The Only Child

Another snow day here in New York. The good thing is, that when school’s canceled, it means we can breakfast a bit later and take more time to prepare. This morning I made the most delicious tomato marmalade, following a Swedish recipe. You take 20 cherry tomatoes, cut them in halves and put them in a pot, add the zest and juice of an orange (I used blood oranges) and about 1 cup of regular sugar and bring to a boil. Turn down the heat and let simmer until you get the texture you want (it took me about 50 minutes). I tripled the recipe.

My husband and I have only one child. Me, too, I am an only child. I can’t begin to tell you how often people, many times people who don’t even know me, think it’s perfectly all right to step up and tell me how selfish it is of me to not give my son a sibling. It’s almost as if having only one child is something akin to a crime.

There are also times when people ask us if the reason we’re having only one child has to do with some physical problem.

But I only ever wanted one child. And I’ll try to explain why.

Growing up, I never wanted any siblings. People often think only children are spoilt rotten or that they are very lonely and therefore incapable of adjusting socially as adults. Though I was often alone, I never felt lonely. An only child has to develop skills to entertain herself without the aid of others. The first and most important relationship you will ever have on this earth after all, is the one you have with yourself, and in my experience adults who grew up as only children, are often more successful in their relationship to their selves, than others. They depend on themselves, and they are not afraid of being left alone.

The only child learns, at an early stage, how to deal with loneliness and make it productive. Sure, an only child tend to get all the focus and attention, but I’ve never understood why having to fight for attention should be thought of as conducive. And if you’re one of many, you might feel you have to do just that.

Not having a brother or sister to compete with, living up to, or model herself after leaves the only child with an enormous freedom to develop herself. It’s like drawing on a huge piece of paper upon which nobody else has drawn before you, and upon which nobody will add anything after either.

As for having children, I always knew what I was capable of. I knew I had limitations. I am not a very patient person. I prefer a tranquil rather than a rambunctious home. I need a lot of time on my own, to read and to think, which is near impossible if you have more children. I also wanted to mimic the intense and close relationship I had with my mother, with my son. And I don’t think I would have been able to spread that sort of intensity to more than one child; again I know my limitations.

Lastly, I have to smile when I realize that those who are most vocal about the disadvantages of being an only child are those who themselves have siblings! I admire people with big families, I think it’s a wonderful thing, but I know that it is not for me.  There are pros and cons to everything, and families come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. What’s important, I believe, is that there’s a sense of belonging, a sense of “home”, and that you know in your heart of hearts that you’re loved for who you are.

Being an only child is not the bane many people think it is. In fact, I wouldn't have it any other way. Above, me at age 4 on our balcony. 

Are you one of us?

I learnt to eat omelettes in American diners. I love how they taste there, and I love the home fries they come with. Above is a healthier variety, with a filling made of avocado, carrot, onion, and cilantro. The perfect food whether breakfast, lunch, or dinner if you ask me!

Are you one of us?

Here's the paperwork for you to fill out.

You are white. Check here.

You are male. Check here.

Listen, you’re already doing great!

Employed? Check.

My goodness, this is going just dandy!

Are you young? Well, not young young but at least under 45, no?

All your teeth intact? Please open your mouth for us, sir.

OK, all right, we see some fillings…

Can you read instructions?

Can you take directions?

Are you certified?
Naturalized?
Qualified?

Verified? Guaranteed?

Did you pass the test?

Did you graduate?

From where?

How’s your hearing?
I said HOW’S YOUR HEARING?
Good? Then how’s your English?

Habla Inglés, Señor?

It’s important that you understand.

Did you take one pill or two?
The instructions on this box say one pill.

“One a day with food” they say

You, sir, have taken way too many.

Are you married?

Do you have a pretty little wife?

Pretty children? Handsome boy and beautiful daughter?

A dog perhaps? Just no lizards please!

Is your family waiting for you at home?

No? No wife? No kiddies?

Well, well, well…

Sir, you’re not old, but you know

Time catches up with all of us.

Time to settle down, don’t you think?

