Just finished Jeffrey Steingarten's It Must Have Been Something I Ate and, aside from giving me a powerful desire to make fruit tarts, it's got me thinking.
Steingarten loves food. In all its forms. Fancy, greasy, insectoid, raw, and haute. He is singularly open-minded about what he eats and will spend vast sums of money and time to find the perfect version of something. He spent something like $4,000 on caviar within a few months to determine which kind was the best. In his previous book he determined "scientifically" that Heinz 57 is indeed the world's most perfect catsup (by trying upwards of 40 brands with fresh McDonald's fries).
What concerns me is the implication that there can be only one ideal of any given food. Or object or person or trait, for that matter. Take pizza: there's New York style and Chicago style, just to name two. New York style is thin and crispy on the bottom, most sellers crisping it up in their ovens just before you eat it. It's huge and greasy and satisfying. Chicago style is deep-dish, sometimes with more than one crust. It's rich and overwhelming and satisfying. They're both fantastic, they're both pizza and, as my Loving Husband would say, why choose between the two? Why does one have to be better than the other? The same could be said for BBQ. I know, it's an age-old controversy--dry vs. wet, tomato vs. vinegar vs. mustard vs. something else, beef vs. pork vs. mutton vs. poultry. Loving Husband and I have eaten a lot of BBQ. We have taken at least one vacation with the destination chosen solely because of the BBQ establishments. Certainly there have been times we didn't like the food offered, but not because of a particular style but because that style wasn't done well. Why does one style have to be the best BBQ ever? And again, Steingarten writes about the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe (Toll House, of course), that it must be yielding but not cake-like, crisp but not crumbly, etc. In theory I agree. And most folk of any discernment would say that store-bought chocolate chip cookies are kind of crap. But one, be-all and end-all, perfect, ultimate recipe? I think not.
Perhaps this is why I'm an Episcopalian--we are, at least on paper, interested in the best of all sides, willing to have space at the table for vinegar BBQ sauce lovers and tomato-based sauce lovers, crisp and cake-y cookie lovers alike. There is such joy in being open to a multitude of tastes and people. Why restrict a church and even the Kingdom of heaven to only those people and theologies that we ourselves espouse? Why not see the beauty in each person, in each image of God, in each pot-luck dish and celebrate it as a gift from God?
Steingarten loves food. In all its forms. Fancy, greasy, insectoid, raw, and haute. He is singularly open-minded about what he eats and will spend vast sums of money and time to find the perfect version of something. He spent something like $4,000 on caviar within a few months to determine which kind was the best. In his previous book he determined "scientifically" that Heinz 57 is indeed the world's most perfect catsup (by trying upwards of 40 brands with fresh McDonald's fries).
What concerns me is the implication that there can be only one ideal of any given food. Or object or person or trait, for that matter. Take pizza: there's New York style and Chicago style, just to name two. New York style is thin and crispy on the bottom, most sellers crisping it up in their ovens just before you eat it. It's huge and greasy and satisfying. Chicago style is deep-dish, sometimes with more than one crust. It's rich and overwhelming and satisfying. They're both fantastic, they're both pizza and, as my Loving Husband would say, why choose between the two? Why does one have to be better than the other? The same could be said for BBQ. I know, it's an age-old controversy--dry vs. wet, tomato vs. vinegar vs. mustard vs. something else, beef vs. pork vs. mutton vs. poultry. Loving Husband and I have eaten a lot of BBQ. We have taken at least one vacation with the destination chosen solely because of the BBQ establishments. Certainly there have been times we didn't like the food offered, but not because of a particular style but because that style wasn't done well. Why does one style have to be the best BBQ ever? And again, Steingarten writes about the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe (Toll House, of course), that it must be yielding but not cake-like, crisp but not crumbly, etc. In theory I agree. And most folk of any discernment would say that store-bought chocolate chip cookies are kind of crap. But one, be-all and end-all, perfect, ultimate recipe? I think not.
