A Thousand Splendid Suns
Once I picked up Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns, I barely put it down again until I was finished. I found myself thoroughly involved in the lives of Mariam and Leila, unwilling even to stop to fix dinner! The author of Kiterunner has hit another home run.
There was a time when we would listen to older state department types talk – with enormous longing – about their tours of duty in Afghanistan, pre-Soviet invasion, pre-Taliban, pre-American occupation. Have you ever read James Michener’s Caravan? There are two countries I long to vist, but the countries they are now are not the countries I heard people talk about – Afghanistan and Ethiopia. Our friends loved their times in these two countries.
A Thousand Splendid Suns opens in a small village outside Herat, and then takes us to Kabul. Mariam is born harami, a bastard, of a village cleaning woman in the house of a very wealthy man. Her father builds a small hut for her mother and herself in a remote part of the small village, and visits Mariam every week. Life is simple, and difficult, but also full of kind people who visit and who are concerned with Mariam’s welfare.
After marrying, Mariam goes to Kabul and learns a new way of life with her husband, Rasheed. What fascinates me with Hosseini is that while Rashid is one of the villians of this novel, he is just a man, doing the best he can given his own upbringing and limitations. In a sense, he is “everyman”, the strutting, domineering, sometimes brutal and abusive husband we find in every culture. But Hosseini also gives him transient bouts of kindness which blow through a little less often than the transient bouts of cruelty.
He also gives us good men, in this book, in the person of Jalil, the father of Mariam, who steps up to the plate in acknowledging Mariam and supporting her and her mother, but fails to nurture in the very real way women need nurturing from their fathers in order to reach their full potential in life. Hosseini also gives us a very strong man in the book, Tariq, who, although he has only one leg, is more wholly a man than any other man in the book. I imagine that this is not unintentional. (How Kissingerian is that for a double negative?!)
Written almost entirely in the Afghan world of women, we see through the eyes of Mariam, and later Leila, the transitions in Afghanistan and their impacts on daily life. We experience happiness with them, and peaceful scenes in quiet moments, raising the children, stepping outside into the garden at night to share a cup of tea and a shared bowl of halwa.
Between the moments of peacefulness, we also experience incoming morter rounds, explosions, marauding bands of warlords, and starvation. We go into a women’s hospital under Taliban control, where there are no medications, no running water, no instruments, and an Afghani female doctor does a C-section with no anaesthesia and is required to keep her burqa on. We watch a mother abandon her role and take to her bed when her two sons are killed fighting the Soviets, we experience betrayal and we experience helplessness, and we experience a Kabul women’s prison. A Thousand Splendid Suns is a rich feast of experiences, juxtaposing the everyday chores of women around the world – cooking, raising children, laundry – with events on the world stage.
(Available from Amazon for $14.27 plus shipping.)
Peter Bowen: Wolf, No Wolf
“You have to take this. You’ll really like it,” Sparkle insisted as I inwardly groaned, thinking of the TWO stacks of unread-must-reads by the side of my bed, and my already bulging suitcases.
“I know it doesn’t sound like something you’ll like,” she went on, slightly frustrated with me, with herself, “but once you start reading, you’ll get into it.”
Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but good enough for me. I always KNOW what I think she will love, and she has done me many a favor in return, introducing me to authors and series worth reading.
“It’s about Montana. The main character is mixed Indian and French and some other things, a grandfather, and it all takes place in a small town in Montana . . . ” she sort of fizzles out. “I’m really not doing a very good job of making this interesting.”
And she sighs in frustration.
So, about a month later, just because I love my sister, I pick the book up and start reading while waiting for my husband to get home for dinner. As it turns out, he is very very late – and I am very very glad. I don’t want to stop reading!
When you first jump into Wolf, No Wolf by Peter Bowen, it takes you a minute to adjust your ear to the way they talk. These aren’t people most of us have met before. Gabriel DuPre´ is m´etis, a mixed blood. His ancestors are French who came early to the great continent that is now the US, Canada and Mexico, and they trapped and hunted, married native American wives, and developed a culture all their own. His language pattern is similar to that of the Cajun in Louisiana.
He is a cattle brand inspector in this small Montana town. His children are grown, he has so many grandchildren he can’t remember all their names. Every now and then, he pins on his deputy sherrif badge to solve a mystery in the small town of Toussaint, Montana.
Here is how Wolf, No Wolf opens:
Du Pre´ fiddled in the Toussaint Bar. The place was packed. some of Madelaine’s relatives had come down from Canada to visit. It was fall and the bird hunters had come, to shoot partridges and grouse on the High Plains.
