The horror, the horror

Do you want to hear a tale of woe? Of unreasoning fear and humiliating indignities? Of moments of black comedy that gutted me?

I'm being melodramatic here, and none of you should worry - I'm fine, healthy, nobody has died. However, I have gone through and am continuing to endure a trauma that seems to be affecting me much more than any rational look would indicate, and that is of course one of the reasons it's so interesting (though unfortunately extremely unpleasant).

By way of introduction to this story, an embarrassing admission, which some of you may already be aware of: I am scared of bats. Phobic, really. I thought I might be over it, but after last night and the way I continue to feel, I clearly am not. And it's interesting to see how one can be cruising through a decent patch, healthy, active, and suddenly a minor display of nature's bounty combined with a personal quirk undoes one almost completely.

Last night I was finishing my supper, around 8:30 or so, and I hear a noise in the corner of my living room. This first thing I always think when hearing an unknown rustling in my living space is bat, and might heart started thumping. I went over to the corner, where I have several book cases and CD shelves set up, and after a minute of trying to see back there I heard the unmistakable squeaking of a bat and a moment later it launched out from behind a bookcase and started diving and winging about my living room in it's floppy, terrifying way.

I freaked out. I opened my door frantically, which I was standing next to, leapt out into the hall and slammed the door shut behind me. About five seconds later I realized I had locked myself out without my phone, wallet or shoes (or keys, of course, which I haven't made copies of yet to stash).

That was not a nice moment. I didn't particularly want to get back into my apartment right then, but…For a little while I think I was just in shock with the sudden turn of events that had left me with no options that I could see at that moment. I just couldn't believe that I was actually in that situation.

Not liking to impose on neighbors, and thinking maybe I could figure something out, I spent about 45 minutes or an hour trying to get back into my apartment without breaking a window. No luck, no luck. Meanwhile I watched the bat flitting around and crawling about my blinds.

Finally I broke down and woke up my next door neighbor who lent me the use of his phone and suggested that I call the fire department. God bless the fire department and civil servants everywhere. They came, with a full crew and a truck and an off-duty police officer and got out a ladder and got into my apartment through a bedroom window. The fireman walked through my room and opened my door, dodging the bat, and came back down. I quickly went upstairs, peeked into my apartment, saw the coast was clear for a moment and went in to grab my keys, phone, wallet and some shoes. Then I fled back outside.

One of the fireman recommended that I leave the window open for a while and watch from outside as the bat should quickly find its way back to the great outdoors. My family had tried that before with success, and it's much less traumatic and friendly than trying to capture or kill it, so I thanked him, they drove off, and I settled down to watch my window.

For a half hour or so I watched the bat periodically flit back and forth across my bedroom, willing it unsuccessfully to escape. After a bit it disappeared for a little while, and then to my numb shock I watched a second bat fly into my apartment. Talk about a Homer Simpson Moment. D'oh! It flew around for a while, but did not manage to fly back out. This is a pretty big window, open wide! It's like they wanted to stay in there. Maybe the bug hunting inside was good.

After watching for another few minutes, both bats disappeared for a little bit and I walked up my back steps to peek into my living room and kitchen. I saw one bat hanging from the ceiling, but nothing else. I decided the coast was clear enough for the moment and went back around and through my front entrance and into my room to get a couple things, as I had decided by this point to spend the night somewhere else. I was reaching the limit of my endurance, and stress and anxiety was flooding through my system, making me nearly ill. As I left my apartment I saw both bats, one still hanging from the ceiling and the other flying around my kitchen. I drove to where I work and spent a completely sleepless night there - even if it had been a feather bed I never would have gotten a single wink.

When I finally got up, I left a message with Newton Animal Control, and later in the morning we met at my place. We quickly located the one bat and he neatly snagged it in his net and set it free outside, and then we unsuccessfully searched the apartment for the other.

That's where things stand now. I'm at work, and I know that there is probably still a bat in my apartment that will come out later this evening. I guess the only thing to do is go back and wait for it to show, open a window again and hope it leaves, and hope more bats don't enter. If it doesn't show, that's even worse; I'll never relax again in my apartment, always expecting it to pop up at any moment. Right now I feel like I'll never relax there again anyway, now that I know that this is a bat house (I know that it didn't come in through a window, or at least 90% sure - because of my bat phobia, I'm always very careful about windows and screens).

Am I overreacting? Of course. Is there anything I can do about it? Probably, but it doesn't feel like it at this moment. Right now, I feel like I've lost my apartment, my place of peace and repose - all because of a stupid little bat that I still have to face later on this evening.

With some bit of self-awareness, I can also see that I'm not really afraid of the bat - I'm afraid of being afraid of the bat. We have nothing to fear but fear itself, right? I know that as long as I am careful not to handle the bat it will not hurt me and in fact will go out of its way to avoid hitting me. I am afraid of the fear, of the surprise and shock, of the anxiety. I am afraid!

Aggghhh, please wish me luck.

11 Sunsets

Well, I didn't really do my duty this year in photographing my vacation in Canada. Apologies especially to family - I got no still pictures of people other than myself, only video, which I haven't figured out how to attach or link yet. No doubt it's very easy, but I lack patience.

When I think back on vacations, however, the experience eventually coalesces into a series of snapshots of memory, anyway; vignettes, scenes, set pieces, whatever (Is it possible for something to 'coalesce' into separate elements?). Rather than remembering time spent as the continuous flow of experience and sense it really was, I think on images, brief moments or events, often never thinking of or recalling the connective tissues between them.

A dense, deep purple blueberry cobbler, swimming in a warm perfume of fruit and sugar.

An overactive, bellicose hummingbird chasing a red-breasted nuthatch from limb to limb of a ponderosa pine, as if the confused nuthatch had any interest in the hanging jar of sugarwater that the hummingbird was so keen on.

A tense standoff between a small brown crayfish and an even smaller minnow over a choice spot at the side of a nice rock.

Moving through several Irish reels, myself on fiddle and my cousin Brad on guitar, as the grubby, enticing odors of oil, beer batter and walleye waft around us. 'The Maid Behind the Bar' was particularly successful. Less so 'Jenny's Welcome to Charlie' but what a title!

Playing duets with my sister Esme, violin and cello, and helping her with some practicing tips that came very slowly to me in my musical efforts over the years.
Esme, remember-
1) Before you start: deep breath, fingers in place, bow on string - start cleanly and thoughtfuly.
2) Work on short musical phrases, repeatedly, and listen carefully and correct the mistakes that you hear.
3) Don't practice wrong, practice right! (Sounds like the title of a self-help book, right?) When you start playing a passage well, keep playing it until it comes naturally and automatically.

One day cruising out to the big bay to fish the Gull Island reef, we passed by a mama and baby bear swimming between two islands, a breathtaking sight that I'll never forget.

Listening to the late evening calls and songs of several loons as I lay out on the dock watching the stars appear and brighten in the night sky, brushing the mosquitos away from my legs.

Two cormorants swimming behind an enormous white pelican, just their snaking necks rising from the water, likes remoras following a shark.

A sudden burst of avian activity from a mixed-species flock through a stand of ponderosas, where a moment before there had been nothing but the wind and a gull circling over the reeds and then I marked: yellow warbler, chestnut-sided warbler, black and white warbler, blackburnian warbler, yellow-rumped warbler, nashville warbler, red-breasted nuthatch, black-capped chickadee, red-eyed vireo, and a puzzling couple of sparrows - Savannah or Lincoln? Looked more like a savannah, though no yellow lores, But we're not close to any fields, really.

A sunset for every night, rarely spectacular but always unique - one night just a warm, gentle orange glow arching over the horizon in an otherwise clear, deepening blue sky, another night just three small clouds backlit and outlined in brilliant fire, interior dark and stormy, slowly drifting.

Heavy swells crashing through a wide expanse of reeds, whitecaps cresting from the steady intense wind crossing the open miles of Whitefish bay, closing my eyes and just feeling the day.

The thrill of pulling in my first Northern Pike on a fly-rod. Kudos to a green Clouser minnow (and to dad for choosing it).

Thanks to everybody up there for their hospitality and companionship - Dad, Lisa, Esme, Brad, Eric, Nik, Jim, Sue, Harper, Cambo, Bob, Ellen, Bill and Diana.

I hope everybody is enjoying their summer!
-Brian

The Lives of Harry Potter

Spoiler Alert!!!! If you haven't read the book, and plan on reading the book, and care whether you know juicy details ahead of time, read no further. This means you, Esme! Come back and read this when you're done.

