chief of the YDN . . . I think she needs to put in some time, to be honest. I know that she’ll get the fellowship or something better, but . . . I thought she should take the job. I was with Lorelai on this one. I think that Logan’s advice is fine for the world he lives in, and I admit that that’s the world that Rory has had one foot in for a while, but I think that those aren’t the values that Lorelai has wanted to impart to her daughter. I think she wants Rory to understand the value of hard work (not just academic work) more than she does. And if she connected so well with this editor-lady, I hate to think she turned down the job on Logan’s advice to “follow her dreams.” I also think it would be good for Rory to be nurtured by someone like this editor-lady, and good for her to have to provide for herself and make her own way. It seems a shame.

Anyway, there are only FOUR episodes left. Let’s finish out this season in grand style, shall we?

It’s National Library Week! Hug a librarian this week! Or send her presents! I mean, if you know a librarian. Who might like presents. Or chocolate. I bet she likes chocolate.

And, 50 Books posted this interesting story about how Yann Martel (Canadian author of Life of Pi) has started sending books to the Canadian Prime Minster, Stephen Harper, each with a detailed letter. He’s doing this to protest funding being cut for the arts. You can find out more on Yann Martel’s site, What is Stephen Harper Reading?, where he’s going to post the PM’s response . . . if he gets one.

Have you seen this video of Kristen Bell and Chris Lowell? Because it is freaking adorable. (Don’t hate it just because you hate Piz. You will miss out on all the fun that way.)

Sincerely,

Kari

I wanted this book to be something different than what it actually was. Easter Everywhere is Darcey Steinke’s story of being a preacher’s kid, drifting away from the church, and then finding her way back to faith. It was fine, thought-provoking in some places, but I didn’t feel a strong connection to the author. The story often jumped ahead without explanation, and I think the disconnect came both from a lack of information and, in places, a lack of self-reflection.

Her exploration of “Easter everywhere” was mostly about the different ways and places she’s experienced Easter through the years - the one that stands out to me is the Easter Sunday that she got her first period. I am not sure exactly what I wanted the book to be, but something about the title captured my imagination. Last Sunday I was captivated by the thought that we were celebrating Easter with churches all over the world. That the message is for everyone. That God brings redemption every day, to all kinds of terrible situations. Easter, everywhere.

I think that the ideas I had about what Easter Everywhere might be about had more to do with redemption than anything else. The way that my arms and legs feel so alive, right down to my fingers and toes, when I’m given a second chance. The way that painful things start to hurt a little bit less when we see what we have learned from them. The way God uses the things I have been through to help someone else who is struggling. It’s Easter in miniature, the redemption of sin, the victory over death and all the other losses we experience. If we are paying attention, we can see Easter everywhere.

Last night we had our newest favorite meal: turkey burgers stuffed with feta cheese on whole wheat buns with cucumber sauce. Served with Greek style spinach and brown rice (with basil, onions, garlic and feta cheese). You envy us, do you not? (If you don’t, you should.)

Before that, I went running. Two things happened that are worth noting. The first was that two guys in the neighborhood were playing on their four-wheeler, and figuring out how to make it pop wheelies. This was highly entertaining to watch. The second was that I ran past a group of teenagers and one of the boys was on a bike, and as I passed him, he said, “Oh, s—! I didn’t see that woman running up behind us!” Y’all. I have never been called a woman before. Except maybe by my mom when I got my first period. And this isn’t exactly the same thing. This is a harbinger of doom. Teenagers think I’m a grownup. Is it time for a facelift?

I kept planning on reading The Road because we have a friend who loves him some Cormac McCarthy, but it didn’t seem like a very cheery book, so I kept putting it off. And then Oprah picked it, and I thought I’d better snatch it up before there was a long list for it. So, in the end, it was Oprah rather than my friend who convinced me to read McCarthy. And I’m sure he’ll never let me forget it.

I’ve had a couple of days now to think about The Road, and my overwhelming feeling is that I’m glad I read it. I am lucky to be able to read so fast that I can read things that aren’t my taste and not have to labor over them forever. I don’t want to read the same thing all the time, so even though this was challenging in some places, I am glad I did it.

The Road is the post-apocalyptic story of a man and his son who, with what little they have, are journeying on the road to the coast. We don’t know what they will find. They don’t know what, if anything, they will find. But they labor on in hopes of finding something better.

