September 02, 2004

The Smell of Breakfast

I was walking to the train station this morning when I felt myself oddly suspended in some kind of nether state between morning and night. To my left, the sky was shot through with the pinks and oranges of a stunning sunrise, portending a spectacular day. To my left, I noticed an almost full moon still hung in the sky, like someone forgot to put it away from last night. One side, the sun. The other side, the moon. Where the f**k was I?

And then I was hit by the smell of someone cooking breakfast. I have never smelled anyone's cooking odors before on this walk. But it reassured me that I was still relatively grounded. And it got me thinking about cooking odors and cooperative living.

We used to live in an apartment house in New York City on the oh-so-posh Upper East Side, a ghetto for blondes. The first time over there from our Upper West Side apartment, my wife commented that she thought we were in Greenwich, Connecticut by mistake. We lived in a building with 6 apartments on our floor.

Apartment living is intimate, even in a pre-War apartment building like ours. You know when your neighbors leave for work, because the door slams. You know who favors stiletto heels, because you can hear it on the terrazzo or on the hardwood floors above you. You know what their reading habits are because you see their magazines when you go to recycle yours. And you pretend that you know nothing about anything when you actually see them face to face. That was the fiction, that you knew nothing about the different guys who were coming and going from your neighbor's apartment in the early morning hours. No problem. I could do that fiction. That changed, of course, when I was elected to the Board of the Coop, but thatÂ’s another story.

Another thing you learned about your neighbors is that no one cooked on the Upper East Side. I mean, why bother, right? Chinese food delivered in under 7 minutes. Seriously. And it was good and not much more than what you might spend to cook it yourself and way more efficient in use of time. One of our neighbors actually got a call from the local utility asking if she'd like them to turn the gas off to her apartment since they noticed that she had not once turned the stove on in the last eight years.

Well, I cooked and my neighbors had to learn to ignore my cooking odors. Unfortunately for them, I cook well. I like to cook things that smell really good, like slow braised beef with about 30 cloves of garlic that you cook for 4 or 5 hours on 250 degrees until you just cannot stand the smell of the yummy goodness any more and you have to tear the oven open and dip some bread into the cooking juices or you are going to kill somebody. Or roasted chickens. Or long simmering soups and pasta sauces. Things that just smacked you in the face when you got off the elevator. Yup, my apartment was that smelly cooking apartment.

No one ever said anything, but I know that they all wanted to come over for dinner.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 09:39 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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Wild World of Nature

From Simon comes this link and the suggestion that you admire the view from the window in the third picture down. Put your coffee down first, ok?

Thanks, Simon!

Posted by: Random Penseur at 09:29 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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September 01, 2004

Baseball Economics and the Girl Child

I just put the Girl Child to bed after watching the Yankees / Indians game. We watched Jorge Posada hit a home run and I remarked that he was pretty good. She then said that she was not such a good baseball player and I told her that she was not a professional and we had the following exchange:

Me: They are professionals and they get paid.

Girl Child: They get paid? Money? To play baseball?

Me: Yes.

GC: [Stunned silence for a moment] Well, I don't know . . . [More silence] Well, I don't know EVEN what to say.

Never too early to learn it is absurd to pay men to play a kid's game.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 09:40 PM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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A moment of disperception on the train this morning

I had a moment of disperception this morning on the train. You know, a moment during which you feel suddenly weightless, no longer held to the bounds of the earth by bonds of rationality or ordered thought. I am not shocked by these moments now. I get them all the time while reading the NY Times. This one came whilst (I enjoyed sneaking that word in, pardon the digression) reading a book review concerning a book that holds that Europe is eclipsing the United States in the "good life". The Times surprised me by not giving the book a good review but that was not the disperceptive moment. Here's the quote that brought me up short:

It would be foolish, especially after the recent report of an increase in poverty in the United States, for even the most committed proponent of the American way not to admire much in Europe these days: its reduction of grinding poverty almost to a vestige, its low levels of violent crime, the quality of its culture.

It would be too much to fisk the whole thing, but one phrase jumped off the page at me: the quality of its culture. What the heck does that mean?

Firstly, is there such a thing as a European culture? Other than Yogurt? Europe, as we can all agree, is a CONTINENT, not a country, not a unitary social construct to which we can ascribe common beliefs and expressions such that we can call any expression by its citizens a manifestation of a culture. Even for the US, it's hard to do, considering we, too, are a continent and yet there are substantial cultural differences between the coasts and breaking down among the regions. So that blithe assumption bugged me.

Secondly, the quality? The quality? Is he kidding? Clearly not, I suppose since the reviewer thinks that this proposition is so self evident that it requires nothing more than a languid flip of the wrist to insert it in the article, then a pause as the cognoscenti silently concur, and then we continue on, all happily flattered to be considered in the know concerning the quality (superior, implied heavily) of European culture. Please. I think I need a drink.

How do you judge the quality? Do we have agreed upon standards? Is there a time period we are talking about? What is culture, exactly? Is it art, literature and music all by itself? If so, I'd say that Europe was hands down the home of quality culture during the Renaissance. That can't be too controversial, can it?

Is it the marketplace of new ideas? Well, Europe gave us Fascism, the Nazis, and Communism, some of the worst ideas ever. That ain't quality culture. And we have left plenty of dead Americans in Europe to prove it.

Is it architecture? Is it cooking? Food? Wine? What the hell is culture anyway?

I have no idea what the reviewer is talking about anymore. Are you all as confused as I am?

Posted by: Random Penseur at 08:56 AM | Comments (22) | Add Comment
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Architecture Obituary: Fay Jones

E. Fay Jones died in Arkansas on Monday. He was a protege of Frank Lloyd Wright and is credited with the creation of the Ozark Syle of architecture, a term he didn't like but which, according to the obituary in the NY Times, was important. The Times acknowledges that he was a regional architect but he was very influential just the same. The reason we are talking about him today is because of the Thorncrown Chapel, in Arkansas. The Times writes about it thusly:

His most famous chapel, Thorncrown in Eureka Springs, Ark., was a reverse play on European Gothic cathedrals. It was inspired especially by the 13th-century Ste.-Chapelle in Paris. The authors of "Architecture in North America Since 1960" described his method there: "At Thorncrown, he reverses the Gothic characteristic of a heavy compressive structure of stone and makes its inverse as a light tensile structure of wood."

In a biography, "Fay Jones,'' Robert Adams Ivy Jr., editor of Architectural Record, writes, "This harmoniously unified masterpiece is arguably among the 20th century's great works of art."

Thorncrown is tall and narrow, built of glass, wood and stone. Mr. Jones used a stabilizing device believed to be new at the time, crossed-wood bracing near the ceiling running most of the length of the building. Each brace is two lengths of two-by-four lumber joined by hollow steel joints that produce "a diamond fretwork of light'' that creates "the illusion of infinity," Mr. Ivy writes.

Ste. Chapelle is, to me, the most wonderous structure ever created by man. It is the embodiment of pure light. To see a splendid photo of it from Ken Rockwell, go here (image removed from site at request of artist after I checked with him).

This is my favorite building in Paris and I go visit it whenever I have the chance. It was built between 1246 and 1248 to hold the Crown of Thorns, as well as a piece of the True Cross and its steeple rises some 75 meters.

Throwncrown is clearly derived from it and here are a couple of photos I found. You can see the interior picture below and note the resemblance yourself:

Interior

ThorncrownInt.jpg

Exterior

Thorncrownchapel.jpg

R.I.P, Mr. Jones.

Posted by: Random Penseur at 08:34 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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