A story about bread

There are some similarities between cooking and writing:
--there are usually instructions, but the best outcomes often occur when we break out of the instructions and try something brand new (of course, not a few failures have occurred under the same circumstances);
--both food and stories nourish us
--both food and stories are best shared.

In March of last year I wrote about food stories and made the rash promise to share one food story a month. Hah! Well, it's March again, maybe food-story sharing month, and I want to share a story of my one of mother's best bread recipes--Anadama Bread. It's a New England recipe that got its name, in the accepted legend, when a fisherman cursed his wife for some maritial infraction that we aren't quite sure of. Did she make a corn meal porridge and then leave? Did she start a batch of bread and go off larking by the seaside? In any case, the bread is called Anadama Bread and it's key ingredients are corn meal and molasses.

My mother baked several kinds of bread and this was one of her best. If you have a chance to eat this bread warm with butter, you will know food ecstasy. My mom baked Anadama bread for many years for the annual fund-raising auction for the high school. She would stay up all night baking so the bread would be still warm at the time of the event. She made made 20 loaves and the auctioneer always started the auction with Alice Briggs's bread. Here's the recipe she used:

Anadama Bread (from Marjorie Standish's Cooking Down East).
2 cups hot water
1/2 cup cornmeal
1/2 cup of molasses
2 T. shortening
2 tsp. salt
2-1/4 tsp. dry yeast (or 1 package dry yeast)
1/4 cup lukewarm water
About 6 cups flour

Mix cornmeal and water in a pan. Bring to a boil. Cook for just a couple of minutes. Add molasses, salt and shortening. Cook together until ingredients are well mied. Turn this mixture into a bowl and allow to cool to lukewarm. In the meantime, measure 1/4 cup lukewarm water, dissolve yeast in this. When first mixture is lukewarm add dissolved yeast. Start adding flour. When mixture makes a stiff dough, turn onto a floured surface. Start kneading, add more flour as needed, continue kneading until dough is smooth and glossy. Place dough in a greased bowl. Cover, place in a warm spot, allow dough to rise until doubled in bulk. Poke down and allow to rise once more. Turn dough out onto a floured surface. Let dough relax for ten minutes. Make into 2 loaves and place in greased loaf pans. Let rise until doubled in bulk. Bake ten minutes at 45o F., reduce heat and bake about 20 minutes at 325 F. Turn loaves out of pans and cool on rack.


So while we are eating this warm bread, dripping with butter, let's talk writing. My absolute favorite children's book based on cooking is How to Make Apple Pie and See the World by Marjorie Priceman. And then there's the hilarious and wonderfully rhyming Giant Jam Sandwich by John Vernon Lord and Janet Burroway.

All this bread and these stories make me want to start with a loaf of bread--and maybe a radish or a parsnip-- and a new notebook and ask what if?

Ramblings

The biggest "ramble" of my recent days was a trip to Chicago to attend the Associated Writing Programs conference last week and do a panel presentation with Phyllis Root, Franny Billingsley, and
Christine Heppermann. We had a great time, thanks to a wonderful student from the Art Institute of Chicago, who--at the beginning of our session-- volunteered to remove a nasty virus--picked up from the hotel internet-- from my computer.

Our panel discussed the similarities between poetry and children's books. Of course it would have been better if you'd been there, but here's a brief recap--Phyllis talked about the importance of choosing the right word; the importance of the sounds of words-- both poetry and picture books are meant to be read and heard aloud; about the quality of sound--some are soft, gentle, others are hard edged, startling. Christine reminded us all of the importance of leaving space in the poem or story for readers to do their own work of making meaning. Franny showed us with her wonderful powerpoint of the necessity of concrete images, of a structure that carries its own meaning, and of the importance of knowing the characters we are writing about. I talked about using details to build a bridge into the poem or story.

Among the resource books we mentioned were:

A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver
Becoming a Writer by Dorothea Brand
Steering the Craft by Ursula Le Guin

I loved working with these three and am ready to take our presentation on the road.

And I was reminded to go back to Becoming a Writer. One little quote from page 38:

"The author of genius does keep till his last breath the spontaneity, the ready sensitiveness, of a child, the 'innocence of eye' that means so much to the painter, the ability to respond freshly and quyickly to new scenes, and to old scenes as though they were new; to see traits and characteristics as though each were new-minted from the hand of God instead of sorting them quickly into dusty catergories and pigeon-holing them without wonder or surprise; to feel situations so immediately and keenly that the word 'trite' has hardly any meaning for him; and always to see 'the correspondences between things' of which Aristotle spoke two thousand years ago. "

"We still and always want waking," Annie Dillard said. Writing regularly is one way to train ourselves to notice more, to notice with fresh eyes, whatever our age. Time to get out the notebook.