Many people have remarked on the beauty of the father’s love for his son. It’s the only thing that keeps him going – if he was only looking out for himself, he’d have given up long ago. That’s one of the things that makes this such a memorable story, the way the father continues to overcome or find a way around hardship in order to provide for and protect his son.

As I was reading it, I kept thinking that perhaps Oprah had miscalculated, that this book was entirely too bleak for her target audience. (And I have nothing against Oprah or her target audience . . . I have read several Oprah books myself.) I envisioned Oprah’s audience full of women who looked shell-shocked, especially after two scenes in particular. Someone asked me what the point was, and I wasn’t entirely sure. But then, in the last few pages, I did feel like hope broke through, and that was enough to change my outlook on the book.

Something I read about the book talked about the father/son relationship to the rest of the world in terms of Old Testament/New Testament or, more simply, god of wrath/god of mercy. I like that comparison, kind of. The father was clearly willing to do anything to protect his son, and the son, as a young boy who had never known a different life, wanted to give and help people out of what they had. But I wouldn’t say that the lesson in the end was that the boy was right and the father was wrong. It was more that they needed that balance for survival.

We were never told exactly what the disaster was, the point was survival afterwards. For me personally, as a child of the 80s, I appreciated the reminder that all that we have could be taken away in an instant. I have grown up feeling relatively safe and very unconcerned about nuclear holocaust. Any fear that I feel these days is more in terms of a terrorist attack. It was helpful to be reminded of why, exactly, we have to take the threats of Iran and North Korea seriously.

There are some fairly gruesome scenes, which is why I won’t go as far as Oprah and recommend this book, but I do think it’s an important book, beautifully written. Bleak but beautiful.

Mike’s plan for lightbulb domination is continuing. Thank you, Al Gore. No, really. Thanks. You’re the best. Yesterday he changed the lightbulbs in our kitchen, and now, when I turn on the lights in the kitchen, I have to wait a second for them to actually come on, and then I have to wait for the lights to actually, you know, give off light. They still start off very dim. And then slowly become brighter than the sun. Seriously. Sunglasses are needed. The glare, it is strong.

The way that I discovered this was that Mike turned on the lights in the kitchen last night as I was cooking dinner and I DIDN’T EVEN NOTICE. Then he went to the pantry and came back all giggly and I looked at him in confusion. And then, literally, the light dawned. (That is my favorite part of the story, that, literally, the dim light brightened.) The kitchen slowly grew brighter. Slowly. Very slowly. As my heart grew darker. Quickly. Very quickly.

I thought I was irritated by this last night, but then, this morning, I went downstairs to make coffee and turned on the light and nothing happened. And then the dim lights came on. And I was enraged. ENRAGED, I say! I couldn’t see anything! I was further enraged by how bright they then got. I had not yet had any coffee. I did not want to have to shield my eyes quite that much.

I am sure there’s some kind of lesson here about patience being a virtue. But, seriously, I am still not used to the energy-saving bulbs in our bedroom lamps, two years after Mike put them in. I may need some encouragement to make it through this difficult time.

(Like everyone, I think conservation is important unless I have to do it myself.)

On Friday, we went to the zoo. I really wanted to see the new/old tortoises. That was my main reason for going. That and, of course, the polar bears. I always want to see the polar bears.

We got there, and I was like, “WOOO! Where are the tortoises! Can’t wait to see them! WOOOO! Tortoises!” And then we got to the exhibit and we saw that it was “too cold” for the tortoises to be outside. They were hatched in Panama, and they like warm weather. I actually started to cry. No kidding. I really wanted to see them, and I dragged Mike to the zoo, and I didn’t get to see a single tortoise. Very disappointing.

Then we went to see the polar bears. Who were asleep. One of them rolled over and stretched. So I was very sad about that as well. Not going so well for me at the zoo. I have missed seeing them swim the past few times I’ve been there. Some Saturday I’m going to go and camp out at the polar bear exhibit all day until I see them swim.

Now, just as an aside, I have to say that the zoo was insane. Insane. Tons of school groups and families. Mike and I were pretty much the only people there who weren’t pushing a stroller or dragging a kid by the hand. There are some people with children who seem to think that my life is less fulfilling since I don’t have kids of my own, but as I wove through that crowd, I did not feel unfulfilled. I felt super-happy not to be pushing a screaming child who needed a nap. hehe.

The zoo trip was certainly not a complete waste, though. Besides the weather being cool and gorgeous (bunch of sissy tortoises), we got to see the lion cubs. And they were as show-offy as they could possibly have been.

Look at them wrestling. Don’t you want one of your own?

