Category — dear diary

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One of my earliest memories, at least the most coherent and striking, is of me sitting on a red leather couch, my grandfather next to me, the two of us eating pickled herring from a glass dish resting between us. I was probably between three and four at the time. Hence my love of herring and couches. But, was that really me?

Every cell in my body at the moment I write this is different from the cells of that young boy eating herring with his grandpa. New brain, heart, lungs, skin, and bone. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus stated most famously that “Πάντα ῥεῖ καὶ οὐδὲν μένει” (Everything flows and nothing stays). This is certainly true as far as our physical bodies go, cells dying as new ones are born to replace them, but are memories physical, part of something we might term ‘soul,’ or something all together different?

Heraclitus is quoted by Plato in the Cratylus as stating we can never step into the same river twice, for the river is different, and so are we. I’m pretty sure that Heraclitus means we are temperamentally or metaphysically different here, but the concept applies to our existence at the cellular level as well. So, how do we have these memories of the distant past? My hippocampus is continually providing my brain with replacements for the cells it sloughs off. Are electrical impulses and protein combinations the complete answer, and if so, then who am I? More importantly, who are you?

Part of your personal definition must be composed of physical descriptors. Your appearance makes you visible to the eyes and your unique vocal qualities make you recognizable to the ears. But in a short amount of time, the very make-up of your physical existence will be gone, replaced by a sort of copy. But you will still be you. You will have no knowledge of your continual rebirth.

Religions and certain philosophies have given us the idea of a ‘soul’ and eternal divine nature that is not made up of physical matter. Yet even if there is a soul (and I highly doubt it exists in the dress in which it is manifested by the big monotheistic religions of our day), that does not answer the question of who you are. To disregard the physical, one then must disregard the aspects of your behavior governed by the physical, unless this behavior somehow makes an imprint on the ephemeral. Is this the case? Are you your soul and soul alone? If not, what are you when your soul remains but our physical being changes?

Other religions and philosophies turn away from the idea of an eternal aspect, putting death has the final chapter on human life. While this is certainly my own view, it does not entirely answer the question of me for me. Of course, I am perfectly fine with unanswered questions and mystery, so long as it is the type of mystery worth investigating, as opposed to the type that is supposed to keep the questioner in a state of ignorance. But sill, who am I. What is it exactly that makes me me?

And what makes you you?

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I have of late been thinking a great deal about what it means to live a good life. By this, I mean a life that is both reflective and proactive, a life that nourishes not only intellectual and spiritual concerns and interests of the individual, but also seeks to contribute to (and tries to stop the impeding of) other human beings. My ponderings have ranged from debates with old friends on Facebook over same-sex unions, to calls to donate and help assuage world hunger, a vow to live a more green existence, an attempt to start a “poverty eating week” (more to come), efforts to improve my Latin and Greek and French, etc. I have come up with a series of questions I have been asking myself:

What does it mean to be Ethical?

What does it mean to be moral?

What are the benefits of the interior life?

How does one lead an intellectual life in modern culture?

What role does faith play in ethics?

What can I do to alleviate suffering?

Will it ever be enough?

Why is there so much hatred (on the right and the left)?

What is it to be a good father? Husband? Friend?

How honest should we be in expressing our opinion?

Does the intellectual (whose august group does not, alas, include the likes of me) have a responsibility to the public to be painfully frank in their opinions and arguments?

When I die, what will I have left behind?

From a religious perspective, am I doing god’s work?

If not, what has been in my way?

Am I responsible, through my lifestyle, consumption, etc. for the suffering of others, even those I have never met?

Am I the man my daughter would be proud to call her father? My wife her husband?

What are your thoughts? How would you answer these questions if you had (or have) posed them to yourself?

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Cooking is a swirl of failure, the constant possibility of failure, and the rare spark of success. Though I have been complimented of late, I cannot let go of my “Black Forrest Cake” disaster over Thanksgiving. My wife and brother-in-law were kind enough each to eat a piece, though I could clearly see the valiant workings of their jaw muscles as they struggled to choke down the rubbery substance that was the cake portion of the dish. This deflated dessert has led me to think of aspects that distinguish the great cook from the good, and the good from the poor. It all comes down to tools and philosophy. So, the next time you are invited over to someone’s house for dinner, look for these things to gage the upcoming meal:

1. The Knife.
I own a middle-of-the-road knife set and keep them very sharp. I think this reflects my overall abilities as a cook. I am average, with sharp occasional creations. If you spy a fancy German or Japanese model that is kept in excellent condition, you are in the hands of a professional. They not only care enough to shell out the bucks for the best, but obvious TLC means that they didn’t just buy that thing because the wallet was fat. And, unless your meal is coming straight from the microwave, every cook needs to cut. A good knife, little used and hanging around in a gadget drawer, signals rich people with poor taste. Expect a fancy dish made poorly or a catered dish plopped into a serving bowl. A bad knife ensures well-deserved self-mutilation. Is that a homemade marinara or blood from the finger of the boss’s spouse? If you are trying to become a better cook, forget the fancy books and exotic spices. Dole out the bucks for a knife that will last you a lifetime. I soon hope to be taking my own advice on this matter.

