Reviewed today:

Really great books tonight. None of them match up with each other, so much, but that’s okay by me, if it’s okay by you? OK!

The new picture book “Zero is the Leaves on the Tree,” was written by Betsy Franco, with illustrations by Shino Arihara (Tricycle Press, 2009, $15.99). The book begins:

“Zero is…
the shape of an egg.
Zero is a number.”

The book goes on to illustrate zero, with colorful, almost old-fashioned art and lilting words. (“…the balls in the bin at recess time,” “…the bikes in the bike rack on the last day of school,” “…the ripples in the pool before the first swimmer jumps in.”) I can see why the littles like number books so much — they provide the reader with a sense of rhythm and order. Nice.

We all know that things sometimes get very much out of rhythm when a new baby arrives. Especially if you’re an older sibling who feels left out. Amy Krouse Rosenthal’s blank journal, “The Big Sibling Book: A Journal” (Potter Style, 2009, $16.99, pages) is aimed at those siblings, and will be a keepsake for the babies, once they’re older. How about… 1) stickers 2) lots of room for photos 3) funny, funny writing “prompts,” including “If you could ask your little brother or sister anything — and he or she could talk back — what would you ask? I am fond of journals and scrapbooks, and they don’t intimidate me (hello, I write and like to make collages) but I know that a lot of people freeze up when “expected” to fill a book. (Even if that “expectation” is coming from within, and is not required by law or anything, for pete’s sake.) This is a nice format, nice layout, and cries out to be scribbled on, filled in and stickered. Same author also published “The Belly Book: A Nine-Month Journal for You and Your Growing Belly” and “Your Birthday Book: A Keepsake Journal.”

One of the most precious things I found after we lost Dear Granny was a puffy pink “This Is My Life” journal that honestly was not her style at all. Not one bit. I opened it expecting to find blank pages. (As an artist friend of mine told me, when she changed the styles of blank books she was creating, “They were just too precious. People weren’t writing in them.” Once she made them shaggier, and not as fancy, then people started scribbling.) Dear Granny had written not just one or two pages, but page after page. Books like this can really mean a lot to someone else, later on. Maybe even to you. (Smiles.)

Now on to cooking. Did I ever tell you that I hate a vegetarian lifestyle? Hate. I tell my kids, That is such a strong word, do you really hate it? Or just dislike it?

I hate that I am a lazy vegetarian cook, let’s say that. And I happen to be a woman who is married to a vegetarian man and we are parents to two vegetarian children. I refuse to do vegetable croquettes with a variety of dipping sauces, a selection of salads, beans on the side for protein, limit the cheese but don’t get all crazy vegan and… It is not my thing, I’m sorry. If I did go to all that trouble, the kids wouldn’t eat it. They live on mac and cheese, peanut butter and… air. Luft und liebe. That’s right — love and air. Steve would be happy, but I wouldn’t be. I have struggled with this whole thing for years, as those of you who are regular readers know good and well.

Here is how things typically go when I cook.

Remember my son’s infamous quote? “You are the kind of bad mommy who never cooks for her kids”??? Which he said to me at the exact moment I was midway through cooking him a delicious homemade meal? (To his credit, he also told me another time, “You are a goody-good Mommy, I love you!”) Freakin’ kids, what are you gonna do, y’know?

It’s a little ridiculous. We Americans are the fattest people in the fattest nation on Earth, and I’m sweating this? (I don’t really know if we are the fattest people on Earth, I’m just making things up now.)

My point (and I do have one) is that today I decided to cook for me. Just me. I made a delicious pot roast with cipollini onions, baby carrots, potatoes, red wine, oregano, olive oil, salt and pepper. I’ve decide that if I want to retain what small amount of sanity I have left, I must do this occasionally.

I LIKE MEAT.

It. Was. Delicious. And I didn’t have to share with anyone. Steve made homemade pesto last week, and the kids gobbled that up with spaghetti. What did Steve eat? Hmm. I think he had a shot of vodka. Poor thing. Maybe I should fix him a Pop-Tart or something?

Thank you, Julia Child, for inspiring me, you Amazon temptress. I bought volumes 1 & 2 of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” and I am in heaven. (There are vegetable, egg, cheese, bread and DESSERT items for my family, do not worry they will not waste away.) Really wonderful cookbooks. I can’t wait until they’re splattered with sauce stains and chocolate smudges. Ahhh…

Happy Sunday, y’all. BON APPETIT!

— wm

* we would make waffles for the kids. if we had any milk or eggs in the house, that is.

* note to self: grocery shop at least once a week.

* The Beverly Cleary Tour yesterday was bananas.

* at our house we don’t say “it’s a dangerous cycle” we say “it’s a dangerous psycho.” same thing.

happy Sunday, y’all.

— wm

and, of course…

Rock the Casbah

I once heard the Clash described as the band “fronted by this skinny guy who looked like he was going to lose his mind if you didn’t let him sing.” Or something like that. Anyway, I thought that summed it up nicely.