The bird hungers were pretty OK. The big game hunters were pigs, mostly. The bird hunters were outdoors people; they loved it and knew it, or wanted to. The big game hungers wanted to shoot at something big, often someone’s cows.
Bart had bought a couple thousand dollars’ worth of liquor and several kegs of beer and there was a lot of food people had brought. Everything was free.
Kids ran in and out. The older ones could have beers. Bart was tending bar. Old Booger Tom sat on one of the high stools, cane leaned up against the front of the bar.
“You do that pretty good for someone the booze damn near killed,” said Booger Tom. “I know folks won’t be in the same room with the stuff.”
“Find Jesus,” said Bart. “It’s not too late to save your life.”
He went down to the far end of the bar and took orders. Susan Klein, who owned the saloon, was washing glasses at a great pace.
One of Madelaine’s relatives was playing the accordion, another an electric guitar. They were very good.
Du Pre´ finished. He was wet with sweat. The place was hot and damp and smoky, so smoky it was hard to see across the room. The room wasn’t all that big, either.
Madelaine got up from her seat, her pretty face flushed from drinking the sweet pink wine she loved. She threw her arms around Du Pre´ and kissed him for a long time.
“Du Pre´,” she said, “you make me ver’ happy, you play those good songs.”
. . …
Someday this fine woman marry me, thought Du Pre´, soon as the damn Catholic church, it tell her OK, your missing husband is dead now so you can quit sinning, fornicating with DuPre´.
I’ve never hung out in a bar in Montana, fiddled, or had a girlfriend named Madeleine (!), but already I feel like I know these people and this life. Peter Bowen is the Donna Leon of Montana, introducing us to the kind of crimes that happen in those sleepy looking towns we drive past on the superhighways, glancing at, or stopping to fill our gas tanks.
DuPre´ is a good man, and, like many a good man, sometimes has to do a bad thing to protect those he is sworn to protect. Policing is not pretty business.
The first story has to do with the re-introduction of wolves back into the Montana highlands, something not at all popular with those who have been raising cattle there. The second book in this two-book collection has to do with serial killers, how they stay under the radar, and how very difficult it is to catch them.
In both books, it is as much about a new way of living and thinking as it is about solving the crime. DuPre´ consults often with his friend Benetsee, the local medicine man, who sees things we don’t see. One of the FBI Agents is Harvey Wallace, also more than half native American, whose real name is Harvey Weasel Fat. The books are about how men and women fight, the nature of male friendships and female friendships, and very much about the human condition wherever we may be.
Life is short. I can never live in all these places long enough to even scratch the surface of the flavor of each variety of life. But these books help, they give us glimpses into another way of thinking, another way of doing things, and stretches our little minds just a little so that we learn to think more flexibly.
So who is going to write the Kuwait detective series? Who will take us into the diwaniyyas seeking information, who will take us out on the shoowi to gather information against those delivering drugs to Kuwait, with whom will we camp in the desert, avoiding explosives left over from the Iraqi invasion? I think his name is Anwar al Kout (the light of Kuwait!) and his wife is Suhail (the Yemeni Star!) – somewhere out there is someone who can take us into Kuwait and bring it alive. Where are you?
(You were right, Sparkle. I loved it!)
Rubberlegs
My friend is finally back, and oh! We are so happy to see each other again. So today we got together with all kinds of new exercise equipment and ideas. After looking at photos, we spent an hour doing aqua-aerobics. Actually, that was enough for me. It was a great day to be outside, the pool was just cool enough – not like a hot tub and not so chilled your toes turn blue, but just right – and it was very very private. We could look as foolish as we wanted and no one cared.
(Cartoon courtesy Everydaypeoplecartoons.com.)
Then we hit Buns of Steel, and from time to time, I totally wiped out. How can they keep smiling and breathing and talking while they are doing all these totally exhausting exercises?
And then, she showed me moves on the exercise ball that i can’t even comtemplate right now. First I have to learn how to keep my balance.
But leaving, what a disaster. I almost fell down the stairs! I don’t have Buns of Steel, I have Legs of Rubber! Looks like I need to build up my strength a little. 😦
Cultures Collide
Maybe “culture clash” is too strong, maybe it’s more like huge continents that kind of bump into each other and send a reverberation through both continents, more a slow grinding than a crash? And maybe, like rough stones tumbling in a barrel, as we rub our rough edges against one another over time, maybe we become smooth, polished gems?
I have a dear friend, one of those friends that when you can grab some time together you never run out of topics, and when they leave, you remember “Oh! I forgot the point of that story was . . . and I never got to it!” or “Oh! she was starting to tell me about the . . .. and then we segued off into something else!” This friend delights my heart; when you see her face, you can see her lively soul in her sparkling eyes.