Perhaps this is why I'm an Episcopalian--we are, at least on paper, interested in the best of all sides, willing to have space at the table for vinegar BBQ sauce lovers and tomato-based sauce lovers, crisp and cake-y cookie lovers alike. There is such joy in being open to a multitude of tastes and people. Why restrict a church and even the Kingdom of heaven to only those people and theologies that we ourselves espouse? Why not see the beauty in each person, in each image of God, in each pot-luck dish and celebrate it as a gift from God?
I can't help but feel guilty on my day off. This morning, I got up around 6:30am, ate breakfast and...wait for it...went back to bed for 2 1/2 hours. Then read things on the internets, read some comics, did a few dishes, made a dinner reservation, ate lunch, read Loving Husband's Harper's magazine. It's been a good, quiet morning, precisely what a day off should be. And yet I feel guilty.
I should be ironing LH's work shirts for next week or spending quality time with the sewing machine and worship banners or cleaning the bathrooms or burying the compost or subjecting the basement to CleanFest 08. And here I sit updating the blog I have ignored for weeks.
At the end of the day, I'll no doubt cry, "I haven't done enough" and shake my fist dramatically at the ceiling. But I'm trying to let that go. Our culture is so fast-paced and pushy, we can't help but feel guilty or twitchy when not accomplishing something. Qoheleth would remind us that fast or slow, there is nothing new under the sun and everything we do is like chasing after the wind. Some might find that depressing, but I find it calming. Things fall apart, it says. Some things remain. You have no control and, far from filling me with fear, that thought gives me permission to let go.
I should be ironing LH's work shirts for next week or spending quality time with the sewing machine and worship banners or cleaning the bathrooms or burying the compost or subjecting the basement to CleanFest 08. And here I sit updating the blog I have ignored for weeks.
At the end of the day, I'll no doubt cry, "I haven't done enough" and shake my fist dramatically at the ceiling. But I'm trying to let that go. Our culture is so fast-paced and pushy, we can't help but feel guilty or twitchy when not accomplishing something. Qoheleth would remind us that fast or slow, there is nothing new under the sun and everything we do is like chasing after the wind. Some might find that depressing, but I find it calming. Things fall apart, it says. Some things remain. You have no control and, far from filling me with fear, that thought gives me permission to let go.
EDIT: Photo taken at the Underground Railroad Freedom Center in Cincinnati, Ohio in 2007.
“School’s out for summer!”
Yeah, except that it’s started already for Walnut Hills and everyone else’s going back any day now. And I’m freaking out about curriculum and planning for being gone with the baby. What happened to the summer?
It’s late and I’m here at Redeemer typing away to the low hum and vibration of the industrial air conditioning. It may just be my imagination, but I think I can see the fluorescent lights flickering. I am surrounded by bits of paper—Time and Talent printouts, Youth Council agendas with movie lists on the back, magazines I meant to read a month ago which are still open to the fascinating article I bookmarked, Banquet bulletins to correct. I’ve had four back-to-back meetings today and still didn’t get everything done that I should have.
Seems like summer vacation wasn’t very vacation-y. You ever have that feeling? I was sick over my Spring Break, too, if you can believe it. But if I think about it clearly, there were moments—even whole series of moments—when I felt at peace this summer. Days when I didn’t have anything or anyone pressing on my time and I could sit around or work on a project and feel content. Like I could breathe or like a light breeze blew in to cool my skin.
It’s easy to forget those moments—and I know you had them, too—it’s easy to forget that we had some time off, some peace, some chillaxin’, some vacation. It’s easy to forget that in the sudden running around of school starting.
Try.
Yeah, except that it’s started already for Walnut Hills and everyone else’s going back any day now. And I’m freaking out about curriculum and planning for being gone with the baby. What happened to the summer?
