Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Rambling

I have to admit I was a little apprehensive when I sat down last night underneath the crackling electric heater that bathed my aging, wicker chair in a soft yellow light. As I opened the soft, leather-bound, gold-enameled cover of Louis La’mour’s Silver Canyon lying before me, for the first time in my life instead of being overcome with excitement, I found myself feeling hesitant and wary. I had purchased this book months ago but had yet to read it and there was a time before when I would had given up sleeping, eating, school, to lie in bed underneath the warmth of my covers and dare to traverse sore backs and legs falling asleep just for the sake of finishing a book. And this particular one I had opened in front of me wasn’t just any book, any author. It was a story written by Louis La’mour, one of the reliable greats who wrote with authority and passion and a genuine thirst for adventure. He was an author that had succeeded in capturing my undivided attention for years and whose collection of novels littered my personal library. Furthermore, this was one of very few of his writings that I had never read. Under that yellow light though, the details only added to my discomfort and nervousness because I feared that if he couldn't capture my attention again, then what faint hope was there?

I was scared that I didn’t have that engrossing love for reading that I’ve had all my life. It may sound like something shallow and ridiculous to another, but reading was something that I’ve always identified with moreso than anything else in my life. I began reading in 1st grade, and steadily devoured my way through hundreds, and by now thousands of books over the years with my ability to finish hundreds of pages in hours, and my inability to put any book down. Yet…I didn’t remember the last time I’d felt that joyful lust overwhelm me; somewhere inside I feared that in the past year or so I had grown too much, grown too old and without realizing it lost a part of myself I valued above all else. And so I opened the soft-white pages and began very simply, to read. It was difficult at first, not the reading part but just trying to remember the words. I was overcome by my own thoughts and every few lines the idea would dash across my mind wondering if I was really enjoying this, if I was truly having a good time or just trying to prove to myself that I was. I know that when we are captiavated by something, truly heart-captured and lost we are unable to think, barely able to react and we are lost in the passion of whatever experience it is that has captured us, subject and slave to its whims. And obviously, I kept thinking, if I was able to think while I was reading I was not captured by this story, not captivated by its promise.

Then happened the greatest delight, the upmost wonder (to me). My mind, which is usually constantly thinking and turning around, endlessly questioning and backtracking and performing all sorts of incalculable philosophical surgeries on the “whys” and “hows” and “whats” of life and the minute spaces inbetween, was slowly beaten by that childhood thirst for adventure that had been lying dormant in me for so long that I feared it all but vanished! Unsuspecting to myself, which is a rare occurrence for me, I found that I had become lost in the pages of Silver Canyon and Mr. La’mour’s writing and did not realize it was happening. It’s like trying to catch that ironic juxtaposition of being fully awake to experience and understand the exact moment you fall asleep. I had been so wary of my fear of being unable to enjoy reading, that I worried I would always be prisoner of my own distrust of myself, too fearful of losing my passions, and too scared to control them. In doing one or the other I lose out on the most precious part, which is having the freedom to find irresistible joy and opportunity in reading. And last night I found it again, that delightful inability to stop reading, and I felt that rising joy overcome me once more.

It was absolutely wonderful. I sat there and felt myself luxuriously soak into the pages of the book, felt myself become lost in the wonder and courage of our hero, in the dangers and bedevilments of the story, and most of all in the subtle affluences of the author. One of my favorite things about writing isn’t always the story or the characters, but is the beautiful subtley with which an author asserts their own personality, their own likes and dislikes into the pages of something so personal to them. It’s like we have a window into another person’s soul if we dare to look. And if you are lucky enough to find those books that truly speak out to you, then you find that you and that writer are sharing something special for a while, some intimate secret that no one else can understand but the two of you, and it will be forever a part of your self-education. I finished that book last night, wasn’t able to put it down and my favorite part was simply being able to taste of the writer’s imagination, close my eyes and see not just what was written, but understand why it was written, to think about the passion that comes in writing stories of such lonely courage, such fierce pride. It is a beautiful thing.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Dinner a la Salmon

I'm pretty sure I concasser-ed the usage of that term, but I couldn't get that phrase out of my mind. My apologies to the French language.

Dinner on the 30th

Salad with all sorts of jazz and Sesame dressing.


Israeli couscous simmered in chicken broth with shallots and cinnamon, mixed with sweet potatoes and pumpkin butter (Trader Joes!).


Salmon with wasabi-mayo and avocado.


Lemon pie with homemade whipped cream.