How to Penetrate a Pool of Agar Agar-Firmed Panna Cotta

Dinner was prepared for me last night by a dear friend/family member/acquaintance/stranger (ambiguity protects anonymity). It was delicious: fake meatballs and brown gravy over brown basmati rice with maple sugar and peppered asparagus. For dessert, this lovely person had prepared an Italian specialty of vegan panna cotta covered with a chunky mango and lime zest sauce (exactly like the one above but with a different sauce.) To make it vegan, she used a sea weed-derived white powder called agar agar instead of gelatin (which contains ground horse hooves). Agar agar is common-place in Asian countries, used more often than gelatin, so it’s not a strange thing to use in a dish. The thing is, it sets up quicker and more firmly than gelatin. Now, to her credit, she followed a recipe by a woman who has written a cookbook of nothing but panna cotta iterations, and the recipe did call for agar agar specifically. So, when our initial delight at how easily and beautifully it broke free of the heart-shaped molds—it did not crack or fall apart at all—turned to doubt about its compact density, I placed absolutely no blame on this friend-stranger. The mango-lime sauce (partially her own creation) was delectable and fresh, and the panna cotta itself had a delicious, hint-of-vanilla taste. But the consistency was a different story. It was something close to wax lips or cold lard, or if you could imagine a more opaque, solid Jell-O. The cutting edge of the spoon hesitated and quivered slightly upon first entry, then tinged the plate sharply when the heart was finally run through. It broke up in the mouth like wax lips that would not re-coalesce. We did have a good chuckle over it, but actually everyone at the table ate most if not all of the dish—it was good!

So this is really an entry about being gracious. I truly appreciated the meal, was genuinely grateful for the effort. But once we could tell she wasn’t going to break into hysterics over the partially-botched dessert, we began to gently rib her about it. I indicated that it may be more fun to swim in than to eat, though the dense consistency could make it difficult, initially, to penetrate and maneuver in. But mostly I nodded and commented on how nicely her addition of lime zest complimented the mango. I am not one to turn my nose up at a generous gesture, to look a gift horse in the mouth, to be a “choosing beggar.” In fact, as the thought entered my mind as to how this foreign matter would fare in my digestive system, another turn of phrase came to mind: “This, too, shall pass.” And I smiled happily through several more bites. Because the person who prepared this thoughtful creation for me may as well be a blood-relative (not to say that she isn’t—anonymity), and you know what they say, “blood is thicker than water”…though not thicker than that panna cotta—oh, zinger!! Though our close relationship would have permitted some candid criticism, disappointed exasperation, or outright whining on my part, I instead gained access to my terribly underdeveloped magnanimous side (do I sound like Margery Kempe?) and bit the gelatinous bullet, as it were. So, how do you penetrate an awkward or potentially hurtful situation with a loved one? One spoonful at a time.

UPDATE: B served up a second attempt this week, with half the amount of agar agar and strawberries instead of mango-lime sauce. This time, it was very nice. Much more palatable and, I must say, swimable.

De revolutionibus orbium coelestium

I was musing the other day on the relative primitiveness of "us," this current human civilization. With the advent of carbon dating, archeological excavations, and other scientific breakthroughs, we seem to be much more adept at seeing backward than we are at looking ahead. We can look back today on prehistoric peoples that had little awareness of the next village over, let alone their geographic location in the world. We were amused as school children by misguided stories that Columbus may have been afraid of sailing off the edge of the earth. We find these ancient civilizations unevolved and primal. Indeed, we have come a long way since some version of the flat earth concept was pop science, but are we not just as geocentric in our views today as the sixteenth-century Copernican detractors? We can no more conceptualize a light-year than Cro-Magnon man could conceive of a nautical mile, and we are no more aware of other life forms (ok, aliens) than the Mesopotamians were of the Incas.

To get to my point, I believe we are now in view of another Copernican Revolution, and that humans many generations from now (if the earth is still able to sustain our population in many generations) will look back on us, in the 2000s, as a mole-like culture only able to visualize our immediate environment. We will be their ancients. If you search YouTube for “The Most Important Image Ever Taken,” you will see a short video on the deep space images captured by the Hubble Telescope. The narrator explains that, even in a patch of night sky that appears dark and vacant to our eye, there are billions of galaxies that contain ever more billions of stars not unlike our sun, which could conceivably be orbited by billions of planets not unlike our own. With this knowledge, are we really to hold fast to the narcissistic sixteenth-century notion that we are the center of the universe, that we are the only ones?

Anyway, all of this brought to mind an old poem that has been a favorite of mine since I was a teenager:

EARTH

If this little world to-night
Suddenly should fall through space
In a hissing, headlong flight,
As it falls into the sun,
In an instant every trace
Of little crawling things--
Ants, philosophers, and lice,
Cattle, cockroaches, and kings,
Beggers, millionaires, and mice,
Men and maggots all as one
As it falls into the Sun. . .
Who can say but at the same
Instant from some planet far,
A child may watch us and exclaim
“See the pretty shooting star!”

Oliver Herford, The Bashful Earthquake, 1898

This delightful verse, written 70 years before man landed on the moon, debunks our own self-importance, both in biological and social classification (a millionaire is no better than a maggot in an apocalypse), as well as among the other inhabitants of deep space. It also helps to soften the impact (pun intended) of the realization of our eventual destruction; it makes it all so...pretty. But the actual light at the end of this tunnel vision comes with the conclusion that, while human beings may not be vitally important, and while all the “little crawling things” of Earth are nothing if not inconsequential, the same cannot be said for the individual. The parts are greater than the whole. Like the starfish tossed back to the safety of the sea by the kind passerby, we are all dependent on and important to someone. It’s true, we can hardly claim to call ourselves a speck within the vastness of the universe. But to someone, I alone may be colossal.

