The Tarot of Tiramisu

     As I write this, the month of June is finally disappearing in the rear view mirror. We’re well out of that, boys and girls.  If June were a Tarot card, its images might include a gleaming tower in semi-collapse; a bolt of lightning zigzagging across dark skies; a river overflowing from torrents of rain; and for good measure, perhaps, a jester fumbling with a fiddle. And in the foreground, just off center, a cheery ceramic mixing bowl and a sturdy wire whisk.

     I’ve been baking these past weeks. There’s something reassuring about turning your attention away from your worries and focusing on a recipe for, say, a lemon cream cake loaded with Limoncello or an angel-light chiffon. Of course, the prospect of eating the cake once it’s out of the oven and cooled brightens the mood, but the life-affirming act of creating the treat can be its own reward.   By your own hand, the simplest ingredients – eggs, sugar, flour -- measured accurately, whipped or beaten or folded together then baked according to clear and rational directions are transformed into something beautiful, extraordinary, delectable.

     The scene outside the kitchen window might be in a state of flux and fluster, but at your oven, you regain control. You are invincible. You’ve returned order to the kingdom. Justice again prevails.  The meek shall inherit, and so forth. Somewhere, maybe in the middle of America or a small village in the south of France, after a busy restaurant has closed for the day and the front-of-the-house lights are dimmed, a baker removes his floured apron and begins to write, “The Pastry Chef’s Guide to World Domination.”

(Judgment from the Visconti-Sforza Tarot, 15th Century)

     Which is why you should make tiramisu.

     The ubiquitous Italian delight is trotted out after many a dish of pasta, and often quite badly, occasionally fruited up with in-season berries, desecrated with mounds of tinned cinnamon, or deconstructed across a cocoa-dusted plate the size of a hubcap.  It’s not been one of my favorites (too fattening, too soupy, the flavors too married), and I rarely order it when eating out. But then, June happened. Desserts acquired a food group status and climbed high on the antiquated pyramid.

     Recipes for tiramisu vary, though layering coffee or espresso-soaked ladyfingers with sweetened mascarpone and topping with chocolate are essential. Some incorporate raw egg into the cheese; I wouldn’t do that even on a dare. Some eschew alcohol and opt for rum flavoring in the “pick me up” brew, which seems unnecessarily puritanical.  Others, more traditional perhaps, instruct that one prepare first a zabaglione and also a pastry cream to add to the mascarpone before assembling. I’m exhausted just thinking about that.

     A straight-forward version, with no salmonella worries, lifted out of the ordinary through the use of homemade ladyfingers will do you proud and help lighten the atmosphere on any angst-wrought occasion.

     Recently I became acquainted with a thoughtful, accomplished woman who wields a wicked pack of Tarot cards, and I asked her to do a reading for me.  I know the cards themselves have no power, but if we allow ourselves to meditate upon the layering of images, esoteric and iconic, and what they call to our attention, they can provide snapshots into our lives.

     The final card in my reading was the eight of swords. A woman in a flowing robe, bound loosely and blindfolded, stands in a barren, watery landscape. Eight swords, plunged into the ground, partially fence her in, but the way ahead is clear. The sky is dark and foreboding, but in the distant background appears a castle on a hill.

     The meaning of course lies in the layers, in the depth of their interpretation. Much like a good tiramisu.

(The Queen of Swords, Visconti-Sforza Tarot)

      For a Halloween bash years ago, I fashioned a costume out of black and purple lace, sort of remnant shelf gypsy garb, and brought along my own deck of cards.  I had studied the history and symbolism of the tarot, finding the images beautiful and fascinating.  I could in those days provide a reading adequate for parlor games.

     While it was all in fun for my friend’s party, as I laid out the cards in the Celtic Cross for one guest, she asked, “Will I ever talk to my father again?”

     It seemed unkind to suggest she pick up the phone. As we worked through the cards, her story unfolded. Reaching out was an option. She had a say in the matter.   