It’s late and I’m here at Redeemer typing away to the low hum and vibration of the industrial air conditioning. It may just be my imagination, but I think I can see the fluorescent lights flickering. I am surrounded by bits of paper—Time and Talent printouts, Youth Council agendas with movie lists on the back, magazines I meant to read a month ago which are still open to the fascinating article I bookmarked, Banquet bulletins to correct. I’ve had four back-to-back meetings today and still didn’t get everything done that I should have.
Seems like summer vacation wasn’t very vacation-y. You ever have that feeling? I was sick over my Spring Break, too, if you can believe it. But if I think about it clearly, there were moments—even whole series of moments—when I felt at peace this summer. Days when I didn’t have anything or anyone pressing on my time and I could sit around or work on a project and feel content. Like I could breathe or like a light breeze blew in to cool my skin.
It’s easy to forget those moments—and I know you had them, too—it’s easy to forget that we had some time off, some peace, some chillaxin’, some vacation. It’s easy to forget that in the sudden running around of school starting.
Try.
Navajo roads are something else. For one thing, "road" isn't entirely accurate. "Dirt track" or "suggested pathway" might serve better. We're used to paved roads wherever we go, roads which sometimes develop potholes or cracks but which, sooner or later, are repaired and we go on our merry way, rarely thinking about the ground beneath our feet.
On the reservation of the Navajo Nation in Arizona and Utah, most roads are unpaved. There are a few major highways which the state keeps up, but if you spend any time on the reservation, most will be on dirt roads. You drive on hot, orange sand tracks, some as wide as 3 lanes of traffic, some narrow enough for a single vehicle, some merely hints of a direction leading away from where you are. Either side of the road is banked and covered with desert flora—tumbleweed, etc. You can look across the desert towards a distant mesa and think that it's quite close, perhaps a mile or two, and know that it's at least 3-6 miles away.
One of the first things you might notice when driving from point A to point B on the reservation is that there is no straight line connecting the two. Even the main road meanders around the bases of mesas, connecting homes to one another rather than creating an efficient route and expecting homeowners to make their own ways. You drive in large arcs, sweeping around a valley in a way that suggests the road's architects knew what they were doing—each turn shows you a new side of the mesa you're approaching. There might be a quicker way to get across Chee Valley, but the Navajo seem uninterested in it.
The next thing you might notice is that there are no street signs. There is no direction whatsoever to reassure you that you're on the right road nor to suggest where you might turn. Driving on the reservation is intuitive. I asked our brother Tono Haycock once how they give one another directions and he said, "We don't." They just know where they're going and where everyone lives. For us white folks, we have to navigate from memory, learning where the bumps and dips are, physically remembering which turn to take and which mesa is home.
And once you reach your destination, you'll find an entirely different network of roads—almost every home on the reservation is surrounded by several interconnected paths which lead you to the different living spaces they've created. One goes semi-directly to the main house. A couple branch off towards livestock areas which in turn have roads back to the main house and each other. There might be another home on the property or garage or shed which has its own set of roads leading back. And there are usually at least two ways to leave from the compound. The options are almost endless.
You might say my point here is obvious—we are all following some sort of road in our lives. Your path is much different than mine, but they all seem to sway back and forth without signs to show us the correct way. Because there is no correct way. You are moving towards a destination (eternal life in community with God) yet how you get there is unclear. If you take this turn or that, it may seem that you are in fact moving away from your goal, but another turn brings you leaps and bounds closer. You can get mired down in the short, interconnected roads near home and never realize there's a glorious panorama outside your comfort zone. And so on.
Yet this journey image of life is not at all obvious. How often do you find yourself so focused on a task that you've lost the big picture? How often do you find yourself arguing for a single, exclusive understanding of a situation at work or at church and unable to acknowledge that others might also have the truth? How often do you find yourself wishing things were simpler, clearer, more obvious to you and those around you? As bumpy as they can be, driving the reservation roads each year refocuses my mind and heart—let it go, they seem to say. Just follow the path, take things as they come, pay attention to the other people you're with on the path, let it go.
