Grandparents

Bring on the French toast! Though this particular bread lends itself beautifully for French toast, this time what makes the dish special is Giada De Laurentiis’ wonderfully decadent bourbon maple syrup, which you make like this: Place 1 cup pure maple syrup and a peeled and sliced 2-inch piece fresh ginger in a pan. Bring to a boil, and then reduce to low and let simmer for 10 minutes. Remove the ginger with a slotted spoon, and stir in 2 Tablespoons of bourbon.

My maternal grandparents were farmers and as such deeply tied to the land. They relied on this land for their livelihood, but even after they retired, an obsession with the soil and the land remained until they died. They could never understand, for instance, why I wanted to leave Sweden for the States.

“They don’t have Swedish potatoes there!” they said. Aghast.

I don’t think they were very suited for each other. My grandfather, Erik, was a jovial fellow, outgoing and social. My grandmother Nancy, my mormor whom I’ve written about here and here, was brooding and quiet. She was highly intelligent and very industrious. They both were. They worked extremely hard. There seems to have been very little romance and there are no wedding photos. My grandmother already had a child, a daughter (my Aunt Siv) when she married my grandfather. Siv was the product of an ill-fated liaison, and perhaps my grandfather felt sorry for my grandmother and my aunt and stepped in. I don’t know. Nobody knows. It remained a secret. And now they are all gone: Erik, Nancy, even Siv.

Yet, there was a profound connection between my grandparents, of the sort that I suppose you develop nearly by default from living and working with another person for many decades. Once when my grandfather went on a bus trip up north, he sent my grandmother a postcard with no message on it. Only her name and the address. I guess no words were needed.

He called her “Morsan”, which is slang for Mother in Swedish, more slangish than “Mom”, and a word I’d never use for my own mother.

“Hey, Morsan, how about we paint the house?” my grandfather would say importantly.

And my grandmother would say “no”. She said “no” to him almost all the time. But he never went sour or got upset. I never saw my grandfather upset except once, when we were at a cemetery and he found the grave of someone who’d wronged him.

“Now that was a mean bastard!” He said and shook his walking stick at the headstone.

They were both early risers, even after they gave up farming. And by early I mean 5 in the morning. They breakfasted together on boiled eggs, potatoes, and pickled herring. My grandmother made coffee, which they mixed with milk and sugar and poured onto plates, from which they drank.

My father, who came from a slightly more refined background, found my maternal grandparents hopelessly unstylish and homely. He once took it upon himself to introduce my grandfather to the art of fine dining. Together they went to an expensive restaurant in Stockholm where the waiter brought plates of Wiener schnitzel, the most elegant dish on the menu. My grandfather smiled broadly and said:
“Oh, flatfish!”

My grandfather passed away very suddenly from a heart attack in the back seat of a taxi en route to the hospital (with my grandmother in the front seat next to the driver). It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. My grandmother was supposed to go first, she’d been threatening to do so for some time. She’d been worrying over how my grandfather would get along without her.

“What’s Erik going to eat? He can’t even boil an egg.”

Now, he went and died before her.

During his funeral in church, my grandmother bent over his coffin and cried her heart out in an unprecedented show of emotion.

She spent the ten years alone in a small apartment, where she could be seen sitting at the window looking at whoever passed by outside, commenting:
“Is Hulda going into the city today again? She was there just yesterday.”

And then, with a chuckle:
“Look, her skirt hem is up in the back!”

The Little Red Float

I made this smoked salmon frittata for breakfast once over Easter. I made up the recipe myself, and it turned out “not too shabby”, as my husband likes to say. Pre-heat oven to 375 F. Heat 1 Tbs of butter and an equal amount of olive oil in a skillet, add a thinly sliced leek, brown it and season with salt and pepper. While this is going on, you beat 6 eggs and about half a cup of milk in a bowl, add smoked salmon cut in pieces (I used maybe three thin slices of smoked salmon).  Pour this egg-milk-salmon batter over the leek slices and sprinkle half a cup grated Gruyère cheese on top. Cook for 5 minutes and then stick it into the oven for another 8 minutes.

There’s power in objects.

When I was nine or so, my grandparents gave me a bicycle. A Crescent, the best bike brand in Sweden at the time. And that bike was the best I’ve ever had: Smooth and speedy. And yellow.

