Thursday, November 26, 2009

Persimmon Pudding

When I was a little girl back in Indiana we always went to Grandmother’s old brick house on Dunn Street in Bloomington for Thanksgiving Dinner. The table would be set beautifully, with polished silver candlesticks and flatware, and a real lace tablecloth. We feasted on roast turkey, rich dark brown gravy, dressing, mashed and sweet potatoes, green beans simmered with bacon, and Grandmother’s special, tart, not-for-everybody cranberry and orange relish. For at least one dessert we would always have persimmon pudding with whipped cream on top. The persimmons were gathered from beneath persimmon trees on a nearby property my grandparents called “the farm.” I knew nothing of how such a dinner was orchestrated and set upon the table with exactly the right timing—Grandmother made it look very easy. I might be asked to bring some of the dishes to the table or fill the water glasses.

After Grandmother was gone, my mother made the Thanksgiving dinner each year at our house on Sugar Lane. I helped a lot more at this point so I could start to see how bringing such a feast to the dinner table was like an air traffic controller managing the simultaneous landing of several Boeing 777’s at the same airport—a calm demeanor and careful planning were both essential. My Mom also made it look easy but I began to understand what it took, and helped as much as possible with the relish plate containing the olives, celery and carrot sticks, and the traditional green beans simmered with bacon. But my father was always the one to make the persimmon pudding. He had planted persimmon trees many years before up in his vast garden, using seeds obtained from the farm—and each year he would harvest the persimmons that had fallen to the ground and were starting to soften, peel them and mash them into a rich orange pulp. With the precise care and intense breathing he applied to most important tasks he would mix and bake the persimmon pudding. I began to see that this was homage to his mother perhaps, although we never talked about it.

Later, I moved far away to Colorado and began to have Thanksgiving dinners of my own, learning to overcome the momentary panic when confronting a large turkey ready to be stuffed, calling my mother for advice where necessary.

Me on the phone: Mom—there are icicles inside the turkey!!
Mom: Yeah, there always are—just knock ‘em aside and stuff the old bird.

My father would painstakingly ship me enough frozen persimmon pulp for one batch of persimmon pudding, which due to his master skills at packaging and shipping would arrive in perfect time and condition for me to make the dessert for my Colorado Thanksgivings.

Dad is gone now, but persimmons can be found around this time of year in the produce department of most grocery stores.  And so this holiday I give thanks for these memories and I pay homage to those who came before me as I slowly and lovingly mix the ingredients for today’s persimmon pudding we will have with our family feast to come in a few hours. M is in charge of most of the cooking, since he is the master cook in the family, but I do the pudding, and the traditional green beans simmered with bacon.

Happy Thanksgiving to all. May each person reading this make and hold dear all the beautiful memories of your own families.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Seasons

M and I walk north from Pearl on 13th and make our way to the North Boulder Community Gardens where piles of mulch and bales of straw announce the approach of winter. I notice for the first time a red stone bench with two trees planted in the half-circle. Someone has placed a few wicker chairs with comfortable backs in the half-circle as well, and the little park looks south over the gardens toward the Flatirons. The chair back feels warm from the sun as I settle into it and gaze at the view; I’m grateful for a momentary sense of inner peace. The stone bench has five separate sections with inscriptions. It is a dedication to Thomas Clark, “A Man for All Seasons,” it says. In the center section is carved:

Thomas Clark - A Man for All Seasons
Ecclesiastes 3:1 “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven.”

I think that Thomas Clark contributed much to the Community Gardens and has been remembered in this way; I could do worse than to be remembered as a "woman for all seasons."  Two sections on either side of this are carved with phrases representing each season, and so we find:

Spring – Joyful Renewal
Summer – Generous Abundance
Fall – Passionate Celebration
Winter – Peaceful Reflection

M and I agree that on this November day we would seem to be somewhere between celebration and reflection. It is a beautiful spot, and I tell him if I go first, he should meet me here in spirit, and I would do the same for him. He agrees to this with mild amusement, but later comments with typical irreverence that it is more likely his spirit would come back in a Terre Haute whorehouse.  Despite getting a pretty good night’s sleep, he is tired today he tells me, but has been able to write again just a little this week.

Knowing as I do how much seasons can affect moods, it's comforting to have these positive phrases set in stone to describe Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter--almost like a meditational theme for each. I’ve always loved climates with clearly defined seasons; they can be relied upon to change just when you’re most ready for a new perspective.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Wild Things

So I know you’re all asking yourselves, “Should I take my grownup to see ‘Where the Wild Things Are’?” I know you’re thinking, “My grownup enjoyed the book—we read it together often enough—but will the film version of the Maurice Sendak classic really be suitable for grownups?”


Spike Jonze’s back story on Max’s wildness got to me. Max is a lonely kid with a good but distracted mother, an older sister who breaks Max’s heart to be with her friends, and a father who’s left the family behind. This is a kid with overwhelming energy and emotions, but also a kid with great heart and a need for love and boundaries. After a particularly beastly scene with this mother, Max in his wolf suit sails off to a distant land where the wild things are and discovers several huge monsters, each with an oddly civilized name like Carroll, Douglas, Ira and Judy. Each wild thing plays out an emotion (feelings of anger, abandonment, alienation, shyness, regret, resentment, love, aggression) and they interact in all the ways a family does—meaning that they have great power to work together, help each other, and of course hurt and destroy each other as well.

Max convinces the wild things that he has special powers that make him uniquely suited to be their king, and they build a fantastic fort together.  The wild things are all parts of Max himself, as well as Max’s family, in a kind of Jungian fantasy. Where the wild things are, a mother’s love can literally swallow a boy whole to protect him and only reluctantly regurgitate him up again when the danger is past and he complains that he’s having trouble breathing.

The wild rumpus is great fun, but over time things become complicated as they will when various personalities and needs interact. It is harder to be king than Max had first imagined (after all, every prior king has eventually been eaten up by the wild things), aggressive war games end up causing pain, and in the end he realizes what he really needs and sails back home to have a late supper with his mother, who’s very glad to see him.

Ultimately this is a movie about almost everything that matters, so I do recommend it for discerning grownups. Would I say it is too dark or scary for kids? Maurice Sendak explains how he would answer this question in typically wild fashion: "I would tell them to go to hell. That's a question I will not tolerate ... If they can't handle it, go home. Or wet your pants. Do whatever you like. But it's not a question that can be answered."

All righty then.