Rambling back: as I was preparing for the AWP panel I spent some time thinking of the farmhouse that I grew up in and decided one possible writing exercise for one of those daily writing mornings would be to recall each room of that house, what I associate with each room--the sound, the smells, the temperature (our bedrooms were not heated). I don't know why I haven't thought of this before, but I'm looking forward to surprising myself.

Here's to rambling. I hope yours are good ones this week.

What Poetry Makes Happen

Writing is such a solitary act, most of the time, that’s it’s really worth celebrating when we find a writing community that is vibrant, thriving, and supportive of all its members. So this is celebration. Get out the cava!

First I want to celebrate our daughter Sarah Busse who, along with co-editor of Verse Wisconsin Wendy Vardaman,has been named one of the two Poets Laureate of Madison, Wisconsin.

Rich and I went up to Madison for some grandparent time and to attend the poetry reading in honor of these two poets laureate.
Along with the cava here's a sampling of poetry--


From Wendy--"Relying on Your Imagination to Discern the Question, a Prose Sonnet"

(at the Capitol, 2/25/11) Because what's the point if you're not enjoying your life. Because neither of us is getting any younger. Because it is an unseasonably pleasant February day in Wisconsin. Because it is an unpleasantly seasonable February day in Wisconsin. Because my children are with me. Because who needs all this stuff this house these plates this bed these chairs. Because it all comes down to backstory: who we & why we. Because there is free Ian's pizza from Finland and Arkansas at the top of the hill where we listen to Rabbi Biatch.

Because you can read the news on Avol's Bookstore windows and on Facebook and in poems and on people's faces. Because Tammy Baldwin, my congresswoman, and Beth Kiser, my children's grade school cello teacher stand on either side of me. Because "ROTC Kills." Because my husband writes Solidarity on his sign in seven languages while my teenagers get out their magic markers. Because poetry and plays came from one place, and theatrical gestures aren't stunts or tricks or mere or even just. Because 14 senators are just enough to make a sonnet, if you're careful, and I am letting go of perfect all the time and sometimes the performance is the poetry.

From Sarah--The Sound of People Learning to Make Music [excerpt]

...but the sound of people learning to make music
has never bothered me, maybe because
I grew up in a music filled house, and we
were always honking, squeaking , strumming
and pounding, trying our hands and breath in new
combinations, beginning again.

So it doesn't bother me now, when my son
pulls out his viola, or my daughter her ukulele,
the warm-ups and scales, rehearsal and process, tents
and manifestoes, are all just part
of the open-ended art of getting it wrong
in order to get it right. It's somewhere in this
not quite aimless, not quite tuneless wandering
we learn, if we ever will,
to shape a new music, new chords, that don't
reach for the usual resolutions. There is always
somebody, somewhere, practicing, learning--
not a rigid perfection, not the dictates of order,
but how to hear, and what to listen for.

Huzzah Kuzzah for a community that celebrates its poets by giving them a post and a platform to strengthen community and for a daughter who has always loved words and arranges them in intricate and beautiful ways.

Huzzah Kuzzah for a community that celebrates its poets and comes to hear them. The reading was held in a meeting room of the Goodman South Madison Branch Library. The room holds fifty people. It was full and past full to the rafters. Closer to seventy people came out on a Saturday afternoon to hear poetry. Some were poets themselves, some were friends and family, some were just curious, some one or two were hungry for the cupcakes. And all were welcome. There was no cost to admission.

Bruce Dethlefsen , Poet Laureate of Wisconsin gave a wonderful reading. Here's one of his poems--From Unexpected Shiny Things

at night
my mother bathed me in a white tub
scrubbed me with white soap
rubbed me in a white towel
hugged me and plugged me
into pajamas and the white sheets
an act so kind
so common
it barely even happened

Fabu, the third and most recent Poet Laureate of Madison, introduced the readers and read a bit from her own work. She did not read this one but I wish she had.

This Woman I Love
for Effie Florida Cunningham Partee
(Play Audio)

Down a winding dirt road
with rust colored rocks
and glistening beige pebbles
is where my Grandmother lived.

