March

I have been salivating to read March by Geraldine Brooks for so long given its relation to Little Women (March focuses on the father of the “little women” (Mr. March) and relates what happens to him during the period of Alcott’s book (if you recall, he is primarily absent fighting in the Civil War throughout most of Little Women)) and because March was awarded the 2006 Pulitzer Prize.  Maybe my expectations were just too high, because I was disappointed in the novel.

Mr. March is fighting for the Union Army in the South.  He is in his forties, could have been excused from duty, and is a pacifist but decides to join the forces as a minister.  He finds himself lowered from his intellectually elite position in Concord (his home) to being a little-respected pacifist in an army full of men uninterested in philosophical discussion, as they are instead focused on surviving. 

A large portion of the novel takes place at a plantation that has been seized and sold to a Northern entrepreneur who was given instructions to make the land profitable while using former slaves as paid laborers.  Mr. March is given the task of educating the former slaves and their children and does have some success with this.

Eventually, Northern forces decide to no longer protect the plantation, resulting in a massacre of most of the tenants.  Mr. March survives, although he is injured.  He is taken to Washington, DC to heal at a Union hospital.  Mrs. March is called from Concord to assist in his recovery.  At this point, the novel switches point-of-view from Mr. March to Marmie (Mrs. March).  We learn of Marmie’s struggles to keep the March household together during a time of war and how Mr. March had earlier squandered most of their fortune by funding the anti-slavery ideas and projects of the infamous John Brown.  Marmie also has an uncontrollable temper when she witnesses injustice, a temper that Mr. March is constantly attempting to tame as it is perceived as unladylike. 

During Mr. March’s recovery, both Marmie and Mr. March have to evaluate their union given their monetary problems, Marmie’s angry outbursts and Mr. March’s consequential rebukes, and the hinted relationship between Mr. March and an educated ex-slave that he had known before he met Marmie (and with whom he reconnected at the hospital).  Eventually, both the Marches return to Concord and their “little women,” scarred from the war and their relationship with each other, but determined to move on.

March was well-written in parts but other sections just read false to me.  I found Mr. March to be a very unsympathetic character: weak-minded, unfaithful in his mind but without the courage to truly love one woman or another, and pretentious.  I did sympathize (and learn) from Mr. March’s unending feelings of guilt and his expressions of this guilt – he constantly felt shame about his past actions (or lack thereof) yet did little to change his behavior.  Instead, he unceasingly whined and brooded about how he should have been a better person and how he was burdened with the knowledge that he wasn’t the upstanding person he thought he was.  

The best part of the novel, and what rang true to me, were descriptions of setting.  As a Northerner myself who lives in the South, Brooks’ description of the differences in environment are spot on:

I will not say that I find the landscape lovely . . . Here all is obvious, a song upon a single note.  One wakes and falls asleep to a green sameness, the sun like a pale egg yolk, peering down from a white sky . . .

Spring here is not spring as we know it: the cool, wet promise of snowmelt and frozen ground yielding into mud.  Here, a sudden heat falls out of the sky one day, and one breathes and moves as if deposited inside a kettle of soup.  In response, vegetation shoots out of the ground with irresistible force.

This is accurate; the same green-ness is everywhere down here.  I look for other colors but everything is swallowed by green; I look for changes in altitude or land formations or something to break up the monotony, but all is covered with untamed green.  It is overwhelming and exhausting and one of the primary reasons I am eagerly anticipating moving back north so I can feel at home.

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Louisiana Flair

Tim and I had read about this lunch destination on the corner of Grace and 4th Streets but were unable to get there until last Friday.  The interior was open and filled with second-hand tables and chairs.  Walls were decorated in Mardi Gras colors of purple, gold, and green.  The background music was zydeco and blues and set the atmosphere.  We were greeted warmly by the woman behind the counter and told to take a seat wherever we liked.  Menus were already on the table, so we perused our options while we waited for our waitress.  The number of items was limited: about six different types of po’boys (shrimp, beef, chicken, catfish, etc.) and a couple of salads.  There was also gumbo and a couple of desserts to chose from.  Tim selected a catfish po’boy while I opted for the Cajun chicken po’boy.  We had a choice (although it actually cost $1.75 extra) of either potato salad or french fries for side dishes.  We both chose fries.

What is a po’boy?  I know it a sandwich that finds it roots in New Orleans, but that is about it.  Upon receiving our po’boys, I wondered even more – it appeared to just be a big submarine sandwich.  Later, I looked up po’boy on Wikipedia and discovered the following:

A key ingredient that differentiates po’ boys from subs, gyros, and grinders is the bread. Louisiana French bread is different from the traditional baguette, in that it has a flaky crust with a soft, airy center.  This is generally attributed to the high ambient humidity causing the yeast to be more active. It also differs from the bread usually used for sub-style sandwiches in the rest of the country, which has a soft exterior.