Those eyes were looking at me in utter puzzlement.
“What do you mean you couldn’t find any celery?” she asked. “Didn’t you go to the grocery store?”
“Yes! I spent hours there! Big mistake, shopping just before Ramadan, me and everyone else in the village.”
“So why didn’t you just buy some celery?” she persisted.
“There wasn’t any celery! It was all gone!” i responded.
“How could it be gone?” she asked, incredulity in her voice, “Don’t they always have celery?”
Something is wrong with this conversation. We look at each other.
“Have you ever been grocery shopping just before Ramadan?” I asked her.
“I never go grocery shopping!” she replied.
(Can you hear those continents grinding?)
I sat down. I looked at her. I believed her; I don’t think this woman is capable of lying, she is innocent and straight-forward.
“You’ve never been grocery shopping?” I asked her, knowing that if she said it, it is true, but trying to figure out how this could even be possible.
“Well, a couple times, like when I was making that pie, but only for a few little things, not like food to feed the family.”
She has staff. They’ve always had staff.
So I explained to her that just before Ramadan, like in western countries just before Christmas, some items just disappear.
“One time, in Tunisia, olive oil disappeared! And eggs! And even tomato sauce, and these are all products made in Tunisia!” I explained. “Here,” I went on, “you know how it is, sometimes even when it is not Ramadan, things will disappear, but when Ramadan is coming, if you know you might need something, you have to plan way in advance. Your Mom probably has taken care of all that. ”
“I don’t think so,” she said, two little tiny worry lines creasing her brow.
“Your Mom doesn’t shop, either?” I asked.
“Not for groceries.” And she’s looking at me like I am from another world.
And I am. This friend is so patient with me, with my little ignorances. When you are a stranger in a strange land, you expect some of the big differences. Like Ramadan, that is a big difference, when the whole country becomes more religious and for a whole month the focus is on God, on fasting during daylight and gathering with family and friends and feasting at night, reading the Qur’an, submitting your sins and begging forgiveness. . .
It’s the little things that catch you up. You kind of assume that everyone lives life a lot like you do, and it can be a real shock to discover that in small, everyday things you take for granted, you do things very differently.
Some of my earliest memories are in the kitchen, cutting dates and prunes to help my Mom make fruit cake. I can remember stirring chocolate pudding as it cooked on the stove, making jello, simple things before I graduated to chopping nuts and onions, etc. And I wrongly assumed this is everyone’s experience.
I know I have shocked my friend, too, sometimes. I asked what I thought was a very simple question once, and watched her face become a mask of horror at the very thought. God bless her for her patience with me!
I bless all my friends today, my Tunisian friends, my Kuwaiti friends, my Saudi friends, my German friends, my French friends, my Qatteri friends – all the friends who have endured my chauvinistic mistakes, assuming all the world thinks as I do. I bless my American friends, because even though we are from the same nation, we, too, are from different areas and different family cultures (tribes!) and we don’t see through the same eyes, our views are colored by the culture through which we observe the world. Today I am thankfully amazed that we manage to get along as well as we do!
Big Girls Don’t Cry?
Listening to SUPERSTATION 99.7 as I am working, I find myself exasperated, from time to time, by the lyrics to some of the songs.
Today, it is Big Girls Don’t Cry. I remember a totally different song with the same name from back a while ago, and actually I like this one better, because she talks about cutting it off and just moving on – and I agree. Sometimes you just have to cut your losses.
But I think big girls – and guys – do cry.
(Picasso’s Weeping Woman)
A researcher actually explored why we cry:
Frey investigated a question his mother had asked him: “Why is it that people cry tears?” He would pursue the answer, alongside his Alzheimer’s work, for many years. He took a scientific approach to her inquiry, and he discovered emotional tears were chemically different from other tears. That research resulted in interviews with People magazine, the Today Show, Good Morning America, and others, as well as a book, Crying: The Mystery of Tears (Harper and Row). “Perhaps the reason people feel better after crying is that they’re removing chemicals that build up during stress,” Frey suggests, adding that the question remains open to further research.
This is from a Washington University Alumni magazine.
I don’t know if there has been any further research on crying, but originally, I remember him stating that emotional tears carried away poisons that stress build in the body. It makes sense to me. I don’t cry all that often, but when I do, when I cry and it’s one of those blow-it-all-out cries, the kind that give you a headache if you carry on for too long – afterwards, you just feel wonderful!
And you wonder why you even let her/him/it assume so much importance in your life?
And you wonder “What was I thinking???”
Sometimes a good cry just puts everything back in proportion and you really CAN move on.