     We do have options in life.  More often than not, we have a choice. And while some occurrences are truly beyond our control, dessert is not one of them.

Send me an email if you'd like the recipe for tiramisu and homemade lady fingers. This column appears in the the August 2013 issue of The North Star Monthly.  Check out their site:

http://www.northstarmonthly.com

The Real White Queen

For those of us who loved "The Tudors," a new series, "The White Queen," is coming to Starz August 10th. Described thus: "Three different yet equally relentless women will scheme, manipulate, and seduce their way onto the English throne." Which sounds like fine Saturday night entertainment to me.

Interested in a little historical grounding of the story of the women at the heart of "The Cousins War"? Philippa Gregory, author of five novels set during the era, as well as The Other Boleyn Girl and numerous other books that have garnered awards and been adapted to the screen, narrates this excellent two-part BBC Series, "The Real White Queen and Her Rivals."  Click on the links below to watch.


The White Queen and Her Rivals, Part One


The White Queen and Her Rivals, Part Two

Broken for You

   

     He could have been anyone, I thought: a businessman, a salesman, a computer whiz for hire. Any one of the young professionals you might encounter in the course of a day.

     The conference keynote speaker wore a dark suit; a white shirt; a neat, subdued tie. His thick brown hair parted cleanly away from a handsome, all-American face. He towered above the podium, and as he began to speak -- calmly, confidently – a few slides of a boy of five or six appeared on the wide screen behind him.

    The subject was child abuse, or more precisely, the healing journey after.  With hard-won equanimity, the young man on the stage recounted his victimization at the hands of a next-door neighbor and charted the efforts of the organization he directs to help other survivors.

     In truth, it wasn’t a speech I’d looked forward to hearing. In prior years, I had participated in this annual conference on violence, and after sharing my own past in breakout sessions, found it tough to take in any more pain.  But I was intrigued with this speaker, with the friendly though focused manner about him, his ability to both surprise and connect with the audience of some five hundred crime victims, advocates, and social workers.

     From him, I learned not only a few startling facts (one out of five boys suffers abuse; most sexual assaults in the military are committed upon males), but also a new word: kintsukuroi, a Japanese term that means to repair something with a gold or silver lacquer, and in doing so, to understand that the piece is more beautiful because it has been broken.  

   Of course, the speaker wasn’t discussing porcelain repair, but the mending of the spirit, of the soul. It was a concept that resonated with me; it underscored a segment in my own talk about embracing the totality of one’s life, even those tragic “broken” pieces, accepting each part of yourself and your past as a gift, something of a miracle.

     I jotted down the word and definition, as did the friend who sat to my left, and when I returned from the conference, I asked Don Bredes, novelist and, most recently, author of the Hector Bellevance suspense series, if he knew of an English equivalent.  He did not. “What's more,” he added, “I doubt there's even an equivalent concept in Western culture. Westerners understand how age and wear may impart a measure of beauty to all kinds of things, but my sense is that here, generally speaking, broken is broken, and broken is flawed; therefore, any evidence of a repair is best hidden or disguised.”

     Broken is broken.

     We hold this true of things, and even more so of ourselves, going to extremes to mask what’s broken inside and to fix what’s irregular on the outside, perhaps in part because of our culture. But also something more innate is at work: a symmetry of facial features and the body proportions that signal fertility register as profoundly beautiful to us deep in our psyches. As Denis Dutton, philosopher and author of “The Art Instinct,” suggested, we are “hardwired” to seek out beauty of all sorts.

     The French might applaud the odd and interesting qualities of the “jolie laide” -- as one critic put it, “the aesthetic pleasures of the visually off kilter” -- but it’s youth and perfection that win the highest acclaim everywhere. A stroll along the cosmetic corridor of any corner drugstore confirms this.  And how many of us who grew up with “character building” crooked teeth here in the land of plenty would allow our children to suffer the same fate?