She woke up to clear blue skies
and billowing white clouds
My Grandmother went to sleep
when the shimmering sun was just down
and the still stars were floating outward.

Yet all the beauty
of Mississippi land
cannot nearly compare
with this woman I love.

Also on the program were Andrea Musher (Madison's second Poet Laureate) , and the members of the Hibiscus Collective, a group of Wisconsin women writers ”dedicated to ensuring that multicultural voices are heard in oral and written traditions” (from the program).

W.H. Auden wrote, "Poetry makes nothing happen." I've never quite agreed with that iron proclamation. Something happened last Saturday. People from all over Wisconsin, and two from Iowa, walked in out of the cold to listen and share poems about sorrow, humor, and the complications of living, to affirm as Rich once said, that "we do build worlds with words and heart touches heart through the tongue."

That's something.

Winter gifts

We are trying to keep a hibiscus plant from last summer alive inside our dry, not-very-bright house this winter. The plant has dropped a number of leaves but still has some green and yesterday when we passed it on the stair landing it offered this one gift--a huge bright bloom for these gray days of February. (I find myself making extra trips up and down the stairs just to have another look.)

This hibiscus gift made me think of other gifts and of a writer I know who often starts each writing session by setting down what she is grateful for.

That's a good way to start--just to remind ourselves what is already good about our lives (like good coffee, or sledding with grandkids in winter, red flowers that come unbidden, family who know us--and still love us and laugh with us, friends who also often show up unbidden with a hug or a few good words, good books ).

And speaking of books I have been reading The Scene Book A Primer for the Fiction Writer by Sandra Scofield (Penguin, 2007). She says in the introduction, "As writers practice their skills, their talent flowers."

And she says, "This is my advice: 1. Think of yourself as a worker. 2. Show up at your job."

And I haven't even started chapter 1. Fiction and non-fiction writing require an awareness of scene-building so I am excited to be going into this book this winter.

Another book that seems like a winter gift is the new picture book Extra Yarn by Mac Barnett (illustrated by Jon Klassen of I Want My Hat Back). A girl named Annabelle lives in a monochromatic world until she finds a box of bright-colored yarn that never seems to run out. She knits sweaters for everyone she knows, and just about everything she sees--even a sweater for a pick-up truck (which reminds me of a knitting joke from my college days when it was said that someone was such a good knitter that she knitted a chicken). Of course there's a wrinkle--an evil Duke tries to convince Annabelle to sell the incredible box of yarn--for a million dollars. But she won't (how rare is that!). And even when the Duke steals the yarn, there's just the right amount of magic.

Good books, good friends, family, good coffee, and the occasional flower. I hope your winter is good, too, and there is some surprising extra.

My Father's Village by Claire Nivola: a wonderful story, a wonderful model.

My Father's Village by Claire A. Nivola (Frances Foster Books, 2011) tells the story of the author's visits to the Sardinian village where her father was born. We readers go with her as she and her family "traveled far across the ocean to Italy..." to the "overnight boat [that] took us from the mainland to the island's port, arriving at dawn. From there we rode inland, past the scrub oaks and red trunks of the harvested cork trees, past chalky talc cliffs and expanses blackened by brush fires.
How long it took to get there!"

Once there the author and cousins "flew and settled wherever something was happening,... and something was always happening--close enough to touch." We adventure with the cousins, eat the feasts, even attend the wake of a dead man, and the occasional wedding and its three day feast. Eventually the narrator returns home to New York City. And Claire Nivola ends the story with a question and an invitation to readers. "Everywhere there were so many people! It seemed strange that not one of them knew Orani. But then, what different world, I wondered, what Orani of their own might they have known before they traveled here?"

There are many reasons to love this book. First, it takes us to a new place. Most of us have not been to Sardinia but Nivola's detailed descriptions and wonderful illustrations take us there, make us aware of another culture, where people share food and festivals, joy and sorrow; where kids play and run, eat chocolate and find birds that have fallen out of their nests. We see up close the sameness that exists in a faraway culture. And we perhaps are reminded--in a time when so many are so quick to divide our lives in to "us" and "them"--that we may all be "us."

Another important reason to love this book is for the invitation to write about an "Orani" of our own. We could each write a story about the place our father was born--and if we have students, they could, too. Did we live there? Did we ever get to visit? What did we love about those visits? What was scary?