On the reservation of the Navajo Nation in Arizona and Utah, most roads are unpaved. There are a few major highways which the state keeps up, but if you spend any time on the reservation, most will be on dirt roads. You drive on hot, orange sand tracks, some as wide as 3 lanes of traffic, some narrow enough for a single vehicle, some merely hints of a direction leading away from where you are. Either side of the road is banked and covered with desert flora—tumbleweed, etc. You can look across the desert towards a distant mesa and think that it's quite close, perhaps a mile or two, and know that it's at least 3-6 miles away.
One of the first things you might notice when driving from point A to point B on the reservation is that there is no straight line connecting the two. Even the main road meanders around the bases of mesas, connecting homes to one another rather than creating an efficient route and expecting homeowners to make their own ways. You drive in large arcs, sweeping around a valley in a way that suggests the road's architects knew what they were doing—each turn shows you a new side of the mesa you're approaching. There might be a quicker way to get across Chee Valley, but the Navajo seem uninterested in it.
The next thing you might notice is that there are no street signs. There is no direction whatsoever to reassure you that you're on the right road nor to suggest where you might turn. Driving on the reservation is intuitive. I asked our brother Tono Haycock once how they give one another directions and he said, "We don't." They just know where they're going and where everyone lives. For us white folks, we have to navigate from memory, learning where the bumps and dips are, physically remembering which turn to take and which mesa is home.
And once you reach your destination, you'll find an entirely different network of roads—almost every home on the reservation is surrounded by several interconnected paths which lead you to the different living spaces they've created. One goes semi-directly to the main house. A couple branch off towards livestock areas which in turn have roads back to the main house and each other. There might be another home on the property or garage or shed which has its own set of roads leading back. And there are usually at least two ways to leave from the compound. The options are almost endless.
You might say my point here is obvious—we are all following some sort of road in our lives. Your path is much different than mine, but they all seem to sway back and forth without signs to show us the correct way. Because there is no correct way. You are moving towards a destination (eternal life in community with God) yet how you get there is unclear. If you take this turn or that, it may seem that you are in fact moving away from your goal, but another turn brings you leaps and bounds closer. You can get mired down in the short, interconnected roads near home and never realize there's a glorious panorama outside your comfort zone. And so on.
Yet this journey image of life is not at all obvious. How often do you find yourself so focused on a task that you've lost the big picture? How often do you find yourself arguing for a single, exclusive understanding of a situation at work or at church and unable to acknowledge that others might also have the truth? How often do you find yourself wishing things were simpler, clearer, more obvious to you and those around you? As bumpy as they can be, driving the reservation roads each year refocuses my mind and heart—let it go, they seem to say. Just follow the path, take things as they come, pay attention to the other people you're with on the path, let it go.
I am in the middle of reading a book called Gould's Book of Fish: A Novel in Twelve Fish by Richard Flanagan. It's very weird in an 18th-century meets Fight Club meets Griffin and Sabine sort of way. At the moment, it feels very physical, very dense, very difficult but true. Here's a taste from the narrator and fish-painter:
They diminish me with their definitions, but I am William Buelow Gould, not a small or mean man. I am not contained between my toes & my turf but am infinite as sand.
Come closer, listen: I will tell you why I crawl close to the ground: because I choose to. Because I care not to live above it like they may fancy is the way to live, the place to be, so that they in their eyries & guard towers might look down on the earth & us & judge it all as wanting.
I care not to paint pretend pictures of long views which blur the particular & insult the living, those landscapes so beloved of the Pobjoys, those landscapes that trash the truth as they reach ever upwards into the sky, as though we only know somewhere or somebody from a distance--that's the lie of the land while the truth is never far away but up close in the dirt, in the vile details of slime & scale & filth along with the Devil, along with the angels, & all snared within the earth & us, all embodied in a single pulse of a heart--mine, yours, ours--& all my subject as I take aim & make of the fish flesh incarnate.