It turns out that the po’boys at Louisiana Flair feature this bread – it was absolutely delicious, fresh, crisp and crusty on the outside and soft on the inside, and flavorful without overwhelming the other ingredients.  And the other ingredients were delicious as well.  My chicken was tender and full of well-rubbed spices.  The po’boy also had grilled green peppers and onions, tomatoes, and lettuce.  It was delicious, but be warned, it is also quite large.  I was well sated after eating half of the sandwich but could not bear to leave the second half behind (I did not feel that the sandwich would be good as leftovers).  I tried to eat the second half but only was able to manage a few bites.  Likewise, Tim enjoyed his catfish po’boy.  He said it was nice and fresh, with no bones.

The fries that accompanied the sandwiches were fresh (the chef must have just made them from scratch) and plain, but good.  We truly enjoyed this meal.  Service was polite and quick.  I would strongly recommend visiting Louisiana Flair.  I wish they offered more options on their menu because I would probably visit more often.  However, perhaps the limited menu allows them to excel at what they do.

As we were finishing, we were told that the restaurant would be having a crawfish boil soon.  They are going to have fresh, live crawfish flown in from Louisiana in the morning and boil them for a big feed for lunch.  You can eat as much as you want for as long as they last.  We had to put our name on a list and they will call us with the details as they develop.

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Books I have recently read

I realize that I have been neglectful of my blogging of late.  Since I started blogging in order to keep track of the books I was reading (code for having a reference for refreshing my memory when I know I have read a book but cannot remember the characters or the plot or the themes), I am going to provide a brief synopsis of several of the books I have read over the past couple of months.  These are books that, while they may have been enjoyable, did not warrant a more in-depth review.

Christine Falls by Benjamin Black.  An Irish pathologist, Quirke, is a heavy drinker coping with his bachelorhood since his wife died and since his true love is married to his pseudo best friend.  There is a whole plot about kidnapping unwanted babies and transporting them to an American orphanage where they are raised by barren and weak-minded couples.  Quirke unravels the case when he is drawn to the dead body of a young girl and his best friend’s involvement in covering up her death.  I did not think the mystery-driven plot was particularly interesting, but the characters, setting, and writing were excellent.

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Case Histories by Kate Atkinson.  What seem like unrelated stories involving tragedies (a missing toddler, the inexplicable murder of an eighteen year old girl, and a teenage mother’s decision to kill her young husband) become related as Jackson, a private investigator, is asked to solve them many years after they have occurred.  The main characters in each situation are older and their memories of events are less clear although their understanding of the familial relationships surrounding these tragedies is much more focused.  Jackson is able to take these seemingly unsolvable and unrelated cases, parse their histories, and find answers (as well as healing for some of the main players involved in each).  Atkinson’s style is light with a touch of humor, but the reader feels the bathos of each tragedy and how the repercussions shockwaved throughout each person’s life.

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Poison by Kathryn Harrison.  This novel takes place during the 1600s and tells the story of Francisca de Luarca, a poor Spanish woman living during the heyday of the Inquisition.  As a parallel to Francisca’s story, we also read about Marie Louise, niece of King Louis XIV of France, who is unfortunately married to King Carlos of Spain.  Francisca dreams of a bigger, grander life and eventually begins an illicit affair with knowledge and the priest who is her tutor.  Their liaison produces a child, the excommunication of the priest, and the imprisonment of Francisca.  Meanwhile, Marie Louise is in her own prison, hated by the queen of Spain for her wealthy and silly past life in France and for her inability to produce an heir.  Her husband is a strange product of inbreeding and superstition who provides no support for Marie Louise.  Both Francisca and Marie Louise are doomed to lives of tragedy, unable to control their destinies against the insurmountable powers of the Church and the traditions of royalty.  The novel was well-written although in a very abstract way.  The reader is only given vivid and detailed descriptions of certain events in each character’s life while the remainder of the writing and plot seem surreal and intangible.

