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I recently mentioned that some friends and I are going hiking at Roan Mountain State Park in a couple of weeks. Not to be outdone, Stryder sent us these photos of a recent assault he made on Old Rag in the Shenandoahs. The scenery looks a lot like we'll see at Roan.
Beautiful, isn't it?
A lot of rock, which makes for challenging climbing.
I can't wait.
Not long ago, I wrote about classics Professor Mary Beard's post about Edward Bulwer-Lytton's novel, The Last Days of Pompeii, among other things. In her column, she mentioned meeting Lindsey Davis, author of eighteen novels about ancient Roman gumshoe, Marcus Didius Falco.
I was intrigued, and promptly ordered three of the novels from Amazon ($6.99). While Davis says she writes her novels so that you can read them in any order, I thought since I had the first one, I should at least read that one first. I'm glad I did. It establishes the basic cast of characters pretty well.
The Silver Pigs moves right along. In classic detective (known in ancient Rome as "informer") style, Falco has no money, has an abusive landlord, lots of women (and women problems), gets no respect, and gets beaten up by thugs on a regular basis.
The plot is coherent, fast-paced and plausible, making the book hard to put down. There are scenes at the Forum and the Imperial Palace, references to the Circus Maximus, and Palatine Hill, and the Cloaca Maximus. The people seem remarkably modern in their emotions and moods. The more things change, the more they stay the same. At the same time, the setting and amenities are deliciously ancient. And Ancient Rome, though full of police and military types, is indeed a treacherous place to live. Falco knows his territory, though, and manages, sometimes just barely, to stay alive.
The silver pigs are ingots of silver, one of which turns up in Rome. Heavy and hard to hide, Falco must secure the pig, then untangle a plot to smuggle in huge amounts of silver to finance the overthrow of the Emperor. Picking through the web of intrigue, he discovers a double cross. Whom can he trust? It is very hard to tell through much of the book.
On the journey, some horrible things happen, and some wonderful things happen, making for a very satisfying read.
I have two more, which I think will accompany me on the trip to Roan. The perfect summer books, they ask little of the reader, except to allow yourself to get pulled into into their world.
Meanwhile, I'm going to hit the library and see if they have any of Lindsey's other novels. Given a choice, I think I'll try to read them in order.
[Image via Museum of London]
from Our Post-Soviet History Unfolds, from Sarabande Books 2005
LC sent us this poem, which was featured on Writer's Almanac earlier this week. It is lovely, and speaks volumes. To me, at least. Enjoy, relax, eat the pie.
STARFISH
This is what life does. IT lets you walk up to
the store and buy breakfast and the paper, on a
stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have your eggs, your coffee.. Then it sits a fisherman down beside you at the counter who says, Last Night,
the channel was full of starfish. And you wonder,
is this a message, finally, or just another day?
Life lets you take the dog for a walk down to the
pond, where whole generations of biological
processes are boiling beneath the mud. Reeds
speak to you of the natural world: they whisper,
they sing. And herons pass by. Are you old
enough to appreciate the moment? Too old?
There is movement beneath the water, but it
may be nothing. There may be nothing going on.
And then life suggests that you remember the
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated cxareless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genueinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.
Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one
who never had any conditions, the one who waited
you out. This is life's way of letting you know that
you are lucky. (It won't give you smart or brave,
so you'll have to settle for lucky.) Because you
were born at a good time. Because you were able
to listen when people spoke to you. Because you
stopped when you should have and started again.
So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your
late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And
then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland,
while outside, the starfish drift through the channel,
with smiles on their starry faces as they head
out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.
[Image via Inky Circus]
Three weeks from now, we'll be encsonced in our cabin in Roan Mountain State Park, Tennessee.
Last year, Sandy and I drove up the week before July 4. This year, circumstances dictated a later week. We changed the date a few times, until the secretary at Roan said we couldn't change the date any more. The first week we picked turned out to be the one ending with my mother's 80th birthday. Once I remembered, I knew that was a no-go. Then we picked the week of the Highland Games at Grandfather Mountain. But we wanted to have one of the nicer cabins, and none were available, so after further investigation into my vacation possibilities (Sandy's retired now, the rat, and had no such issues), we decided the third week of August was the one. Now I'm glad it worked out that way, because if we'd gotten our first choice, it would all be over by now; instead, we are in a state of anxious anticipation. In fact, I'm thinking of putting the suitcase on the bed in the guest room and starting to pack.