Last night I finished reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I would like, first of all, to say that I enjoyed the book very much and a big thank you to J.K. Rowling and all the working stiffs at Scholastic Publishing and bookstores everywhere for giving me many hours of pleasure over the years. Books have meant a great deal to me throughout my life, and the Harry Potter series struck deeply, extracting what I love best about reading and making me feel like I did when I was growing up, losing myself completely in stories and the ongoing adventures of worlds upon worlds. This stuff mattered, and still matters, thank god. Rowling expresses it exactly, and succinctly, towards the end of the book, as Harry has a final interlude in some sort of dream or half-life with Dumbledore, and he asks "Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?" and Dumbledore, always the wise one, replies "Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?" Our thoughts are real, and the way we think about things and what we choose to think about are the first and most basic creative acts we do.

Now that I've gotten my thanks and appreciation out of the way, I can move on to telling you what I really think; you know, all the silly over-analysis and pointless criticism with some 'I loved it when...' 's thrown in for good measure.

I was very pleased to find that Rowling was a good sport and kept all the core younger characters alive - Harry, Ron and Hermione especially, as well as Neville, Ginny and Luna (who has quickly become amongst my favorite characters, along with Snape). I respect this kind of literature as much as anything, really, but I'm not reading it for learning about the bitter truths, disappointments and failures we all must face eventually. We've lived with these characters for a while now and to see them gone and/or unhappy at the end would have been a blow.

I was also pleased to find that Snape was, more or less, a good guy at the end of it all, and not just because I predicted it all along to many doubters (Dad). I personally found it a useful foil to have at least the one main character who was not an obvious hero, who had dark thoughts and wasn't pretty or likeable, who struggled with himself and those around him, yet still found a meaningful moral compass and was somebody we (and Harry) could respect and have compassion for.

I'm still going to say that the third book, Prisoner of Azkaban, is her best in my opinion, although the fourth is right behind. This book suffered from some of the same problems of the fifth and sixth, with episodic plot devices that move somewhat ploddingly. Here, the second quarter of the book was especially slow, with our three heroes (and then two, as Ron takes off in a huff) spending weeks camping in the woods and spending most of their time trying to figure out what to do, often unsuccessfully. Not all of you will get this analogy, though I know my sister Meghan will, but it reminded me a bit of playing the computer text adventures when I was a kid, and I'd kind of hit a block where I couldn't figure out what to do next, trying all sorts of equally useless commands until I hit on the right one, or more rarely had a genuine moment of inspiration, like "Lift Rock. Get Key. Enter castle". But the payoff was always there, then and now. The book really started to get rolling once Ron rejoined them and they saw the Doe patronus and got the sword, and by the time they were rallying the troops at Hogwarts I was as riveted and as excited as I could be.

And then the momentum slowed again, first with an enjoyable and necessary (but maybe misplaced) look back on Snape's younger years and his friendship with Lily Potter, and then with a convoluted conversation with Dumbledore offering a little too much complicated explication, trying to tidy everything up, explain exactly why Harry wasn't already dead and who had whose parts of their souls tucked into their own souls and how that meant this person couldn't die...I think I bought it in the end but I really just wanted to get to the final standoff, which was excellent and as exciting as I could hope for (though maybe it's just a bit of a copout to have Voldemort technically kill himself when his own killing curse ricochets in his face. I think Rowling could have had Harry kill Voldemort at that point, and possibly have a stronger book from it).

I've got a lot more I could say, but I'm going to bed. I hope nobody minds too much that I'm talking about this revered book like this; I enjoy thinking about this kind of stuff and figuring out what works and what doesn't in stories and novels, even ones that I love. Of course, if anybody starts in like this with The Lord of the Rings, I'm liable to punch them.

Swim, Bike, Run

Well, I don't have any news that can really compare to my sister Franny's - she and her husband Nick just had their second child, a little girl who has just been named Sonja Frances Toombs. You can see pictures of her at her sister Gabriella's blog, www.gabriellatoombs.blogspot.com and you can hear a song her father wrote and recorded for her at his blog (or mog?) http://mog.com/Dzendvokh. It's a cool piece. Well done on both counts, Nick.

I completed my first triathlon yesterday, something I wouldn't have expected to ever really participate in, as I often tend to shun organized activities. But I guess that as we grow older we change, and I have a group of friends who were doing it, so I signed up and told myself that at the very least it would be good incentive to keep exercising. And as it turned out, it was fun, though the running leg was definitely something of a slog.

It was what is known as a sprint triathlon, which has no consistent length like a marathon does or the ironman triathlon does, but tends to be something close to what this one was: 1/3 mile swim, 9 mile bike ride, 5k run (3.1 miles). So just to be clear, this is nothing close to any sort of truly long-distance endurance event, nothing like a marathon or a hundred-plus mile bike ride (like they do on the legs of the tour de france). I finished it in one hour, twelve minutes and seven seconds, which was enough to place me 352nd in a field of 600 or so participants. I was very pleased; my only conscious goal was to try and complete all three legs without stopping and taking a break. If I had a will of steel, I believe I could certainly have pushed myself a little harder, but as I said before, I was definitely feeling it during the run portion.

The location was perfect, as was the weather. It took place on Cape Cod, in Falmouth. (For those interested the event was put on by Time Out Productions, and you can learn more about them and the results of their events at www.timeoutproductions.com). The swim portion was in the ocean, looking straight out towards Martha's Vineyard. A lovely stretch of water, clear and lush with eelgrass, and a very comfortable swimming temperature. I would love to head back down there with my mask and snorkle and see what I can see murking about through the beds of eelgrass. During the competition, things are a bit hectic for sightseeing, it's all you can do to get your head up to get your bearings from the giant orange buoys as you find yourself in the middle of a bunch of flailing competitors. I chose to stick to the outside of my group just to keep the collisions down to a minimum.

The swim was over very quickly, having got a nice boost from the current during the middle stretch, and then we were onto our bikes for a very nice ride along the shore for a few miles then through some twisty residential roads of Falmouth. I would easily have gone four times the distance on my bike, especially if that meant avoiding the run.

Have I been uneccessarily negative about the run portion? Sorry. Though I make myself do it with some regularity, as it is the most efficient way (time, cost, space) I know of to get in a good cardiovascular workout, I don't really enjoy running. Occasionally I find myself on a great day on a great path really feeling my legs and arms pumping in easy syncronicity and I feel I could someday become a real runner, but most days I just want it over with. It's hard work. And after a short but hard swim and a similar bike ride, I would prefer not to jog 3 miles. But I did, and as I passed the half-way point I realized that the only reason I would stop would be out of sheer laziness and I pushed myself up another small fraction of a notch for the last mile.

After crossing the finish line I took a celebratory swim through the eelgrass and met up with my friends - Anne, Michelle and Karen - to compare notes. I think everyone was pleased, though Michelle had some difficulties with her calf muscles (but still managed a better time than me) and Karen had shin splints. All during the run portion, of course.

I felt great, though when I arrived home in Newton a few hours later I pretty much collapsed for a long nap, from which I awoke feeling disoriented enough to dissipate some of my store of well-being from the race. I am happy to report I have recovered enough that I even considered going for a run today, but I quickly squelched that idea in favor enjoying the local breeze with a good book followed by a nice meal of grilled bluefish.

Farewell,

-Brian

My herb garden and some culinary doings

I'm very pleased to announce the arrival of my herb garden, such as it is. Nothing in the ground, everything planted in a few smallish containers, thus far. I've gotten a book called The Bountiful Container, and with its help hope to plan for an expansion next Spring, with some bigger containers, some seed purchasing and a more thoughtful approach to placement and soil preparation. In the meantime, I've started using little bits and corners of my herbs. I've got a pot with basil, lemon basil and sage. Another pot with parsley, chives, and struggling dill and cilantro. Another pot with sorrell and rocket, my spicy salad greens. And two pots on my indoor kitchen windowsill, one of rosemary (creeping) and one of tarragon, which seems to be taking its time getting started.

I've only dared to use these herbs once or twice, preferring to let them get settled before I make any heavy demands on them, but I have added sorrell and rocket to a couple of salads and I made a 'pasta with handfuls of fresh herbs' from the gourmet cookbook the other night and I used a little tiny bit from several of my budding plants (basil, lemon basil, chives, parsley and sorrell). For future reference: use only one or two herbs - I think the flavors will be clearer and stronger, and skip the toasted breadcrumbs - they just make the dish too heavy and mask the delicacy of the herbs. In fact, though they are found commonly in many Italian pasta recipes, I don't believe that I am a big fan of the use of breadcrumbs in general, finding them at best unecessary and at worst gritty and unappetizing. Please let me know if you find them an important asset in some dish or another and I'll file the advice away. I've enjoyed them on baked macaroni and cheese before, but even there I'm not sure they've really added much. A browned and bubbly cheesy top seems more than adequate.

I've been trying to do more 'instinctive' improvising in the kitchen lately, largely from reading the Chez Panisse Vegetables cookbook and a new book about Alice Waters and Chez Panisse. I've always done most of my cooking out of cookbooks, except for meals of convenience or dishes I've made many, many times - basic red sauce, pesto, regular salads and vinagrettes, fried egg sandwiches, pasta with garlic and oil, trout amandine, etc. And I enjoy using cookbooks, but I'd like to see what my more creative juices are capable of, out of curiousity and to give myself more flexibility when exploring the contents of my larder or running across good-looking produce at the market, and also out of inspiration from the great creative cooks out there.