My mother made me a gingham dress with white lace details and decorative fabric-covered buttons. That dress was also yellow. Same yellow as the bike. Not the sunflower Provence kind of yellow – which is earthy and slightly dirty – nor the watered-out pastel kind, but a clean, clear, strong yellow. Like yellow tulips.

It seems to me my entire childhood is encapsulated in that yellow. Years later, when I visited San Francisco, I recognized the yellow there. San Francisco is as yellow as my childhood.

Growing up, I was a competitive swimmer. I swam several times a week, and sported a blue duffel bag with my club’s name emblazoned on it. In those days, you either wore Arena or Speedo swimwear. I had a beautiful Arena swimsuit, meridian blue with white lines on the side. I had another one, a red and white Speedo of a thinner, glossier material, but I never much liked it. And then I had an all-black Speedo with straps that crossed in the back, which was the thing to have back then (it was called “spider back”). That black swimsuit was my favorite. And then I lost it! I lost it during a competition. We were supposed to bring two swimsuits to a competition, one, which to wear during warm-up, and one to wear while actually competing. In between the different heats, as they were called and probably still are, I lost the black swimsuit. I had planned to compete in it, but changed my mind in the last minute and wore it for the warm-up. Someone either stole it or took it by mistake in the showers.

They gave out medals every now and then, in swimming, and you had to do certain things in order to get them. Swim such and such a distance for the silver fish medal; dive this deep for the gold dolphin medal and so on. This went on, and throughout the years I amassed quite an impressive collection of medals. In this I competed not so much with others as with myself. The last medal – and I can’t even remember the name of it – I never managed to get. It involved diving to the bottom of the deep end of the pool to retrieve a little weight that had been thrown in there. Attached to the weight (which I think was blue) was a string with a little red float, and it was this, which you were supposed to seize and bring back up. I don’t know how many times I tried to get that weight. I dove and I dove and I dove. If I close my eyes now, I can still see that red float, swaying this way and that in the aqua-colored water. All sounds are muffled out. There’s just my white hand, reaching for the float. And then I run out of air, I have to give up. I quickly scissor my legs to propel myself to the surface. Up there is my mom, waiting for me to hold up the float. I look at her and I shake my head “No”.

Later in my life, the red float became a personal metaphor for things I tried to but could never reach. Things, people, places, which seemed to always be just that much beyond my grasp. A relationship with a certain person. A certain academic degree. Traveling to the Fiji Islands. There it is, the infuriating little red float, seemingly so very close, yet never ever close enough.

The Storytelling Maiden

Who knew Blythe Danner could make such good blueberry muffins? She seems so refined, I can barely imagine her in a kitchen at all! Yet, these were some of the best blueberry muffins I’ve ever tasted. The recipe can be found here.

She was good at telling stories.

She was her father Asoka’s great pride.

“Sit the girl in the corner near the burner with the frankincense and the myrrh and stories will pour out of her like water,” he said.

His eyes were dark under heavy, romantic lids. Good, kind eyes. They believed him.

Asoka and his daughter Tulasi-Dharshan weren’t from there. They had traveled for days – weeks even. Through deserts, taigas, the great vastness of the country. They looked different. Asoka’s beard was not curled up at the bottom, but was cut blunt. He didn’t wear a robe, just a plain kaftan of cotton, cut loose. But still he wore his kalpak. Tulasi-Dharshan was smaller than their own girls, slender in body like a boy. Unlike their girls, in their flagrant colors, she wore only white, all white from her tiny canvas shoes to her wide, easy pants and her tunic. Even the embroidery on her vest was white, not silver. White on white. Her hair was short and soft and black.

They didn’t know what to do with her. They had no storytellers. They’d never heard of storytellers, other than those who walked around villages with news and songs. But stories told by a little girl? Alone? No. Asoka closed his eyes and nodded. He held up a finger.
“I will show,” he said.

And then:
“Sit girl in corner…”

First they put her among the rug braiders. Near the incense, like Asoka had said. The women and children began their braiding, when suddenly the girl opened her mouth and out of it, in a nasal, monotonous voice, stories began threading the air. One more peculiar than the next. Intoxicating. And their braiding took on a different shape. Their bodies moved. They swayed in rhythm with her stories; they braided them into their rugs. The darker stories: Deep maroon, rich browns and golds in big dramatic constellations. The lighter stories: Pale blue dots like spring rain, jade green splashes like reeds. And all the while, their bodies moving. And the heavy scent of incense.