It was nice to be outside, even if we did get a little cool in the end. But I am really sad about the tortoises. Mike’s going with a school group in a few weeks, and I think I’ll run over to the zoo on my lunch break and see them then. If the weather is warmer. I don’t want to miss them again.

On Good Friday, I sat in the pew and I told God that I knew that I was being too controlling, but, please, if we could just get through Easter Sunday, I promised to deal with it then. And it’s true. I have been trying to control things. Everything has seemed so out of control that I have been managing everything, trying to make things okay for my family, stuffing my emotions, setting a high standard for myself and forcing myself to live up to it. On Good Friday, as Mike and I were driving to the zoo after the service, I said, “I know this isn’t a way to live, but I don’t know how to stop doing it.” His advice? “You should stop doing it.”

It’s not really working, either - there are all kinds of things that are outside my control, and when something happens, I occasionally melt down. All my efforts aren’t getting me anywhere at all. I haven’t been living in a constant state of freak-out, though, because I keep putting things away, pushing them to a far corner deep within my mind - “I am not going to deal with that right now.” I haven’t been blogging about anything but books, because when you don’t feel (or deal with) anything, you don’t have much to say about your life. You can only talk about what you are doing. And what I’ve been doing is what I usually do - read. I’ve been plowing through books with more resolve than usual, because it keeps me occupied. I’m sorry it’s been so boring. I am still learning how to grieve appropriately.

On that topic, in Sunday School last week, we talked about whether it was appropriate to have the Lenten services be a little bit more “down” than services at other times. I said yes, because the Bible isn’t a book that’s always happy, our lives aren’t always happy, and I think the rhythm of the Christian year should represent all the different aspects of our lives. I was taught and still believe that abundant life doesn’t just mean a happy life. It’s about the full spectrum of emotions. Christians aren’t that great with grief, but we’re never going to get better at it if we insist that our worship services all be upbeat.

So, now that I made it through the darkness of the Tenebrae service, the sorrow of the Good Friday service, and the joy of Sunday’s Easter service, where does that leave me?

On Sunday, I sat on stage (I was liturgist, reading the call to worship, the scripture, and the prayers) and watched as we took the black drapery (that is so not the word I am looking for) off of the cross and brought the brass candlesticks and lit candles back into the sanctuary. Rejoice! For he is risen! And, oh, I am so thankful that we have hope that there is life beyond this. It helps to know that one day I can see my dad again. I am sure that there was quite an Easter celebration in heaven. But I stuffed those feelings and made it through the service, doing my job, not wanting to think about what the hope of eternal life means to me this year. We had lunch with friends, we visited my family, and when we got home I was so tired that my whole body hurt.

I wasn’t going to post poetry again so soon, but when I was looking for an appropriate Easter-ish poem, I found this Madeleine L’Engle poem, too.

“Go Away. You Can’t Come In. I’m Shutting the Door.”

Go away. You can’t come in. I’m shutting the door.
I’m afraid of you. I’m not sure who you are anymore.
I’m closing the door. I’m staying safe and alone.
Batter against it all you like. This house is built on stone.
You can’t come in. I’ve shuttered the windows tight.
You never say who you are. If it’s You, then it’s all right,
But you might be the other, the beautiful prince of this world
Who makes my heart leap with his cohorts and banners unfurled.
I could be unfaithful with him without any trouble
If I opened the door. He could easily pass for your double.
I’ve buried my talents. If put them to use
I could hurt or be hurt, be abused or abuse.
I wish you’d stop blowing. My whole house is shaken.
I’ll hide under the covers. Be gone when I waken.

What’s that light at the windows, that blast at the door?
The shutters are burning, there’s fire on the floor.
Go away. I don’t know you. My clothes are aflame,
My tongue is on fire, you are crying my name;
I hear your wild voice through the holocaust’s din.
My house is burned up.
What?
Oh, welcome! Come in!

I haven’t been burned up. God hasn’t been forcing me to let him in, knocking down any doors. But, in a way, I do feel burned up. Like I don’t know what to do next. And I don’t. I guess this year’s Lent, if it was about anything, was about bringing me to the end of myself. I’m going to try to remember how to be a human again, to feel things and to let myself be sad or happy or confused, if that’s what I am. I don’t want to do this, because I don’t want to be a mess. But I think it’s better to be a mess than to keep on doing something that isn’t working.

