burns the fire

I just read, or should I say, gobbled the book ‘Heat’ by Bill Buford. This A-list wordsmith left an editing post at the New Yorker to fulfill his fantasy of learning to cook at NYC’s Babbo; the 3-star Italian restaurant of culinary maharishi, Mario Batali. The inside kitchen poop was fun and sharply written (I’m a sucker for a well-braised phrase), but it was the ‘Tuscan Butcher’ section near the end that boiled my blood. Here, Buford dissects his apprenticeship with legendary butcher diva Dario Cecchini (he has a blog!) in all its bloody glory. Suffice it to say, the descriptions of how to slaughter and eviscerate a cow (while singing opera at the top of your lungs), will not leave you unmoved. Indeed, with the deadliest of blades, a few gory chapters shaved the overcooked meat off the shivering bones of my lofty musings about life and death.

That same day, my husband and I went to see some of his family. Over a fine feast on their kitchen island, idle chit-chat turned to butchery and blood, when an Algerian cousin revealed her secret passion and fave animal side-dish (rolling sagely inside its head like two shiny marbles): the dewy brown eyes of a lamb. Boiled. In hot water, with herbs and a little oil. Before you drop the (bulging and terrified, I imagine) eyeballs in the pot, you yank out their inky black pupils- just too bitter on the tongue.

Fortified by my new philosophy of life (look it squarely in the eye), I ask for details. The texture is gelatinous, mmm. My imagination ignites as the word sinks in; jelly-like, gummy, gluey, sticky, viscous. Popping eyeballs in the mouth like candy. Now, chew on that.

For a recipe for Bouzelouf (lamb’s head), click here. The preparing and the devouring of the Lamb’s head (not for vegetarians or the squeamish). 

I just read an article in the NY Times by Brooklyn blogger Emily Gould about the extreme pitfalls of exposing your personal life on the web. I have rarely gotten into that kind of trouble. I was born a fiction writer, a dramatist, I spend the vast majority of my time making things up, but, a blog’s lure to chew on ‘reality’ is irresistible, especially if it is my own.

It ain’t hard. My mother just called. She is an unending source of inspiration and crack lines. In fifteen minutes, our power-chat covers my cousin Sara’s 80th birthday, calcium, constipation, and our deepest feelings (and I mean- bottom of the ocean floor deep). Based on itch in my fingers, I could weave our verbal thread into solid gold, or at least- a guffaw, but would my very private mom mind if I got into the nitty-gritty about, say, her intestinal tract? What about mine? Do you want to know the unfiltered truth??

In the masterwork AMERICAN PASTORAL, Philip Roth’s fictional writer Nathan Zuckerman advises its main character not to befriend a writer if he doesn’t want his confessions to show up in a book. Lenny Bruce said the question of his influences is absurd- he was influenced by his every waking hour. And to prove it- his real-life crew was shmeared all over his art. In the name of Chris Rock’s latest show- “No Apologies.”

Emily Gould blogged about everything and everyone, no holds barred, with no fictional veil to protect the innocent, let alone the guilty. She stood in front of the firing squad and they shot her down. One could call it a suicide. While I am rattled by her cautionary tale, I can’t help but think, nay, know that simply put: life is grist for the mill. In the name of inspiration, provocation and transformation (put that on your mirror and sniff it): nothing and no one is ever really safe.

(Sabah) Now you see her, now you don’t

For some fun and games, check out the following pseudo-memoirs: Lenny Bruce’s “How to Talk Dirty and Influence People” and Philip Roth’s “The Facts.”

On my hands and knees in the backyard, planting seeds in the earth, I realize I am not alone. There is a small cluster of idiosyncratic people with names like Cookie, Fritz, Fanny and Dio milling about the weedy grass, seemingly aware of the budding plants and my burgeoning skills, but mostly just in awe of each other.

The sexual tension is palpable. The sun glints off wet lips. Coy talk and throaty laughter ring in my ears as high heels slide in and out of the damp earth. A woman’s tongue tastes the tip of a lilac. Butterflies circle my head. I hear music. Soft and shimmering, and then louder.