When Asoka came to collect his daughter, her voice closed shut like a clam, and up her arms went around his neck. Her mouth opened in a big cat-like yawn, and they marveled at how young she was. The foreman, who had seen the swiftness with which his braiders worked, how the stories had added beauty to their work, tried in vain to give Asoka a coin.

“No, no,” he said.

Tulasi-Dharshan’s stories belonged to everyone. They were not for sale.

Next, they put her among the potters. Again the same advice from Asoka:
“Sit girl close to incense.”

And after that, the silk painters. And so on.

They were wont to be on the move. They were going to leave, but Asoka suddenly fell ill. Some disease from the water. He lay still as still can be and life itself, or so Tulasi-Dharshan thought afterwards, held its breath.

After Asoka’s death they turned on her. The lack of protection made her vulnerable. They began questioning her. They began questioning what they’d seen in her. Why didn’t her father take the coin offered? Why were they traveling around like so? Who were they anyway? From where? They no longer saw the strange beauty she’d helped put into their rugs, their pottery, and their silk.

They had not counted on her being so obstinate. They said:
“We don’t want you around.”

She sat there quiet and stubborn like a mule. They called it “arrogance”. Her jutting chin they called “stupid pride”. They wanted nothing to do with her, yet would not leave her alone. Constant mockery.

Early one morning, when they were still asleep, she packed hers and Asoka’s belongings and saddled their camel.

“No more stories,” she decided.

“No more stories!” Into the leather satchel went Asoka’s kaftan.

“No more stories!” In went his crackowes.

“No more stories!”

She promised herself. Again and again she promised herself that morning. Maybe she cried a little. Then she swung herself up on the camel.

It was still dark when she left. But shortly she rode into the sun, which was big and red as the insides of a pomegranate.

She never kept her promise.

Women Writers

Happy Bookish Monday! Above Anita Brookner's Hotel Du Lac. I have no idea how many times I've read it. Each time it's just as good as the last. Strawberry and peach smoothie with almond milk and coconut oil, equally good.

There are many male writers I like, I think F Scott Fitzgerald is one of my favorite writers altogether, and I love Hemingway. I’m terribly old-fashioned that way. Perhaps decades behind everyone else. But I think I really love women writers. I never thought much about the gender of writers, but now that I do, I realize I love women writers. Virginia Woolf, Alice Munro, Muriel Spark, Iris Murdoch, A. S. Byatt, the Brontës, of course, and Jane Austen. I adore the poetry of Sylvia Plath.

I go through periods when I re-read all of Anita Brookner’s books. It’s like an obsession. I read one after the other, in quick succession. I know some of them, like Hotel Du Lac, almost by heart. I remember sentences; I look for these sentences, like you look for an old-friend in a crowd. Then, when I’ve read three or four, I quit. Content. Replete with whatever magic Brookner gives. Sometimes, when I’ve gone on a binge like this, I have to see a photograph of the author. Anita Brookner looks like her novels. Very thin, but with full, sensual lips, short, bouffant hair, and a prim way of dressing. She looks like her heroines. Actually, most authors look either like their novels or their heroines. Virginia Woolf certainly looks like the heroines in her novels: Refined Victorian beauty, impossibly cultivated, but with an urgent Bohemian streak. The first book I ever read by Woolf was Mrs Dalloway, a paperback I bought at London’s Paddington Station in the summer of 1985.

At first, A(ntonia).S(usan). Byatt’s face confused me. It seemed squat and heavy, like a man’s face. Crude. Now I see it differently: It’s a square face, yes, but with a lush roundness to it also. Byatt is like a glass of red wine. You cannot read her as quickly as you can, for instance, Brookner. She is full of details. She is frightfully intelligent. I adore this intelligence in her. A boy I knew in college gave me my first book by Byatt – The Virgin in the Garden – in the summer of 1990.

A Canadian friend gave me Alice Munro’s Friend of My Youth when we were both students in Paris in the fall of 1990. I no longer have it, it got lost in some move or other. I remember a pastel cover. Strangely, Munro was not an instant love for me. It took time for me to discover her, but when I did it was the greatest thing! Is there anything greater than discovering a good author?