     Then there are gashes and gaps within. While we might say, “That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,” we don’t rush to equate inner strength with beauty. We acknowledge it in the extraordinary few, in others such as Nelson Mandela or Aung San Suu Kyi, though their appearance would win praise regardless.  When confronted with troubles beyond the expected, with emotional wounds that reach far below the surface, our first instinct might not be to strengthen and heal, but to adeptly conceal. We mistakenly assume a stoic façade is the equal of a more demanding amalgamation.

     Healing is hard work. It takes time and conscious effort. Quicker and easier to camouflage or to patch, as I have done in the past, with bitterness and a dose of nerve. To heal, to achieve something more lasting, more resilient and precious, takes, as  “Wayward Monk” Shozan Jack Haubner puts it, the desire to “turn suffering into love.”

    “We’re worth more broken,” a character asserts in Stephanie Kallos’s bestseller, “Broken for You,” a novel that explores how a shattered heart can heal, and at a pivotal point, describes the destruction of a great deal of costly porcelain. As a collector who takes delight in setting the holiday table with Rose Medallion China or hand-painted Bavarian pieces, I nearly shouted, “Oh, c’mon! Nobody would do that!”  But I’m reminded here of an aunt and uncle who, during arguments early in their 50-year marriage, seemed to toss a quite a bit of their wedding china at one another. Luckily, they were both bad shots.

     Kallos’s heroine turns the shards into glorious mosaics. My relatives probably just swept up the pieces and tossed them. But they fashioned a long and genuinely happy life together.

    

The ancient art of kintsukuroi is a worthy meditation. Whether we make a medley of our past and our imperfections, or are able to mend the breaks with a curative essence that both binds and illuminates the cracks, the key lies in embracing what is -- not hiding or obscuring, not cementing in haste, but accepting each part of the whole.

     The young man standing tall at the podium, who held out his hand to the image of the vulnerable boy with his back against the broad trunk of a tree, displayed another slide: one with his wife, the couple smiling broadly, dressed for a mountain hike under a bright sun.  He showed those of us at the conference that even the most grievous fissures can be joined with the precious metals of love and compassion, show not only to others, but to ourselves as well.  

 This "Big Crazy Life" column appeared in the July 2013 issue of  The North Star Monthly.  Visit the website:

 The North Star Monthly

The Unbearable Lightness of Being Gustav

Gustav is my 110-pound Tamaskan, a relatively new breed, a mix of Husky, 

Eskimo Dog, and German Shepherd bred to look like wolves. 

Convincing, don't you think?

He has a fine disposition, Gustav. 

Just the right mix of goofy friendliness with family, aloofness with strangers, 

and ferocity when such a demeanor is helpful. 

But he is not generous in spirit with other creatures. 

He fails entirely to see the point of cats.

 Wildlife hasn't much of a chance with him.

Isn't this raccoon who visited our feeders cute? 

Over the winter, not one but two raccoons -- and a skunk --

made the mistake of crossing paths with Gustav.

Poor raccoons. Poor skunk. 

Lately Gustav has taken to climbing up on this Victorian settee and peering out the window. 

Occasionally, he naps there or just sits, as if waiting for tea to be served.

 It's odd. 

Gustav spends much of his mornings as my personal writing coach, 

working exclusively on plot innovation.

"What should Charlene do now?" I ask. 

Almost any scene can be improved by barking, growling, romping, 

and the occasional shredding of dish towels. 

He helps as he can, but deep down I fear he finds 

my literary pursuits derivative and pretentious 

and wishes he were Margaret Atwood's dog instead.

This is Gustav's little brother, Hugo, who was lost the day after Christmas, 2011. 

The story is too sad to relate here.

For weeks and weeks, Gustav searched the house and yard, 

and howled through the night for Hugo. 

Eventually, our hearts healed.

Hugo, I'm convinced, is busy having adventures, solving mysteries, 

and chasing bad guys with his great friend, Tatiana. 

He will live on in books for children. 

Now Gustav only howls when the train lumbers by. 

Quite something to hear, though it can be difficult to explain 

when you're in the middle of a conversation on the phone. 