I am unashamed of my backwoods fashion; the oversized, sweating shirt, fuzz-ball hair in the humid air, because I am frankly ahead of the game. This is my party. I know what these people are going to say before they say it. I know what they are thinking, what they wish for, and how they feel. These are my people.

Welcome to the life of a writer. A writer who became a filmmaker so she could bring her characters to life. I am never lonely in my backyard. 

Let me tell you about the righteous, raw female funk of Fantasia Barrino- whose body, soul and voice of god obliterated mediocrity for a few heart-pounding moments on American Idol last night. Fantasia was crowned another year, but was on last night to remind mainstream America (and me) what fearless artistry is, and how music can lift us higher. Who cares if she already won, she should win again. If only to wake us up out of our middlebrow stupor, and I mean, up.

At this point in the competition (the finals), the cream doesn’t always rise to the top. Sure, the two little birds left standing can sing (yada yad), but can they remind us of the sheer joy and sorrow of being alive?

Fantasia let us have it. There was the requisite shock shot of judge Simon Cowell, and the three startled finalists barely swinging their meat-less hips to her eye-busting boogie as Fantasia ripped the stage. Rasping, shouting, crying out, she ramped up the power. Our power, people. This particular percussive tune and its frantic ferocity called, yes, ‘Bore Me’, is not for all tastes, but just tell me: can you feel it?

James Brown,  Janis Joplin, Tina Turner, Jack White, Mick Jagger.. meet Fantasia 

I was a spinning top Saturday night at the Portuguese on St-Urbain. My husband Ned and I are learning how to ‘couple dance’, which is not as ball and chain as it sounds. Holding hands, we follow the steps as best as we can, and promptly forget them. My favorite (un-mastered) move was when he let go of me, and I swirled around in space, unfettered by human concerns, until our sweat mingled and our hands re-joined (mine on top of his, natch, as per the rules). Maybe it was the scotch (one shot, I’m a cheap date), but I felt something happen to me as I whirled like a dervish on stage. Laughter, as I spun, propelled me to ecstasy. Big-mouthed guffaws that rang like bells in my ears as I spiraled around the revolving floor. I danced with my teacher. His hands were clammy, but his face (on to which I fixed my gaze) smiled beatifically, not at me per se, but at some higher power that fueled the lightness of his hands as they bent my flying limbs to his will.

I don’t like to be led but I’m learning to let go. 

Sufi Whirling as a path leading to our higher ourselves 

Join us next time if you dare!

Saturday night, the Montreal-Canadians were annihilated by the Philadelphia Flyers in the pride-shattering Eastern Conference semi-finals. No shiny Stanley Cup for rabid Habs fans this year. Unshaven alpha males smashed into each other on the ice; bone-crushing, rage roaring he (haw) men in a bloodthirsty fight to the death. Now, here’s the rub: they do it on purpose, and call it a game! This is no battle for human survival, or is it?

Sunday night, I watched Tamara Jenkin’s beautiful, uplifting film ‘The Savages’, and saw a family (two siblings and their faraway dad) go at each other with a similar brutality; battering hearts, not bones, as they struggle to survive. Try as they might, they they keep wounding themselves and each other, no matter how much it hurts. 

It’s a glorious day full of possibility. The sun is blasting the earth, soaked from this weekend’s seasonal cry-fest. The smell of damp dirt should be bottled for fertility.

Dreams do come true. My friends Marlo and Andrew just birthed their second baby; the fabulous, flying Frida. As the story now goes; she jettisoned out of the womb, and on to the table. Don’t know if they know, but her name is derived from the words ‘joy’ and ‘happiness’ in Yiddish. Frida’s parents work in film and TV, so maybe she will, too. After reading in the NY Times about the lack of strong women in Hollywood films, we need all the female superheroes we can get. In front of and behind the cameras. Go, Frida!

Strolling to the P.O. with Cee-Lo this fine morn, feeling a little Superwoman myself, I wantonly express-mail my new dream to Hollywood on the Avenue of Stars. I have faith because I’m alive. And, I can smell the sweet earth, too.

Welcome, Frida Mary Kaufman!