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The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy.  Estha and Rahel are young twins living in India with their mother Ammu, their grandmother, their Uncle Chacko, and their great aunt.  Ammu is at her ancestral home in disgrace, having abandoned her husband and their unhappy marriage.  Estha and Rahel do not realize all of the unhappiness around them: their mother’s wish to be free of her old home, to feel, to have excitement in her life, something to look forward to; their English-educated uncle who pines for his British ex-wife and his daughter; and their friend and neighbor Velutha, an untouchable who is pining for justice and equality for himself.  This setting is primed for tragedy which occurs when Uncle Chacko’s ex-wife and daughter come to visit.  On a fateful night, his daughter drowns and an affair between Ammu and Velutha is exposed, with Velutha being castigated for crossing social boundaries.  This is a very beautifully written book – Roy’s use of language is masterful and imaginative (it reminds me of Rushdie – perhaps products of Indian culture).  The novel is sad, successfully showing how people are trapped by societal forces outside of their control.

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Entering middle age

Last Friday was my birthday.  I turned 35.  Somehow, that just seems old. 

On the negative side, as Chris reminded Steph when she turned 35, we are now in a higher age bracket when we complete survey or contest entry forms (you know the ones where the forms ask what range your age falls within for marketing purposes).  On the positive side, as Chrissy commented to me, I can now legally run for president.  Look for my campaign in 2012.

I Wanna Be . . . Ben Folds

Tim and I went to see Ben Folds in concert last Friday night.  This was the third time I have seen him perform and it was the best performance.  I first saw Ben Folds Five back in 1997, before I really knew who they were.  They were playing at the old Flood Zone,  I had been back in Richmond for about 2 weeks, and Steph gave me a dub of Whatever and Ever Amen on cassette.  She also convinced me to go see them in concert.  It was a good show, but I was not a huge fan yet, so I wasn’t into the music as much as I would be at future shows.

My next live Ben Folds experience was a couple of years ago when Tim and I traveled up to the Wolf Trap to see Ben with Rufus Wainwright.  I like both performers, but since there were two headliners, there was only about an hour allocated for each star.  They both played well, but did not dig deep into their repertoires to wow the audience.

Last Friday, this was remedied by a two hour show put on by Ben at The National Theatre (note for Richmonders: this renovated venue is pretty nice with decent sound and lots of space (and bars), although we did notice that pieces of the ceiling seemed to keep falling from above).  The show was phenomenal.  Ben has truly become an amazing, all-out performer.  He played some rare tracks (some of the 4.6 songs that he had to write to fulfill a recording contract), some new tracks, and some classics (he played Kate, which just makes me happy).

I have realized that I am old.  I knew I was old prior to the concert, but Friday just confirmed it.  Tim and I headed directly to the seats in the balcony upon entering the venue and stayed there for the entire show.  I drank one beer while Tim had a ginger ale.  We did not sing or dance, and I’m not sure why.  I used to love singing and sort of dancing (it was more like jumping, flopping my hair around, and pumping my arms – sometimes I would extend my arms and circle around like an airplane).  I remember a great Carbon Leaf concert I attended with Jessica at Randolph Macon Women’s College.  We danced all over the place and sang at the top of our lungs.  I felt free and happy.  But somehow, I have become self-conscious or too mature or something that prevents me from being free.  Perhaps it is the feeling that I don’t fit in with the teens and twenty-somethings who compose most of the dancing crowds at a Ben Folds show.   But a better reason is that I am afraid and lazy.  So yes, I had a great time listening to Ben Folds play and entertain us, but did not experience the entire concert as it should have been experienced.

I always thought that I would like Ben Folds and get along with him were we ever to run into each other on the street and he asked me to go have a drink and we stayed up all night talking (just interjecting a small fantasy I have).  After this recent show though, I think not.  He seems to have become almost too much of a performer.  This makes his shows better but makes him less likeable to me.  He seems a little cocky and a little practiced with his banter.  That makes me sad.

The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen

The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen by Syrie James is one of the worst books I have read in a long time.  Do not read it!  Even if you are a fan of Jane Austen, do not read it.  Even if it is the only book available on a deserted island, do not read it.  Even if you are an Olympic athlete and are being held hostage by a group of Uighars fighting for independence from China, and they tell you that you will be freed if you read The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen . . . well, you should probably read it then (although you may want to try to negotiate to read another title).

Missing: One Lawnmower

Tim and I came home yesterday to find our shed wide open.  With sad hearts, we saw that the locks had been pried open and our lawnmower had been stolen.  Alas, after all the heartache we went through to obtain the damn thing, some drug dealer has stolen it to sell at a flea market (at least that is Tim’s theory).

We considered calling the insurance company and reporting that the mower had been stolen in the hopes of being reimbursed.  But then we realized that our deductible is too high and we wouldn’t get anything for our troubles.  When my apartment was burgled a few years ago I went through the process of reporting the stolen items to the police and the insurance company . . . and then was told by an insurance agent that I would not receive any reimbursement because they considered my stuff worthless crap.  This is why I hate insurance.  We all pay for it and we all try never to use it, even if we need it.  How many people have had fender benders and not reported them because they did not want their premiums to increase?  And don’t get me started on the health insurance industry, which is the biggest scam in the world. 

