Sunday evenings are the worst time of the week. It is the end of the week-end's technical time out, and the looking forward to the mornings jump back into the fray, completely unprepared and without a clue as to how you are going to make it through the week without getting into some big trouble with someone. Big trouble because that work you had put off, until the weekend, hadn't gotten done (best intentions).The fall,as we call it here in the US, also wears deep. The flush of hope and confidence that started the school year in September with new books and good intentions, have started to show the lie. In the choice of staying in and doing the work that is required, or cracking open a new pack of Camel straights and walking into the fog for the warmth of a bar, one finds oneself powerless to take the right road.
I remember October 1977. I had spent an emotional but adventurous August in Europe, based at my grandparents on a beach in the Netherlands. I came back to a losing small claims case against a crooked recording studio owner, and my senior recital at New England Conservatory, at which my precious instrument was stolen from the dressing room in the hour before the concert (I went on with my teacher's, Barry Galbraith's guitar). That finished school, now I was moving out to Los Angeles, where a band I had produced some sides with had moved the month before, on my urging.
There was a girl. She had been with me, off and on, since I was 18 and she was 16, inbetween all the others. I had been ruthless in my relationship with her, and she had gotten her own back a few times, we had a history. Now I was moving away, although it was ostensibly for good, neither of us probably believed that until a few years later. The Sunday before my Tuesday departure, we drove out to a party in Amherst. I proceeded to drink hard and make an ass out of myself, again. After enough coffee, as the sun started to set over the multi-hued hills of western Massachusetts, we set off for Boston and our last nights together (but first, a stop at the Casablanca for a couple of drinks, eh?).
Life for this young alcoholic seemed to rush between best of intentions, high hopes for the future and a hopeless grind of the way things always seemed to actually work out. And I hadn't a clue. The lord is my shepherd, but I wish her luck, for my brain is a veritable basket of snakes.
Life is very different now. I live, maybe even thrive where many of my running (drinking) buddies have fallen. My happiness is simply contingent on a daily spiritual maintenance. But I have never been very good at maintaining consistency in daily rituals, so sometimes, on foggy, cooling autumn Sundays, an old familiar hopelessness tries to sneak back in. SHOO! I HAVE WRITTEN YOU AWAY!
:-)
8 comments:
This, more than anything else I have read of your work, gave some insight, if only a sneak peek, at who you are inside, at what Peter is made of. Easy to follow except there seemed to be a disconnect between the penultimate and last paragraphs. Perhaps that is intentional. Perhaps you don't want to go there. I am left wondering about the girl...
Nice picture!
Sunday evenings, I like. It's Monday mornings that give me that same feeling of disorientation and cluelessness that you get from the night before. I have that feeling right now...
Agreed - on the Sunday evening observation. At worst, it's sad and fraught with anxiety; at best, it's mellow. This is a pretty common phenomenon; in fact, we did a segment about it on the kids' show I produced at Turner. Our advice: plan something fun/special for late Sunday afternoon/early Sunday evening. I still try to live by that advice.
I do love autumn, though, everything about it - the color, the smell, the anticipation of the coming holidays.
Like Winston, I understand you a little better after reading this post. But then, your posts always open the window a little bit on who you are -
Winston, I tried a minor edit, but my writing is an ongoing experiment, sometimes even hard for me to figure out what I meant. :-)
Mary, the smells and customs of a New England fall, will always be a joy, too. I have fond memories of the ritual trip to an apple farm, where great jugs of unfiltered cider, and large a large wooden crate of Mackintosh apples would be purchased. The apples would sit on our service porch, a quick snack for any and all young playmates. Kicking my feet through the piles of red leaves on my way to school, and the rich, compost like smell.
There is an aspect of life, what some might call "bittersweet" that I find attractive. I keep flowers long after most would have thrown them out, I find their withered state, often, just as beautiful. I am drawn to complex endings, unanswered questions, the beauty of the chaotic swirls (that JAlva is known to make great art out of) that are the truth of our universe. I have no more a chance of understanding this earth ride, then a germ cell has of admiring Fellini. I often compare it to that pain/pleasure I would experience, sitting in third grade with a loose tooth. My tongue would play with it, and occasionally my fingers would give it a test, "are you ready to come out?". The slight pain would somehow be very pleasurable. No, I am not a masochist, but the frisson created by the momentary confusion of supposedly antithetical experiences, felt rich. Kind of like a certain Oaxacan molé, that tastes like blood mixed with dirt, and is incredibly delicious.
Lovurly.
Ah Sundays...depression could be eliminated by its cancellation. I could go on about that ad infinausuem...
I always endeavour to work Sundays. No matter what I've done for a living, i try to find work on a Sunday. It has little or nothing to do with Monday I find. It is the day in and of itself.
