Eulogy on a turkey

It was a good Thanksgiving break. In spite of my fears, I got the house (adequately) cleaned, and the turkey (more than adequately) roasted by the time the family showed up. As always we were crowded but cheerful, and everybody seemed to have a good time.

We gathered on Saturday, and by Sunday the cold I’d been flirting with ravished me entire, and I spent the day in bed with it. And a book, which I’ll be reviewing shortly.

The interview with the Christian Authors Show, which I mentioned in an earlier posting, has finally appeared on their schedule. It will be the featured interview on Dec. 9 and 10, and selectable after that. (Unfortunately, I can’t link to the section I’m in. You have to select “The Christian Authors Show” from the menu.)

In case nobody’s mentioned it to you, Christmas is coming. West Oversea is the perfect gift for every person on your list! Even if they don’t read books, the guilt your gift will engender will be salutary for their characters. And it’s the one gift you know they won’t exchange—because we don’t do returns.

In fact, you should buy two copies for everybody. It will make Christmas truly magical.

For me and my publisher, anyway.

There’s an ordering link on the sidebar.

Bold, the Young Viking Poets

Robert Ferguson, author of The Vikings: A History, claims “a mastery of poetry was a must for any young Viking who wanted to make a name for himself. . . . Young Icelandic warrior-poets (or ‘skalds,’ as they were known) such as Gunnlaug Snaketongue, Kormak Ogmundarson, and Hallfred the Troublesome Poet, were documenting the ecstasies and despairs of romantic love as early as the late 10th century, some 200 years before the medieval troubadours we typically credit as being the world’s first true Romantic poets.”

Untrustworthy Memory in Print

Jonathan Yardley writes about some of the great memoirs of the past and the dredge we have clogging the half-priced bookshelves today. He says, “On the one hand, we want ‘authenticity and credibility’ in autobiographical writing; on the other, we want to be entertained, which can sometimes lead writers to exaggeration or invention. . . . [But] what the memoir boom has in fact given us is too many dull or forgettable memoirs, precious few of which have enriched our literature but most of which have simply encouraged the narcissism of their authors.”

Good Ingredients Make a Good Meal

Woman with a glass of tea

You may still be thinking about food this holiday weekend (holiday, btw, comes from an older word, holy day, which in Old English read this way: háligdæg), so let me give you a food story.

Vinegar is good for dissolving hard water deposits. The manufacturer of my coffee maker instructs me to run a full pot of vinegar through the machine to clear it of calcium build-up which wear it down over time. I don’t think our water in North Georgia is very hard, but it’s hard enough to leave a residue behind which you can see after a while. Leaving water sitting in the kettle causes plates of calcium to form on the bottom.

So one time a while back, I filled the kettle half full of vinegar to clean off those plates. Heating the vinegar seems to work well, but I don’t know if it’s necessary for cleaning. After I let the vinegar work on the kettle (I think it was the next day), I made myself a cup of tea. I think I used a bag of herbal tea we had had for too long, and it must have gone bad because it had a strong acrid taste. It was the worst tea I’d ever made.

But you are likely way ahead of where I was at the time, and you already see that I had steep my tea leaves in boiled vinegar, which is why I entitled this post as I did. If you make your tea with vinegar, friends, you will cap off your beverage’s sweetness at the root. There’s probably an old Chinese proverb about that, maybe “Better to be deprived of food for three days than to drink tea steeped in vinegar.”

Or “As tea in vinegar sours the stomach, so does living with a contentious woman.”

“Verses upon the Burning of our House” by Anne Bradstreet

In silent night when rest I took,

For sorrow near I did not look,

I waken’d was with thund’ring noise

And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.

That fearful sound of “fire” and “fire,”

Let no man know is my Desire.

I starting up, the light did spy,

And to my God my heart did cry

To straighten me in my Distress

And not to leave me succourless.

Then coming out, behold a space

The flame consume my dwelling place.

And when I could no longer look,

I blest his grace that gave and took,

That laid my goods now in the dust.

Yea, so it was, and so ’twas just. Continue reading “Verses upon the Burning of our House” by Anne Bradstreet

Thanksgiving Eve, 2009

I generally hate it when I’m asked to list things I’m thankful for. I don’t disapprove in principle, let me hasten to add. It’s just something that makes me uncomfortable. I’m keenly aware that I enjoy a life of health, prosperity and comfort that would have suggested heaven to my ancestors (see my translations of my great-great-grandfather’s letters), and that in spite of those benefits I’m a crabbed and bitter-minded man. My mind’s focus is generally on the things that are lacking in my life. To be fair to myself, some of those are pretty big things. But if I put aside the sins of envy and malcontent, I still have plenty of things to give thanks for. Such as:

A home to live in. That blessing is compounded this year by the fact that I was recently approved for refinancing, which ought to make my financial circumstances a little more comfortable in 2010 (which I say we should all agree, ahead of time, to pronounce “Twenty-Ten”).

Jerry Nordskog and the folks at Nordskog Publishing, who took a risk on getting me back in print again (you do know I have a book out, don’t you? You can buy it here. Or here. The perfect Christmas gift for everyone on your list!).

The people at the schools of the Association of Free Lutheran Congregations, who continue to permit me to play Eccentric Librarian in their beautiful facility.

A good church to attend, not too far from where I live.

My family, for having the patience to put up with me as we gather a couple times a year—this Saturday being one of them.

Phil, for giving me the keys to the blog, and not complaining too much about the dents and scrapes I put on the fenders.

“I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.” (G. K. Chesterton)

Book Reviews, Creative Culture