Back to the mower.  If anyone has a working mower they are looking to get rid of, please let us know.

Hats Made of Meat

Yesterday, at our staff meeting, one of my fellow employees pulled up the web-site for hats of meat (that goes to show you how formal and serious our staff meetings are).  Please look at it – you’ll laugh yourself silly.  “One always looks neat in a hat made of meat.” 

My favorite is the Brisket Yarmulke: “Made of 100% kosher brisket, this one-size-fits-all ‘beefy beanie’ come emblazoned with a horseradish Star of David.”

After perusing the photos, go to the FAQs, where you can find answers to all your meat hat queries, such as, “Is wearing a hat of meat harmful to my hair?” (no, the natural juices are good for your hair), or “How do I discourage flies or dogs from pestering me when I am wearing a hat of meat?” (hairspray on your hat will keep the flies away), or “How do I combat the foul smell that sometimes comes with older hats of meat?” (baste your hat with teriyaki). 

Let’s Go Fly a Kite

Inspired by my recent reading of The Kite Runner and by a beautiful day, I went to the Kite Festival at Dorey Park this past weekend.  Saw some pretty kites and lots of happy, laughing children.  There wasn’t much else to see or do.  One criticism: they were loudly piping some very cheesy music (think adult contemporary/easy listening) which kind of ruined the exhilaration of the day (the freedom of running and letting the kite alight from your hands).  I was trying to determine if the large kite flown by a professional (see photo below) was being dipped and twisted in time to the music, but I could not tell:

I had never been to Dorey Park before (it is in Eastern Henrico near the airport), so I did some exploratory hiking around the pond there and through the Disk Golf course.  It was nice but too manicured for my tastes.  Here is a photo from one of the trees at the side of the lake:

                                                                

The Kite Runner

I know, I know I’m late in my reading of The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseni.  This novel, partly set in Afghanistan, was a long-time bestseller and was a favorite of many of my friends (including Tim).  I was ready to be impressed, but wound up being disappointed.

The novel begins in Afghanistan, describing the relationship between Amir, a wealthy Pashtun, and his father’s servant’s son, Hassan, who is poor and of a lower caste called Hazara.  Amir and Hassan are very close companions, spending most of their spare time together, although I am uncertain as to why.  Amir treats Hassan horribly, using his wealth and education to constantly insult Hassan or make him feel stupid and inferior; Amir also uses Hassan to take care of him – make and serve his food, complete tasks that Amir then takes credit for.  Hassan is such a one-dimensional character - he does not get angry or show any resentment toward Amir; he just good-naturedly loves him and continues to accept the way Amir treats him.

The main action of the novel occurs in the beginning, when Amir witnesses something horrible happening to Hassan.  Instead of intervening or running to get help for Hassan, Amir just watches.  After the incident, back at their home, Amir becomes more ruthless in his behavior toward Hassan – he is cruel and tries to ignore him (mostly because of the guilt he feels for not rescuing Hassan).  Eventually, Amir frames Hassan for a crime he did not commit, causing Hassan and his father to leave Amir’s household.

Soon thereafter, the Russians invade Afghanistan and Amir and his father flee the country to settle in San Francisco.  There, Amir grows up, becomes closer with his father, goes to college, decides to become a writer, and marries.  Amir is living a pleasant life when an old acquaintance from Afghanistan telephones, asking Amir to meet him in Pakistan.  Amir flies to Pakistan, learns what has happened to Afghanistan since he has left (the rise of the Taliban), and what has happened to Hassan and his family (Hassan and his wife are murdered by the Taliban).  Amir’s friend asks Amir to return to Afghanistan and rescue Hassan’s son, Sohrab.  Amir is frightened and feels he lacks the courage to face his old home and his past, but eventually opts to try in order to atone for his past sins toward Hassan.

Amir does rescue Sohrab after some hardship, and decides to adopt him as his own son.  There is further hardship with getting adoption papers and a green card, and with developing a trustful relationship with Sohrab.

The story seems exciting and the Afghan background is interesting.  However, I found the characters unbelievable and portrayed as overly-emotional caricatures of real humans.  I did not connect or empathize with any of the characters or with the novel (and I do not believe this was because of cultural differences).  Hosseini’s writing was satisfactory but not exceptional, although the novel was easy to read.  The book is fine, but I do not highly recommend it.

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