Have a cigar.

You are straight, sir, aren’t you?
Do you drink? What’s your poison?

A shot of brandy? A gin and tonic?

How’s your blood pressure?

How do you react under pressure?

Do you work out?

Do you know what to wear and who?

Saint Laurent? Too old!

Armani? Hugo Boss?

Watch your cuffs, sir

You don’t want to get them dirty!

For you, a grey suit, a lilac shirt and a plum tie

I swear, that goes so well with you colors.

Now let’s take a look at your insides.

Doctor, please?

Yes, a rectal exam.

Don’t worry, it won’t hurt a bit.

It’s over before you know it.

And it is covered by your insurance.

You do have one, don’t your sir?
Sir? Sir? Sir?

Monsieur S

Cinnamon crêpes with sautéed pears. We usually have these for dessert, but whenever I have batter left, I use it for breakfast the day after. I followed my recipe for Swedish pancakes (here) but added sugar and cinnamon to it, to make it more dessert like. I served the crêpes with pears sauteed in butter, cinnamon, and a pinch of nutmeg.

I once knew a man who said he could hear God in the sound coming from church bells. His name was Monsieur S and he lived on Rue Lhomond, just behind Panthéon in Paris. Every morning at 8, a certain Jeanne Damas arrived there via the métro at Censier Daubenton. Jeanne was his secretary, his cook and his femme du ménage. She poached his Sunday eggs, watered his plants, sewed his loose buttons, turned down his glamorous invitations, and in general took care of his correspondence. For Monsieur S was a famous author.

When he was in his fifties, his novel Une Femme Sans Peur (it was translated into English as The Reel Woman, since much of it took place on movie sets) caused a sensation in France. Within months there were articles, essays and treatises on the subject. Mayhem erupted at Paris’ many institutions. Here at long last was a book to discuss, to dissect, to analyze, and to thrash out until only the bones of it remained. TV quickly hooked on, and Monsieur S was invited to talk with Bernard Pivot on the stylish program Apostrophes. Unfortunately that’s where he started babbling about hearing God in church bells.

Goethe once observed that all geniuses are "short, weak, and hunchbacked", and Monsieur S was certainly no exception.

He had three lovers, suitably scattered over Paris. First, it was Suzi Cadiot, a prima ballerina with the Opera Ballet. Suzi was a gum-chewing vision in pink who never ate. Second, it was Mademoiselle Nguyen, a Simone Weil scholar with hair like a little shiny black helmet, tweed skirts, and matching cardigans. She always drank tea. And thirdly, it was my friend Edith, whom I have already written about here. In my mind, Edith was the only one, who was anything resembling normal.

Edith and Monsieur S met one rainy day at the Sainte Genevieve library. And she quickly figured out most of his bizarre tics (he breakfasted on a lemon and practiced yoga, which in those days was unheard of). But she loved him and he loved her and love was, as the song goes, all around.

Who knows what thorn was stuck in his heart? Who knows what tragic event caused that, which was to follow? When prying reporters began to gather at the entrance of his apartment building, Monsieur S began to fear for his life. He began to sweat and to shake, and he hid behind the curtains. One day he decided he could not go out. Not even for his daily stroll around the neighborhood.

Nothing helped. No herbal brews, no admonishing, no pills, no amount of lovemaking, and certainly no voices from God in church bells. The house doctor told Jeanne that Monsieur S was going through “une crise de nerfs”.

At night he lay listless in bed, smoking one Gauloise Blonde after another, looking at the shadows playing tricks on his eyes. Hours went by like that. He thought about his writing. What of all those sentences that he had so lovingly tied together? Now they floated around aimlessly, without goal, and he could no longer anchor them. He could no longer put them on paper. And if Monsieur S could not write, what was the purpose of his life?

Spring came, but somehow Monsieur S was left behind this year. Like a toy forgotten in the park. The reporters outside his door left, and his lovers moved on. Only Jeanne Damas remained, spoon-feeding him baby porridge and mashed banana and reading to him from his favorite authors: Balzac and Dostoyevsky.