As you might have guessed, English is not Gustav's native tongue.

Even so, he has does have a useful vocabulary at his command:

As you can see, certain expected words and phrases

  -- such as sit; stay; come; here, boy: heel; and please do not eat my favorite stilettos -- 

are absent from Gustav's word cloud.

 Suffice it to say Rosetta Stone is not for him.

Gustav is his own dog.

He votes his conscience, buys local and organic when possible, and invests responsibly.

He exercises and watches his weight, though last winter he did pack on a few.

Still, his self-esteem was not diminished. 

He didn't ask, "Does this fur make me look fat?"

Now that I think about it, not once has he turned down a glazed donut 

or a second helping of pasta carbonara. 

Nor has he suggested that I need to do so.  

This makes up for never offering to do the dishes.

Estella Virginia

It could not have been an easy life. And it was short.

She gave birth at 15 and buried her husband before she turned 20. Desperately poor, she and my grandfather shared small quarters with her widowed Virginia-born mother, who moved north to Philadelphia after the Civil War. Family lore says their apartment was furnished with orange crates.

A second marriage ten years later led to an estrangement with her son, her only child. She spent the last years of her life toiling as a housekeeper. She was dead by 48.

Her given name was Estella Virginia Neals.  She married first a Buel, who at birth had been, most likely, a Bull. Spelling was creative in those times; she’s Estalla in one document, Stella in another; her surnames variously end with an E, an S, or in double L. She was my great-grandmother, and I know almost nothing about her.

When my father’s sister, Ada Virginia, passed away several years ago, I inherited my Aunt Ginny’s journals, a bundle of yellowing documents related to her nursing career, and a plastic bag stuffed with old family photographs.  In the interest of preserving history, I put the precious photos – the grayed and sepia-hued cabinet cards on heavy stock, the few tintypes, the miniature snapshots from the 1920s and 30s, the washed out Polaroid prints – in a very safe place, and promptly forgot all about them, including where I’d stashed the lot. It took several weeks of methodical searching before I finally found them, quite tidy and safe indeed, in of all places a plastic box on the floor of my office closet.

On the whole, they are a solemn bunch, the individuals who stare out of the nearly 80 images.  In the older portraits, those taken before the turn of the 20^th Century, they stand erect before draped or fancifully painted backdrops, or sit straight-backed in wicker thrones unlikely to have graced any sun porch of their own. Their Sunday best costumes are seeded with pearl buttons or adorned with lace. The women’s crisp white blouses gather into full skirts, showing off tiny waists.  Their hairstyles are disciplined and occasionally severe, the crowing glory artfully gathered or pomaded into place.

It’s clear those having their portraits made brought to their sittings the gravitas that the rarity and expense of the occasion deserved.  Serious expressions dominate. The only wide smile belongs to the lovely and sought-after Great Aunt Fanny; she had, I for some reason believed, four husbands, though photos and historical archives document only one, a dapper gent in a straw boater hat and a finely tailored suit.  

How each in the procession of her fabled spouses might have – in his turn -- made way for the next is a troubling thought.  Maybe in the retelling of family myth, multiple suitors grew into the handful of husbands. I am unwilling to imagine the vivacious Fanny -- in one photo a euphoric young mother, lifting a pretty child dressed in baptismal whites --donning the heavy garments of mourning again and again. 

But of all the somber photos in the trove my Aunt Ginny left behind, the saddest faces belong to Estella and the man her son grew to become. Can you inherit melancholy? Can deprivation as a child leave you forever longing, forever afraid of further loss?

And he would know loss, my grandfather. His father, Walter Augustus, died at 26 of “Erupyemia” and was buried in a casket described only as “plain.” His first wife, my father’s mother, would die young as well, of an ear infection that spread to the brain. We forget that death was so close at hand in those days, and hospital care largely a luxury for the well-off. 

