Chew, the graphic novel series by writer John Layman and artist Rob Guillory, has won lots of awards recently. I thought I should give it a shot.
It’s the story of Tony Chu, who becomes an investigator for the FDA. In this world, the FDA has a lot of power–it needs that power to crack down on illegal chicken after chicken was banned from the US after a virulent bird flu. Chu is aided in his investigations by a special power–the power to experience what his food–animal and vegetable–experienced before being eaten by him. (It’s not a fun power–he’s way skinny. Unfortunately for him, his investigations often involve cannibalism.)
The reading is quick. I like having an Asian-American hero. I like his quirky family and his partner.
However, 3/4ths of the way through the fifth volume, I’m giving up.
While I like some of the characters, I don’t care about what’s going to happen to them. One is kidnapped right now–I don’t really care if she gets out okay. The characters are quirky, but not engaging enough to keep going.
I’m tired of the tits. There’s really only one character without giant knockers–a young women whom it would be creepy to objectify (a few other members of Tony’s family are also more realistic looking). All other women–young and old–have huge tits. Please, comic book artists, remember that some of your readers are women too. And if you have a good story, then only *some* of your characters need to be smokin’ hot–not all.
I’m not really invested in the world. Most of the characters–bad guys and good–believe that the government is lying about the chicken’s connection to the bird flu. I’m 5 volumes in–this hasn’t made our good guys question what they’re doing. It also hasn’t added up to anything other than lots of characters simply repeating the rumor–there’s no speculation about what the government is up to. There’s no smoking man, no hint beyond repetition that the rumor might be something to pay attention to.
I’m also confused by how Tony Chu is supposed to be super-freak because of his power. True, only a few other characters have it, but it seems like half the characters we meet have some food-related power (a guy who’s brilliant if he’s eating, a woman who can write about food so well that a reader can literally taste it, etc.) If Chu is such a freak, then what about these other people? Why are there so many of them? Why so many different powers? Why are none of them being studied if people don’t understand the cause of their powers but yet those powers are public knowledge?
It’s not a bad series, but it’s just not working for me.

Valentine’s Day tends to be celebrated in a sexist way. That is, rather than being a celebration of two people’s love, it is a holiday in which men are expected to spend money and plan surprises. I’ve always thought that both women and men should give gifts (if gift giving is part of the holiday for the couple), that both should plan, etc.
One year, with an ex, I decided I wanted a roomba. We went in on it together. Best Valentine’s gift ever–it has spared my back a lot of agony.
Part of the reason that the holiday has morphed into this one-sided money orgy, however, is that, for many women, this is one of the two times a year that romance is possible. Today and on their anniversary, they are told they are loved. They receive physical proof of his love.
And that’s part of why I don’t like the day. If Valentine’s Day is the almost only day you have romance in your life, then what is going on in your relationship?
(It’s also why I don’t like the idea of what many men refer to as “Steak and Blowjob” day. Why would you only want that once a year?)
In the relationships wherein I’ve been happiest, romance has happened all year long.
Don’t get me wrong–I’m not getting flowers all the time or serenades or chocolate.
The key, you see, is having two things:
–a thoughtful partner
–a better understanding of what romance is
To illustrate, let me share a story of my favorite couple, my grandparents. My grandmother, a great lover of romance novels, had a more traditional understanding of romance–flowers and candy and whatnot.
My grandfather’s children would sometimes find things my grandmother would like for Valentine’s Day and prompt him to buy them. One such weird object was a rose that had been dipped in gold. He bought it for her. She loved it. I’m not sure he would have ever thought to buy it himself. I’m not sure he should have thought of it.
My grandfather demonstrated romance every day. Whatever little thing might bother my grandmother was something he attempted to fix. Her back hurts? Here’s a hot tub. The phone cord keeps getting tangled? Here’s one guaranteed not to do that.
When she got older and had trouble going outside, he would go out every morning, pick a rose from their garden, and present it to her.
Women often complain that men don’t just *know* what they want. Even when they drop hints.
Women: what hints are you dropping?
For example, if you mentioned that you were having trouble having a healthy lunch and he started packed them for you, then perhaps it’s time to forgive him for not just *knowing* that you want a cliche heart necklace today.
Of course, I’m presupposing that your partner does love you, does listen to you. Not every partner is giving. Not every partner is loving. Not every partner is attentive. In those cases, him giving you chocolate on the one day that all of society tells him to isn’t romantic, either. Obligation doesn’t equal love.
I’m also framing this critique with men giving to women. Women can be just as guilty of not being romantic, loving, giving, attentive. Ladies, do you know what he really wants as a gift? Do you present him with surprises throughout the year? Love should go both ways.
It should also be noted that romance doesn’t always equal love in the way we think it does. One of my most chivalrous lovers was also the one who left me when I was almost nine months pregnant with his child. I’ve had a man hitchhike across Canada and then sneak across the border to be with me. I’ve had men write songs about me. I’ve had flowers and candy and people climbing trees to woo me on my balcony. I’m not with those people now, for various reasons.
Tonight I will have cocktails, wine, fancy appetizers, dinner, and dessert. It’s a gift my guy and I are giving to each other.
The bottom line?
Ladies, if you want something *special* this year, then tell him what you want. And don’t tell me it will take away the surprise. The fact that you and society believe he HAS to do something special today and only today means there’s no real surprise anyway.
If you do want actual surprises, then V Day is a silly time to want them.
And think about surprises. What if, on a Tuesday in June, he did something really thoughtful for you? Would that surprise you? If so, that’s sad, because wouldn’t you like him to be thoughtful all year?
And shouldn’t you be thoughtful back?
Maybe the best way to be thoughtful, by the way, is to take some of the more extreme expectations off of this day.
Your question shouldn’t be: What will he do for Valentine’s Day?
Here are the questions:
Does he love me?
Does he show it (whether or not showing it means money for you)?
Does he accept me for who I am?
Does he make me want to love him, to show it, to accept him?
Gee, would he like some flowers and candy?