Spring turned into summer, and summer cooled into fall. And there he was – Monsieur S – still lying prostrate on his bed.

Then one day, right before Christmas, he turned his face towards the window and saw snowflakes falling outside. Softly. And the stark light of the winter sun shone in on him and he looked at his hands and he felt his hands again. He put them up to his face and he felt his face. And a verse from the Bible came to him: “Take up a harp, walk through the city, O prostitute forgotten; play the harp well, sing many a song, so that you will be remembered.”

“Jeanne!” he called out from bed with a coarse voice. “Jeanne!”

“Oui, monsieur!”

“Give me my notebook, Jeanne! And quick, quick!”

The urgency in his voice sent Jeanne Damas flying.

Propped up in bed, with the notebook resting on his knees, the good Monsieur finally put pen to paper again. And as he did so, the snow continued to fall outside, and the bells rang from the nearby Eglise Notre Dame du Liban. 

A Sack of Dirt

This smoothie, though of an unattractive color, was much appreciated in my household, but it was way too thick to drink – it had to be consumed with a spoon! You mix one banana with half an avocado and about half a cup of almond milk. I added some strawberries to make it pretty.

 When I was younger and lived in Brooklyn, I used to go to church every Sunday. My routine was to attend Mass and then to go straight to this bakery where they had the most amazing bagels, and where I would pick up French toast bagels and iced coffee with vanilla soy milk.

I liked the congregation in Brooklyn; it was small yet diverse. The priests all came from Poland and they spoke in broken English, there seemed to always be a new priest. I can’t recall any of their faces. The woman who did all the readings, however, I remember well. She was an old toothless lady named Flo, who on other days could be seen pulling a little cart up and down Bedford Avenue, looking for empty plastic bottles in all the garbage cans. In spite of her tiny body, Flo had a strong, clear voice that lent itself perfectly for readings. I miss Flo.

I always sat in the same spot in that church. I liked the way the sun shone in through the stained windows where I sat. The carpet that led up from the entrance to the altarpiece was red, like a red line of blood rolled out. Near the altarpiece was a statue of the Infant Jesus of Prague. We were only a handful of people gathering there on Sundays for the English language Mass. The majority came to hear Mass in Polish.

I am no longer in Brooklyn and these days, going to church is sometimes an uphill battle. Getting a 7-year old to church on a Sunday morning isn’t always easy. Sometimes I feel he’d be better off playing or reading. Sometimes it’s me; I just don’t feel like getting out of my pajamas.

However, church going does create a predictable and enjoyable routine that I often crave. It sets the day, and it finishes off the week nicely (I’m European and think of Sunday as the last day of the week). I wouldn’t feel the same, if I spent Sundays doing last minute shopping for the upcoming week.

Yesterday we went to church. My son didn’t complain, and even though at first I didn’t much feel like going, I softened on the way. We walked in the snow that had curled around the sidewalks. Dirty, tired snow. I looked down at my son and he smiled up at me. Hand in hand we pushed ahead.

At church, the priest told us the following story:

Shortly after the fall of the Berlin wall (in the fall of 1989, as you may remember), a Polish bishop was sent out to re-open the first church in Russia since the revolution. The bishop was worried that there wouldn’t be any Christians there, after all, there had been no organized religion in the Soviet Union for 70 years. He thought faith couldn’t have possibly survived all those years. Still, he prepared himself and to mark the greatness of the occasion he put on his full bishop regalia, including the miter and the crosier. As he walked towards the church, which was located in a Moscow suburb, he saw from the corner of his eye, a young woman approaching him. She gave him a little sack. Then he saw an older woman coming, a babushka tied under her chin, and she too gave him a little sack. Soon a great many people had approached him, and they’d all given him these sacks. When the Polish bishop opened one of them to look inside, he found dirt. Dirt in all of them.

“Why do you bring me dirt?” he asked.

