Posts Tagged ‘culture’
Cindy on March 5th, 2009
“It is in playing, and perhaps only in playing, that the child is free to be creative.” — D.W. Winnicott
Mattel’s Barbie turns 50 this month, and her devoted fans are throwing birthday parties right and left. Even her biggest critics are giving the iconic doll extra points for longevity. Barbie was a huge part of my life back in the 1960s, and I’ve written a tribute to her in this week’s MIDPOINT column in The Oakland Press.* I’d love to hear from readers who want to share some happy (OR not-so-happy) memories of Barbie or other toys that populated your world when you were small. — CL
*Previous Midpoint columns are archived with links to The Oakland Press (look under CATEGORIES in the “Browse” panel at right). These columns focus on issues of special interest to women between ages 40 and 65.
Cindy on February 15th, 2009
“It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious.” — Oscar Wilde
When my son was a child, I often volunteered to help at his small parochial school. I supervised Valentine’s Day parties, traced Halloween pumpkins, carpooled for field trips, and baked countless cookies for fundraisers. In the process, I formed some warm and lasting friendships with the other volunteer moms. Except for one.
There was one mom who just didn’t like me — a mom who had a knack for making me feel like a social misfit in Mean Girls. I never figured out why. Sometimes I’d try to extend my hand in friendship, but she remained as chilly as the Eskimo Pies we handed out to the fourth graders on Ice Cream Day. It’s possible that I reminded her of an unforgivable person who’d wounded her in the past. Or maybe I said or did something to offend her. Whatever it was, my transgression remains a mystery.
Even if you’ve never been a homeroom mom, you know exactly I mean. You’ve probably got at least one social nemesis.
The woman who doesn’t like you might be the tetchy neighbor who criticizes your perennial beds or the paint color you chose for the front door. Or she’s the toxic relative who snubs you at family barbecues. And how about that envious co-worker who can’t bring herself to pay a compliment on your new blazer or congratulate you on your hard-won promotion? No matter what you say or do, you’ll never win these people over. Even when you’re as sweet as key lime pie, they’ll refuse to sit at the table of your friendship.
Sue Patton Thoele calls them “the black holes” in our personal universe. Thoele is the author of a book of inspirational essays I keep at my bedside, A Woman’s Book of Soul: Meditations for Courage, Independence & Spirit, (Conari Press). In one of the essays, Thoele recalls an awkward time when she wasn’t hitting it off with two women in her own social circle.
“The energy I put out to these women was merely absorbed as if it had disappeared into a black hole and none came back to me,” she explains. As a psychotherapist, Thoele understood that we all tend to project our unconscious feelings onto other people. She knew that the qualities we find annoying in others are often the same ones we dislike in ourselves. But it wasn’t even that complicated. The cold-shouldered women in her circle were simply the wrong candidates for her friendship.
“If we’re saddled with the belief that everyone needs to like us in order for us to be acceptable — or that we should be able to be friends with anyone — we cause ourselves a lot of pain,” Thoele explains. “We’re simply ‘energetic misses’ with some people.”
When I was a lot younger, I’d spend months trying to figure out why some relationships fly while others can’t seem to get off the ground. I struggled to understand why a simple case of envy can boil over until it scalds and spoils what might have developed into a mutually supportive alliance.
And I’m still in awe of the fact that most men, like my husband, rarely waste time wondering why some people don’t like them. They shake hands and move on. Women, however, tend to lose sleep devising ways to appease or impress folks who needn’t count so much. We work hard to avoid conflict and maintain the status quo, often at our own expense.
I know now that healthy relationships are reciprocal — a graceful dance of give-and-take. When I find myself feeling snubbed, neglected, used, or short-changed, I’ve probably stumbled into Black Hole Territory. I trust my intuition and quietly bow out.