Sandy has made a list of food items to bring. I'll bring a jar of oven-dried tomatoes, a few pounds of pasta, some frozen pesto and tomato sauce, and a big container of shredded Reggiano parmesan. We could live off that for a week. Sandy, of course will bring an equal pile of treats, and I know Shirley, when she drives over to join us, will add to the wealth.
We loved our cabin last year, but the nicer ones are bigger, and have a pair of double beds, instead of twin beds, in the loft. None has a television. The key thing, though, is that they have a telephone. Last year, we found our cell phone coverage to be spotty at best (Sandy's phone) to non-existent (my phone). Shirley's worked pretty well, but she was only with us about half the time. Toward the end of our stay, Sandy's mother was hospitalized, and we didn't know it until a ranger came to the door to tell us Sandy had a message. Fortunately, she had strained her back, and when Sandy managed to reach her, she said she didn't have to return early.
But her Mom is ailing; my folks are stable, but no longer in great health, so being able to be reached is critical. So we finally found a week when we could get a good cabin.
We'll miss the Rhododendron Festival, but there'll be hiking trails and beautiful flowers and foliage all the same. Temperatures average in the 70's in the daytime and 50's at night. We learned last year that we should carry water when we hike, and part of the ritual will be to find (and use) suitable walking sticks. The Appalachian Trail runs through the area. Last year we hiked a part of it. The mountains were beautiful.
Can't wait.
[Image via Roan Mountain, Tennessee Land for Sale]
I guess it's medical checkup time in the executive branch these days. I guess they're trying to get it all in while their insurance is still good. Although Dick Cheney, as we know, is actually part of the legislative branch.
So today, Dick is getting the battery on his pacemaker changed.
I wonder who will run the country while he is under anesthesia.
This guy (or gal) turned up in my loquat tree last week.
He's rather beautiful, don't you think? He stayed in the tree the whole day. Even after a downpour, he was there, with water dripping off him.
I've always been afraid of snakes, but since I've lived here, they are a part of life. I come across them a few times every summer. So far, I haven't seen any that I thought were poisonous. There's a big black racer that lives on the property, and now and then I'll see him draped across something. I know he keeps the rodents away. More importantly, I know they eat the poisonous snakes. Whether they seek them out or not, I don't know, or if they just indiscriminately eat other snakes. All the same, I have a live and let live philosophy.
Pretty, no?
This week's Carnival of the Recipes asks us to submit some kind of restricted diet dish.
This one falls under vegetarian and low fat categories, so I guess it will do.
I had a couple of pepper halves that I had grilled outside a day or two ago, and at a roadside stand, I picked up some yellow squash.
I have a Circulon frying pan, one that leaves lovely grill marks. I oiled it with olive oil and grilled the squash, with a bit of salt and pepper. Then I reheated the green and red pepper halves. Meanwhile, I'd boiled some salt water and was boiling some tagliatelle.
When the pasta was done, I cut up the vegetables, put the pasta in a bowl, topped it with the vegetables, and drizzled the whole thing with olive oil and a bit of balsamic vinegar.
The vinegar gave the bland vegetables a bit of tang. And of course, I topped it with some Reggiano Parmigiano before eating it. With a glass of wine.
It doesn't get much healthier than that.
(Though I'd bet it would taste good with some chopped black olives and fresh basil added in. Next time.)
I finally finished this wonderful book, My Life in France, by Julia Child, written with her husband's grandnephew, Alex Prud'homme.
Julia Child had a wonderful life, and it is obvious as she tells her story. In fact, the first sentence is a good synopsis: "This is a book about some of the things I have loved most in my life: my husband, Paul Child, la belle France; and the many pleasures of cooking and eating. She gives a bit of background about growning up in Pasadena, and meeting Paul when they were both in the OSS in Sri Lanka.
But the book itself starts when they arrive in Paris, in 1948. Paul, in his mid-forties, has travelled the world and has well-honed tastes in food and wine. Julia, ten years younger, had never before been to Europe, had little interest in cooking, and was pretty happy-go-lucky.