I confess that in an effort to get even closer to these women authors, I sometimes use their food recipes. I have no interest in making Truman Capote’s favorite Italian Summer Pudding nor do I feel like pan-frying my trout à la Hemingway. But I do feel a nearly mysterious connection when I make Sylvia Plath’s tomato soup cake or her “heavenly (six-egg) sponge cake”. I close in on Virginia Woolf in a very intimate way when I cut the chuck roast to her Boeuf en Daube, the same one that Mrs. Ramsay served in To the Lighthouse. And I believe some of Emily Dickinson is revealed to me when I make her Coconut Cake.

Women writers push the limits of what’s permitted for a woman to do. I always feel some sort of restraint, here more so than when we lived in Brooklyn. There is only so much you are allowed to say or think openly, there’s only so many things you are allowed to discuss outside of safe conversation topics like childrearing, cooking, housekeeping, gossip… Women writers give women readers comfort. They help your mind grow. They push you ahead. It’s as if they’re saying “Yes, I have been where you are. Listen to my story.” And you listen and you learn.

Women writers give women readers wings to fly. 

Easter

Austrian Easter bread. Recipe below.

I always liked Easter best. I can’t remember much of my childhood’s Christmases, because my early childhood was a bit turbulent, but we usually spent Easter at my Grandmother’s house, and I loved being there.

I Sweden kids dress up as Easter witches (påskkärringar) and go knocking on people’s doors for candy, much like Halloween here. The candy is put in an old-fashioned coffeepot that the witch is carrying with her. Then the witches fly on brooms to Blåkulla, a place where they meet and dance with the Devil in a witches’ Sabbath. Blåkulla played an important part in the early witch-hunts in Sweden. One might think it’s a fictive place, but it actually exists and I’ve seen it many times: Blåkulla (curiously also known as Blå Jungfrun, which translates as The Blue Virgin) is a small island in the Kalmar Strait, located in the Baltic Sea. It’s uninhabited but features a peculiar labyrinth made of stones, an early historical structure. You’re not allowed to remove any of those stones, but those who do anyway bring bad luck on themselves.

There are birch twigs and pussy willows for sale everywhere, and Swedes decorate these with colorful feathers. Especially yellow, Easter in Sweden is decidedly yellow. Suddenly spring is in the air, which brings relief after those long, dark Scandinavian winters.

There was also a play by August Strindberg called Easter that I was nearly obsessed with when I was younger. It takes place between Maundy Thursday and Good Friday and the plot centers on a family in crisis: The father is in prison for embezzlement, making the son Eli, the breadwinner. The father’s actions have isolated the family in the small town, nobody wants anything to do with them. Now, they await creditor Lindkvist, who they fear will come and take all they’ve got. But when at last Lindkvist appears, on Easter Saturday, he shows incredible mercy and asks for nothing. The Easter miracle! The family can relax and celebrate. Another important character in the play is Eleonora, a Christ-like figure, a girl who’s in an insane asylum. In all Strindberg’s Easter is a modern mystery play, patterned on the Passion of Christ.

I like the many symbols of Easter. I think one of my all time favorites is Phoenix, the bird who builds a nest when old, sets it on fire and then rises from the ashes in a triumphant victory. Of course, Phoenix is a symbol for Jesus. The egg is another interesting Easter symbol. Out of the lifeless shell a chick emerges. The broken, empty eggshell is a symbol of Jesus’ empty tomb after he rose from his grave.

Typical Swedish Easter food includes pickled herring, eggs, lamb, and a variety of salmon dishes. For dessert marzipan is usually included, either in cakes or in candy. I will probably make a smoked salmon frittata.

When I was a teen I began baking the bread above from a book my mom owns. In this book the bread is called “Austrian Easter Bread”. It is definitely not Swedish. For many years, I baked it faithfully every Easter. Here’s the recipe. But first of all, I’d like to wish you a Happy Easter. I will take tomorrow, Good Friday, off. See you again on Monday.

Austrian Easter Bread

Ingredients

25 g fresh yeast (I used a package of 50)

1-cup milk

4 cups flour (1.5 cup)

100 g butter (I used one stick)

half a cup of sugar

a pinch of salt

1 egg

3 egg yolks

vanilla or vanilla sugar (I used two packages of Oetker’s vanilla sugar)

the zest of one lemon (I forgot to buy one, but instead used 1 teaspoon lemon flavoring)

4-5 boiled eggs (I used six)

Pre-heat oven to 390F.