I grew up in the house where my father was born so there was no travel involved. But there were favorite times--playing with my brothers and sisters in the little nook formed by three (or was it four) cedar trees in our front yard, tipping over the lawn chairs and making them into "houses" for fox and geese; homemade lemon/orange ice cream, cold on the tongue but so sweet and creamy, thanks to those Holstein cows; the little surprises in the Christmas stocking--and the night my brother and I were just about sure we saw a shadow of Santa Claus in the front hall, as he was headed downstairs.

Of course there are some who do not know of their fathers' birthplace. But every child has a favorite place. It is the nature of us and of childhood that some places are special to us--a single tree, a grandparent's kitchen, a rock by a river, a candy shop on a busy street, even a favorite car. Whoever we are, there are stories in that place--secrets, surprises, what we used to be just about sure of, what wants to be told.

Martin Luther King's Birthday

Today, for another few hours is Martin Luther King's birthday.

I've been busy at the Hamline University Low Residency MFA program's winter residency. Today's the last day, so suitcase packing might be a good idea, but I could not let this date pass without some acknowledgement of the birthday of a great American.

And fortunately for me, at this residency I met Ann Bausum, writer of wonderful non-fiction for children and young adults. Ann read to us from her new book, Marching to the Mountaintop, the story of Martin Luther King, Junior's last days in Memphis in 1968, released just last week.

In this book, Ann tells us the story of the Memphis sanitation workers' strike, when these city workers could not take any more mistreatment and marched in the streets with signs that read "I am a man."

She also reminds us of the lasting impact of King's campaign for civil rights using non-violence as the strategy. Here's a bit of the flap copy:

"I've been to the mountaintop . . . And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!"

"On Wednesday, April 3, 1968, Martin Luther King, Jr., delivered one of the most stirring speeches of his career. His vision of the promised land and his confidence that it could be reached was for his audience the essence of what it would mean for a dream to come alive. They were the sanitation workers of Memphis, Tennessee, a group of poor African-American men who had spent their lives being treated like garbage. The men were completing week eight of a strike to improve working conditions—eight brutal weeks of being stonewalled after a lifetime of being ignored. King galvanized them and gave them hope. But not 24 hours later, he was dead, killed by an assassin's bullet."

And here's a brief quote from the book:

"' Freedom is not something that is voluntarily given by the oppressor,' Martin Luther King said in Memphis, yet he proved over and over again that it could be achieved by non-violent means. His rich understanding of that truth arose from his relentless, uphill campaign for social justice. ... King's faith in non-violence echoes through events that have unfolded around the globe in the decades since his death. Even at the dismantling of the Berllin Wall in Germany people sang 'We Shall Overcome.'"

We heard echoes of Dr. King's influence again last winter in Egypt's Tahrir Square as protesters were careful to keep their movement non-violent.

Some people make history. Some people change lives around the world.

It feels good to remember.

Beginning with a picture

On this next to the last day of 2011, almost the end of the year, I want to add one more voice in the series on beginnings.

We've listened to people who begin with research, who begin with doodling around, who begin in their heads and don't write until they know a good portion of the story.

Today's guest--Anne Ylvisaker--often begins with a photo. She'll find a photo that seems to "speak" to her and ask herself questions. Who are these people? What are they like? Why is the grandmotherly woman so sour-looking.

Here's the photo [from Anne's blog] and here's Anne talking about the beginnings of The Luck of the Buttons:

"And The Luck of the Buttons is set in fictional Goodhue, Iowa. I named the town Goodhue because the family photo that led me to writing the story is taken on a farm in Goodhue County. Look closely at the cover of the book and you'll see a tiny reproduction of this image on the family album Tugs is holding.

While there is an actual town of Goodhue in Minnesota, I brought this fictional Goodhue to Iowa because of my experiences living there when I was beginning to write the story. My inspiration for the main character came from an Iowa cemetery, and I was drawn in by the people and landscapes of Iowa artists Grant Wood and Marvin Cone."

Thanks Anne. And while we're still thinking about The Luck of the Buttons here's a lovely review.

Beginning with a photo...maybe it would be useful to build up a collection of photos and use them as writing prompts on those days when the cupboard is not brimming over. And maybe that writing will lead to some questions that prompt more writing.

Or when we want to shake things up we could just pick a photo and insert one character into a current story and see what happens.

Beginnings..let's begin something..something new..any little thing..today and that beginning will get us across the bridge into the new year.