What must life have been like for my grandfather and the women who raised him, crowded together in Philadelphia’s Ward 14 at the turn of the 20th century?  How did an empty apartment fare in comparison with what the Neals had left behind in the South? It’s impossible to know.

My grandfather, Harry Buel, left home in his teens. He became a conductor, working out of the train station in Wilmington. I have one photo of him in uniform looking up from an assortment of schedules, and another posing on the tracks. He wore a shirt and tie, another sort of uniform, when he drove down to see us on the farm in Sussex County, Delaware.

When we visited his home in Wilmington, he let me pass the time in his office, reading his photography guidebooks, peering through pages fitted with circles of colored plastic demonstrating the effects of different lenses.  I’d sit on the floor and study his set of Funk & Wagnalls, where I learned about the lineage of the British monarchy and the discovery of Java man. Why I remember these two entries in combination is anyone’s guess.

My father with stepmother, Minerva, and father, Harry

My father’s stepmother, Minerva, was an invalid when I knew her. She did not ever, as I recall, rise from her bed upon our arrival. My only memory of her takes place in her sickroom. I climbed the stairs alone and stood anxiously by her beside; I was probably no more than ten.  She looked at me and said, “For a little girl, you have very big feet.”

From what I know of the woman, I believe it’s fair to interpret this remark as representative of her essential nature.  She entered my father’s life early, not long after his real mother died. There’s a photo of my father as a young boy, sitting on the porch steps between his dad and Minerva, head in his hands, his face revealing grueling boredom.

The family photographs have captivated my imagination and spurred me to spend far too much time on Internet sites devoted to genealogy. It’s been a fascinating journey, rewarding though frustrating, too. Mistakes abound in these old documents, or in their transcriptions. And  -- newsflash – people lie to census takers. Not that I want to indict the character of any of my forbearers.  I’m sure they had their reasons. Let’s just say personal histories can vary substantially, depending upon the audience.

Estella appears in only three of the images. In the earliest, she is a very young woman, a dark, slender figure, her black hair parted and rolled away from a face that is both lovely and wistful. In another, she is seated with her mother, Emma. Estella wears a high collared dress; ornate buttons embellish the neck. Her beautiful hair is rolled into a semblance of a Gibson Girl style. The older woman wears a white blouse and rimless spectacles. Her hair is tightly crimped and caught at the top of her head.

Between them stands my young grandfather in a heavy suit with a vest. His neck is fitted with a tall, stiff collar.  A slight smile crosses his lips; the knot of a fancy tie sits askew at his throat.  All three look not at us, but at some point beyond the photographer’s right shoulder.

There’s a final image – a broken, deteriorating tintype -- of the three along with an old woman I cannot identify.  All four are garbed in bathing outfits of the era, the women in dark, knee-length dresses with wide ribbon adorning the hems of full skirts, outlining collars and the cuffs of puffy sleeves. My grandfather is closely shorn, seated in front of the women, knobby knees emerging from long bathing shorts.  He gazes directly at the camera.

So does Estella. But in the photo, she’s a different woman.  She’s in her late twenties at most, but has the appearance of a woman much older. Her mouth is tight; the lines around it are deep. Shadows above and beneath her eyes that in youth were mild and lent a little mystery are now defined and dark. They scream fatigue. A certain resignation seems to inform her features and her posture as she leans toward the middle of the frame, her head propped up on an elbow that rests on a column for support.

Only a little of the backdrop can be discerned. I can make out the bold stripes of a lighthouse. It’s meant to be festive, of course, the photographer’s set and scene: the family outing, the beach holiday. My great-grandmother’s expression betrays the farce.

As much as I cherish these photos, and have reveled in diving into the family past and supplying as best I can the branches of the tree with full names and verifiable dates, I remain haunted by these images of Estella.

Who was she, this young woman with the dark, faraway eyes? What were her dreams, and her mother’s for her, and hers for her son?

I wish I could fill in the wide, dim spaces of what I know of her life, and rewrite for her a far better ending.

--------------------------

This column first appeared in the May 2012 issue of The North Star Monthly.

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