What finally pushed me to start the sourdough project I've been putting off for months was the sad realization that most of my jar of active dry yeast has died on me. A moment, if you will.
One cake ended up in the trash, and another final attempt at cinnamon rolls, while it was not wholly unsuccessful – as far as yummy delicious rugelach-like cinnamon cookie-treats go, they were actually great – did seem to prove that the yeast is not doing all that it should.
All this has been taking place at our household during the week of The Festival of the Unleavened Bread (most hilarious translated religious terminology, possibly ever. Probably anything that starts with THE FESTIVAL OF will win that title, though).
UPDATE: I have indeed thrown out almost all of the starter I was trying to maintain (two batches in two different containers! just to be on the safe side!!), and what is left is acting out on me, probably because I've switched from night- to morning-feedings. To alleviate my frustration and craving for homemade bread, I made some Challah, thus proving that the yeast I have is in fact pretty much alive. It's not just me, ALL the living organisms in this house are thoroughly neurotic. And yes, it is still Passover, aka the FUB, over here. You're not offended, I hope, or at least not remotely surprised over my yeast-nourishing conduct precisely at this time of year.
To add to the festivities I made some matzo-ball soup and had one batch of balls upped with (too) much chopped parsley, arugula and dill. My mother would be proud at the depart from customary eastern-European cuisine but I think I like the original version better. We were not invited to any Seder and that was totally fine by me, but I did get a little sad over how dismissive I am about such traditions. In recent years, my side of the family has developed a slightly perverted disdain for Jewish holidays, with their concomitant family-gatherings and very specific not-always-so-inspiring foods. I'm talking gefilte fish here, people. My mother has already threatened once that she will replace the gefilte with homemade sushi rolls (a threat I'm still waiting to cash in on, by the way). But it has gotten to the point where an event like Seder is anticipated with horrified disgust. Such moments fit too well with my memory of N and her, shall we say, food-aversion. Too well, because I don't want to remember her only as a disliker, of tastes that I, despite it all, still feel nostalgic for. And I envy DH for still considering family gatherings a treat, still relishing the dishes his mother makes, like when he was a child. I think I've developed a defense mechanism, where I would rather just spurn Family with a capital F than realize how hard it would be for mine to keep up the capital F quality… than feel the pain that we've somehow lost that quality even before N died (not to mention the guilt over my contribution to the situation by leaving Home) but that in times like these her absence makes me think of how much she disliked what I would consider comfort-food.
So comfort ends up kicking itself in the face. This is also how I feel about the one-year memorial we recently attended. A pat on the bandaged heart. A distraction from the burning nothingness which is all that is left. It was the definition of a COMFORTing ceremony and this is perhaps as it should be. And as years go by maybe the distraction from the pain and the being in the pain will come together for me somehow. A friend who lost his father a few years ago says the yearly ceremonies are, for him, just that – no matter what content his family struggles to grant to the event – a crushing day that overburdens you with the unfathomability of it still.
And so, surprising myself once more with a sense of tradition, in these days I long for some kind of rootedness, and I find I want to just be near the grave. To stay there for hours.
I end up writing here about N's death almost on every post. Even the ones where I start out thinking I won't. I guess when I finally bring myself to write this is what comes out. I guess that
"I'm not DRUNK. I'm just... really wobbly right now"
Yes indeed. While the original bearer of this proclamation was undoubtedly drunk (a. We can hear you from our apartment. And yet, you are OUTSIDE... You are obviously drunk. b. You just said that. You are obviously drunk.) I have fallen in love with the drunkenness-wobbliness metaphor. The lines we strain to draw between one state and the other.
I have recently been wobbled by the amazing Trisha Brown Dance Company. THIS is the kind of dance I would have loved to do. (An even better example here. A snippet of the version with the original cast, including TB herself, may be found on the TBDC website, but the video quality is much poorer. I think the beautiful Hungarian youngsters are doing a fine job, except for smiling too much here and there).
Here's to DH and I keeping at least half our New Year's Resolutions – to go out to a theater/concert/cultural event/show at least twice a month. The other half was: every other week – the week where we're not being highbrow culture consumerists – go out to a MOVIE! An unintellectual form of entertainment! We even shook hands on this. Alas, we have not been to the cinema even once since, proving our handshake quite worthless. We have been to more concerts of different sorts (the most intellectual and demanding of all, if you ask me – JAZZ concerts) and this does mark an increase in joie de vivre around here, at least around my Roman-Historians-laden desk. In an effort to feel less brain-dead, and more importantly, less bored, when spending the time in which I'm not preparing for the LATIN.QUALIFYING.EXAM.FROM.HELL. I have also decided to cut down on some of the blogs I check out, realizing that most of them are not only self-absorbed, but uninteresting (like, ahem, well, mine?). So apart from the food-blogs, I'm trying to narrow the daily blogroll to those that are at least somewhat brain-stimulating: Brie, Academichic, and the infallible Mimi Smartypants. I mean, she has meta-linguistic comments on Saxon words, that turn into suggestions for the aspiring rockstar (go to #8) – that's my kind of blogger.
Finally, I have finally, FINALLY taken up what I have decided long ago should be my extra-curricular after-school fun activity that will bring music (literally) and meaning (possibly?) to my life: I have been to my first (ever) VOICE LESSON. Conclusions thus far: "You can hum high really well". Updates to come.
