Filth!

Yesterday felt like the first day of spring here! To capture the zest of the season, I longed for the sharp flavor of a blue cheese. I paired it with apple slices to soften the edges (and make it palatable for my 7-year old) and served it on rustic rye bread.  

My all-time favorite tool (besides the pencil) is the vacuum cleaner. If it were up to me, the person who invented the vacuum cleaner should be awarded the Nobel Prize and a lifelong vacation in the sun. I love everything about this tool (or weapon if you will) – everything from its aggressive, wheezing sound to its instant efficiency. Oh, the satisfying feeling of inserting a new, fresh bag into the vacuum cleaner! My favorite brand is Electrolux. We had one when I grew up. It worked well for decades, until one day it suddenly smelled like rotten fish, and we had to throw it out.

As I write this, I have three pans and one pot soaking in hot, soapy water in the kitchen sink. One has to keep the filth of life at bay, especially now that spring is around the corner. Last night I washed three pairs of my son’s underwear and two of his T-shirts by hand. I hung them up to dry on my husband’s pull-up bar in the kitchen, turned on the fan and went to bed. It gives me satisfaction to use my hands. In the hardware store downstairs they sell an old-fashioned washboard for $20, which I am seriously thinking about purchasing. It sits in the window, tilted in such a way that its metallic ripples catch the rays of the sun. It sits there, teasing and titillating me with its existence every time I pass by, promising a squeaky clean life.

The most boring thing to clean is the fridge. Sometimes I get lazy, and wait until I smell something suspicious. Then there’s nothing to do but to drop whatever you’re doing and get at it. Hot soapy water and a good sponge will do. I also don’t like to clean behind furniture (unless it is vacuuming behind a sofa, which usually produces a thrill unlike no other) mostly because Lord only knows what one might find there. A sock? The remains of an apple? Lego pieces? Bread crumbs for sure. Every once in a while I fall down on my knees and, armed with an old toothbrush dipped in a bottle of Soft scrub with Bleach, eradicate mounds of grime and then I just hope and pray it will stay somewhat un-filthy for a while.

Dusting is a “meh” sort of activity. It doesn’t yield the surprising result of a good wiping session. And it’s boring. It is an activity one can easily and without guilt delegate to a younger family member.

Cleaning cat bowls and changing litter? No fun.

There’s also the daily cleaning and grooming of the self. A repetitious task that can be done while you go through your laundry list. I don’t have a favorite soap or facial mask (though Origins Clear Improvement does a good job sucking out the nasties of your pores). My favorite toothpaste is the cinnamon clove one by Tom’s of Maine. I always use men’s deodorant. I have no idea why. Perhaps because I can’t stand the scent of baby powder that so often accompany ladies’ deodorants? My favorite is Mitchum. It used to be Old Spice but now it’s Mitchum.

My professional career as a cleaning lady began when I was a college student. I didn’t want to live in a dorm room (I’m too much of an introvert for that sort of thing), so in order to be able to afford my own apartment, I took on these early-morning-before-lectures cleaning jobs. The first one was in a bakery/café. I had to be there very early (around 4 in the morning) to clean the tables and chairs and in between, while the bakers were baking and humming in the kitchen. I loved this job. It’s unreal how much cash one can find on the floor of a café. It’s unreal how good fresh bread tastes early in the morning.

Next, I advanced to shoe stores because, well, I like shoes more than bread. The first shoe store sold the most amazing Italian shoes, the kind that no student could ever dream of. Except, of course, me, since I was the cleaning lady and got a 75% discount. This store had an enormous marble floor that had to be cleaned with loads of hot, hot, hot water and some special soap. It took forever to dry, so while it dried I tried on shoes. I primped and pranced in front of the giant mirrors. Being alone in that shoe store was like acting out a Cinderella dream. My favorite pair of shoes, which I had to save for quite some time to make mine, were crimson-colored ballerina shoes with a square toe, dipped in a metallic grey. They looked incredibly luxe with matching red, translucent stockings and my mother’s old navy suede swing coat.

The next shoe store was not as first-class, but I desperately needed something different and I had grown tired of the marble floor. By the time I began working here, however, I was close to being done with my degree and cleaning (shoe stores or other places) wasn’t a priority anymore.

Now, I will go refill my coffee and take out my pot and pans. Spring-cleaning has officially begun.

If You’re Not Confused You’re Not Paying Attention

Monday morning smoothie: Half a banana, two Tablespoons Greek yoghurt, half a cup of almond milk, and 5 strawberries. Put it all in a blender. Top off with coconut flakes and raspberries.

This week’s read: Elizabeth Winder’s curiously satisfying Pain, Parties, Work: Sylvia Plath in New York, Summer 1953. This book gives juicy details of the summer that ended in Plath’s breakdown, which was the basis of her best-selling novel The Bell Jar. Winder receives extra points for the prettiest cover of any of the books I’m currently reading.