Fortunately, her personality was such that she seems to have remained happy-go-lucky throughout her life, but in France, she found her passion. Shortly after arriving, Paul took Julia to a restaurant in Rouen called "La Couronne" where she had her first sole meuniere (accompanied by wine! at lunch! mon dieu!) It proved to be the first of many resplendent meals, in restaurants and at home, described in this book.
Newly married and discovering wonderful food, it was only natural that Julia Child would want to learn how to cook. She attended demonstrations at Le Cordon Bleu, and soon enrolled for a short, then longer course. The experience there was mixed. She learned wonderful things from chef Max Bugnard, but also had clashes with the woman who managed the school.
In Paris, she also met a lot of people with a consuming interest in food. She joined a club called "Le Cercle des Gourmettes", through which she met Mme. Simone Beck Fischbacher and Mme. Louisett Bertholle. The three started giving cooking lessons to some of the local women, and began writing down and refining recipes. Shortly after, the women decided to write a cookbook on French cooking for the American cook, a task which grew astronomically over the course of the next few years.
Meanwhile, Paul worked for the U.S.I.S., doing exhibits. He was also a gifted photographer and artist, and took most of the photos for My Life in France. He also took hundreds of photos of Julia cooking, many of which were turned into illustrative drawings for Julia's cookbooks.
After a few years in Paris, the Childs were transferred to Marseilles, the Plittersdorf, Germany, and later Oslo, Norway. But wherever they were stationed, Paris called them back, and they returned whenever possible. Through it all, Beck, Bertholle and Child worked on the cookbook, sending letters, recipes, manuscripts back and forth through the mail. All were responsible for the authenticity and reproducibility of the recipes, but Child took it to heart, trying each recipe many times to make sure it was as good as could be.
Understandably, over time, there were rifts in the friendships and life changes, but in 1961, Mastering the Art of French Cooking was born. The authors were responsible for generating their own publicity, and hit the road doing signings at book stores and interviews for magazines and radio stations. These caught on well, and after a while, they demonstrated recipes on television shows. This led to Julia Child getting a chance to try her own cooking show, and The French Chef was born on PBS. Child's media exposure eventually led to many more shows and books, and to Julia's becoming a huge media star.
Throughout it all, she was grounded, warm, generous, funny. My Life in France is about much more than writing the cookbook. It is about her relations with her husband, her friends and family, and, perhaps greatest of all, a country. She shares her impressions of people they met, meals they ate, cold-water flats they lived in.
In short, this is a charming, warm account of a life well lived. I am left with the hope that some day I can look back on my life with such satisfaction. Not likely, but a worthy goal.
*********
I was surprised by the difficulties they encountered in trying to get their first cookbook published. It is obvious (though subjectively so) that Julia Child did most of the work on Mastering the Art of French Cooking, so I was surprised when she mentioned it, authored by Simone Beck, Louisette Bertholle and Julia Child. I went to my bookshelf and found my first edition, published in 1961 (and signed by J.C. herself in 1992), by Beck, Bertholle and Child.
I also have a later, working copy, which was published in 1966, and lists the authors in a different order: Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck. While I have not combed the second copy for other differences, all I can readily discern is that the copy is the same, but the biography on the back flap is of Julia Child, instead of Simone Beck, and the initials on the foreword are in a different sequence.
When Volume II came out, it was authored only by Julia Child and Simone Beck.
Whatever hard feelings may have resulted from inequalities of recognition, the fact remains that the Childs built a house on a piece of land owned by Simone Beck and her husband, and spent as much time there as they could in the ensuing decades, until other issues made it no longer practicable.
**********
This is a lovely, friendly, candy of a read. The perfect thing to recline on a hammock in the back yard with.
Bon Appetit!
[Image via The Johns Hopkins News-letter]
Sunday, I listened to Puccini's Turandot by the Houston Grand Opera on NPR. I wanted to find out how tenor Vladimir Galouzine fared with the famous aria "Nessun Dorma". This powerful song is Luciano Pavarotti's signature aria, so if you've ever heard a Three Tenors concert, you've heard him sing this.