2. Stock.
I Follow Michael Ruhlman on this one (well, I follow him on almost everything. See “books” below). Canned stock and cubes are for the weak. If you want a ball-less, tasteless, cloudy, over-salted liquid defiling your expensive Italian risotto, then by all means, toss in the jarred bouillon and tap water. If you want to take the next step forward, make your own at least once a month. Though not difficult, it takes time. It is worth it. If you happen to glimpse a pan of bones anywhere in the kitchen, other than in the garbage, get ready to dine sublime.

3. Fresh
Except for cheese, certain steaks, wine, and scant other things, food is best fresh. The fresher the ingredients, the better the finished product. Period. Moldy apples in a fruit bowl or a lumpy gallon of milk in the refrigerator at your host’s place, whether they use them or chuck them out with shame, is a crystal ball for tomorrow’s all-day ride on the porcelain horse. Masking sauces are never enough because, though they may cover the two week-old asparagus, they cannot cover the silent shame.

4. Books
Many cooks have cookbooks. Good cooks have good ones. Look for these six on the shelves:
The Elements of Cooking by Michael Ruhlman.
On food and Cooking by Harold McGee (the most important book on food ever written in English)
The Professional Chef by the CIA
Les Halles Cookbook by Anthony Bourdain
The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth by Roy de Groot (the most beautiful book on food written).
Art of Eating by M. F. K. Fisher.

Notice that only one of these is a recipe book in the traditional sense. This is because very little of an excellent meal comes solely from what ingredients are put in it. Without technique and philosophy, there simply is no excellence. Did I say philosophy?

5. Philosophy
Good cooks have one. They may differ in detail, but all have one, and their opinions should be strong, almost to the point of pontificating. As for mine:

Fresh food, limited (and often simple) ingredients, limited and only necessary seasonings, precise heat, balanced flavor and textures. Rich food equals small portions and light fare balances rich food. A sample dinner (wines of your choice):

Tomato and cucumber salad in light balsamic
Mashed potatoes with goat cheese
Roasted whole chicken with garlic, bay leaves, lemon, salt, and pepper.
Soup of blueberries, cream, ginger ale, with a dollop of orange sherbert
Chocolate pots petite
Coffee.

My unwritten books:

There is one fact that I cannot escape any longer. I need to eat better and exercise constantly, or else get my affairs in order. Don’t get me wrong. I am not yet at death’s doorstep, but I am on the path. Ten years ago, I was 100 pounds lighter, able to run several miles, able to dunk a basketball, able to bench 250 lbs, and rarely sick or tired.

Today, I get winded climbing a flight of stairs. Running does not happen at all. I have the vertical leap of a snail. I can still bench 250. I feel tired constantly and get sick easily.

I am going to do something about this.

Now.

My first two reasons for doing this are obvious.

My third is this: I have things to accomplish before I go. I want to teach my little girl to play soccer. I want to see her graduate college. I want to take my wife on a second honeymoon when we hit our fifties. I want to run a mile without feeling like the world is coming to an end. And I want to write.

In that spirit, and as a sort of visualization project for myself, I give this list of books I would like to write.

To my friends, if you see me slacking, taking the elevator instead of the stairs, taking the easy road, eating the worst choice on the menu, this is your explicit permission to get on my ass about it, to chastise me. Whatever it takes. And so:

The Good Life: Intellectual self-help from the Humanities.
A look at how the giant works and figures of the Western Humanities can help us to answer some of the persistent problems and challenges in our own lives.

A Suicide Triptych: Three Austro-Hungarian in the 20th century
An examination of the lives, works, and deaths of Sandor Marai, Stefan Zweig, and Joseph Roth.

In Their Libraries: Great thinkers and their books.
An intellectual history of how personal libraries shaped the thoughts of select individuals, including Leopardi, Thomas Jefferson, H.P. Lovecraft, and more.

Euripides the Thinker
An examination of the intellectual problems within the plays, and how the ancient author handles them.

At the Table with Friends
A foodie memoir of my family’s most memorable table talks and favorite foods. Also, a sort of philosophy of what dinner and dinner conversation could and should be.