One day when I was 21, I walked out of my appartment to buy some bread, but entered a used-bookstore instead; stockpiled from ceiling to floor with reams of paper bound together by the human mind. Its groaning shelves contained, in my addled brain- every single title under the sun. I spent all my money on books, and convinced the old Jewish man at the cash to give me a job- to buy more. The moldy store became my haven. I lost and found myself in its pages, under the frisky tutelage of the aging manager and Nicorette fiend, who became my true friend. Those were the days when you could smoke anywhere and we did, as coked up on nicotine, Mr. B entertained me by haggling with our French customers in Yiddish, in that crazy microcosm of life and fire-trap of a store (stalked, at the time, by a pyromaniac German arsonist).

Mr. B was a sassy, seen-it-all holocaust survivor who took care of the business for his book-crazed accountant-by-day, bookseller-by-night son, J. J brought A (his secret lover) into the fold; who didn’t read or know anything about books, but was a good egg who didn’t mind lying to his book-sick lover as he carted boxes and boxes of crappy novels out to the alley to be stolen or recycled. J bought books by the ton, indiscriminately, jamming the claustrophobic store (a huge space but rare to see the floor) with more and more and more, until there was no room to breathe. J was addicted to books (as were some of our favorite, bug-eyed customers), but didn’t seem  to care as much about their contents. And, he never noticed when people would haul our boxes back into the store to (re) sell them. He would just buy them, again. If you asked him, he would tell you, he loves his books.

It’s another seasonal show-stopper in Montreal. The sky is a happy shade of blue, the air is as sweet as my husband’s lips, and there is dancing in the streets (or at least in my heart). When you live in a place with extreme weather and four such radical peaks, there is an explosion of joy when a brutal winter thaws into the glory of spring and the buds bust out of their pods- that is hard to beat. How those buds do it, after months of snow and ice crushing their earthly resting place, I have no clue, but that is the poetry of life.

With life, comes a responsibility to live. So, let’s get cracking!

Go, Canadiens!

Cynics beware. I hate a threat when I’m  about to bare my heart, but it’s hard to resist given the clash between hope and despair I witnessed at our alternative, multi-culti Passover seder this past Saturday night. Traditionally, Passover is a biblical fest celebrating the Jewish exodus from Egypt and liberation from slavery, but with all due respect, that was then and this is now. People everywhere continue to oppress and be enslaved, and depression rules. Why do we keep repeating the past? Why can’t we get along??

As a child, I loved Passover; the long table filled with family and friends, the songs (read: prayers) and the flourescent jelly candies. Growing up,  I  began to question the (faster, let’s eat) recitation of its Jewish, and male-centric story, and decided to create an all-embracing alternative.

We were 18 (representing chai- ‘life’ in Hebrew). We spanned the globe and easily spoke a dozen languages between us. Everyone brought a reading, a story to tell, a song. The theme was collective energy: our coming together to make the world a better place. We shared extraordinary people, epic experiences, and words: the Dalai Lama (“My religion is kindness”), the last selling (a blank page with its name) of an Iranian newspaper for social justice blacklisted by Khomeini- and the massive protest of its demise; hope born through the violent death and birth of a sheep;  Dr. Wangari Maathai- the Tree Mother of Africa; the healing karma of an Austrian at a Jewish table; a dying man singing happy songs; a poem by David Whyte that says it all, and so much more. The cynics said it was fine sentiment but that no amount of do-gooding could significantly alter the essential lousiness of the world.

Pessimism (with history on its side) was met with the deep flow of hopeful rebirth: the cultivation of inter-connectedness, positivity and love, the belief that the internet can serve as a bridge between people; the message: we are tired of being hard, and teaching our children to be hard in the name of self-protection.

No one wanted to leave the table. Let us serve each other. 

To my friends and readers: I’m sorry our table wasn’t big enough to include you all. Next year! In the meantime, why not create your own all-embracing alternative? Pot-luck!

Some interesting links… send me yours, please, let’s build a list and pass it on:

Tikkun: Network of Spiritual Progressives

Amnesty International

Common Wealth for a Crowded Planet

The Alt-Passover Plate by Ned & Brenda