1. Crumble the yeast into a big bowl.
2. Heat the milk until lukewarm. Pour over the yeast, and stir until all yeast is dissolved.
3. Add 1.5 cups of the flour. Put a tea towel over the bowl, and let the dough rise until double. About 30-40 minutes.
4. While dough is rising, mix butter, sugar, and salt until smooth. Add the egg and the egg yolks, (my mother always says “one at a time”, but who can crack more than one egg at a time anyway?), then add the vanilla and the lemon zest (or lemon flavoring).
5. When dough is done, mix it into the sugar/butter batter. Add the rest of the flour and knead into a dough.
6. Divide the dough into three parts and braid it. Put the braid on a baking sheet topped with a baking paper. Close the braid into a wreath, and put the boiled eggs in the center. Again cover with a clean tea towel and let rise for about 30 minutes or so.
7. Brush the bread with an egg.
8. Bake in oven for 30 minutes.

Once they’d cooled off a bit, I removed the boiled eggs and dyed them. I used one head of red cabbage for the turquoise eggs, 2 Tablespoons turmeric for the yellow ones, and a handful of frozen blueberries for the pale blue/lavender ones. I boiled the red cabbage in a pot full of water for about 30 minutes, removed most of the cabbage and put the eggs in the remaining water. I also boiled the turmeric a few minutes and put the pre-boiled eggs inside once it cooled off. For the blueberry eggs, I just put them in cold water, crushing the berries between my fingers. I let the eggs sit in the water overnight.

Swedish påskkärringar or Easter witches out collecting candy. Photograph courtesy of:

http://earthyphotography.com/easter-in-sweden/

Manners Out the Window

Sometimes we have people (friends mostly) stay overnight. On those occasions I like to offer a different sort of breakfast, a "buffet" you might call it. Above I have curated a few different flavors, that I feel are great to experiment with. Cocktail cherries, cherry tomatoes, a pancake from yesterday's breakfast (it shows you are frugal) and a variety of crackers. For fun and as a decorative element, I have sprinkled unsweetened coconut flakes over the entire spread. 

When my son was but a wee infant, we purchased Munro Leaf’s classics How to Behave and Why and Manners Can Be Fun. Little did we know that those seemingly simple books with equally simple stick figures (only partially colored) would be so popular with our little one. By now they’ve been read to threads.

I used to long for similar types of books for adults, for I often felt there was a lack of manners in the folks I met on a regular basis.

Last weekend, a friend of mine back home complained about the lack of manners, or lack of “social competence”, as she called it. It hurt her, she said. She had been brought up with good manners, she wanted to teach her kids the same, and was therefore sad and a tad angry when other adults behaved poorly in the company of her kids. I commiserated with her.

“Those people aren’t worth me wasting their energy on them,” she said.

I agreed.

Then early this morning I had an epiphany! How about we just throw good manners out the window? It would solve so many things. It would also create an outlet for pent-up anger.

Let’s start with the basics: “Thank you” and “please”. What a weight would not be lifted from our collective shoulders if we were to do without them? I’d take whatever you offer me, and you’d give me whatever you feel like giving. No questions asked, no niceties needed. “Please” – oh, come on, isn’t it a bit out-dated? Like a Victorian gown or something?

“Please pass me the platter with the jellied eel.”

Who cares about jellied eels anymore? The same amount of people who cares to hear you say “please”. None.

See a pregnant lady on the subway? Why should you offer her your seat? Are you responsible for her pregnancy? Of course not! Didn’t you also pay your fare? Of course you did? Thus you should remain in your seat. Let the pregnant woman harass someone else, or better tell her to take a hike.

Next: Other people’s kids. In general they’re a nuisance, but so far you’ve been gritting your teeth trying to just put up with them buggers. No more! Why should you be Mr. or Mrs. Nice? Are you going to let some other folks’ rug rats detonate your home? No? No! Give them a spanking and see what they have to say for themselves. If they keep moaning, just jot down their address on a piece of paper, stick it to their jackets, and kick them out the door.

If you and me and everyone else just started to think about the most important thing of all, i.e. ourselves, the world would be a much better place. We wouldn’t have to waste our precious energy on others by uttering apologies and other words that once, eons ago, were considered basic morality, kindness.

You see our politicians? Look closely next time you have the TV on and politics is going on. Raise the volume. Hear that? You call that good manners? Well, we voted for those suckers, didn’t we? Maybe you and I can learn something from them. Tax evaders, smugglers, thieves, and folks committing frauds. Now, that’s true entrepreneurial spirit!