I must admit that I am currently at work on a few rather ambitious projects beyond translation. The first is the writing of an introduction for a book on the Great Dionysia. The second is a rough draft of that book. The third is a series of brief biographical sketches of eminent humanists. The fourth is a short story. Though I have not written any fiction since I won my little writing prize in 2000, the short story is by far the easiest of the group. The academic writing (great Dionysia) is the most challenging, though it is the type of writing I most employ. The historical sketches are the most enjoyable.

I have shelved a few books that I have been reading so that I can read The Count of Monte Cristo with someone else. How I love Dumas! Action, adventure, revenge, romance, virtue. Dumas lacks Balzac’s perfectionism, Flaubert’s psychology, and Proust’s glorious prose, but he is by far my favorite French author.

One big house, thousands of books, two pesky cats, one bounding dog. Even with this literary and animal menagerie, I feel incredibly lonely in my own home with my wife and little girl in San Diego right now. The bed is empty, and sleep will not come. I am reading Plato’s Protagoras at the moment, and find it far superior to the last tragedy I read, the Philoctetes of Sophocles. I am also, I must admit, thumbing through a newer (though quite old) book I got for CC, the Lambs’ Tales from Shakespeare. Though it will be years before I can read these at bedtime, I am enjoying them immensely. Hamlet has long been my favorite Shakespearean play, and Charles Lamb has quite a take. He offers up a colorful wilderness of language and a stark tale.

I have come to realize that the reason I like Hamlet, other that the fact that it is brilliant, is because the dark prince is a man I can understand. We both have complicated and turbulent relationships with our mothers, complete fidelity and awed reverence for our fathers, and believe that the former has in a fundamental way betrayed the latter. (I thank God always that my mother has no part in our computer age). We both play at crazy (he in an angry manner, I in a silly one). As I have thought about all of these things, I come back to my favorite passage of the play. Gertrude has asked her son why he seems so sad (my guess is that it has something to do with the sudden death of his father and the betrothal of his mother to his paternal uncle, but that’s just me). Hamlet replies:

Seems, madam? nay, it is, I know not seems.
‘Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, [80]
Nor the dejected havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within which passes show, [85]
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

Hamlet 1.2

It has been a bad few days. The mom-in-law was diagnosed with cancer, and they are going to try to remove it on Saturday morning. My wife and CC flew out today to SD, and I hope very much that I have no need to rush out this weekend. It is frightening how powerless we are in our mortality.
I missed class today to take them to the airport, sad considering the subject matter under discussion. Tomorrow, I go to a talk on sympotic pottery, though my heart isn’t really in it right now.

Cold and ten inches of snow on the ground.
C.C crawls, pulls herself up, claps. She is so amazing. The wife and I celebrated our 6th Anniversary a few days ago. She is also amazing.
My paper nears completion, I am writing Latin (and judging by this post, English) prose in the style of Tacitus, and I am ready for this semester to be over.
Update complete.
I wanted to thank the B s for such a wonderful thanksgiving this year. You guys made us feel like family. As for WB, you and your little bundle are in my prayers. As For B senior, Edwards? I have not gazed into the political arena for quite some time, and have no clear candidate as yet. I do like Obama, if only for his policy of never taking corporate campaign funds. I like Clinton, but think the ignorant redneck bloc might be too powerful a force for her to win. Actually, any of the Democrats could do a better job than our current ‘leader.’ But then, I’ve misunderestimated before.

Our little one will be 8 months this week and my wife will be ancient…like me. I wanted to take a moment, however, to honor my daughter’s namesake. I met my wife’s grandma almost nine years ago, and was lucky enough to know her for a few years. She was tough, no nonsense, and unpretentious. You knew if she didn’t like you. If you gave her the respect she deserved, she would do anything for you. She believed in God, the church, the power of a good meal, the excellence of all things Italian, and Bingo; in what order I am not so sure. For me, she was the grandmother I never had. For my wife and in-laws, she was everything. If I could have but one wish, it would be for the old C to hold the new. Perhaps, through the grace of God, in some way she has. We miss her very much.

I went to a great little coffeehouse to study yesterday and on the way home listened to part of A Prairie Home Companion. GK was talking about the weather, and I realized that, in a way, we have moved to Lake Wobegon. That weather on the radio is my weather now. GK is doing a show twenty minutes from my house. You can hear his love for this place when he speaks. And it is so beautiful. Autumn is creeping in, the leaves on some of my trees are turning yellow, and even though we have warm days coming, the air feels crisp. This is my favorite time.
School: buried, working harder than I have ever worked at anything in my life…and loving it.
Friends: I think about you always.

And so that is the news from our place in MN, where the man may not be attractive, but the woman is strong, and the child is above average.

“Children find everything in nothing, adults nothing in everything” – Leopardi