Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I found this recipe lying on an empty seat in the Minneapolis airport. It was clipped from some newspaper—I think the St. Paul Pioneer Press. I snatched it right up. What a find.
2 1/2 pound tomatoes, cored and roughly chopped
2 medium English cucumbers, peeled, chopped
2 celery stalks, coarsely chopped
1 green bell pepper
1 1/2 C V-8
1/2 C water
1/2 C olive oil
1/4 C cooking sherry
1/2 C flat leaf parsley, chopped (curly parsley is too strong)
1-2 T sugar
3 T tomato paste
1/2 t paprika
1/4 t cayenne
2-3 t salt
1/2 t pepper
1/2 pound small shrimp
In large bowl, stir together all coarsely chopped ingredients. Cover and refrigerate for 2 hours or overnight. Working in batches, transfer chilled mixture into food processor. Pulse until soup is coarsely pureed. Repeat as needed with the rest. Stir to blend batches in a large bowl. Taste, adding more salt and pepper or sugar as you like. Cover with plastic and refrigerate several hours. Serve with cold fresh shrimp on top.
Note: I don't know why you have to chill the coarsely chopped ingredients before blending them. I suppose you could omit that step. All I know is, this is the best gazpacho I've ever had because it's so tasty yet so gentle on the stomach.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Recently I bought two soft comfy recliners at the thrift store. They're not very attractive, but I do like the way they smell slightly of baby powder and age, and also the way the cranberry padded velour envelops my body when I sit in it. I'm guessing they belonged to an old couple who has died, or maybe one of them has died and the other had to go into a nursing home; sometimes it makes me sad to think of them. Anyway, they were $25.00 each, a steal really, and though I wouldn't dream of putting them in our real living room, I've placed them side by side in our back sun room—a jumble of secondhand furniture, lacrosse sticks, stray Lite Brite pegs, dog toys and giant picture windows that look out into the backyard. This is where we read, my husband and I. Sometimes we read and then we nap. We jack the recliners way back, spread the books flat upon our stomachs, and doze. We wake, read some more, refill coffee or wine, depending on the time of day. We are very much like retirees, even though our small children mill around us playing Legos or asking if they can have some more Hawaiian Punch or begging to have Van or Kiera for a sleepover. The kids read, too, of course. We keep a large wicker basket of kids' books in the sun room. We have family reading time every night from 7:30 to 8:00. Our kids know that to live in our family is to read. Sometimes, though, when my daughter, Lily, asks me to play Old Maid with her, say, or really, really wants me to log her onto webkinz.com, I'll say, "Just a minute. Mommy has to finish this chapter. See?" I'll show her the book, how many pages I have to go, and she'll sit right beside me, waiting.
We have jobs, of course, my husband and I, but they also involve reading as their primary element. We're both professors, and there are always books to sample, review, read, study, test, assign. We live in books. We live for books. We write books, too, but that's another story altogether.
* * * * *
Recently I figured out that I read approximately 2.5 books a week on average. That's 130 books a year. During a Cape Cod vacation this summer, I read 2 novels and 1 memoir in 7 days. I spend a great deal of time figuring out what to read that involves a complicated tour through amazon.com, Liftbridge bookstore and the Seymour public library. Lately I've been drawn to memoirs about grief and loss (The Mercy Papers, Making Toast), autism (The Boy Who Loved Tornadoes), domestic abuse (Crazy Love), and parenting (Waiting for Daisy, Lift). Thrown in between are always, always, novels.
When I read an excellent book, I type the title into amazon.com, then click through the "Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought" section. I then choose roughly 5-10 books, then go to the "Search Inside" feature and read the first pages of each book. Then, I make a short list, see if any are available at my local library; if not, I go to Liftbridge Bookstore to see if they have them. If not, I search bn.com and then do the "Check Store Availability" to see if I can get it at the Greece Ridge Mall Barnes & Noble. I also write down in my journal the title and author of every book I've read, then give it a star ranking, 1-5. Currently I'm reading Ann Hood's novel, The Red Thread about Chinese adoptions (it's going to get five stars for sure), and I already know what's next: People Are Unappealing (Even Me), a memoir by Sara Barron, a woman who started writing porn at age 11, was on the Jerry Springer show, and grew up with a hypochondriac mother and a "homo" father. I have read the first chapter "Lady Daddy" and can't wait.
I detail all of these logistics to highlight how deeply important reading is to me, but also how time-consuming. I have never been one of those people who can find a book lying around the house and read it. I need to plan, hit on exactly the right mood and interest of the moment; it takes time. I also have a fifty-page limit: If a book is not compelling me to get back to it by page 50, it's out. "Life is too short to waste on a half-assed book," I'll say.
* * * * *
Reading is sedentary. To combat this, I'll go to the gym, pound around on the elliptical for awhile, watch the Food Network as I'm doing so (sometimes HGTV if Rachel Ray is the only thing going). I'll put the treadmill on the highest uphill setting and pretend to climb a mountain. I sweat with ear plugs in my ears. Across the street I see people pull up and head into Dr. P's chiropractor office and remember what a bozo he was when trying to fix my lumbar; he was all about sports. "You play anything?" he always asked me, just waiting for a chance to tell me about his glory days as a rugby player. I watch this one red-headed guy I'm pretty sure is a drug dealer wander past in black jeans and black t-shirt on 90 degree days. He's always smoking. He always looks in the gym's plate glass windows with a look that suggests we are all the biggest idiots he's ever seen.
When I'm done, I weigh myself then drive back home. This is how I don't read.
* * * * *
According to tax records, in 2004 I spent $985.48 on books.
In 2005, I spent $1,141.00 on books.
In 2007, I spent $1,150.91 on books.
One year, it reached over $2,000.00.
At this rate, considering I've been reading like this for most of my adult life, this would total, so far, roughly $25,000 spent on books.
What else could that $25,000 have bought, I wonder.
•An old classic Jaguar (my dream car)?
•A trip around the world?
•An in-ground swimming pool?
•A new kitchen for my mother?
•A semester off from teaching?
But, I remind myself, what remains after reading a book is permanent. It can't be lost or stolen or die. I like to think of it as a sort of life insurance against despair and hopelessness. Or like getting another college degree in English over and over and over again.
* * * * *
The problem with too much reading is that it's silent. You don't talk or interact with other people. One time my husband and I had an argument about my reading too much, which was really about the way I sometimes stepped out of our real life and into the world of books. It was true. If you read too many books, too often, there can be negative consequences.
•Tendency to spout facts at parties and gatherings only to realize they were gleaned from fiction and therefore dubious and unsubstantiated
•Social anxiety disorder
•Loss of touch with reality
I could slow down. I could do a book a week, but then what? The only television shows I really adore are "Intervention," "Hoarders" and "Obsessed" on A&E—all documentary shows about people struggling with addictions. I am riveted as I watch these shows, only stepping into the kitchen during commercials to refill my chardonnay. If you can be addicted to buying birds and collecting toothbrushes and cleaning the bathroom, you can also, I'm afraid, be addicted to reading books.