Ham. With this apricot mustard glaze that was divine.
This potato thing that they said was like a pie without the crust? It had leeks in it and also the word it was called started with a G.
Blackeyed peas.
Collard greens.
Potato salad.
Deviled eggs.
Green beans.
Macaroni and cheese (normal).
Macaroni and cheese (blue cheese and gorgonzola).
Sourdough bread.

And for dessert, chocolate cheesecake bars and also chocolate pie.

I will probably revisit the subject of our church’s Easter service later on this week, so for now I will just say that I feel blessed to be able to spend holidays with both friends and family. We had lunch with friends after church, complete with laughter and good conversation and entirely too much food. And of course I forgot the camera. So you’ll just have to imagine it: ten adults, three kids under two, a table full of food. A picture of contentment.

April is National Poetry Month, and I haven’t talked about poetry for a while, so I thought I’d post this poem by Madeleine L’Engle in celebration of both NPM and Easter. Enjoy.

“I Am Become Like A Pelican . . .”

I am become like a pelican in the wilderness . . .
For I have eaten ashes as it were bread,
and mingled my drink with weeping . . .
But thou, O Lord, shalt endure for ever. -Psalm 102:6, 9, 12

God is dead? Well, of course God is dead!
Where have you been? Did you not see the dark
Cover the hill and strike against the cross?
We killed him then two thousand years ago
And once was not enough. We kill him now
In each denial, each unloving act.
Daily we kill him, trampling on his name,
Spitting on his word. And we are told,
And rightly, that he died between two thieves
And not two candles shining on an altar.
And yet there, too, perhaps most terribly,
He’s crucified each day by priest and those
Who take him, unaware of all the clouds
Of witnesses encompassing them in song
And prayer, who kneel there coldly unaware
Of those who suffer in the adjoining pew.
We do not understand his feast; we live
Again his crucifixion, but forget,
Each time we crucify him there again
Between those candles whose bright flame is lost
To darkened eyes, that when we died for us
After three days he rose, and still for us.
We kill him, but we cannot keep his light
From blazing forth in flame for every one
Who fouls his word and calls him dead and cries
In loneliness because his name is lost.

And yet, receiving now my heart’s true food
I feel his light rush coursing through my blood.
Nourished by his spilled wine and broken bread,
I know that my Redeemer is not dead.

Now, see, this is exactly why I didn’t want to start writing my reviews all out of order. I confused myself this morning , and I could not remember without looking what the book was that I read between Eat, Pray, Love and Cures for Heartbreak. That’s right, I read Eat, Pray, Love first. Do you feel deceived? I am sorry. Sometimes I have more to say about a book, and I want to get my thoughts out there.

That’s not to say I didn’t like Acceptance. It was just what I needed after Eat, Pray, Love – something funny and biting. I can only do sincere for so long.

Acceptance is a satire about the college application process, focusing on three students: Harry, who wants desperately to go to Harvard; Taylor, whose mother keeps pushing her towards prestigious colleges, but who really just wants a dorm room with a private bathroom; and Maya, who, while smart, cannot live up to the standards of her older siblings.

Mixed in with these three characters are their parents and the dean of admissions at a small liberal arts college that is (accidentally) on the rise in US News and World Report’s listings, each with their own personal source of stress.

What I liked about this book was that I could recognize the insanity of the college application process while also keeping some distance from it. I went to a state school that offered me a scholarship, and I don’t regret it. The idea of all that pressure to get into the right school is a huge turnoff. What worried me, though was the idea that maybe, one day, I’ll have to go through these things with our kids. And the idea of college coaches and SAT prep and the right summer activities and the right volunteer work is totally stressful! I am not qualified to help anybody navigate all those things! But I also want to encourage my kids to aim high. What’s the balance there?

The best thing about this book was that the characters were people I cared about, and the author clearly cared about them too. In the end, everybody didn’t end up exactly where they’d expected, but we were given the reassurance that they were going to be okay, which is more important anyway. I closed it and thought, “A sweet and satisfying ending to a very funny story.”

While I was in the middle of this book, I went home one evening and read exactly zero pages. Instead, I watched trashy television and thoroughly enjoyed it. The next morning, before work, I read exactly zero pages. That morning, on my break? Zero pages. In fact, the afternoon before, on my break, I also read zero pages. While I was eating lunch, I finally did pick the book up again, but what I am saying is that I went 24 hours without reading anything more than TWoP recaps.

This is, as I’m sure you can imagine, unusual for me. And I don’t know if it was me or the book or what. Last week was very busy and somewhat sad, and The Tudors was just what I needed. I think I didn’t need a book about divorce, depression, and “finding yourself.” Not last week, anyway.