When the last churches in Russia closed, all those 70 years ago, the faithful scraped off the dirt from them and saved it in these small sacks. They passed them on to their children and grandchildren. These sacks they had now given to the Polish bishop to show him that faith, indeed, can last longer than we can imagine.

“Every time a baby was born, because we couldn’t christen them, we put the sack of dirt on the baby’s chest,” they told the bishop. “And every time we buried someone, because there were no Christian burials, we put a sack of dirt from the church on the coffin of the deceased.”

By doing so, they kept their faith alive during all those years. A handful of dirt, kept in a small sack. The simplest things, such as the ability to worship, should never be taken for granted.

After Mass, we had breakfast at church. As we walked back home in silence, with the priest’s story echoing in our minds, I thought it was a good thing that we had come.

My British Summer

I love Food For Life's flourless, sprouted Ezekiel breads (especially the green one with sesame). They don't make you feel as full and heavy as regular bread can do, and they are very tasty with some almond butter, apple slices, cinnamon, and seeds.

In my 18^th summer, I decided to visit England. It was high time. I was traveling alone by train with an InterRail card and had seen most of southern Europe, and traveled through much of the northern parts. But I had never been to England.

Back then you had to take a ferry to Dover in England, if you were in France (which I was). On the train from Copenhagen to Berlin I had kissed a boy from Switzerland and unfortunately contracted strep throat, and the medicine they gave me in Paris contained sulfa, which I found out I was allergic to. The result was that by the time I set foot on the British Isles, my skin was red and pimply and my throat was still raw. Not a good start.

Compared to the extravagant avenues and seductive buildings of Paris, London was a bit of a letdown. It was small and disappointing and there was something uptight and nasal about Victoria Station, where my train pulled in. When I stepped off, I thought I was in a movie from the 1940’s.

I was hustled out to some suburb where there were still rooms available in a hostel, but after I unloaded my backpack, I immediately took the “tube” into the heart of London again.

“Piccadilly Circus,” I thought. “That’s where I should go.”

I think I believed some sort of grandeur would cure my ills.

But Piccadilly Circus was not Champs de Mars and the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain, where some pale, freckled British schoolboys were loitering, was hardly the Eiffel Tower.

Another day I was sitting in a park – it might very well have been Hyde Park – writing post-cards when I noticed two young men circling.

“Excuse us,” said one of them. “My friend and I were just arguing where you might come from. I said Germany and he said Holland. Might I ask if we were right?”

That was the intro to the longest, most exciting conversation I had in England. These boys, they were visiting from Ireland and staying nearby, made me laugh. But when they asked me to come home with them (they said they were staying with a family member, a sister), I got scared. It always seemed to me that when people disappear in England, they aren’t just found floating belly up in rivers or shot dead in a forest or something like that, no, in England they are found chopped up in pieces in someone’s suitcase at a train station, or with a head in the Tower, two hands in St Paul’s, and a foot in some dresser in someone's house in Hampstead. I suppose the word for it is macabre. I always felt there was something macabre hiding under all that supposedly civilized stuff, the bowler hats and the deerstalkers and the academic scarves. Anyway, the boys said they’d take a stroll through the park while I finished up writing those post-cards, and then we’d all go to the sister and watch the “telly”. It was when they’d left; that I started to worry and think about all the Agatha Christie novels I had read. And when I saw them coming back, I started running.

“Eva!” one of them called and started running after me.

I ran and I ran and I ran as fast as I could. I was not going to end up with a chopped-off head in someone’s suitcase.

In Cambridge, I stayed at a proper bed-and-breakfast and had eggs and bacon for breakfast. The host was a single man who drove around in a black car and was very kind, but one day I decided to investigate the chest in my room and found a stash of hard-core porn magazines. That was the end of Cambridge for me.

In Brighton I fed the seagulls.

At the end of my British sojourn, I decided to go to Exeter and Devonshire. In a final attempt, I thought perhaps the sun would take care of my sulfa-induced acne, so I somehow got access to a beach. What a cruel joke that was. There I sat, on an old red blanket that had turned coral by years of use. And instead of sprawling white sandy dunes, I looked over a gray and rain-muddy patch and swam in the cold water. That water was healing though; when I later had cream tea at the Royal Clarence hotel, I noticed that my face had cleared up.