For the longest time I believed in the stuff I was brought up on. Perhaps we all do. Authoritative people in our lives tell us things, and as children we can’t do much but to buy it. We don’t know how to question the information we receive. We have no experience with which to counterbalance it. I’m not talking about what they teach us in school (though that sometimes is bad enough) but stuff like family and relationships.

When I thought about the people in my life, I thought of them as though they were characters in a play: They all had parts that were clearly defined. I hadn’t given them these parts, others had, and I had just followed suit. I saw my mother in one way and my father in another, for instance, and they were frozen as such. The same with my grandparents and other relatives.

Then a few years ago, I met someone who challenged me to look at things a little differently. I began by reiterating the old story, the play and all the well-established characters in it, all of which had gotten cemented into my belief system, but this person – a woman – asked questions in such a way, that I began looking at things a little differently.

The result of this created a sort of a terror in me, when I realized just how much I had depended on certain “facts” or “truths” about people in my life, that indeed were neither. They were just views and opinions that I had inherited without question. I began to lie sleepless at night remembering events from my childhood and looking at them through this new kind of lens. I began seeing people in my life in a new light. In the end, it was all good: I gained appreciation for people who I had previously felt were at fault, and I forgave people who I realized might not always have had my best intentions as a child at heart.

We rarely think of confusion as something positive, but now I believe confusion can be an eye-opener, an awakening of sorts. An invitation to take a second look and reassess things and events.

Remember Ardeshir, the poet, and Ramona, the Count’s daughter? Here’s what happened next.

“I’m confused,” said Ramona.

“Good,” answered Ardeshir.

“Good?”
“If you’re not confused, you’re not paying attention.”

“What’s the lesson today?”
“Today there is no lesson. I thought we’d take a break.”
“A break?”

“I thought we’d take a walk instead.”

Ramona no longer had her entourage of slaves and guards with her. Nobody could see anymore that she was a duchess. She looked just like the rest of them. She walked next to Ardeshir, as if there were no longer any social restrictions between them, no barriers of any kind. As they walked through the bazaar, they stopped to look at the cages with birds, the sacks with beans and spices, the containers filled with dried fruit and tea leaves, the baskets of fish, and the remedies for this and that. They strolled passed the blacksmith, the rug dealers, the wool merchants and the potters; they stopped to smell the essences and perfumes. They enjoyed each other’s company.

“Doesn’t it get lonely at times?” Ramona asked.

“What does?”
“Living in that barrel?”

“I suppose it’s a question of preference,” Ardeshir said and nothing more was said until they came to a stand with copper items, where she accidentally brushed his thigh with the back of her hand. Although of course Ardeshir knew it was no ‘accident’ at all. There are no ‘accidents’ in life, Master Zitouna had once taught him.

“Ramona.”
“Ardeshir.”

They smiled at each other for the first time. It felt good being out and about together. Ardeshir paid for a pigeon in a cage to be set free, it was a lucky thing to do. He gave the pigeon to Ramona, and she held it high in her cupped hands and let it go. They watched in silence as it took flight.

25 Things You Didn’t Know About Me

If I were to make a list of things I miss from Sweden, the soup above (nyponsoppa or rose hip soup) would definitely be on it. Fortunately, it comes in a powder that my mother occasionally sends me so I can make it myself, just adding water. Though I’ve never attempted it, you can make rose hip soup from scratch, here, for instance is a recipe. I don't agree with the person who condemns the powdered rose hip soup version, it actually is quite good! Serve warm or cold, as is or with whipped cream, vanilla ice cream or almond biscotti.

1. I’m a Virgo.
2. My last name was patented by my great grandfather.
3. I took ballet classes for 10 years.
4. When I was a kid I played the accordion. I hated it.
5. I’m related to Charles Lindbergh, the aviator.
6. I once played tennis with Johnny Depp.
7. I suck at math.
8. I can type 80 words per minute.
9. My favorite sweet is salty licorice chalk.
10. I’m a lousy cook but a great baker.
11. I’m a good singer.
12. I’m a terrible housekeeper.
13. I studied German for many years, yet can barely put together a sentence.
14. I once trailed Joan of Arc’s trajectory in France from her birthplace in Domremy, to where they burnt her at the stake in Rouen.
15. I sometimes lie.
16. I’m a prude.
17. I loathe all things Disney.
18. I ran away from home when I was 4 years old, and was found in a field.
19. I like cheap, white wine.
20. I’m an introvert.
21. My favorite lip color is Cherries In the Snow by Revlon.
22. I cant stand don’t much care for opera.
23. I’m allergic to cats.
24. I can recite the Blessing of the Candles in Hebrew by heart.
25. My favorite color is yellow.

Have a great weekend! See you again Monday.

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.