Being authentic, after all, is a requirement for true friendship. Being authentic means that we fully own who we are — and stop trying to adapt to what others might expect of us. It can take years to arrive at that place. I’m not there yet, but I’m working on it. Meanwhile, it’s liberating to give up the notion that everyone has to uphold my political beliefs or religious convictions. It’s a relief to realize that even my closest friends and I won’t always share the same taste in books, movies, restaurants, or fashion.
I’ve finally realized, too, that there’s no shame in the fact that a few of the people I meet aren’t going to like me. And as long as I remain civil, I’m entitled to reciprocate the feeling. – Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on February 12th, 2009
“The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.” — James Taylor, American songwriter
Traveling in provincial France and Paris for our 25th anniversary, my husband and I had a rare chance to observe a lifestyle noticeably different from our own. The best souvenirs we brought back home weren’t the trinkets we’d collected from museum shops, but the sweet lessons we gleaned in French cafés. I’m sharing my “French lessons” in this Thursday’s Midpoint column in The Oakland Press.
– Click here for last week’s introductory “Midpoint” column. –
Cindy on February 7th, 2009
“The shifts of fortune will test the reliability of friends.” — Marcus Tullius Cicerco
By the time we reach midlife, most of us have splattered several dozen pages of recipes during our attempts to find the One True Cookbook. Mine is the Joy of Cooking, a household staple as dependable as milk and bread. In an era of celebrity chefs and flash-in-the-pan domestic divas, Joy proves over and over again that basic is best.
I’m also awed by the history of this old standby, now in its 75th anniversary edition. It’s a testimony to the pluck and perseverance of its original author. Irma Rombauer was exactly my age (54) when her husband died, leaving her a modest legacy of $3,000. The year was 1931, and despite the Great Depression, Rombauer decided to use the money to self-publish her first edition of Joy of Cooking.
Later, her attempts to sell the cookbook to a traditional publisher were rejected, but Rombauer refused to give up. She reworked the manuscript and re-submitted the book, and in 1936, Bobbs-Merrill released the first commercial edition of Joy with a print run of 10,000 copies. It has earned stellar reviews and a devoted following ever since.
My own copy of Joy has a history, too. It was a wedding present from Roe, an old family friend who was often described in reverential tones as “a gourmet cook.” At the time, I’d just begun my career with a publisher in Detroit, and my own culinary skills were limited to scrambling eggs and scorching chicken tenders. Opening Roe’s gift at my bridal shower, I never imagined that Joy would play such a fundamental role in future family celebrations. I tossed it carelessly under my new stash of kitchen towels and cooking gadgets — and probably didn’t express near enough appreciation to its giver.
Splashed with 28 years’ worth of stains, its yellowed pages redolent of savory spices, my 1980 edition now occupies a shelf crammed with more than 20 cookbooks. But like an old best friend, Joy of Cooking is the one I turn to first. It has followed me to four different kitchens, seeing me through countless dinner parties, family feasts, and just-plain-ordinary meals.
The chapter titled “Entertaining,” for instance, is hopelessly wrinkled from overuse. Though my mother had tried, years ago, to instruct me on the art of setting a proper table, I hadn’t paid much attention. (Do we really need bread plates?) And so, when my husband Doug and I started entertaining in the dining nook of our first apartment, I often turned to pages 18 and 19, which illustrate several variations of socially acceptable table settings.
The “Shellfish” section always stirs memories of New Year’s Eve — especially the first one Doug and I celebrated as newlyweds. Inspired by a scene in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall, I decided to cook live lobsters, using the directions on page 386. Later on, we established a new tradition of spending New Year’s Eve with our longtime friends Laurie and Dan, both of whom share the belief that every year should be begin with fabulous food. Over time, Joy has provided unforgettable recipes for many of those feasts — including the most impressive Beef Wellington we’ve ever sampled.
There were a few lean years when Joy collected dust on the kitchen shelf. The arrival of our infant son left little time or energy for anything but warming baby formula. Meanwhile, Doug and I survived on pizza and carry-out cuisine. But I didn’t completely neglect my old pal, my favorite cookbook. Even in the late 1980s, Joy outlasted our family foray into vegetarianism. (I still turned to it then for terrific dessert recipes, including the one for Brandied Peaches on page 846.)