Eat, Pray, Love is about the year Elizabeth Gilbert spent in Italy, India, and Indonesia after an acrimonious divorce and subsequent depression. It’s about her journey from turmoil to peace as she spends time in Rome learning about pleasure (in the form of learning Italian and eating fantastic-sounding food), in an ashram near Mumbai learning about prayer, and in Bali learning about balance, where she eventually falls in love with a Brazilian man.

In the end, I feel kind of ambivalent about the book. I didn’t hate it, but it was definitely not the right book for me at right now. I also . . . I hate to say this about a memoir, but I also didn’t really like Elizabeth Gilbert, at least not as she presented herself in the book. I know what it’s like to struggle with depression, so it wasn’t that I didn’t feel sympathetic about that. Maybe it’s hard to feel sympathetic when someone can just go live in Italy, India, and Indonesia for a year? Most of us have to deal with the messes that we’ve made right where we are.

I hesitate to say this, because her book was obviously very sincere and her journey obviously meant a great deal to her, but much of it seemed a little bit trite to me. I can certainly enjoy books by people who don’t share the same religious beliefs that I do, but something about the way she presented her “pick and choose” approach to religion kind of bugged me. I wish it hadn’t, but it did.

There were things I liked about the book, though – the solitude she found in Rome, being on her own; the way she presented the peace she found, meditating in India. I probably liked the last section least of all, but it was the fastest-moving section, oddly enough.

Anne Lamott is quoted on the back of the book, as saying, “She’s wise, jaunty, human, ethereal, hilarious, heartbreatking, and God, does she play great attention to the things that really matter.” I wish Elizabeth Gilbert had dug a little deeper, because then I could agree with that.

I started Cures for Heartbreak on my lunch hour and finished it that same night. I read fast so I didn’t have to absorb it, turning pages both to know what was going to happen and to keep an emotional distance, wanting to save myself from . . . well, heartbreak, actually.

Cures for Heartbreak is about Mia, a fifteen-year-old girl whose mother was diagnosed with melanoma and died twelve days later. Soon after, her father is hospitalized with heart trouble. Mia understandably spends a lot of time floundering both in school and emotionally as she tries to understand what’s going on. She reads books about orphans, dresses in her mom’s clothes, and flunks some of her classes. Meanwhile, her (recovered) dad has retired and is living off her mom’s life insurance, their house is a wreck, and she and her sister are still two very different people who clash. A lot.

What sets this book apart is that Mia is able to ask some really difficult questions: Why is her father now able to express the love that her mother always longed for? How do we keep from reducing the people we lose to facts on an index card? Will she ever feel whole again?

There’s not a clear “cure” for Mia’s heartbreak, though she is certainly looking. She reads romance novels, trying to learn what love looks like, knowing that there’s more to it than what she saw of her parents’ fractious relationship. She considers her mother’s first love and imagines a relationship for herself. And, finally, she finds someone to care about – a cancer survivor she met when her father was in the hospital. If there is a cure for Mia’s heartbreak, it’s to remember her mother and to have a heart that is open to love, and to let her father do the same.

This book, instead of being one straight narrative, is set up in chunks, similar to Melissa Bank or All This Heavenly Glory by Elizabeth Crane. It could have been much longer and still would have kept my attention, but serving it up in pieces helped move the story along, rather than getting bogged down in detail.

Since Dad died last year, one of my biggest fears is that my mom will get sick, too, which is why I was so drawn to this book. I want to read about how other people have survived these things. It helps me breathe easier knowing that there are people who know how I feel. This is also why I felt the need to keep an emotional distance from the book, to read it quickly – I’m still dealing with some of those feelings myself, still learning that there’s something between being closed off and falling apart, and I was afraid that really absorbing the book might turn me into a wreck. Which would have been okay, except, did I mention I was on my lunch break?

The book closes with an afterword from the author, who explains that much of the story is autobiographical, which adds another level to an already wonderful, sorrowful, hopeful book. It’s aimed at teenagers, but don’t let that stop you – there is some pretty great stuff being written for teenagers these days, and this book is a perfect example of that.

Note: To really get a feel for what this conversation sounded like, you have to imagine us yelling more than singing this song at the top of our lungs.

KARI: What do you want to listen to?

MIKE: You can choose.

KARI: *grabs iPod* You know what I’m going to choose!

MIKE: Yes.