Have a good weekend, and see you again on Monday!

Faith

Waffles without a waffle maker? My waffle maker died some time ago, and since we don’t make waffles all that often, I haven’t bothered buying a new one. But then today, when I really, really wanted waffles, I discovered that I can also have them: You can make them on your griddle! I followed this recipe, but with some alternations (I added much more yoghurt). I had mine with slices of pear.

“You’ve got to have faith,” we tell one another when things look bleak.

When things are going well, I rarely stop to think about faith. But when I get hit with a truckload of problems, I realize the importance of it. Unfortunately, I’m very much a doubting Thomas. But I think that if we practice a little bit of faith (whatever it is) every day, then we might have more when those moments come, that call for it. 

“Listen,” said Ardeshir. “Here’s a lesson in faith. There once was a great warrior named Egrid. He was one of the great heroes of the Ascylian Age, which is noted for its wars and terrors, when skies were dark with rage. Egrid was large and handsome, with the clear skin and grey eyes of the people of the North. He had in his possession a mighty sword, seven times stronger and seven times sharper than any other sword on this Earth, he had a shield nothing could penetrate, and a helmet with a long plume. These three things he had in his possession, yet his heart was always fearful. He rode a stallion named Eben, and Eben was black with hooves and mane of silver. One night, Egrid was told to ride through the vast forests, across the deserts and over the mountains to the End of the World. This he was told, the mighty Egrid. He took his sword, he took his shield and he took his plumed helmet and laid them out before him and bowed down and prayed, as was his people’s custom.

“I fled to Your protection, I implored Your help, and I sought your intercession,” he prayed. “Never have You failed me. In Your great mercy, come to my rescue once more.” And he saddled Eben, took his sword and his shield and covered his head with the helmet and rode out into the dark night.

He rode for days and nights until he came to a well. A thrush sat in the thicket next to the well, and this is the song it sang:

“You must throw your sword in the well, the well 

You must throw your sword in the well.”

Egrid dismounted his horse and walked up to the thrush.

“Shall I let go of my sword that has fought so bravely for me all these years?”

And the thrush sang:

“Yes, you must let go of your sword.”

“What are you but a bird?”

But he looked into the eye of the bird, and saw that it was God.

And because he had faith Egrid took his mighty sword and threw it into the well, although it pained him to do so.

With only his shield and his helmet he again mounted Eben and rode until they came to a cottage by a river. It was getting late, and Egrid was cold. He knocked on the door to the cottage, and an old woman opened.

“I’m a warrior on my way to the End of the World. I see you have lit a fire, may I sit by the fire and warm myself?”

So the old woman took him in and gave him bread to eat and water to drink. As he sat there in front of the flames, the woman’s cat purred next to him at the hearth. And this is what the cat said:

“You must throw your shield into the fire, the fire.

You must throw your shield into the fire.”

And Egrid looked at the cat and saw that it was God, and because he had faith he threw his shield into the fire, and as he watched it burn, his eyes stung with tears.

The next morning he rode off again. And after many days and nights he came to the End of the World, where the Earth blends with the mists of nothingness and everything recedes from view and vanishes. Egrid climbed off his horse, and fell down to his knees. There were no battles to fight, and no wars to win. Nothing but emptiness lay ahead of him. The Earth opened up and out of it climbed a mole, and the mole said:

“You must bury your helmet in the Earth, the Earth.  

You must bury your helmet in the Earth.”

Egrid saw that the mole was God, and because he had faith he took off his helmet and into the gaping Earth he threw it, covering it in soil with his bare hands, while his heart bled.

“I have now neither sword, nor shield nor helmet,” he lamented. “I have nothing. Yet, when I had my sword and my shield and my helmet I was always afraid. Now that I have nothing, I am no longer afraid.”

“He let go of everything,” said Ramona.