— wm

“Do what you can, want what you have, and be who you are.” — Rev. Dr. Forrest Church

Reviewed today:

Here’s the new thing in books: It’s the old thing. Comic books, that’s right, folks. Only now they go by the name “graphic novels.” At first I thought that meant a novel with Too Much Information, “stop being so graphic, already,” but no. It means graphics. Sometimes a few words, sometimes a lot of words, but always the art.

Artist/author Andy Runton has a series out about a cool little owl and his friends. There are a lot of ’em, including Possum, Raccoon, Butterfly and Wormy. Wormy is his best friend, I think. I had to have my son explain some of it to me because these graphic novels? They’re complex. Especially when they’re delving into Shakespeare, Robert Louis Stevenson, biographies of various historical figures… you could get lost in there. I believe that’s why the kids enjoy them.

So… “Owly, A Time to Be Brave” is the fourth book in the series. (It’s appropriate for all ages.)

Wacky Girl: “It’s really good art.”

Wacky Boy: “It’s a nice story, too.”

I think I will need to purchase the whole series. (PS — don’t forget that Diary of a Wimpy Kid 4 will be released on Oct. 12th.)

Next up:

“There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.”

I’m a big fan of the Twilight Zone (the original, which I watched in re-runs, thank you. I did not catch it when it was first broadcast for five seasons, starting in October of 1959. Yes, that would be fifty years ago this month, you math majors out there). Serling, who was so sexy and so scary at the same time, wrote more than half of the show’s 156 episodes. Rock on.

Brilliant idea, McHargue and Kneece, to come out with a series of graphic novels (released by Walker & Company, adaptation by Mark Kneece and illustrated by Dove McHargue) that not only pays homage to Serling, but adapts the scripts in their entirety. Every word, every nuance, mattered with Serling. He really was a master at the craft.

Interesting, too, as we celebrate Banned Books Week to remember that “in the 1950s the comics Serling had enjoyed were considered subversive, a threat to America’s youth,” according to Kneece. In 1955, a Senate committee convened to investigate the “pernicious influences” of horror comics on America’s youth, and the Comics Code Authority was established to censor comics’ content.

Artistic team Stan Mack and Susan Champlin have released the first in a series of new graphic novels (Bloomsbury Children’s Books) that bring American history to life. Thank God, someone needed to. The Colonial times leave me cold, and it’s not just all that talk of Valley Forge and Bunker Hill and a bunch of old white guys. Nice job, you two. I think Nick and Penelope, the two fictional heroes, will draw the kids in. No pun intended.

Steve posted a great interview he did last week with Rob Ingram, director of the City of Portland’s Office of Youth Violence Prevention. You’ll find it here. Kids, education, the juvenile justice system, race, mentors — they covered a lot in an hour.

1) as always, torn.

2) torn, torn, torn.

3) I want to read, put away the food from dinner, cook some more (crockpot steel-cut oats for breakfast, with apples and cinnamon), finish the laundry, go see what Steve is doing, snuggle with the kids, snuggle with Steve, listen to the new podcast he’s putting up, clean the house… (“I want to lock it/all up in my pocket/it’s my bar of chocolate/give it to me… now…” — Veruca Salt)

4) naw, I’m not manic. Or maniacal. We just got home from the beach — funny thing, no one cleaned the house while I was gone. Steve took us for the weekend to celebrate our anniversary a month late.

5) because I told him, You spending the week in Iowa with the kids, then zipping home just in time for a half-day of our anniversary, and you were jet-lagged and exhausted because you PARTIED the whole time you were gone and apparently forgot to sleep? That, my spousal equivalent, does not count as an anniversary. So there.

6) smart man. decided we should rent a house on a quiet, fairly deserted part of the beach, in a teeny-tiny town, eat vast quantities of food, drink a bottle of champagne while we watched the sun set and…

7) …watch hours and hours of Spongbog (ha! i’m leaving that typo. Spongbog it is, from this day forward) and America’s Funniest Home Videos.

8) Thas right, folks, we had 2 medium-sized blonde children with us. They had fun, too! We ate an entire bag of double-stuff Oreos between the four of us! And had hot cocoa!

9) You know who’s calling right now? Restless Housewives. Season premiere. Forget the cooking and the tidying and the reading of good literature. I have ABC to watch.

10) bye and please have a great week.

11) ps I have another blog. It’s about books. If you don’t already have the address, plz e me and I will send it to you.

12) yours, as always, stay sweet, WM

“Are they chocolate eggs?” — Veruca Salt

* Much funner to watch the Food Network than it is to actually cook dinner. JUST SAYIN’. My favorites: the Deens, What Would Brian Boitano Make? and any show where they bake cakes or pies and say snarky things behind each other’s backs and TO each other’s faces.