Oaxacn mole? You realize of course you must now provide us with a recipe.
Of course? As one who took a one day class at El Naranjo (who made it look all so easy) I am firmly decided some things are best left to the pros, so here in LA I visit Guelaguetza, who can be inconsistent. I loved Oaxaca, spent a New Years there (2002). The true ingredients are best bought in the zocolo there. Here is one man's colorful story of a visit.
There is some political turmoil going on at the moment, starting as a teachers strike. The Governor, who is not liked, made major changes to the lovely colonial era zocolo. I am heartbroken, and glad I got to spend time there before it was destroyed. Definately worth reading about!
Oaxacan Black Mole (Mole Negro Oaxaqueño)
There are more than sixty varieties of chiles that are grown only in the state of Oaxaca and nowhere else in Mexico. We have suggested substitutions here to reflect varieties more commonly available north of the border. You can use oil instead of lard, but the flavor will change dramatically.
*1 whole chicken, cut into eight serving pieces
*6 cups chicken stock
*5 chilhuacle negro chiles, stems and seeds removed (save the seeds) or substitute ancho chiles
*5 guajillo chiles, stems and seeds removed (save the seeds) or substitute dried red New Mexican chiles
*4 pasilla chiles, stems and seeds removed (save the seeds)
*4 mulatto chiles, stems and seeds removed (save the seeds), or substitute ancho chiles
*2 chipotle chiles, stems and seeds removed (save the seeds)
*1 medium white onion, quartered
*6 cloves garlic
*2 tablespoons whole almonds
*2 tablespoons shelled and skinned peanuts
*2 to 4 tablespoons lard or vegetable oil
*2 teaspoons raisins
*1 slice of bread (Challah or egg type is best)
*1 small ripe plantain, sliced or substitute a banana
*½ cup sesame seeds
*2 pecan halves
*1-inch cinnamon stick, Mexican preferred
*2 whole peppercorns
*2 whole cloves
*2 medium tomatoes, chopped
*5 fresh tomatillos, chopped
*½ teaspoon dried oregano
*½ teaspoon dried thyme
*1 avocado leaf, omit if not available or substitute bay leaf
*1 bar or to taste Mexican chocolate, Ibarra preferred
*Salt to taste
*Plenty of fresh tortillas
In a pot, simmer the chicken in the stock until tender, about ½ hour. Remove the chicken and keep warm and reserve the stock.
In a large frying pan or comal, toast the chiles, turning once until darkened, but not burned or, as some Oaxaquenas prefer, fry the chiles in lard. Place the chiles in a bowl and cover with hot water to soak for ½ hour to soften. Remove the chiles and place in a blender or food processor and puree, adding a little chile water if necessary, to form a paste.
In the same pan, roast the onions and garlic cloves until slightly browned, remove. Then toast the almonds and peanuts slightly, remove. Finally, toast the chile seeds, taking care to make them dark but not burned.
Heat 2 tablespoons of lard in the skillet and fry the raisins until plumped, remove and drain on paper towels. Next fry the bread until browned, remove and drain. Repeat with the plantains. Add more lard if necessary, lower the heat and fry the sesame seeds slowly, stirring often. When they are slightly browned, add the pecans and brown, remove and drain.
Toast the cinnamon, peppercorns, and cloves lightly in a dry pan. Cool and grind in a mocajete or spice grinder.
In a food processor or blender, puree the nuts, bread, sesame seeds, and pecans in small batches, remove. Add the onions, garlic, plantains and puree, remove. Finally, add and puree the tomatoes and tomatillos.
In a large cazuela or heavy pot heat the remaining lard and fry the chile paste, stirring constantly so it will not burn. When it is "dry," add the tomato puree and fry until the liquid has evaporated. Add the ground spices, the nut-bread mixture, the pureed onion mixture, and the oregano and thyme.
Heat, stirring constantly, to a simmer and add the chocolate to the mole. Toast the avocado leaf for a second over the open flame and add. Slowly add some of the reserved chicken stock to the mole until the mixture is just thick enough to lightly coat a spoon and salt to taste. Continue to simmer for 5 minutes, return the chicken to the mole and heat through.
Serve with plenty of sauce and hot tortillas.
Yield: 4 to 6 servings
Heat Scale: Hot
Whoa, Nellie! Look, PoT, next time you whip up the mole, make some extra and send to me. (Ya' lost me about 35 ingredients in.) And make it hot/hot. ;-)
I am so grateful that I checked in on your blog today. From melancholy to mole....what a ride.
Yea Bonnie, somehow melancholy and sauce of some kind, always goes well, together. Thanks for the visit.
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