“So that he could gain everything,” said Ardeshir.

“What did he gain?”

“Four are the elements through which Trinity speaks: Water, Fire, Earth, and Air. This is what he gained, this is what happened. Having thrown all away in faith, the great warrior Egrid’s eyes were now opened and he could see the mists clearing up and revealing before him the sky. The open air. So he sat up on Eben and with one giant leap they rode over the gap that separates, away from the edge of the End of the World into the World of Infinity.”

“Faith,” sighed Ramona.

“Faith,” echoed Ardeshir.

Poetry As Survival

I’ve introduced chia seed puddings as a breakfast choice, and everybody seems to love them. You mix 2 Tablespoons of chia seeds with ¼ o a cup of milk (I used coconut) and let it sit for 10 minutes. A pudding like gel is thus formed. Top it with whatever you like. Today I topped mine with raspberries, dried fruit, seeds, nuts and unsweetened coconut flakes.

I shall lie down at home

and pretend to be dying.

Then the neighbors will all come in

to gape at me, and, perhaps, she will come with them.

When she comes, I won’t need a doctor,

she knows why I am ill.

I’ve written before on the importance of poetry in my life. And a poem like the one above, goes to the heart of me, like a shot of brandy goes to my core. It’s a 3,300-year old, Egyptian poem spoken by a male lover who is obviously plotting to get his sweetheart’s attention. Don’t we all, at least secretly, know exactly how he feels? In just six lines we get it. What takes prose hundreds of pages, a poem, when done right, can convey in a few breaths. How utterly lovely is that? What can compete with that kind of immediacy?

I confess that I stole this poem and the title of today’s entry from a book by Gregory Orr, called just that: Poetry As Survival. I love this book and this particular poem, but I also think a great many people are intimidated by poetry and feel the need to be guided into it. For which Orr’s book is perfect. It's actually a perfect read for anyone.

I read a lot of poetry to my son. Some of it we have memorized together. He has his own taste and preferences. For the longest time we read funny poems, and of course T.S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, but then this short Carl Sandburg poem struck a note.

The buffaloes are gone

And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.

Those who saw the buffaloes by thousands and how they

pawed the praire sod into dust with their hoofs, their

great heads down pawing on in a great pageant of dusk,

Those who saw the buffaloes are gone.

And the buffaloes are gone.

Last spring I decided to take up my studies in literature again at my alma mater in Sweden, and had to analyze poetry. It was very interesting, enormously satisfying on a cerebral level, but I soon realized that taking a poem apart, which feels a bit like skinning and deboning a fish, doesn’t reveal the heart of it. I suppose it would be the same as trying to unlock the beauty of a Rembrandt painting by analyzing the ratio of umber to ochre.

I’m always interested in other people favorite anything. Especially poems. Did you know, for instance, that Demi Moore’s favorite poem is Alfred Tennyson’s Flower in the Crannied Wall? Or that Bono from U2 always leaves a book with poetry by Seamus Heaney when he meets with politicians? Did you know Oprah Winfrey’s likes Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou? While Sting loves Ted Hughes’ The Thought-Fox? That designer Isaac Mizrahi lives for Shakespeare’s sonnets and actor Matt Dillon likes W.B. Yeats’ The Stolen Child?

Canadian author Margaret Atwood said that questioning the role of poetry is like questioning the role of food. That poetry is that necessary.

Do you have a favorite poem?

My favorite poem is by August Strindberg. It loses something in translation but here it is, it’s called Sleepwalking Nights.

On the Avenue de Neuilly

Stands a slaughterhouse

that I always pass by

when I walk into town.

The big open window

Gleams with blood so red

On the marble counter

Steams fresh butchered meat

Today on the glass door

Hung a heart, a calf’s heart I think,

Wrapped in frilly paper –

Saw it shudder in the cold.

Then my thoughts took flight

to the old Norrbro bazaar

where the gleaming rows of windows

are viewed by women and children.

There in a bookshop’s window

Hangs a little, calfskin book.

It is a torn-out heart

dangling there on its hook.