 

Here’s one of my favorite pictures of my grandparents, from two years ago when they renewed their vows.

Warning: this is not healthy or sophisticated. It’s comfort food!

This month, I’ll be honoring my grandmother by sharing a few of her recipes. Today, it’s Hamburger Casserole.

Ingredients: 1 lb hamburger; 1/2 chopped bell pepper; salt; one box macaroni noodles (or whatever shape you want–shells are nice); can of tomato soup; shredded cheese; milk. (Note: I don’t have an amount for the cheese–we just eyeball it. Grandma would actually shred American cheese, but I usually use cheddar.)

Brown the meat, bell pepper, and salt. Bring water to boil and cook noodles. Add the can of soup and a little bit of water to the meat. In a greased casserole, layer half of the noodles, a layer of cheese, half of the meat mixture. Repeat. Top with enough milk to even the top.

Bake at 350 for 30 minutes.

(I often use tomato sauce, leftover pizza sauce, or leftover spaghetti sauce in this casserole instead of soup. Fancy cheeses are allowed. Vegetarian fake-meat has also worked–when I take it to a pot-luck, vegetarians and carnivores alike eat it and find it comforting, which is what it’s supposed to be.)

It let me upload pics today!

 

I’m about to write a eulogy for my grandmother. First, I need to write this.  (I wrote about the renewal of her marriage vows here.)

My 85 year old grandmother (Winca Jewreen Graves Waltonen, who always went by Jewreen) died on Tuesday. She was married for 63 years, has 4 children, 9 grandchildren, and 14 great-grandchildren.

Growing up, I only had one grandmother–her–though I had two great-grandmothers. My grandmother was more like a mother in my childhood, however, as she raised me for three years when my mother couldn’t and had me for every summer and school break thereafter. Granddaddy (whom I call “Daddy” since that’s what he’s always been to me) had just retired from the military when I went to live with them. They were building a house–all by themselves–on the land my grandmother’s ancestors had claimed in Bay County, Florida, before Florida was even a state. (She has certificates for being both a descendent of Florida pioneers and of the confederacy.) Although she had moved with her Air Force husband to various points in the US and Europe, now it was time to go back home. I was the first extra child to move in with them in a small, round, two-bedroom house in a Florida forest, but not the last. They have only rarely lived together without a child or grandchild who needed a soft space to fall. When I had nowhere else to go after Alexander was born, Daddy picked us up from the hospital and took us home.

My grandmother was a unique and strong-willed person. Granddaddy often teased her about being a savage, based on a homestead without paved roads, childhood pets that included a deer who was allowed in the house (and even to eat off the dining table), and a strong desire to never wear shoes (this is where I get it, people!). She met my grandfather on a blind date and married him the same year. When her first daughter was 2, she gave birth to triplets. She often had to raise them alone for long stretches, as my grandfather served in both Korea and Vietnam. Grandma is still angry about Vietnam protestors (she has no pity for the Kent State students)–she won’t watch movies with Jane Fonda or anything by The Smothers Brothers. (It was my grandfather, though, who introduced me to The Smothers Brothers via audio cassettes he was hiding on the porch.) Although she’s traveled, she never lost even a bit of her Southern accent, but would get mad at waiters who would bring her ranch instead of french dressing, even though what she said was invariably “franch.”

She was a great cook, a solid disciplinarian to her children, a sewer of matching clothing. By the time I lived with her, though, she didn’t do much sewing. She seemed to retire a bit when Daddy did, so she would mend, but not sew. She stopped canning and baking. When I was very little, she and Daddy would visit friends and go square-dancing, but, fairly quickly, they retreated deeper into the forest. The few friends who hung on had to visit them, as they only left the homestead for groceries and doctors’ appointments. Grandma, who was a great lover of nature, spent more and more time indoors. Daddy continued to work outside, to farm, to master computers so he could do extensive genealogical research, to read a variety of texts. Grandma read romance novels contentedly.

Her family became her whole life (instead of the maybe 85% they were before). She worried about us, prayed for us, praised and chided us to each other.

She was not as hands-on as Daddy with the grandchildren. He would read to us and play with us. She wanted us in her lap. I became a Daddy’s girl, following him around the property, having him teach me rhyming games, teasing and being teased lovingly. Grandma nurtured me with food. When I was very young, I was under weight, so I was plied with small amounts of beer to increase my appetite. When it was discovered that I would eat almost any part of a pig and any fish that was fried, they were produced in abundance. We shared a belief that the best thing about a fried chop was gnawing on the bones (Daddy didn’t do that with us). My trips back home always included fried fish–both from her kitchen and from my favorite fast food fish place–and lots of fried okra.

When I was a teenager and started becoming interested in cooking, Grandma and I were really able to bond. Her recipes were not written down, nor did she ever use a measuring cup. I followed her in the too-tight kitchen, writing down what she did with the most loved recipes. A few I adapted later, but most remain the same in my kitchen. Measuring cups are still unused.

She has not been happy with my life choices–I shouldn’t live in California, I should be married with more children, I should be a housewife, I shouldn’t like The Simpsons because it’s an immoral show since Bart talks back–but she has always been very proud of me because I can cook. It is what she brags about with me and what the men in my life who’ve met her always brag about to her.

I have to admit that it hurts to know how unalike we are. Our tastes differ in entertainment (except TCM), in politics, in social policy, in intellectual pursuits, in beliefs about equality/race relations, etc. There’s no way she would have liked me if we hadn’t been family.

It hurt her very much when I moved to California to pursue my PhD and, more importantly, my place in the world, which, frankly, was just not in Northern Florida. She wanted me to give up Alexander, so he would be raised apart from California values and in the bosom of the family. She said, when it was clear that I was leaving, that she might as well die. It was only a little easier when some of the younger grandchildren followed my example to be beyond a few hours’ drive away.

Even though I was out of her physical orbit, however, I was never out of her heart. And even though we were so fundamentally different, there were some very important things that link us: We both believe the moment when Yul Brynner puts his hand on Gertrude Lawrence’s waist in The King and I is one of the sexiest moments in movie history. We both know about the pleasure of a pork chop bone. We both laugh more than most people, especially when we’re in pain. We both know that the first thing you should do when coming home is removing your shoes. We both know that she is lovable–when she turned 80, I gave her a list of the 80 reasons why. We both know that my last meal will include fried okra if I have any say in the matter. We both give people recipes with vague measurements because we just “know” how much of everything there should be. We both believe her husband is the best man in the whole world.

I’ll put up some recipes of hers over the next few weeks. First, want to share her BBQ Meatloaf. It is the only meatloaf I’ve ever had. When I was younger, I didn’t understand why people spoke of meatloaf with derision, as it was one of my favorite things. What it was, of course, is that they hadn’t had my grandmother’s, which was never dry, never flavorless. When I first saw someone else’s meatloaf, I decided to stick with what was great. Here it is; measurements are approximate.

Grandma J’s BBQ Meatloaf

1 lb. ground beef

1 tsp onion salt

salt to taste

1/2-1 c. bread crumbs

1 8 oz can tomato sauce (my change in the recipe is to use a 16 oz can so I can have more sauce)

1 egg

2 TBS brown sugar

1/2 tsp dried mustard (Coleman’s)

2 TBS vinegar (I use a bit less)

a few ounces of water

Mix the ground beef, onion salt, salt, egg, and 4 oz of the tomato sauce. Form a loaf. Place the loaf in an 8 oz greased baking pan.

Mix the remaining tomato sauce (in the can) with the sugar, mustard, and vinegar. Add enough water to reach the top of the can. Pour over the meatloaf. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 1 hour. (No need for ketchup on your leftover meatloaf sandwiches–the sauce will be even better!)

PS–I tried for over an hour to insert a couple of pictures into this post. It’s just not working. However, you can see pictures of my grandmother at the link in the very first line.

As many of you know, I love trying new recipes. In the past year, I’ve had the pleasure of trying some very good ones, which I share now in hopes that you’ll share yours with me.

Leek and Ham Quiche: Ian approved!

Ham Tetrazzini: Alexander thanked me for dinner and praised this one.

Slow-cooker lentils with chicken and potatoes: Melissa Bender turned me on to this.                

Okra-Grits Casserole: The website says you’re making polenta, but you’re making grits, y’all!

Balsamic-Glazed Drumsticks: need more be said?

Pesto Chicken (in a crock pot): the picture on the website does not do this justice.

Crock Pot Ratatouille over Goat Cheese Polenta: the Polenta was the best part–feel free to top with other things or eat on its own.

Lohikeitto (Cream of Salmon Soup): This seemed to be the national dish of Finland when Alexander and I were there, so I had to learn to make it when we got home. Vanessa likes it so much that she had me make it for our Christmas Eve dinner. (I add about a tablespoon of butter at the very end–and more salt and pepper.)

Sriracha Chicken: I omitted the onions, but it was still yummy!

Cilantro Chicken with Peanuts: Vanessa got me hooked on this.

And then for dessert: Salted Caramel Pie!

You’ll notice that many of the recipes feature a slow cooker. It’s my favorite way of cooking. (And thanks to Ian, who gave me a new crock pot.)

Time to share–what did you make this year that I should try?

Courses taught: 5

Papers graded: 870, not counting homework

Book contracts for an edited collection on Margaret Atwood given by Cambridge: 1

Car accidents: 1

Hours of physical therapy per week for over two months: 3-6

Nieces and nephews born: 2

Books read for work: about 20

Books read for pleasure: None, I think, even over break.

Upper GIs: 1

Cancers found by Upper GI: 0 (yay!)

Conference panels chaired: 2

Book chapters written and sent to editors: 2

Margaret Atwood Journal issues out: 1

Minor foot surgeries: 1 (a redo, since the Jan doc did it so badly)

Campus Book Project talks given: 1

Campus Book Project talks chaired: 3

Campus Book Project books chosen: 1

Plays attended: 3

Awesome Halloween costumes: 1

Mix CDs produced: 3

Kittens fixed: 2

Kittens taught to stay off the desk and counters: 0

New Recipes Tried: probably 15-20

New mentees for the Guardian Scholars Program: 1

Trips to take the boy’s car to the shop: 2

Letters of recommendation written: 6

Types of bitters homemade by me, Vanessa, Rae, Marina, and Melissa: 5

Trips to wine country: 2

Here’s to a better year (all the good stuff, but less of the silly medical stuff)!

Yesterday, I sat in a dark theatre to see the second Hobbit movie for a second time. The film is PG-13. The child sitting behind me with his father was about half the requisite age.

Now, each parent should get to make his/her own decision about whether a movie is too adult for the child in terms of sex and violence. While I think certain scenes were a bit much for a child that age, the parent knows what might cause his/her child nightmares much better than I do.

However, if you know your child doesn’t have the capability to follow the plot of a movie without your constant oral aid, perhaps this is a movie you could watch at home together.

I took my son to a ton of plays and movies before he was necessarily sophisticated enough for them–this made him a sophisticated audience member. Yet I didn’t allow him to talk through plays or movies. Questions were for after.

If your child can’t follow when we’re in “real” time or flashback, if your child doesn’t understand that most questions can be answered by letting the scene play out (who’s that? they’re about to tell you!), or if the movie is going to use a bunch of words your child doesn’t know (like “forge”), then you have three options, especially if you are incapable of teaching your child to whisper, as the father behind me was.

1. See the movie at home.

2. Have your child ask you questions after the movie.

3. Sit in what I propose to be the “not mentally up to this film” zone. I would like to suggest that the first few rows of films be reserved for young children (and others who aren’t ready for what they’re seeing). It’s not practical to put children and their parents in a separate theatre or have a walled-off space, but those first few rows tend to be fairly empty of other patrons. Also, children don’t get neckaches the way the rest of us do. (As for their parents, they don’t want to start arguing with me about being or having a pain the neck when their kids can’t shut up.)

This would allow those parents who want to see an adult film but not get a babysitter or who want to see an adult film but not alone or those who want to teach their children the magic of a film before the film hits DVD to view the movie (though they should still try to teach the art of the whisper).

This would have made life easier yesterday; I actually started anticipating questions, which was not a fun game even though I was spot on. It would not have solved the problem completely when I sat in front of a child who was MUCH too young for a Harry Potter movie and who started screaming and sobbing when Dobby died, but at least the screamer would have been a few rows farther away.

If that’s sitting too close to the screen for some parents, then might I suggest options 1 or 2?

I don’t love everything about Christmas. I don’t like that the season starts too early (thanks to our amazing commercialism); I don’t like realizing that while I’m in the midst of finals after what is usually my busiest quarter, I am behind on making, buying, baking, and shipping presents; I don’t like the pressure to buy things for people I don’t know well.

I don’t like how the phrase “Merry Christmas” is changing. I say both “Happy Holidays” and “Merry Christmas” interchangeably–I always have. Both are accurate for me and basically everyone I know. Almost all of us get Christmas off, so even the few people I know who don’t celebrate Christmas can still enjoy that break. Happy Holidays, despite what Fox news says, has always been fine–there are more than this month that we celebrate. I’ve never had anyone who doesn’t celebrate Christmas get upset with me for wishing them well. But now there are apparently people out there who get upset when I wish them well for more than one day in a season.

Dan Savage recently wrote about reading Sarah Palin’s book, which says you can’t wish people peace and love without wishing them “Merry Christmas” because there is no peace and love without Jesus. I guess that means a bunch of people I know, including myself, don’t really love. This war on the made-up war on Christmas is going to create the very thing it rails against, as I, like Dan Savage, now feel obligated to say “Happy Holidays,” as reaction against those who say we’re not allowed to. Years ago, those people took the American flag and made it the symbol for conservative rather than American; now they’re taking my ability to say “Merry Christmas.”

Just the other day, I said “Merry Christmas” to a local business owner on the way out the door. He commented that he “had” to say “Happy Holidays” so as not to alienate people. He had mistaken my automatic I’m-leaving-now holiday wish as a statement against political correctness. I probably gave him the impression that I’m conservative and Christian by my thoughtless use of a phrase. I just noted that I say both phrases and that I’ve never gotten in trouble for either one. He confessed that he had never been corrected by someone for using the Christmas word in his greetings, so in the spirit of Christmas getting-along, we were able to agree that since neither of us had actually experienced this particular front of the war on Christmas, it was likely just something those people on TV made up.

Why, you might ask, do I celebrate Christmas if I’m not Christian?

Well, like most Americans, I was raised Christian, so Christmas is part of my childhood, part of my life. It represents family, the gorging on gifts that comes with being a kid, and the only time when my mother and stepfather would try not to fight, when my mother’s smile would return for days on end.

When it was my turn to be a parent, I didn’t want to lose that connection to childhood or to rob my child of it. Christmas can be magic. Not celebrating the birth of Jesus (which would be in Spring anyway, Biblical scholars agree) is surprisingly easy, given how pagan the whole holiday is. We combine solstice festival traditions, medieval traditions, and the Roman sun-God Baal’s day (today) into a frenzy of presents, singing, eating, drinking, and decorating trees inside the house.

However, what I’d like to confess about Christmas is how much I love it. Despite all its problems, despite the commercialism, despite the war I’m apparently in about it, I love it.

I love finding the perfect gift for someone. I love those moments when my friends find that perfect thing for me.

I love the baking. Although I cook all through the year, I rarely give myself the time to bake. Each Christmas, there’s a little frenzy. Alexander says it’s the most stereotypical mom thing about me. Each year, I make some classics, which, because I only make them once a year, mean it’s Christmas when I bite into them (eggnog pie, cranberry apple pie, scotchies, oatmeal lace cookies, sour cream drops with burnt butter frosting, etc). And each year I try something new. This year, it was Mansikkalumi, Finnish Strawberry Snow. And then there’s the ham, which I usually only get at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and which is my very favorite meat.

I love the movies and TV shows. Not all of them, of course. Today, Alexander and I are watching Doctor Who Christmas specials and Simpsons and Futurama Christmas episodes. I haven’t had the chance to watch the movies this year–Christmas is often like that–once I’m ready for it to be Christmas, there isn’t time to see everything I love, from strange Finnish horror films about Santa (Rare Exports) to Bridget Jones’ Diary to Scrooged to About A Boy to the original Miracle on 34th Street, the ultimate Christmas movie. (Back when I wrote a movie column, I wrote about the best Christmas films: http://www.matchflick.com/column/2510; http://www.matchflick.com/column/1829; http://www.matchflick.com/column/1820.)

As the creator of 9 volumes of Christmas mix cds, I must admit that there are several songs I apparently love as well, some traditional, some new. “The Carpenters Christmas Portrait” is my favorite cd of the old hits. I had the records as a child. I also have a house mix of totally secular awesome Christmas songs by Weird Al, Jonathan Coulton, etc.

I love the tree almost most of all. My stepfather’s house had a large, open foyer. He would put a big tree on a very big table in front of the sweeping staircase. I would spend hours playing in the tree. The more anthropomorphic ornaments became my dolls for a short season. My smallest toys would find their own places in the branches. My tree is always the first signal that it’s really Christmas and is usually with us for way longer than it should be. This year, I refrained from putting breakable ornaments on it, due to the mischievous presence of two little kittens, but it’s still here, staying moist from all the water bottle punishment sprays it takes with Jareth and Anubis.

Finally, I love Christmas because it’s the time of the year when I get out my address book and send a little something to those I love. I try to call people I haven’t talked to lately, but whom I miss.

(And did I mention the eggnog?)

Happy Holidays!

 

It’s the season that critics are posting their Best Of lists for the year. (What always strikes me as a bit odd is that year is not technically over when the critics do this.)

As I don’t want to be like everyone else, I’m going to use the rest of the month to post about non-traditional “Best Of”s.

The best ABBA song?

“Waterloo.”

Why?

Not because it won the Eurovision competition in 1974, but because it begins:

“My, my, at Waterloo Napoleon did surrender
Oh yeah, and I have met my destiny in quite a similar way”

I just can’t imagine any pop song today beginning with a historical reference. This song not only does that, but continues all the way through, comparing this woman’s finally giving into love to Napoleon’s defeat. The military analogy somehow blends perfectly with the upbeat, danceable tempo.

“So how could I ever refuse” to love this song?