Eventually tiring of fried tofu and wild rice, Doug and I brought a little meat and poultry back to our dinner table. Last month, for instance, we bought several pounds of spareribs, which neither of us had ever attempted to prepare.
“Should you boil spareribs before grilling them, or what?” Doug asked. Before I could take a guess, he was on his way over to the bookshelf. I was impressed, but not at all surprised, that he knew exactly which cookbook to consult. Turning to page 481 in Joy of Cooking, he rolled up his sleeves, filled the kettle, fired up the grill, and got to work. And the spareribs, by the way, tasted just right. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on February 4th, 2009
“The imagination needs moodling — long, inefficient, happy idling, dawdling, and puttering.” — Brenda Ueland
Right now, the landscape outside my office window looks more like the moon than southeast Michigan. Even when the sun shines, my seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is always at its worst in February. Meanwhile, several of my friends are heading to Florida this week. And I’m not.
When SAD strikes, I find it hard to concentrate or to get motivated. I get crabby and impatient and fed-up with people I’m usually fond of. But after years of battling it, I’ve learned that the best antidote — barring a trip to Bermuda — is a long afternoon of guilt-free puttering.
Cheaper than air fare or psychotherapy, puttering lets your mind wander while your body hangs out around the house. And unlike fall housecleaning, which involves physical energy and high-powered appliances, puttering puts you in a Zen-like state of bliss. Not to be confused with slacking, fidgeting, fiddling, or piddling, puttering is good for mental health. In fact, Brenda Ueland, author of the classic If You Want to Write, insisted that long periods of “moodling” (her word for puttering) are essential to the creative process.
Sadly, ours is a goal-directed, work-till-you-drop culture. And since most of us like to boast about how terribly busy we are, puttering is never easy to pull off.
For those who practice on the sly, like I do, puttering styles are varied and highly personal.
Puttering can be the act of sorting through a box of college textbooks in the basement; tinkering under the hood of an old Chevy; or rearranging things on a shelf while you listen to jazz on the stereo. In other words, puttering is a way of clarifying life’s myriad details, especially when it’s done with reverence for the objects at hand. It’s an opportunity to reconsider what we most enjoy in our homes, and to make a mental list of what we’d like to edit later.
Feeling sluggish and blue last week, I decided to putter in the kitchen. Taking inventory of my good china, I lost myself in happy memories of the two grandmothers who had actually used all the serving pieces for holiday dinners. I marveled, too, at how both sets of dishes have survived several moves and kitchen renovations – and somehow outlived their original owners.
If puttering still sounds like a chore you’ve postponed, it’s only because you haven’t found a method that cheers or relaxes you. One man’s notion of drudgery, after all, can be another’s idea of soul craft.
“I can’t explain it, but I enjoy doing dishes,” writes Thomas Moore, a former Catholic monk and author of Care of the Soul. “I’ve had an automatic dishwasher in my home for over a year, and I have never used it. What appeals to me, I think, is the reverie induced by going through the ritual of washing, rinsing, and drying.” Thomas Moore can come over to my house and wash dishes any time he visits Detroit (especially if his visit coincides with another power failure). Meanwhile, I’ll keep loading my dishwasher.
Still, there’s merit in savoring the ordinary tasks of daily living.
A lot of us spend our lives reaching for lofty goals, or at least trying to look productive 24/7. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing if so many of us weren’t scratching our heads and wondering what’s missing even after we’ve won all the trophies. (Consider all those baby-boomer executives who can’t wait to retire.)
“My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I’m happy. I can’t figure it out. What am I doing right?” observed Charles M. Schulz, creator of Peanuts. Charlie Brown, after all, was pretty good at puttering. — Cindy La Ferle
– Parts of this essay are excerpted from Writing Home –