Let’s face it. It’s a rough world we live in; the sooner we prepare our children for it, the better. Let’s live as if it really is 2015 – let’s finally agree that good manners are a thing of the past that fills no function in today’s society.

Next time you’re feeling road rage, let your rage soar. It’s not your fault that the lady in front of you is 94 and blind? What’s she doing out and about anyway? This is your time of the day, and if she is in any way, shape, or form blocking her, then I give you permission – here and now – to block her right back. See what I mean? Getting rid of good manners unblocks a lot of clogged, pent-up anger.

APRIL FOOLS! APRIL FOOLS! APRIL FOOLS! APRIL FOOLS! APRIL FOOLS!

The Art of Tidying Up

Banana flapjacks. I sort of improvised this recipe. I’ve never really understood the difference between pancakes and flapjacks, but I like to say “banana flapjacks” so that’s what I call them. Here’s how you make them: In a medium bowl, mix ¾ cup flour with almost 1-teaspoon baking powder. In another medium bowl mash 1 big banana and mix with ½ cup milk, a teaspoon of vanilla, and one egg. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ones; mix well and fry (in butter) on medium heat. I served the flapjacks with sliced banana, maple syrup and a light dusting of Saigon cinnamon. Since it’s Easter, we’re celebrating with a little extra sugar in the form of some Lindt chocolate on the side.

 If you think about it, life is quite full of nasty surprises. My first visit to the dentist comes to mind (thank goodness, dentists and their equipment are so much better nowadays), the sudden onset of tonsillitis is another, being jilted for the first time is a third, but the worst one to me is clutter. Why? Because it’s an endless, on-going issue, one that can be likened to Chinese water torture. And it seems no solution is in sight. It’s beyond me how clutter can build up with such expert speed; it’s always quicker than me. I can never catch up with the growing piles of paper, clothes, broken toys, and socks strewn around the house. When I have one area sort of cleared, it all starts again in another.

It’s enough to make me want to cry.

Enter Marie Kondo and her Japanese system of “tidying up”, which is what we might call organizing. I read her book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up as if it were a detective story, I couldn’t put it down, that’s how excited it made me. And I’m not alone; actually I’m late to the party. If you’re following Kondo’s system (and people actually use her last name as a verb, they “kondo” their cookbooks and they “kondo” their music lists, google “Marie Kondo” and you’ll see for yourself), you need only “tidy up” once. She believes that if you do it once (and then follow up once a year at the most) you’ll discover that this kind of tidying will actually change your life. You will have a different life, because you won’t be bogged down by stuff you might not only not want, but probably also don’t love. And once you’re not bogged down by stuff, you’ll discover that there’s a whole new world out there, and you can pursue the life you always dreamed of. Doesn’t that sound exciting?

The secret is that Kondo gives you permission to throw out that which you do not love! Be it a blouse you paid $100 for or the instruction booklet to your digital camera, if you don’t love it out it goes. Because what good is the expensive blouse doing sitting in your closet? Admit it, if you never wear it you never will, don’t fall for “perhaps later when I’ve lost 5 lbs”. Just. Throw. It. Out. Same with the instructions to your camera, who ever reads that stuff anyway? It’s a thick and bulky booklet and where does one put it in the first place? Throw. It. Out. If you ever need instructions for your camera, you can get help through Internet, friends, or by just playing around with the camera yourself. The Christmas card from your daughter? It gave you all the joy and love in the world when you received it, now that love and joy is inside of you, and you can feel free to throw out the card. See?

This permission thing is a big thing with me. I am not at all a hoarder, not even by a long shot, but I do feel enormous guilt if I throw things out that I feel I paid a lot of money for or things that are of sentimental value. Kondo, however, tells me to not feel that way: We live in the here and now, and how often do you read the love letter that guy sent you in 9^th grade anyway? Keep a few things, but let the ones that don’t give you any joy hit the road.

Though I think the book is well worth the money, you don’t actually have to read it to become a Kondo-convert. There are plenty of detailed descriptions on how to start Kondoing your home and other areas in your life online. Be sure to check out the videos on youtube where Marie Kondo shows how to fold clothes Japanese style. Not only practical but also enormously attractive. Her underwear and sock drawer? Pristine, precise, and pretty. That’s how all socks should live when they aren’t on your feet.

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo