SBD 2: Bushnelled
Whenever Jake has Taekwondo, I have an hour of down time. Today, I went to our local megalomart in search of a good book. God forbid I should try to sit alone with my own thoughts for an hour. Anyway, here’s what I found:
I loved the TV show well enough to write a horror spoof of it (“Sex and the Single Wendigo”, waaaay up in the upper lefthand corner). So I should love the book, too — right? Well. I’m only 2.5 chapters into the book, so it would be unfair to judge it so soon, but so far: Meh.
The book and the show seem so fundamentally different. The women in the show approached relationships and sex with inexhaustible hope and gusto, while the men and women of Sex and the City le book have in place of hearts, lumps of coal. The show was a romance, the book, anti-romance.
But it was the Introduction to this edition (pictured above) which really grabbed my attention. The author herself wrote the intro, dated 2001, and oh boy is it an eye-opener. See, I always thought it worked this way:
- You write a book.
- If it gets published, and if it assumes some degree of social or literary significance, brainy types will pen brilliant criticism discussing your book.
It had never occurred to me that the author could pen her own brilliant criticism, but that’s what Candace Bushnell has done. From her Intro:
I suppose that’s why Sex and the City is such an unsentimental examination of relationships and mating habits. Although some people find its lack of sentiment and cruel humor disturbing, it’s probably only because the book contains some kind of universal truth.
What possessed Bushnell to write a new ending for SatC? No insight there, but she does reveal the ending. That’s right — she gives a spoiler for her own book. And then she analyzes the new ending and tells us what it means!
And so, at last, the book has a real ending, in which Carrie and Mr. Big break up. [WTF? That’s not how the series ended!] It’s a bittersweet ending [Really? You thought so? How good of you to tell us how to feel] — not just the end of Carrie’s relationship with Mr. Big, but the end of her dream of finding the proverbial Mr. Big — a man who doesn’t really exist [While you’re at it, please provide a list of all symbols used in the book and tell us what each symbol represents.] If you read closely [Are you listening, all you barely literate readers who fail to understand my all new ending?], you’ll discover that even Mr. Big himself points out that he is a fantasy in Carrie’s imagination, and that you can’t love a fantasy. And so we leave Carrie to enter a new phase of her life when she understands that she will have to find herself (without a man), and in doing so will hopefully be able to find a relationship.
Maybe I’m not as unsentimental as I thought. [But are you as arrogant as you thought?]
This is breathtaking, really breathtaking. I’m all snarked out.
D.
SBD: In dreams
This will be an odd sort of Smart Bitches Day post. I’ve been meaning to write up my final impressions of Gabaldon’s Outlander, but I just don’t have it in me today. In a nutshell: technically excellent, entertaining, but predictable. I even read the sneak preview at the end, but I’m not sure I want to continue with this series — I mean, a twenty year lapse? What’s up with that? Where did these kids come from? And what’s with the POV shift? To quote Beth, GAAAAAH.
I often wonder if my subconscious believes everything it tells itself in my dreams. I think sometimes it just wants to fvck with me. Last night, I dreamed I attended a high school writers’ club, hosted at the house of one of the students. One teenage girl bemoaned the fact she had been writing for OVER A YEAR! and hadn’t been published yet.
I heard myself spouting that often-repeated “wisdom” that you have to write a million words before you arrive at publication quality. “In the first five hundred thousand words,” I told her, “you master technique, everything from grammar all the way up to plot mechanics and characterization. That last five hundred thousand words, that’s when you figure out how to write stories that will sell.”
I wonder if I really believe that. I’m in that second-half territory (maybe even beyond a million words, if I count my blog posts). Have I figured out how to write stories that will sell? I hope so. I think my romance is marketable. If I could only finish editing the mofo, maybe I could find out for certain. But, anyway, do I believe all this BS? And is there any truth to it? And why should I give any more credence to things I hear (or spout) in dreams than to anything else I read or hear?
In my dream, the girl was the daughter of a man I despise in real life. She told me that her parents’ idyllic marriage was a farce, and she was really getting tired of all the noise her dad made at night, banging his 20-something-year-old mistress up against the wall, like Sonny and the bridesmaid in The Godfather.
Do I believe it? Is there any truth to it?
Oooh, I dearly hope so.
D.
Five-minute Brokeback
Brokeback Mountain finally made it to cable TV, which doesn’t necessarily mean I’m going to watch it. No, it means Karen’s going to watch it, tell me all about it, and I’ll translate it for you. In the spirit of Five-Minute Shakespeare, I bring you Five-Minute Brokeback.
Cue music.
Doug: You watching Brokeback Spongebob?
Karen: No —
Doug: Brokeback to the Future?
Karen: No. Brokeback Mountain.
A few minutes later . . .
Frog Talk Responsa
Q: What’s your favorite thing about writing a blog?
One favorite thing? The audience. I love having an audience.
Q: If you had a choice between making your living as a writer or as a chef, which would you take?
Writer. Cooking is fun, but the mental challenge of writing is much deeper, and more varied. I suspect being a chef would get dull after a while.
Q: If you could spend one day learning from any chef in the world, who would you choose and why?
Julia Child. We would have to resurrect her, of course, and hopefully she wouldn’t have that zombie problem. (If all she ever says is, “MORE BRAINS,” then I’ll know I wasted my opportunity.) What would I learn from her? I’d love it if she would teach me to be a better baker.
Q: If you could step back in time and right a wrong, which one would it be?
Easy. The theft of the 2000 election by George Bush. I can think of other historical wrongs of greater magnitude, but the farther back you go, the harder it is to predict unintended consequences. A Gore presidency? I can’t see any downside.
Q: If you could talk to only one famous writer for two hours, who would it be?
Probably Vonnegut. He’s a hoot. Fitzgerald or Faulkner would be too drunk, Conrad or Dostoevsky too depressing, P. K. Dick too crazy.
Q: If you could collaborate on a novel with any writer, past or present, who would it be?
Toughie. My one attempt at a collaboration (on a screenplay) ended in disaster, thanks to the other guy being . . . ah . . . what’s the polite term for nuts?
This is like my sister’s chef question. Whom would I most like to learn from? When I look at it like that, I think of the contemporary writers whom I admire the most: John LeCarre and Martin Cruz Smith. Of the two, I think I like Smith the most.
As for dead authors . . . Raymond Chandler.
By the way, did anyone notice the remarkable similarity of the recent polonium poisoning of the Russian ex-spy with the plot of Smith’s Wolves Eat Dogs? Uncanny!
Q: What is your favorite post from your blog?
I’m afraid this changes with my mood. Today, I’m feeling glum and pensive (you know why, CD), so I would have to go with either Thirteen Patients or Healer. Ask me on another day and you’re likely to get another answer.
Q: What is your all time favorite recipe?
You think I would hold back on something like that? Although my family is sick of it (at one time, I made it once a week), tagine still ranks as one of my personal favorites. That tagine recipe has it all: depth of flavor, complexity of texture, variety of color. It’s the perfect main course. Close runner up: velvet butter chicken for its richness and flexibility — you can use that same basic recipe for any meat, fish, or shellfish, and it would probably work for tofu as well.
Q: If you could visit any country, that you have not been to, which one would it be and why??
Another toughie . . . but if I’m travelling solo, I would pick Antarctica, because there’s nothing like it anywhere else on Earth. Does anyone remember the blog 75 Degrees South? Simon posts some spectacular photographs of Antarctica (click on “Gallery” in his menu). I figure, if it’s breathtaking to look at a small, two-dimensional photo, how much more spectacular would it be to see it in person? Memories to last a lifetime.
That’s it for now. We’ll do another Frog Talk some time soon, so save up your questions!
D.
Frog Talk
Tiggr at A Spanking Good Time (a blog I lurk at for the writing, of course) has given me a fine idea: why not have a Q & A here at Balls & Walnuts? This place just ain’t interactive enough. So, stealing a cue from Tiggr’s Tiggr Talk, I’m going to inaugurate a new feature, Frog Talk.
This will either be the start of something good, or the start of something brief. It’s up to you. In the comments, ask me anything you like, and I’ll try to answer as honestly as possible.
Oh, and if possible, I’ll be live blogging tonight . . . say, 7:30 PM Pacific?
See ya.
D.
Fritters ‘n turkey salad
So y’all want the sweet potato fritters recipe? It’s not exactly mine to give. Here’s the original, and here’s how I changed it:
I baked my sweet potato at high heat (450F to 500F) until soft, scooped out the flesh, and measured it — just under two cups. I combined it with 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1/2 teaspoon thyme, a few grinds of nutmeg, a few grinds of black pepper, 2 tablespoons of melted butter, 1 tablespoon of sugar, and 1 cup of milk. The milk helped cool the mixture. Next, I added two egg yolks and mixed it well.
Separately, I combined 1/2 cup of flour and 1 teaspoon of baking powder. I whipped my two egg whites to the stiff peak stage, then used the electric mixer to whip up the sweet potato mixture, adding the flour/baking powder dry ingredients gradually to the wet ingredients. Once this was well mixed, I folded in the egg whites.
I fried heaping-teaspoonful-sized dollops of batter in hot canola oil. 365F? Who knows. I don’t have a thermometer that goes up that high. You’ll need to turn the fritters over a few times with a fork in order to brown them evenly.
Drain on paper towels, sprinkle with powdered sugar. I skipped the “serve with syrup” step.
So: the main difference from the linked recipe was my addition of thyme, nutmeg, and black pepper. I was trying for a more savory fritter, but I think I wasn’t bold enough. Karen liked them. I thought they were too bland and, if I do them again, I’ll add a little more salt and perhaps some curry-type seasonings. Everything tastes better with cumin.
Here’s the recipe for Chinese Chicken Salad, more or less unchanged from the version I learned from my sister. Can you use this for turkey leftovers? I don’t see why not. If you like turkey well enough to make it in the first place, you ought to like it in this salad, too. But the best, BEST Chinese Chicken Salad, no arguments please, substitutes roasted duck meat for chicken. Oy. Yum.
Recipe below the cut.
Thanksgiving day postmortem
Three people, two of whom have the appetites of eight-year-olds. Small eight-year-olds.
Three dishes: prime rib, focaccia, and sweet potato fritters.
Three hours of preparation and clean-up.
At least we won’t be eating turkey for the next three weeks.
D.
The Thanksgiving Thirteen
My sis suggested I do a Thanksgiving-themed Thirteen: Thirteen Ways to Mitigate the Suckitude of Thanksgiving. (My spin. I love the combination of ‘mitigate’ and ‘suckitude’ in one sentence.) I like the idea, but I’m going to up the ante.
Thirteen Paths to a Memorable Thanksgiving: a feast which will have your family and guests talking for decades to come.
Yes, it’s not quite Thursday, but some of these suggestions require a modicum of preparation. Get shopping, people.
In the spirit of Graham Greene’s Dr. Fischer of Geneva, follow me below the fold . . .
The SF meme
I’m up at 1:43 AM, can’t sleep, which tells you a lot. Tells me a lot, anyway.
From Jon Hansen’s blog:
“Behold, the SF Book Club’s list of The 50 Most Significant SF & Fantasy Books, 1953-2002. And no list like that can go without someone somewhere turning it into a meme. Shocking, this internet.
So, the rules: Bold the ones you have read, strike through the ones you read and hated, italicize those you started but never finished and put a star next to the ones you love.”
Follow me below the cut . . .
High school English
You don’t frighten us, English pig-dogs! Go and boil your bottom, sons of a silly person. I blow my nose at you, so-called Arthur King, you and all your silly English k-nnnnniggets. Thpppppt! Thppt! Thppt!
Suisan’s reminiscences about her schooling in English made me think about my high school English teachers. I owe them a lot, those gals. I credit them with teaching me to write, a skill which paid off big time in college. It’s frightening how few college students know how to write a coherent paragraph (let alone a coherent essay), particularly during timed final exams. I’m sure many of my As had more to do with the quality of my grammar, spelling, punctuation, sentence variety, rhythm, and clarity, than with the quality of my ideas.
I don’t remember much about my 9th grade English teacher, Mrs. Baca. At the time, I thought she looked like Liz Taylor. I think she made us do one of those idiotic assignments where you write up your dreams for the future at the beginning of the year, do it again at the end of the year, then compare the two to see how far you’ve come. I doubt I came very far*.
We read The Old Man and the Sea that year. I hated it. I still hate it. I’m going to make Jake read it this year so that he can hate it, too. (See, Suisan? I didn’t learn anything from your post.) Seriously, though, what am I supposed to do about exposing Jake to Hemingway? I’m tempted to have him read The Best of Bad Hemingway and call that his Hemingway experience**.
But I digress.