Why not...a first-draft poem:

Second Nature

The Kashmiri leather of this new journal
has not become creased with use.
The empty pages fan out endlessly
with some potential and some obligation.
I am a pitiful site to behold,
near thirty with much space and little talent.
Yet I have untied the beaded straps
from around the cover with an intention.
I must imprint on these sheets truths and lies
more lovely than the embossing that hides them.

My love stands engaged at the stove,
stirring in spices with a wooden spoon.
In a moment she brings the spoon to her lips
and blows away a wisp of steam.
She knows easily what is needed
and casually takes another jar from the rack.
She would not mar handmade pages
with strike-outs and second attempts.
I think I will begin with the way
yellow curry falls from her fingertips.

Happy Day, Valentine

I love you.

Embarrassing admission #246: places i’ve squatted.

I've done it only twice in the past, probably, 10 years. Both dire emergencies. Both on the historic homesteads of famous authors. Some years ago, Carl Sandburg, Hendersonville, NC. Some months ago, Robert Frost, East Middlebury, VT. (Please don’t ask for the photographic evidence.)

UPDATE: Again recently, I found myself in this precarious position while taking the kids on a search for a haunted graveyard. I guess the spirit of the dead just has this adverse effect on me!

My Fashion Faux Pause

In high school I found two outlets for my self-expression. First, I wrote painful poetry with titles such as “Bereft” and “Desolate.” Inspiration would strike me suddenly, and I would fall to the floor amid the current of students and scrawl stanzas that captured my deepest teenage emotions. I spent most of two years in geometry and algebra II facing backwards in the classroom (or out in the hallway) filling the pages of my notebooks—no wonder I didn’t become a mathematician or chemist; thanks Mr. Gilbert and Mrs. Poor! The second manifestation of my budding independent spirit and requisite rebellion against my parents, the hallmark of my teenage persona, was my choice in attire. Many who know me today would be surprised to know that, once upon a time, I put a great deal of thought into my personal fashion (and it didn’t involve even one collared polo). It may be interesting to further note, if you’ll allow me to digress, that prior to high school I had embraced two other distinctive (read: no one else did this) trends. In fourth grade, I wore full camouflage on nearly a daily basis. In seventh grade I got a very frizzy home perm and wore an ensemble of matching stretch pants; puffy-paint, mirror-sequined tops; and white turtlenecks. I also encouraged my little brother around this time to get a rat tail and lines shaved into the sides of his hair. Hott!

As 1994 rolled around, I immersed myself in the new fashion wave sweeping across the country: grunge. I became known for wearing flannel over-shirts and, in particular, a dingy yellow corduroy jacket a la Kurt Cobain. I also experimented with wild hair colors, overalls, combat boots, 70s sweaters lifted from my deceased grandfather’s closet, and bright laces in my doodle-ridden Chuck Taylors. I carried a messenger-style knapsack from the army surplus store on which I had drawn an image of the earth and the words “World Peace.” My clothes were a clear warning: “High-voltage angst. Keep back.” Surprisingly, there were very few of us who committed fully to this style, so it definitely garnered the attention I suppose we were all secretly hoping it would. There was a bit of competition and in-fighting among the “grungy” of Emerald High who were vying for the top spot in ultimate eccentricity. I once got into an argument with an upper-classman over which one of us had switched to neon laces first. It was the same, I guess, as other girls’ anxiety over procuring an exclusive, one-of-a-kind purse or prom dress, except…not. This fashion statement served me well for the few years I needed it, but thank jeeves I did get out before it mutated into full-blown Goth.

I think now, a decade later, I may be suffering from some form of fashion ptsd. Aside from the true aversion I have to “dressing up,” which has persisted since I was a small child, I become intensely nervous whenever anyone comments on my clothing. I shrug and throw up the international “I don’t know” hand signal when someone says they like my shirt/pants/shoes. “Oh, cute hair cut” throws me into a tail spin, gives me hives. I mutter incoherently. I guess I’m just bashful that way. My signature style these days is the casual comfort of jeans and polos in the summer, jeans and sweaters in the winter. Crocs, Crocs, and more Crocs, although I did recently make the leap to Dansko clogs for work. I have two pairs of dress slacks that I probably wear twice a year with a button-up shirt (un-tucked). There are no aberrant colors, patterns, logos, or rips hanging in my closet any longer. I draw as little attention in this regard as possible, sort of like overcorrective steering that has landed me in a muddy, fashionless ditch on the opposite side of the road.

Officemates have offered lucrative bribes to see me in a dress or in heels, or even just a little lipstick. I, of course, jovially demur whenever they mention it. I like to keep it simple and non-descript these days, as vanilla as possible (vanilla may be too kind a word), and let my innate eccentricities manifest in areas apart from my apparel. Except, now that I think about it, I really wouldn’t mind having that puke-yellow corduroy jacket back. It was my constant companion in a former life, a security blanket of sorts that I eventually had to remit to the universe in exchange for adulthood. If I had it today, though, I’d sneak off somewhere, slide my arms through the silky lining of the sleeves, pull my hair out over the collar, run my hands over the soft cords to smooth it out in front. I would wrap up in it just for a moment, at ease in familiar skin.