* Why do we have fancy cable now, not just boring cable like we had before? One word: NHL. This is Hockey God’s anniversary gift from me, I love him so. Show I most don’t “get”: ICarly. Second show I most don’t get: Spongebob. No, don’t bother to explain, they’re both over my head.

* DANCING WITH THE STARS, NIGHT TWO. Tonite. Be there. Vote for Debi and Maks.

* Candy corn + peanuts = tastes just like a Payday candybar.

* Only I don’t happen to have those items, so I put together a canapes platter that consisted of the following: grapes, strawberries, Newman’s Own pretzels (“Crunchy relives stress! It sends your endorphins to their happy place” (or something) — Lady on Food Network, chirping and grocery shopping) and some saltwater taffy that Steve brought us from the beach. One of the flavors is… lavender? WTH? Weird, but tastes good. Fancy taffy guy.

* He took our girl and her best friend for a late birthday getaway. She wanted to do this instead of a birthday party. Nice idea! Nice dad to agree to it.

* All for now, ta-ta.

xo

wm

Definition of the day:

“Deja Fu: The feeling that somehow, somewhere, you’ve been kicked in the head like this before.”

Yeah, it’s Monday all over again.

E: “You notice how every conversation we have starts sounding like ‘What We Talk About When We Talk About Love’?”
me: “Yeah. Kinda funny. I love Carver.”
E: “We’re okay writers, but we’ll never be as good as Carver.”
me: “We could still try.”
(we both laugh, knowing there’s no hope.)

— conversation between E, my college lover, and me, circa 1989

“If this sounds like the story of a life, okay.” — Raymond Carver

“It’s a dangerous mission. You/could die out there. You /could go on forever.” — Tess Gallagher from “Instructions to the Double”

“You don’t know how strong you are until strong is your only choice.” — quote of the day, from my cousin’s friend

There is a good interview with Tess Gallagher (Raymond Carver’s widow) in today’s Oregonian. Jeff Baker wrote it — he always does a nice job with his stories. (His profile last month of author Katherine Dunn was great, too.)

Kinda funny, how much Carver has impacted my life. How? I cannot tell you, it’s private. I think of him when I write, when I cry, when I eat a good piece of bread. I think of him when I think of certain birthday cakes and certain bakers. I think of him when I see bad teeth, when I get scared out of my head, when I rage. I think of him when I read bad writing and I wish they were hitting it and quitting it instead of wasting my time. I read him for the first time, I loved his writing, I re-read him, my admiration for him got stronger, I edited the literary magazine at my college, I sent Tess Gallagher a note. Would she consider sending me a poem for my little magazine? She would. She did. It was a great poem. (“Why We Don’t Remember the Future,” Portland Review, Vol. 36, No. 3, July, 1990.) I thought to myself, Self, that is one classy dame. (Do you know her work? Do you know his? Go read them, they’re great.) (If their writing upsets you, please don’t blame me. They don’t write mushy-mushy, so get ready.)

Now I read that she is doing okay, has found new love, has her dogs, her writing, her work to keep Ray’s work in print, and up to their standards. She would like to see more of his original stuff in print. Original the way it was written, not the way it was slashed and edited. I admire her for doing this, for still being his partner, even 21 years after his death. (How can he have been gone for more than two decades already?)

It’s good that I didn’t marry E. I think of him sometimes, with good thoughts in my heart, not evil. He was so skittish; I was so worried, even then. For good reason.

On E’s desire to have a large family with me: “We could have 10 babies, and they’d wear shoes sizes 2 to 12.”

Yeah. I would have never married Steve, and had these two particular children. I like all three of ’em. What if I’d married E? I might have had double that, and possibly more losses than the two I’ve already had. Would I be able to write at all, if I’d had more children? Maybe. Would I have gone into library work? I love library work. Impossible to believe, even for me, but I love it more than writing. I’m so competitive with other writers in some areas, but as far as library work goes, I want to share all the love, all the time.

I will still write. Will I ever get a book published? Maybe.

For this afternoon, I’ll finish vacuuming the office. I just picked a huge bowl of ripe, juicy tomatoes. I bought bell peppers, garlic and onions at the store. I’ll take all that, plus salt, pepper, oregano, sugar and hot sauce, and make a big pot of marinara and add fresh basil when it’s done. I may run my son’s friend home; maybe his mom will get tired of waiting for us and come get him. I’ll think about pulling an old manuscript out of the box where it lives upstairs. Maybe I’ll redline it and do another re-write. I’ve sent it out so many times I don’t care anymore, but I’d like to leave something for my kids, anyway. Something more impressive than what I’ve got.

Me, just now, to my rowdy son and his rowdy friend: “Get out of here please, I’m trying to write.”

Yeah, I’m fine with Hockey God, the two kids, plus their assorted friends. My library work, my students, my writing, my garden. My tears. I am so lucky to have so much. For the first time in a long time, they’re tears of joy, not grief. That’s something. That’s plenty. The inscription on Carver’s grave reads:

LATE FRAGMENT
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.