Last night I went for it. I was at the market and decided I wanted some seafood, that had some decent looking Florida shrimp in the shell that was priced well, so I got half a pound and decided to do something spicy. I got some jalapenos and a poblano pepper. When I got home I broiled the peppers until they were black and made a salsa of them with some roasted garlic, and marinated the shrimp in lime juice and salt before cooking them on my black iron. Then I made a salad of quartered radishes with shallots, sorrell, lime juice and cayenne pepper. My starch came in the form of a few homemade corn tortillas. If I was writing the menu for Chez Panisse it would look something like this:

Radish Salad with Lime, Sorrell and Cayenne

Griddle-Seared Gulf Coast Shrimp with Relish of Roasted Poblanos, Jalapenos and Garlic

Homemade Corn Tortillas

Store-Bought Chocolate-Chip Cookies

What do you think? As it turned out, the shrimp was very flavorful and I was surprised to find that my poblano and jalapeno relish didn't really stand up to it very well - a traditional salsa with cilantro and tomato would have been better, and serve the poblanos on the side. I enjoyed the radish salad a lot, and I always love fresh tortillas. I'm getting better at them, and can really make a few of them happen pretty quickly without much fuss.

Adios, amoebas! (have I used that before? It's from an old Gary Larson cartoon that still cracks me up).

-Brian

Kayaking the Great Marsh

I had the opportunity to go kayaking in northeastern Massachusetts' Great Marsh on the fourth of July. The Great Marsh is an extensive network of tidal inlets, rivers and tiny channels surrounded by wide open beds of marsh grass, and a kayak is truly the way to explore this incredible landscape. Slipping silently through the soupy gray-green water, brushing past clumps of sharp, fibrous rushes rising from the rich, living mud, watching snowy egrets stalking all manner of small fish and wriggling muddy beasts, pushing easily against the tide as you work your paddles back and forth... Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy tooling around with small motorboats but for really sinking into a place like this, there's nothing like a kayak. They are so light and maneuverable - there was almost no channel to narrow or shallow to explore, and when we hit a dead end, we just picked the kayaks up and marched over the grass to the nearest navigable waterway.

My friend Glen and I headed out toward an attractive and mysterious island named Hog Island. Hog Island is a drumlin, an island formed by glacial deposits. As we got close, we realized that there wasn't really a clear channel of water surrounding the island, just a confusing network of marsh, smelly landlocked pools and tiny tidal channels that often drifted away and ended in the grass, so we portaged around for a while until we found ourselves in a large inlet that led around the the back side of Crane's beach. Several Willets spooked up from their hiding spots in the grass as we paddled by them, calling their clownish greeting 'we will willet - we will willet - we will willet - we will willet'. Least terns, certainly amongst the most graceful and beautiful flyers that I've ever seen, flew elegantly through and against the stiff wind of the day, often holding steady in one spot, flapping, watching the water below and then suddenly dropping like a rocket, sharp beak first, plunging full into the water with a sudden splash and lifting immediately away with their prize. Swallows also skimmed the water in multitudes, and bullyish Herring and Great Black-backed gulls lorded over all and sundry.

I was hoping to see sharks - not jaws, but Glen's mother has seen the dorsal fins of small dogfish slowly swaying through the main tidal channels here. I would love to see that sight. I've snorkeled here before and seen striped bass, but the water doesn't have nearly the visibility that the open ocean does.

Oh, we saw turkeys, too, meandering through the grass. I'm sure there are lots of bugs and worms in the mud out there, but this was a first time seeing turkeys in salt marsh.

Anyway, I'm going to go now. Love to all,

-Brian

Oh, and I want to recommend that everybody buy Dorothy Monnelly's wonderful book of photography entitled The Great Marsh. It is an exceedingly beautiful portrait of this unique landscape and ecosystem by this very talented artist and courageous advocate for open space and our natural heritage. You can get it from Amazon.com amongst many other places.

Ruminations on learning the Irish fiddle, plus pictures

For all those clamoring for more photos of my new apartment, here are two - an exterior shot of the house (my apartment is on the second floor and on the right side) and a rare shot of me standing in the doorway to my porch. Everything is going well; I am on the cusp of what I call stage three: stage 1 is moving everything in, stage 2 is emptying boxes and putting everything in some semblance of livable order, and stage three is the slow process of rearranging everything to the apartment's 'ideal' state of being.

Meanwhile, there are other things going on in my life as well - the main thing being my newfound and ongoing appreciation of traditional irish music. Last weekend I spent a couple days on the cape attending a few events at the Cape Cod Celtic Festival. If I haven't said it before (and I think I have), Liz Carroll is my hero right now. I went to a workshop she taught, ostensibly "Intermediate Irish Fiddle', and learned a great deal, though the two hours went very quickly. Surprisingly, she taught our little group a reel of her own called 'Ralph's 2-3-5' (the 2-3-5 referring to the number of parts in each section of the tune). It can be found in fine form on her most recent recording with John Doyle called "In Play". It's a sly tune, and as we went over it Liz touched on a number of very helpful points regarding ornamentation, different styles of trebling, little tricks with bow direction, ideas for variation during repeats (especially double-stopping, which I love). Liz is very funny and chatty, very encouraging, and a wonder on the fiddle, even during a five-second demonstration of this point or that.

The other high point of the festival, for me, was the closing session at O'Shea's Inn on Sunday afternoon. It was especially nice as we went around the circle and everybody got a chance to introduce a tune or two, which at least assured me of knowing the tunes that I started. If I remember correctly, I believe I started 'The Banshee' and 'Bonaparte Crossing the Rhine', a particular favorite of mine that I learned from Pete Cooper's 'Complete Guide to Learning the Irish Fiddle'. 'Bonaparte Crossing the Rhine' has one of those particular little things that I love in Irish tunes, a brief phrase in the B section that quickly alternates between a C natural and C sharp that kind of pokes at your ears in an odd yet appealing way, and gives almost a distant, ancient flavor to the melody. This crops up over and over in a lot of tunes, and will probably seem less and less novel the more I learn, but in the meantime I love it.

I also attended a session at the Skellig in Waltham last Tuesday, a weekly session that is very welcoming to newcomers (though they don't necessarily go 'round the horn introducing tunes). A little session etiquette I've learned: if you're new, sit towards the outside of the circle, don't introduce tunes, if you don't know the tune just finger along silently, and don't pester anybody too much for the names of the tunes. Not that anybody will bite your head off, but if you want to build a place for yourself it's good to be polite. Unless your social skills are completely turned off you'll get a feel for when you can start to assert yourself a bit more, and the session leaders will begin to recognize you and give you a chance to start a tune now and then. I think. I've only been to three or four so far, all in the last couple of weeks.

Learning tunes at a session is very challenging. At this stage, I really only know about ten to fifteen tunes pretty well, and can follow along another ten or fifteen pretty well, but there are thousands out there, and most local communities of players will probably have a bag of a couple hundred that they might pull from. So, I really only recognize one tune in ten (or fewer), so I do a lot of silently fingering along, trying to catch the structure of the melody as the group whizzes through it at full speed. My brain gets pretty stretched after doing this for three tunes or so, and then I have to sit back and rest a bit. If you can catch the name of the tune you can try and look it up later, otherwise it'll probably come up again in a future session and you'll hopefully get a handle on it eventually.

If anybody is curious about what I've been listening to and what I really like here's a brief list:

Planxty - one of the first traditional groups of the early 70's resurgence in traditional music, these guys are incredible, mixing stunning, creative arrangements of traditional instrumentals with great songs. Andy Irvine's voice is wonderful. The first album is my favorite so far. Listen to 'Junior Crehan's Favorite' and 'Planxty Irwin'. No fiddles, but the amazing uillean pipes more than make up for it. I think one reason I really like these guys is they speak to me as a former member of a band. They really come across as a real band, not just a collection of great musicians, working together to create something that is more than the sum of its parts. The creativity they bring to their arrangements is virtually unparalleled (in my vast experience with traditional irish music). Wonderful harmonies, complex polyphonic instrumental parts, atmospheric development, stunning transitions.

Brian Conway - 'First Through the Gate' - I just got this album this week and it's a great collection of fiddle tunes in the County Sligo style from a New York-born fiddler. Very warm playing, with fast, elegant ornamentation and great choice of tunes. 'Blackberry Blossom' into 'The Silver Spire' has a stately, infectious joy about it and 'Jennie's Welcome to Charlie' is just an amazing four-part tune that throws me for a loop.

Danu - 'When All is Said and Done' - One of their more recent albums with new vocalist Muireann Nic Amhlaoibh, who has a wonderful, throaty alto voice (in contrast to the more typical bell-like soprano found in much Irish singing). Once again, a great band with stellar arrangements and great choice of tunes and songs. Plus, a surreal yet organic and beautiful cover of Dylan's 'Farewell, Angelina'. Oisín McAuley is a spirited and technically amazing player who lives near me in Brookline, MA. I've had the opportunity to hear him trying out fiddle bows in our showroom at work which was really neat, kind of a brief glance inside the mind of a great fiddler.

That's enough for now, it's a nice day and I've got further chores to do.

A whole new world

These are pictures of my new place, from a week ago when I'd finished moving everything in and had just started arranging things. The place is in much better shape now, but I figured I'd wait until I had it in some approximation of livable completion before I posted more pictures. I'm still stepping around boxes and piles of miscellaneous things I don't know where to put.

In any case, I love my new place. It's twice the apartment I just moved out of, in almost every conceivable way. Much bigger, more rooms, larger kitchen, quieter, friendlier neighborhood, a bit of yard space, wood floors (scarred and pitted, to be sure), cooler yet more natural light. There are any number of things I hope to do with my new space that I never really could before. On my back stoop, which gets a lot of sun from morning through early afternoon, I hope to get some planters and grow herbs for my kitchen (I've already got a small pot of basil, sage and creeping rosemary started thanks to a friend and co-worker). I'm at the library now and have an excellent looking book out called The Bountiful Container. On my porch, I may hang a hammock. With the nicer kitchen and larger space, I hope to have friends over for dinner occasionally, which I really never did before. Maybe even a music party once in a while, fiddling or chamber music. We'll see. My piano is the one thing still in limbo; it's in storage for the time being.

Finally having a nice, spacious apartment, I'm sorely tempted to go out right now and buy a million nice things so that I can live in the grand style. Nice couch, new bookshelves, real pieces of artwork, ice cream machine, meyer lemon tree (75 dollars at Winston Gardens), nice rugs for the floor, end table for the couch, coffee table, reclining chair...It doesn't take a fancy accountant to see that I'll have to go very slowly and learn to appreciate a sparser decorative style. Actually, I'm really enjoying having all this empty space right now, but given my inclinations toward sloth, I have to be very careful. There 's just so much room for piles of stuff that they won't really get in my way for a long time, so I'm working on developing some more orderly habits. Clean clean clean! I even bought a broom.

Well, that's enough for now, it's a nice day and I have lots of chores. I hope to start writing about more interesting things for this blog soon, but it may have to wait until I get an internet connection up and running at home.

Ch- ch - cheers,

-Brian

Nothing to say, too much to say, too much to do...

Well, it's been some time since I wrote in here. My apologies! I know I have a lot of fans who count on my blogging. I have been busy, busy, busy, and will continue to be so for the next three weeks at least...Into the already heady mix of work and music I have thrown in a move. Just a handful of blocks away from where I presently live, but...you know most of the work is the same, there's just less driving. As usual I am somewhat overwhelmed with the number of books I have, even though I have converted about 90 percent of my reading to library copies in the last few years. Somehow I still pack box after box to the brim with all manner of books. And then just when I've packed them, I want them out again. I've become somewhat dependent on my Encyclopedia Brittanica set - I was watching the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice and wanted to read their essay on Jane Austen, but the shelves were bare. I thought about traipsing downstairs to find and raid the appropriate box, but...that would be silly, wouldn't it? Now that I think of it, I can probably find everything I want online. But there's something about holding a volume of the Brittanica open on my lap and learning something about whatever I want, then randomly brousing through it to pick choice nuggets of information on 19th century British Prime Ministers. Fascinating!

I'm upgrading my living situation nicely, I think, going from what has become a cramped studio apartment to a roomier one-bedroom. Quieter neighborhood, just a touch closer to work (I can easily walk or bike), hardwood floors, nice light, eat-in kitchen (in real estate parlance), a small pantry (yes!), three-season porch (that's an enclosed, unheated porch with lots of windows), rear stoop where I can sit in the sun, and a small, quiet yard where I hope to place a grill. I'm especially looking forward to having more room in the kitchen, for cooking and for entertaining. I'll still have to be a little creative about storage (I'll have more room but little of it will be 'storage' space, I'll have to use some of the porch for keeping camping gear, etc) but I'll have room for a couch now. As silly as it sounds, I'm simply looking forward to being able to spend most of my time in the kitchen and living room and then retire to a separate bedroom to sleep. Right now I spend almost all of my time at home on my bed. There are several negatives to this, not least I don't think it's good for my back.

I'll try and post again soon. I have a lot more things to say about Irish music and the process of learning this new music. I'm heading to the Cape Cod Celtic Festival in two and a half weeks, where I'll have a workshop with Liz Carroll and others. As soon as I start actually moving, I'll take a bunch of pictures and post them for those of you who are interested in my new living situation. I'll have room for visitors now!

Adios, amoebas!

Communities, personal and social health

How difficult is it to change a life? In even small, incremental ways? Even when you know, objectively know from previous experience, that the changes will make your life more productive, rewarding and enjoyable? That they will ease that vague feeling of malaise you feel as you drift towards wakefulness waking up in the morning?

It’s not easy. Please forgive me if I’m not talking about you. I guess I’m talking about myself, mostly, but I have a feeling that I’m talking about something that a lot of people feel. Habits are deeply ingrained, and forming new ones can take mountains of motivation, consistent on a daily basis as well as over the years. Fear of change, even positive change, is very real. We are also all greatly aware of how those around us, those who we love, like, dislike or don’t really consciously think about at all think about us, and how they will react to what we do and how we project ourselves. And inertia comes from this, leading us to think “this is who we are, don’t rock the boat”.

You may be wondering what the hell I’m talking about at this point. Or you’ve stopped reading, wishing I’d just post another blurry picture of a local bird or an anecdotal account of another meal I’ve had. Well, I’m not contemplating some huge life change, such as moving to Alaska or joining the merchant marines or anything, though in some ways I wish I was. I’ve just started reading Bill McKibben’s new book, called Deep Economy: The Wealth of Communities and the Durable Future, and it is touching on some things that I’ve been thinking about, for years really but on a new level recently. It’s about many of the global problems our civilization is facing, some relatively objective (yet controversial and far from universally accepted) as global warming, peak oil and economic inequity, some more nebulous and subject but no less real such as dissatisfaction, the loss of social connectivity, unhappiness. It’s about trying to find some way out, or at least through, these problems through rebuilding and reorienting our communities, particularly in a more local direction.

I’ve been going through a small-scale, mostly unstructured, semi-conscious attempt to reorder my own life recently. How recently? I can’t really answer that. Certainly beginning to write my children’s novel over two years ago was some part of this (so what does it mean that my writing is in a bit of a fallow period now?) – but in the last few months I’ve been trying, emphasis on trying, to make some more conscious changes.

My motivation has come from different places. Certainly my environmental consciousness looms large – I want to lessen my impact and live closer to the earth. So I’m driving less. Trying to walk to work sometimes, or ride my bike. I’m also trying to keep my afterwork or weekend chores closer to home, and have even curtailed my birding adventures somewhat, not taking every free day off to drive up to the north shore. What’s interesting about these changes is the positive secondary changes that are effected: more exercise, leading to greater health and mental well-being. Less time spent frustrated and irritated (not to mention bored) in traffic. More inclined to network with friends for daytrips, leading to a more sociable and enjoyable experience (none of my friends really want to bird as much as I do, unfortunately).

I’m trying to be more conscious of what I eat, where it comes from, as well as making sure that I use it all instead of letting it rot in my refrigerator. Buying produce from local (New England, ideally) sources, avoiding frozen foods and foods with excess (or just irritating) packaging, eating less meat, buying organically when available and affordable. Secondary effects, of course, are eating better and enjoying it more. Flip side is it takes more time and effort (but less than you’d think if you shop at the right places), but I love to cook so no big sacrifice there.

One thing that Mr. McKibben touches on that I’ve been thinking about in great detail lately is looking to our local communities, and ourselves, for our entertainment and recreation. This is one of the areas in which modern life has changed the most, with great disruption to the connective tissue of local communities. I recently went to an Irish fiddle workshop led by Tommy Peoples, a very shy, soft-spoken individual who nonetheless was a leading force in the revitalization of traditional music beginning in the early seventies. He and others brought in new ideas yet stayed rooted and connected to a musical heritage that stretched back centuries but was in danger of losing itself to the outside incursions of rock and roll, pop, tin pan alley, etc (not that I want to knock rock’n’roll too much). Ireland was a very poor country until very recently, and when Mr. Peoples was growing up (and before) people made their own entertainment, or found it in their own communities, gathering at houses down the road for music and storytelling, dancing and theater, sporting events. Mr. Peoples used the term organic for this – everything was integrated – food and music, life and love, children and grandparents, family and community.

It’s always important to drop a couple caveats when talking like this lest you fool yourself – we all know that our past histories are full of war and pestilence and unhappiness and poor health, just like our current history is. Ireland suffered crippling poverty and famine that killed millions, as well as civil strife that pitted members of the same communities against each other. But I wonder if we haven’t really lost something as our affluence has grown, if we can’t consciously choose to regain some of this.

It may seem somewhat hypocritical for me to talk like this, as I’m one of the biggest wallflowers I know. But this gets to some of the more conscious changes I’ve been attempted lately. Nothing radical, just an attempt to be more social, to integrate interests of mine with other friends, or to use them to meet new people and make new friends. The main way I’ve been doing this lately is through my new interest in fiddling, particularly Irish fiddling. I’ve done my share of purchasing albums and listening to them at home by myself and playing along with recordings, but I’ve also gone to a couple of workshops and taken friends to see live music and hope soon to be joining in at some local sessions and finding a network of other people to play with here and there. I’ve been playing with my orchestra and my quartet for six years now but I do miss the more spontaneous nature of this kind of music making and its more casually social character.

I’ve also been getting more exercise, going to the gym, jogging, etc., and have even signed up for a spring triathlon in mid-July. I’m not sure anything improves one’s overall state of mind like regular physical activity (not to mention physical health). And I think I’m going to try and start playing tennis again this summer.

But there are no rules about any of this, at least not for me. I’ll never be a dogmatic person. My favorite anecdote from my limited Buddhist education goes like this: Two disciples walk into a monastery’s dining hall early one morning to find their teacher sitting quietly, eating his breakfast and reading the paper. Surprised, they confront him and ask him “But teacher, you always say ‘When eating, just eat! When reading, just read!’ What is this?” He smiles and looks at them and says “When eating and reading, just eat and read!”

Anyway, if you’ve read down to hear, thank you for your attention and letting me get some of these thoughts off of my chest.

Onward, Spring!

This is an Eastern Phoebe. And, I might add, one of the first decent pictures taken through my binoculars. Not exactly Audubon Calendar quality, but oh well.

It seems that every year there’s a new bird that I consider my official harbinger of Spring. More people are using bird feeders. The planet is warming up. Cities are growing, sprawling. And I’ve moved around a bit, myself, since I became a birdwatcher, from Northern Ohio to Southern Ohio to Northern Illinois back to Southern Ohio and east to coastal Massachusetts, and the bird life has changed each time.

Nonetheless, there seems to be a definite progression of birds staying longer, coming back sooner, staying farther north. Once upon a time the American Robin's arrival was a sure sign of Spring (though even that species had a few hardy overwintering individuals when I started birding in college). Then it was the turkey vulture, an easy spot from the highway as soon as they began drifting up with the warmer air. Then, for a number of years it was the Red-winged Blackbird. Their sudden, noisy arrival to any patch of freshwater, large or small, seemed to work like clockwork for mid-March. This year, however, I repeatedly saw a mid-sized flock of them during the depths of winter down at the Daniel Webster Wildlife Sanctuary. So they’re out, now, as my official sign of Spring (though they didn’t start their cacophonous chattering until mid-March as usual).

Last week I went out for a hike at the Broadmoor Audubon Sanctuary in Natick, my first such outing in probably a month, and as it was already late March by then, there were some new birds that hadn’t been around when I'd last been out. The most notable of these were the numerous Eastern Phoebes, singing and flycatching, flicking their tails and chasing each other in rambunctious pair-bonding exercises, lurking about by bridges and branches overhanging the water. They were in the fields, too, clinging to dry, yellowed and stiff stalks of last year's grass, fluttering to and fro as they picked off the early risers of the insect world (speaking of which, there were some beautiful butterflies about already).

Anyway, this year, I have designated the Eastern Phoebe my official harbinger of Spring.

Next year it will probably be the Keel-billed Toucan.

The Ramen Continuum

Mmmm, ramen.

There are many wonderful variations on the ‘noodles and broth’ theme throughout the world, all with their own tastes, textures and presentations. There's Vietnamese Pho, light and fragrant yet full of the rich flavor of beef and the crunch of bean sprouts. And Japanese Udon, thick and slippery, soft yet chewy. There's the classic Italian torellini in brodo, little soft navels of rich meat in egg pasta, gently simmered in an unadorned meat broth. Of course there’s chicken noodle soup, the childhood/sickbed favorite that even the most sophisticated palates rarely outgrow. And there's another Japanese noodle called Soba made from buckwheat flour, grainy and with a serious chew, often dipped in a side bowl of broth just to be different. There's a simple dish of rice noodles and broth that I had for breakfast in Thailand where the fun is in twirling the accompanying tray of condiments and deciding what to spice your breakfast up with (sliced thai chiles in fish sauce, please!)

There are many more still, enough that, if you live in a decent food city like I do (Boston) with a lot of different ethnic restaurants, you might find that you have a different favorite every few weeks or months that you exclusively dedicate yourself to. Vietnamese food was mostly new to me when I moved to Boston in 1999, and so when I discovered the wealth of Vietnamese restaurants in this city Pho duly occupied most of the part of my brain devoted to noodles in broth for a while. And of course I still love it and eat it a few times a year.

But it seems I always return to ramen eventually. What does ramen mean to you? For me, ramen means many things. I see myself sitting at Eli Kurtz’s kitchen table while in high school, eagerly slurping down 25 cent packages of Top Ramen, beef flavor. I remember eating oodles of the same stuff during college as it was cheap and quick. I remember slowly starting to develop myself as a cook during late college and after and experimenting with the basic packaged ramen recipe, adding steamed vegetables, spicy condiments, black mushrooms, eventually substituting my own (not entirely homemade) broths, or even just soy sauce and sesame oil instead of the little packages of caked MSG.

I remember seeing a memorable movie called Tampopo, probably my favorite movie about food . A young woman’s quest for the perfect ramen recipe to serve in her small restaurant is the core of this wonderful movie that mixes many different cinematic metaphors (western, gangster, Godard, slapstick), yet retains an easy and charismatic warmth as it experiments and cuts from one storyline to another.

My current appreciation is largely due to one of my favorite places to eat in all of Boston, Ken’s Ramen. It resides in a small space right next to the asian supermarket Super88 in Allston. It serves a few different styles – soy sauce, clear salt, miso, and a thicker, cloudier broth that I forget the name of. I usually have the soy sauce flavor. I think the different styles mostly refer to how they salt the broth, as all of them except the miso are clearly meat broths.

The broth, of course, is the key to superior ramen, as it is to most soups around the world. Ken’s is light yet rich, with great depth of flavor, never overwhelming the springy texture and eggy taste of the crinkled noodles, the soft greenery of chopped spinach or the butter-soft slices of pork belly that lie atop the carefully swirled noodles. The briny, musty crunch of pickled bamboo shoots provide the requisite sharp contrast to rest of the comforting ingredients.

Still, I feel that there are two places in the ramen continuum that I have yet to visit, two places I need to go to fully understand and appreciate ramen. Number one is to experience ramen in Japan. To see what rises to the top in a culture devoted to this humble noodle of Chinese extraction, and to see the grand spectrum of styles and recipes in a place where every corner has its own humble (or not so humble) shop dishing it out to hungry people. Number two would be, of course, to make the real stuff myself. But how far to really go in this venture? Would I really make the noodles from scratch? Is that even possible in a home kitchen? Would making a real ramen broth from scratch be enough? Is this a stupid idea anyway? I don’t think ramen is made at home in Japan except from the little packages- the real stuff is for eating out. But still, I'm probably influenced by the romance of the movies, but it seems like a great adventure.

Anyway, here’s to ramen!

An exceptional album of Irish fiddling and guitar

Up until now, I’ve never really gotten along well with Irish music. I’m not really sure why. I’ve tried a number of times over the years to develop an appreciation but could never really maintain my interest for very long.

It seems like it would be a good fit. It’s music that obviously lends itself well to the violin/fiddle, my main instrument. It has a rustic, earthy character, and thrives in an acoustic setting, all of which I approve of. It has strong ties with American Appalachian fiddle music, which I’ve always enjoyed. Finally, though I’m mostly a mixed bag, I have a large block of Irish blood in me, virtually the only ethnic heritage that I’m consciously aware of. But it just never really clicked. I kind of thought of it like I think of a lot of baroque concerti (such as from Vivaldi or Telemann) - little musical perpetual-motion wind-up machines, having a distinct character as a genre but all tending to sound alike, as well as lacking in drama or structural invention.

But do you ever have that moment when you finally figure out what it is in something that really makes it something? When you realize why people love it? Why they have conventions about it, spend their lives studying it or learning it or living it?

I saw a documentary recently on Charlie Parker, and the anecdote I remember best is a tale about how he used to hang out in a particular bar with a jukebox and he used to fill it up with quarters and play a whole row of country tunes. And everybody would look at him like he was crazy – an incredibly smart, gifted, hip, urban black guy listening to that hillbilly music? They’d give him hell, and he’d just say “Listen to the stories”.

I love that moment when something clicks like that. I’m not near the point where I’m going to dedicate my life to Irish music or anything, but I did have that moment recently. I went down to the grand state of Connecticut to work a music educator’s convention and my coworker was a fellow from Cape Cod who is an Irish fiddler. A beginner, really, having played mandolin for a few years but only a year or two into the fiddle. But he has progressed very quickly, and to my ears (admittedly inexperienced with Irish fiddling) he has a really feel for it, playing authentically in the style. In any case, he was playing a slow tune that I liked and I asked him what it was. He said “It’s an air by Liz Carroll called ‘A Long Night on the Misty Moor.’” An evocative title, I thought, and I went and bought the album a couple days later, which is actually a duo album with Liz Carroll on fiddle and John Doyle of guitar. The title is "In Play".

This album has completely blown me away. In all of a week, I’ve listened to it several times. I’ve simply never heard any fiddling before that has excited me so much, with its style, virtuosity, invention, structure, driving rhythms and overall energy. There’s even a wonderful tension, a suspension almost, to the slower pieces, the waltzes and airs. The ornamentation of the fiddle playing, which before has always seems like just that, ornamentation, comes through in Ms. Carroll’s playing as this endlessly surprising, visceral texture that is inseparable from the melodies and rhythms of the pieces themselves. It adds an incomparable richness to the whole affair without taking away from the exciting direction of the melodies themselves.

Is there something here that has not been there in other Irish fiddle playing I’ve listened to? Maybe. John Doyle’s guitar has been mixed a bit higher than is usual with these recordings, and I really think I’m hearing more harmonic invention and direction in this music than is typical. Many of the development sections and B sections really develop the character and story of the track rather than just seeming to be a linked ‘medley’. There’s a part in track 9, “Freemont Center/The Vornado/Minutemen” which has this feeling of the sun breaking out; you almost can’t avoid picturing jubilant dancing in a sunny green field.

But the best part is, however new and exceptional it might be, it has nonetheless opened up an understanding and appreciation for this type of music that really wasn’t there before. I went back and listened to an album my dad had recommended years ago called “The Lonesome Touch” by the fiddle/guitar duo of Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill, and enjoyed it much more than I ever had before, especially listening for and noting their differences in style and execution from other players. Martin Hayes has a smoother and more open style, slower and with a more classical touch to his ornaments, certainly less percussive than the more rhythmic and surprising style of Liz Carroll. Both of them have a way with melodies, however. Liz Carroll composes the bulk of the pieces she records herself, and I think she is remarkably talented.

Anyway, if you have even a half-interest in traditional music like this (this album is all instrumental), I urge you to check it out. The album is “In Play” by Liz Carroll and John Doyle.

Another trip to Plum Island

Sunset, looking west through the dune grasses.

Approaching the ocean through the dunes.

A northern harrier, intent on its meal. You can see the owl-like facial disc here.

Well, we had a weekend of nice weather and I got out for some birding yesterday up at Plum Island. Though I must say the conditions were more severe than I expected. Saturday had been very sunny, fifty-plus degrees, and calm, and somehow I dressed as such for my outing on Sunday. I was cold. There was a fierce wind roaring across the marsh from the southwest that cut through my flimsy jacket. By the end of the day my knees were knocking with the cold, my lips were sluggish with the easiest of consonants and my toes were going numb.

Why did I stay out there? Oh, I don’t know. It was still nice to be out after a month-plus of staying mostly indoors. I usually get myself out early but this time I waited until early afternoon, thinking I’m maybe catch the late-afternoon light for once, and maybe the short-eared owls.

I didn’t see the owls! A bit of a disappointment, as they have been seen regularly up at Plum Island all season and a couple others had seen them up at the north end of the sanctuary, flying back and forth over the marsh between lots one and two. The birding in general was unspectacular yesterday but I did have some nice sightings and observations. Two snowy owls, distant looks. Northern Harrier’s were everywhere, coasting low and near, and far, giving great looks of these very interesting and beautiful birds. These may be my favorite hawk to watch, with their wobbly flight and arresting, owl-like facial features. I was lucky enough to watch one dive and successfully catch some sort of bird – I couldn’t tell what kind – and then proceed to tear it apart and eat it. I got a few blurry pictures of it through my scope. But my real luck came as I was watching that and decided to keep scanning with my scope and came up with a rough-legged hawk just fifty yards away from the harrier, on the ground consuming something with a long, narrow tail that was nearly as big as the hawk itself. Though they are sighted regularly this time of year around here, I have only one or two sighting of rough-legged hawks in my life and this was actually my first for Massachusetts. If I did more of my winter birding in the fields and marshes instead of the water I’d probably see more. Both the harrier and rough-legged stayed put for a long as I could stand the wind – I watched for quite awhile as I got colder and colder. Twice another harrier came along and tried to snatch a little bit but was chased off by both birds.

Though I missed the owls, I very much enjoyed being there for the light at dusk. I walked out the boardwalk across the dunes to the ocean and the light from the setting sun at my back lit up the dune grasses wonderfully, giving them a healthy, vibrant golden glow as they bent in the somewhat gentling breeze. I was just going for a quick look so I hadn’t carried my scope, but I could tell that the water beyond the breakers was full of loons and scoters, hundreds, probably thousands of them. It’s neat to see the large congregations of birds massing before migration. I saw the same thing in the eiders in the mouth of the Ipswich river a couple weekends ago, all clustering about ice floes as they drifted out to sea.

The mornings around here have already begun to twitter with a few early-spring songs, from cardinals and chickadees and titmice – Spring is on its way!

Have you eaten the food of the Old Country?

Mujadarrah is the dish that made me a cook. It's the one I first took an active, creative interest in, the first one I made, was dissatisfied with the results and resolved to try again, and is a dish that I have continued to make and tinker with every year. It has gotten better and better, then worse with new experimentation, then even better again; it is still short of my memories of that glorious first taste of it at the Old Country Inn in Cincinnati, Ohio.

Mujadarrah, or megadarra, or M'jdara, or perhaps one of any number of other spellings and pronunciations, is a middle-eastern dish of rice, lentils and fried onions. When I first encountered it, it was a steaming, fluffy dish with a slightly sweet, aromatic scent, topped with black, crispy slivers of onion. It was incredible, and kind of blew my top off with its simple yet deeply-rooted implications. I think at that time in my life I had encountered americanized Chinese food and mall-style Mexican combination plates, but no other types of 'non-american' foods. This would have been early college.

I was also nothing of a cook at that time, having only ventured so far as hot dogs, ortega-style tacos and my college staple of macaroni and cheese (mueller's elbows, kraft singles, milk and lots of black and cayenne pepper). After tasting the heavenly dish of mujadarrah in that dimly lit restaurant, I resolved to try and make it. I didn't try and seek out recipes - this was pre-internet and pre-my long-standing addiction to cookbooks, and I didn't really expect to be able to find it anyway, so I did what I rarely do nowadays: I experimented.

In classic beginning cook style, I started by boiling lentils and rice together until mushy and then dumping in enormous quantities of salt, pepper, cumin and turmeric (?). I fried slivers of small onions until golden-brown and mixed them up. It's funny how I either overlooked a fairly obvious procedure (I didn't cook the onions nearly long enough - maybe in the dim lighting I didn't really understand how black they were). It was terrible, but by college standards, perfectly edible and something of a triumph for myself and my housemates, even if I recognized that it wasn't anything like what I had eaten before.
So I began an erratic, long journey to perfect it. The first key step came quickly: fry the onion slices in olive oil until black, and don't stint on the amount of oil. Unfortunately, it took me a long time to realize the second key - stop tinkering with the types and amounts of spices used and just get rid of them altogether (except for salt and pepper). I will admit, I occasionally try a little cumin, but usually regret it, even though I like cumin a lot. The deep, sweet smoky flavor of the onions, the onion-flavored olive oil, the light but meaty taste of the lentils is all you need. The third key was a little trickier, and a tip I got from Paula Wolfhert's recipe, which is to fry the onions first and cook the rice and lentils with a good portion of them (so make sure you cook enough to have plenty for topping) and all the remaining olive oil.

The final key was the trickiest - achieving that light texture, pilaf-style almost, instead of sludge, glop, porridge, whatever. This seems to come from three things - saute the rice and lentils for a few minutes before adding the water, don't use too much water (pre-soaking the lentils helps with this), and have a tight seal (use aluminum foil PLUS a tight lid if possible).

Mujadarrah

Soak 1 cup of lentils in water for a couple hours and drain. Soak 2 cups long-grain rice as well, for at least a half-hour (soaking is not strictly necessary, but helps the texture). Slice two medium-large onions into thin half-circles. Fry in a half-cup of extra-virgin (top-shelf is not necessary - extra-virgin is) until dark-brown to near-black. Remove 2/3's of the onions with a slotted spoon (try to keep as much olive oil as possible in the pot) and drain on paper towels. They will crisp up nicely. Add the drained rice and lentils to the pot along with 2 teaspoons of salt and as much freshly-ground black pepper as you like. Saute briskly for about five minutes (try not to break up the rice grains too much) and then add 4 cups of water (maybe another ½ cup if you haven't soaked the lentils). Bring to a boil, cover tightly (use foil if necessary) and cook for about 25 minutes over very low heat. When done, fluff it up with a fork and serve, sprinkled generously with the crispy onion slices.

In the summer, a simple tomato salad is a great accompaniment. In the winter, try some pan-roasted cauliflower. In all seasons, a spicy yogurt raita is a perfect match, as well as a mint lemonade or a juicy, mineral-ly rose.

Working with Music

It’s funny how you learn little things about yourself sometimes. Little things that kind of seem obvious, to you, or to anybody else, maybe, after learning them. But we can only muddle through life at whatever pace the combination of mind, matter and luck give us. I learned a little something about myself this week, and I hope the preceding sentences haven’t implied that this is something momentous or of great import. Or of any interest to anybody.

This little mundane thing I learned is that I work better to music. Not all jobs in all situations, of course, but jobs that require me to plow through something, where I’m in my own space, not interacting with others, not too creative but possibly challenging or intellectual…The reason this is interesting to me is because of my distractable, ADD’ish nature – you might think that having music on would be quite distracting, and I always thought so too. But I underestimated the power of distraction. I find that if I’m sitting at my desk slowly working through some kind of project that is not exactly a thrill a minute, my mind goes kind of crazy looking for input, some kind of stimulation, so I get up and pretend to do something else, try and think of questions to ask a co-worker, muse endlessly on what I want for dinner, look something up on the internet, goof off, and so I work in fits and starts. I work quickly and well when I apply myself, so I do get things done. But if I put music on…then there’s that little input, stimulation, there, present, for me to dip into for a few moments, to occupy that unused back portion of my brain as I move through the pages…so yes, the music distracts me, but I stay at my desk. Giving me the chance to be mildly distracted in kind of an ongoing, ambient manner allows me to keep myself from the greater distractions resulting from utter boredom and the need to fill a silent void, and I get more done.

Does this make sense? I don’t know. I’m mostly speaking of my experience of the last few weeks when I’ve been working on a large task of a repetitive nature involving hundreds of pieces of paper, shuffling them and writing things down on them, then transferring those thoughts to some sort of numerical/inventory computer jobbie. I started bringing in CD’s, mostly classical chamber works, and it’s been a lifesaver.

Okay, enough of this rambling. Have I told you I love my new violin? I really do, and I love feeling motivated to practice, and to listen and understand new music. I’ve been listening to Bartok’s 44 Duos for two violins, written in large measure as a pedagogical work, starting from simple and moving to difficult, covering many types of rhythms and melodies, tempos and forms. Many of these duos are under a minute, and few are longer than two minutes. Despite their teaching purpose, these are wonderful character works, covering an immensely wide expressive range, and compressing wonderfully developed musical thoughts and emotions into these incredible little snapshots. Furthermore, listening to them has not only inspired me to play them, it has inspired me to venture again into a bit of composition. Works like these would be a great place to start and experiment. I know the violin, duos would give me greater range, small pieces would allow me to experiment with an easier sense of commitment, trial and error, and I’ve always wanted to explore ‘real’ new music for students and amateurs, a niche extremely undeveloped in the twentieth-century plus world of classical music.

Okay, I’m moving on now. These are just some idle thoughts on a Saturday night. For those who have enjoyed my bird postings in the past, my apologies. I haven’t done much birding recently, but will certainly do some again. Maybe I’ll head up to Plum Island this weekend.

Then again, maybe I’ll stay home and practice my violin.

thank you, George Bryant

Well, I bought a violin. It was made by George Bryant in Lowell, Massachusetts in 1916. I have posted some pictures of it, though predictably, I don't really feel the pictures do it justice. Though its tone is certainly the main thing I fell for, I can't deny a certain appreciation for its appearance and its local New England genesis. Instead of describing it, I'll quote from my appraisal: "The faint to medium flame of the one-piece, quarter-sawn American maple back is horzontal, and is irregular and narrow in width. The flame of the ribs and head is similar to the flame of the back. The golden brown varnish is evenly applied." To my eyes, it glows, but with a subdued, earthy light. It looks its age, yet is in excellent shape, only sporting the odd weathered scratch or irregularity in the wear to its finish.

Falling for this instrument has been an interesting experience. I do mean falling for it, and it really has been similar to the way I have fallen for women before, if considerably less fraught with emotional ups and downs and various insecurities.

I fell for it instantly. In my job I regularly play violins of all sorts of makes and prices, from $100 dollar ebay instruments to antique and modern-made violins up to $25,000 or so (I have yet to play a stradivarius or another of that ilk) - and many of the pricier of these are objectively better than this one - richer, louder, more projection, finer craftsmanship, more expressive versatility - but this one just grabbed me in a completely unpredictable yet natural way within two seconds of picking it up and playing it. I realized very quickly I liked it a lot. A couple co-workers walked into the room where I was playing it and I looked at them and smiled, asking "What is this?" One of them, Vicky, smiled and said "It's nice, isn't it?" I think it was really over at that moment; it just remained to be seen whether we would go the distance or my heart would be slowly be broken. Continuing this rather heavy 'relationship' analogy, I must tell you that we, my violin and I, got married yesterday.

But seriously, folks, I really like this violin. It's very warm and open, with a bit of a dark character to it, a touch of the viola, and a very consistent tone from string to string. It's not loud, but not quiet either. It feels easy in my hands and has a voice like mine - I feel like myself when playing it, while its depth challenges me to develop as a player and a communicator.

I'm hoping that it will motivate me to take my playing to another level. I've been exploring the Bach unaccompanied sonatas and partitas recently, and have been jabbing at a couple movements that I've never attempted before, and still may never be able to pull off, but have always been favorites, such as the first two movements of the first sonata in g minor, the Adagio and the Fuga, and the wonderfully beguiling Andante from the second sonata (perhaps my favorite movement of all). Also, the second movement from Beethoven's violin concerto, which holds some of the most beautifully serene passages, where it seems all the love in the universe is balanced perfectly, comfortably, on the head of a pin.

Anyway, I hope that many of you will get a chance to hear it someday.

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig

Ahh, Cincinnati. I just got home yesterday from a week's vacation in this metropolitan, midwestern city. Not that I really got out to see the town much - most of my time was spent visiting with family (though I did get out for a much needed excursion to the Skyline Chili on Ludlow with my sister Franny). I was lucky enough to be there when my little niece Gabby was there also, and it was certainly wonderful to have another chance to get to know this growing, spirited little girl, now two years old. This was my first time with her since she's been really talking, and she seems quite the smart cookie. I'll tell you, when a little one like her addresses you as 'uncle brian', it's near impossible to deny her whatever it is she wants, so we played several rounds of fun games until she tired of them, or until I tired of them and was able to distract her into a new activity. We played hide and seek, though Gabby hasn't got all the subtleties of the game down yet. When I'm counting and she's hiding, as soon as I yell "ready or not here I come" she runs out of her shady corner straight at me, laughing. We enjoyed several other activities, including sitting in the soft kitty beds at my Mom's house and playing the twirly game.

We also had lots of fun with my sister Esme. It was her birthday on Saturday. We played scrabble and had a chocolate cake, amongst other things. I had to leave Sunday morning during the biggest snow of the season so far, so I missed whatever snowball fights and snow sculptures were enjoyed, and only got the experience the stress of driving to the airport in it with my Dad.

I did get a touch of birding in, though that wasn't exactly a priority. As one might expect from some brief, low impact birding in mid-winter Ohio, there wasn't a whole lot seen, but some nice birds nonetheless. Yellow-bellied sapsuckers were seen on several occasions, Terry and I had a Pileated Woodpecker flyover at the Nature Center, fox sparrows at Spring Grove Cemetery and at Spring Valley, kingfisher, red-tailed hawks, great blue herons, tons of red-bellied woodpeckers...the most interesting sighting of the week was at Spring Valley with my Dad and Lisa of a small flock of Eastern Bluebirds gathering on the ice in the center of the small lake there. I have never seen that before.

Anyway, it was a restful week with loved ones, and sorely needed. Back to work tomorrow.

A Simple Meal

Sometimes the best meals are the simplest. Well, not the simplest; in my world that would be cereal, or even a clif bar and a piece of fruit (which is in fact a staple breakfast of my early morning birding). So I guess I don't mean simple in the 'hard day at work, tired, just want to eat something, watch a little tv and go to bed' sense. I just mean a quick, nutritious meal prepared with a minimum of fuss. To tell the truth, many friends of mine, even fellow epicures, would look at what I fixed myself tonight and think that I'm out of mind to go to so much effort just for myself, and on a school night (so to speak, I have never gotten out of the habit of calling any evening when I have to go to work the next morning a 'school night'). But really, it took all of a half an hour, was delicious, and provided me with a well-rounded meal and a pleasant sense of accomplishment from the relaxing, creative energies invoked.

I had a couple of chicken legs defrosted, and had been considering a couple different recipes, a repeat of a chicken with za'taar from the new Ana Sortun cookbook Spice or a braised chicken with olives and saffron from Signor Batali's Molto Italiano. But I was tired, and it had been an irritating, if not particularly long, day, and I wanted quick and easy. So I put some rice in the rice cooker with a dollop of butter and a few pinches of spice from a turkish melange and turned on the broiler. I seasoned the chicken legs with salt, pepper and drizzled with a little olive oil and threw them under the flames. Checking the refrigerator, I found a few lonely pieces of leftover vegetables destined for the rubbish bin (mushrooms, a poblano chile and a couple stalks of broccoli) and cut them up, seasoned just like the chicken and threw them in the oven to roast while the chicken broiled below.

Once eveything was out the the oven and the chicken was liberally doused with my favorite hot sauce (actually, I have many favorites, but the best are made only from cayenne peppers, vinegar and salt) I had a meal fit for a king, or better still, perfectly fit for me and the quiet evening ahead. The chicken was well-charred but still juicy and flavorful (god bless thighs and drumsticks), the vegetables were smoky and piquant and the rice gave me a pleasant, starchy contentment. A half-glass of a light, minerally but juicy rose (don't ask me the grape, but it's not just for summer picnics anymore) made the meal as good as any I've had in a long time. And best of all, cold chicken leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

The Clouds Break

Okay, first an admission: I did not take this picture. I stole it from the Wikipedia website's article on the dovekie, that tubbly little seabird that sends birdwatchers crazy around here. I wanted to post a picture of it as it represents the high point of a strange, productive and thoroughly enjoyable day's birding on Cape Ann.

There are great advantages to birding in a group; apart from spending time with new or old friends and sharing expenses and driving duties, there is the valuable opportunity to learn from experienced and knowledgeable birders who usually know where the birds are most likely to be found. And, of course, there are all those eyes! Eyes darting everywhere, searching every little branch, wave, rock, whatever that might harbor something that flies (or swims and dives).

I went out with the Brookline Bird Club's outing today, led by Bill Drummond. We started in downtown Gloucester at the State Fish Pier, in a thick fog and intermittent rain (I would say the conditions were chilly except for the fact that we were actually about twenty degrees warmer than we should have been for early January) looking for gulls. In particular, the Common Gull, a possibly European vagrant that's been seen here recently. We didn't see it, but that was fine with me. I'm still in the infancy of gull identification (actually, I might have graduated to toddler this year) - these are difficult birds to distinguish from one another, and great patience is involved when looking for rarities in a giant flock of several hundred flying, swimming, resting and generally wheeling about everywhere in the Gloucester's inner harbor. But we found some others- Iceland Gull, Glaucous Gull and Black-headed Gull along with the more common Herring, Great black-backed and ring-billed. I was especially excited by the Black-headed gull, which I've never seen before and is a smallish gull with a red bill. We watched two of these guys fly round and round a particularly productive stretch of water, occasionally fluttering just above the water and then crashing into it head first, usually coming back up and out with a small, wriggling fish held tight between their bill. Swallow fast or a big bad great black-backed gull will get you!

We moved on to the southern tip of Eastern Point where we saw a distant but recognizable Barrow's Goldeneye. As we walked out the long jetty that is Dog Bar Breakwater, the skies lightened and the temperature rose, but we could see the dense fog still lying thickly about downtown Gloucester.

We kept moving. The whole experience of birding in a group like this is somewhat comical - I would be tempted to make fun of it if I didn't enjoy it as much as I did and respect the other folks who I was birding with. Oh well, I can make fun of myself, can't I? Though we carpooled, there were still several cars full of birders; we kept in touch by FRS radio walkie talkies, which have a range of anywhere from twenty feet to about a mile. As we drove there was constant chatter such as "Redwing, this is falcon one; do you have the eared grebe? Over." or "Put on your left blinker and turn into the Dunkin' Donuts. After a quick pit stop we'll cruise by the Elks Lodge to look for the King Eider. Redwing out." You might have guessed by now that this is a far cry from walking softly in the wilderness; however, once we are out of the cars and in the bird's territory, we are very careful and respectful (of birds as well as private property and general etiquette).

Anyway, we had some good birds, we got the eared grebe and the king eider, as well as purple sandpipers and guillemots and kittiwakes, but the highlight came when we stopped for lunch at Andrews Point, which is just south of Halibut Point (possibly my favorite piece of real estate in Massachusetts). The sun came out here in full force, and I mean full force. Many of us went down to t-shirts at this point and there was actually a warm breeze. Though I find this weather somewhat disturbing and the spectre of global warming frightening, for the hour and a half that we sat on the rocks at Andrews Point I was seriously loving it. Of course it doesn't hurt that we saw the dovekie, and had truly stellar views of it.

Stellar views of a dovekie are different than the stellar views you might have of many other birds. In the dovekie's case, it means several repeated sightings of the bird for the one second it spends at the surface between dives, hopefully from a close enough vantage to actually recognize it. It helps that there's nothing else quite that small, that tubby, with that distinctive tuxedo black and white plumage.

I'm not too humble to mention that I was the first person in our group see it positively - I saw a brief flash of white as something small dove about forty yards off the rocks. I mumbled something about seeing 'something' and kept my binoculars at the same spot, hoping it would come back up within the same view. About ten seconds later it did, and was unmistakably a dovekie, at which point I somewhat overexcitely called it out and somewhat awkwardly tried to describe exactly where it was, or exactly where it wasn't as it kept diving about exactly one second after surfacing. But I kept seeing it rise again and again, about seven times or so, slowly moving left before we finally lost sight of it. Not everybody saw it at this time, which I felt bad about (and wondered if I could have pointed it out better) until we picked it up again about fifteen minutes later. This time, it came in as close as about ten yards and two or three times rested on the surface as long as three or four seconds, a lifetime to a dovekie watcher. Of course, the sun was shining and the warm breeze was blowing, and everybody, myself included, had a very nice smile on their face.

A very nice day all in all. I saw several birds I didn't see all last year: glaucous gull, black-headed gull, king eider, eared grebe, black-legged kittiwake, black guillemot. A nice first outing for 2007.

The Wonderful Lorraine Hunt-Lieberson

I came under the spell of Lorraine Hunt-Lieberson's voice rather late - not in my life, but in hers. She died this last summer at the age of 52, just a few months after I first heard her singing on a recording of two Bach cantatas with Boston's Emmanuel Music on the Nonesuch label. This is an extraordinary recording. Almost every comment I've read about it refers to its 'luminous spirituality', and I can't really say it any better than that. There is an immediacy to her voice, an intimacy in her expression that both astounds but also holds the listener very close, sometimes painfully so. It is hard not to think of her and her illness and of her early death from breast cancer when listening to these pieces; one almost feels she is whispering to you from her bedside (in fact there was a concert staging of these with her in hospital gown).

I've now been listening to two newly-released live recordings of hers, both issued this year after her death. Both are five-song cycles written for her by her husband, the composer Peter Lieberson, both based on sonnets by well-known twentieth century poets. The first, recorded with the pianist Peter Serkin, has settings from Rainier Maria Rilke's Sonnets to Orpheus. The second is from selected love sonnets of Pablo Neruda.

The Rilke Songs, as befits the piano accompaniment and the introspective, metaphysical speculations of the poetry, have a stark intimacy, full of space, angular melodic lines and thin, dense harmonies. This is music that leads one's thoughts into startling, unexpected directions, with few if any resolutions. By contrast, the Neruda songs, as befits the opulence of this most fecund of poets, are lush, and scored for voice and full orchestra, here provided by the Boston Symphony Orchestra under the baton of James Levine. The warmth here is profound, the love palpable. It is in these recordings (or maybe the Bach) that I think I most hear Ms. Hunt-Lieberson's professional beginnings as a violist before her singing career took off, in the nuance of her phrasing, in the clear yet unexpected articulation of her expression. There is humor and play here also, from gentle but deeply embedded latin syncopations to sprightly recurring motifs that arch between the separate pieces. Mesmerizing.

That's all I'll say for now, except to urge anybody and everybody to listen to this music. I can only wish I'd discovered her earlier and taken the opportunity to see her sing live, which by all accounts was normally spellbinding. I'm looking forward to acquiring another recently issue recording of her singing songs by New England stalwart composer John Harbison.

Bye!