I guess Turandot is a love story of sorts. You'll have to decide for yourself. The aria is the only thing, aside from the bloody plot, that stands out in Turandot, at least for me. There are a lot of arias, and soprano Jennifer Wilson as Turandot has a lovely voice, but this opera means Nessun Dorma to me.
The plot is strictly fable and fairy tale, but throughout, the thought runs through my head "why would anyone want the monster that is Turandot?" Well, because she's breathtakingly beautiful, that's why, nevermind that she's also breathtakingly cruel.
The setting is long-ago China. Turandot is the lovely princess whose hand is sought by many. In order to avoid having to get married, she insists that her suitors answer three questions, or forfeit their lives. In the beginning of the opera, the Prince of Persia is about to lose his head. He bears himself with such dignity that the crowd begs Turandot to spare him. She contemptuously ignores them and has him beheaded. Turandot's hands may be bloodstained, but at least it's a good bet she's still a virgin.
This should serve as a warning to young Calaf, a Tartar prince-in-disguise who is watching from the crowd. As the crowd shuffles, a man is almost trampled, and Calaf goes to his aid, only to discover that that man is his long lost father, attended by the slave girl, Liu, who is secretly in love with Calaf.
Got that? Good. It gets better.
Despite the evidence that Turandot has the heart and morals of a female praying mantis, Calaf rings the gong that proclaims him her next suitor.
In the second act, Calaf is put to the test. Turandot asks him:
"What is born each night and dies at dawn?" "Hope," he answers.
"What flickers red and warm like a flame, yet is not fire?" "Blood," he answers.
"What is like ice, yet burns?"
(Pregnant pause...)
"Turandot" he replies, correctly.
Turandot does not know what to make of this. None of her hundreds of suitors has answered the questions correctly, and she does not have the presence of mind to pretend that he missed any of them. She turns to Daddy to get her out of this pickle, but Calaf intercedes to help her.
He says that if she can guess his name by daybreak, he will not only not hold her to her pledge, but will sacrifice his own life.
This is the loophole she has been looking for. Turandot keeps all of Beijing up all night (on pain of death, of course)until she finds the name of her suitor. At this point, Calaf sings Nessun Dorma (noone sleeps). In addition, she has the only people who were seen with Calaf, his father and the slave Liu, tortured. Liu steps forward and says that only she knows the stranger's identy, and is subjected to unspeakable torture. When Turandot asks the secret of her unshakable strength, she answers "love". Finally, afraid that Calaf will step forward to save her (not likely...he stood by for a lot up to that point), she grabs a dagger and kills herself.
Somehow, Calaf and Turandot are left alone, and he forces her to kiss him, melting her cold, cold heart. Feeling the power of love for the first time, she becomes his, and when she addresses the crowd to announce his name, she tells them that it is "Love."
Tenor Vladimir Galouzine has a wonderful voice, but for me, no one compares with Luciano Pavarotti in Nessun Dorma. Unfortunately, his career in on hiatus, probably permanently. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2006, and his energy will probably all go to fighting a villain greater than any he ever encountered in his operatic career. Hopefully when it's over, he can still sing "Vincero!"
After I wrote abut the Bulwer-Lytton contest, I received an email from commentator Mary Beard with a link to her post about a conference she attended called "Ruins and Reconstructions" about Pompeii.
The conference was about Pompeii after the discovery of the ruins; she says that much of the conversation at the conference was about Bulwer-Lytton's novel The Last Days of Pompeii, about a couple who escape the eruption of Vesuvius and the ensuing lava flow.
She mentions that the novel was frequently described as "ghastly" despite the fact that it was a nineteenth-century best-seller. They posited that the reason for its success was that it appealed to a certain British class at the time of its publication. But the novel had broad appeal and sold well, so it probably had a readership that crossed class lines.
I think that tastes change, as does language and literature, and that Bulwer-Lytton's contemporaneous popularity is probably attributable to that.
Professor Beard also met Lindsey Davis, author of eighteen detective novels featuring Marcus Didius Falco, who was born in Rome, in AD 41. Falco travels the ancient world solving mysteries. These sounded like fun, so I ordered three of a long list of Davis' novels from Amazon.
Mary Beard is Professor of Classics at Cambridge, and Classics editor for the Times Literary Supplement. She has also written a number of books about classical topics.
[Image from Geocities]
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