KARI: ONCE UPON A TIME YOU DRESSED SO FINE

MIKE: Oh.

KARI: What?

MIKE: I thought you were going to pick “Born to Run” because of Peter Sagal.

[Gentle reader, rather than having a conversation about Peter Sagal and why he would inspire me to play “Born to Run,” I will simply explain that he excitedly recited the lyrics a few weeks ago on Wait, Wait in a discussion about how New Jersey once campaigned to choose it as their state song. It was definitely one of my favorite Wait, Wait moments of all time.]

KARI: I’ll play that later. HOW DOES IT FEEL?

MIKE: TO BE WITHOUT A HOME.

KARI: A COMPLETE UNKNOWN.

MIKE: NO DIRECTION HOME.

BOTH: LIKE A ROLLING STONE.

Last year, Mike made a playlist of Rolling Stone’s 500 greatest songs of all time. On trips, I always found it a reliable playlist we could both agree on, even if we did choose to skip a song here and there. The best part was that it started with Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone.” I am not sure I can convey how much I love mumbling/yelling the words along with Bob. Especially when the windows are rolled down and it inadvertently causes me to yell things like, “Scrounging FOR YOUR NEXT MEAL,” at people who are innocently walking down the street. Yeah, that’s awkward. At least it wasn’t, “You threw the bums a dime in your prime, DIDN’T YOU?”

I don’t know why I got so obsessed with the song. I’m not a big Bob Dylan fan, to be honest, but I do like some of his classic stuff. Road trips would generally feature me yelling along with the song while Mike drove with a polite/bemused expression on his face. Oh, but now! Now I have converted him! We listened to nine different versions of it last night. Straight through. Complete with yelling.

And possibly dancing.

Our neighbors can speak to us again, because we did a little yardwork and are hopefully going to have grass soonish. We don’t live in a very chatty cul-de-sac, though, so it’s actually fairly doubtful that they’ll be speaking to us soon. But if they were to speak to us, it wouldn’t be about how we needed to do something about our awful awful lawn. Or those awful dead plants on our porch. Though I would still like to speak to them about their yippy dogs.

This weekend, I really wanted to move back to Greensboro. I haven’t felt that way in a while – I blame all my friends who have been looking at houses and buying houses and moving for this itch, because I really like our house and the area where we live. And I don’t know how we could possibly afford to live in Greensboro.

A lot of it probably had to do with the fun we had on Friday night with some of our friends. It was silly fun – eating dinner, playing board games – but proximity often means we don’t get to participate in things like that. Plus, we got to play Pit. Mike and I have wanted to play Pit since it was mentioned on Freaks and Geeks, because we had no idea what it was. Brandi and Aaron brought it to Atlanta last summer, but we didn’t get to play it, much to our disappointment. Mike was a champion Pit player, but I was thwarted by someone’s inability to tell Sugar from Soybeans. I swear I would have won that time. I swear. They let me ring the bell anyway, just so I’d know how it feels.

After that, we played Loaded Questions. Until after midnight. Our answers, as I’m sure you can guess, got more and more ridiculous the more tired we got. Deepest regret? Not trying out for the Blue Man Group. Not getting the supersize. Celebrity you most resemble? Oprah. (That was my answer – she has a book club, I have a book club . . .) Worst thing you can call someone? Ma’am. (And some unprintable responses, as well.) There were more of us than there were actual gamepieces, so we played with pieces from the CSI game instead. I was Greg, or “Sexy Greg.” I have never seen an episode of CSI, so I have no idea whether Greg is actually sexy. I just declared it to be so. His character piece kind of looked like George Harrison.

After Dad passed away, I knew that some relationships were going to change – many people staked out a place in my life as if to say, “We want a deeper kind of relationship, and we are going to prove it to you by being here for you now.” Other people drifted away. This weekend, as I spent time with some people from the first group, I realized how much easier it is for me to be friends with people when you know that they like you. That’s kind of silly, right? Why would we be friends with people who don’t like us? But everybody has been in situations like that. On Friday, Mike and I sat at that table with six other people we genuinely like and who genuinely like us and each other. We laughed until we cried (I was still laughing about some of those things yesterday, actually), we left and I didn’t feel like I had to worry about what I’d said being taken in the wrong way, nor did I feel that there were negative feelings hiding just under the surface. It has taken persistent effort to get to that point, but . . . would that all relationships could be so uncomplicated.

He makes the best creme brulee. And I need the creme brulee.

(Also he is very cute. But did I mention the creme brulee?)