Or that’s how I see it. I don’t mean to go all drama-queen, I am just talking about a good old fashioned lock-yourself-in-the-bedroom-and-cry kind of cry.
But maybe you see it differently. I think big girls DO cry, and for good reasons, and then we move on. But this might be a cultural thing, and I am willing to entertain other ways of looking at it. What do YOU think?
French Chocolate Ice Cream
Perfect for beating the summer heat! This ice cream is so rich, so creamy, and so chocolat-ey that it makes you forget your worries.
French Chocolate Ice Cream
This takes a little time – and an ice cream churn – but oh, is it so worth it.
2 teaspoons vanilla flavoring
2 cups milk
6 egg yolks
1 cup sugar
1 Tablespoon cornstarch
1/4 teaspoon salt
6 squares unsweetened chocolate
3 cups heavy cream
Heat milk in small saucepan just until bubbles begin to appear around edge of pan.
Beat egg yolks in large bowl with sugar, cornstarch and salt.
Slowly add hot milk into egg yolk mixture, stirring constantly.
Return all to saucepan and heat slowly , stirring constantly, over medium heat until mixture thickens and just comes to a boil.
Remove from heat and add two teaspoons vanilla and chocolate squares, and continue stirring until the chocolate is melted.
Stir in cream.
Cool completely.
Strain into a four quart freezer can of ice cream maker.
Freeze according to manufacturers directions. Serve immediately, or spoon into freezer container and place in freezer. This won’t last long – it is SO good!
Note:
One time I was making this ice cream for guests. My small son, who loved this ice cream, kept asking if it was cool enough to churn yet. I told him one thing: Don’t touch the ice cream container.
He couldn’t help it. He had to see if it was cool enough to churn. Unfortunately, the refrigerator-slick canister slid through his hands, and as he struggled to catch it, he somehow hit it up, and put some spin on it. As I prepared to welcome guests, the gooey, thick, chocolate mixture twirled up, up and out of the canister, spinning ALL OVER THE KITCHEN and all over my small son.
He looked so horrified as he stood there, rooted to the floor, covered by his chocolaty guilt. He looked at me with terror in his eyes. He had disobeyed, and he feared the consequences.
I struggled really really hard not to laugh, and I looked at him very crossly and told him he had to stand there, covered with chocolate, until I had cleaned up the rest of the mess. Then I cleaned him up, and started another batch of the mixture. Just in time, I popped him into the bathtub as the guests arrived. The mixture was cool enough by the time I served dinner, and churned as we ate. It was ready just in time for dessert.
To this day, I think of my son with a big grin every time I see this recipe.
Cactus Flower in Pensacola
The Cactus Flower in Pensacola is usually the first place we go when we get to Pensacola. They have some of the best Mexican food you can find, freshly prepared, and you better get there early or you’ll have to wait a while for a table – the secret is out!
Located in a small strip mall undergoing some serious renovation, the Cactus Flower serves lunch and dinner. You’ll see all your friends there – we can’t go there without running into someone we know.
This is the chicken quesadilla. It is more than one person can eat! We took the rest home for another meal.
This is the three taco dinner; you can choose chicken, beef or pulled pork, or any combination of the above. It comes with a choice of beans (these are the smashed beans) and rice, too. Usually, I order this a la carte, because I can eat the three tacos, but not all the beans and rice, too, and I hate to waste.
This is the tostada dinner, which also comes with beans and rice. Delicious!
As for gaining weight, so far so good. Haven’t done a scale check, but the clothes still seem to fit and the waists aren’t too tight, so I guess I am keeping it off by lugging my baggage here and there, and keeping moving.
Obesity Contagious
Obesity ‘contagious’, experts say
This report is from BBC Health News.
The study looked at data collected over 32 years
Having a friend, sibling or spouse who is overweight raises a person’s risk of being obese too, US researchers say.
They said data on more than 12,000 people suggested the risk was increased by 57% if a friend was obese, by 40% if a sibling was and 37% if a spouse was.
They argued this showed social factors, such as the body sizes of other people, were important in developing obesity. . . .
“Rather, there is a direct, causal relationship. What appears to be happening is that a person becoming obese most likely causes a change of norms about what counts as an appropriate body size.
“People come to think that it is OK to be bigger since those around them are bigger, and this sensibility spreads.”
The study was actually about heart disease, and this result was a by-product of the study.
Blue Angels in Pensacola
Today the Blue Angels are performing in Pensacola, over Pensacola Beach. Reports yesterday said it is harder for them to perform over water, because there are fewer “marks” to help them orient themselves.
(No, I didn’t take that photo, it is a Blue Angels PR photo)
Aerial displays have always thrilled me. There was a team that used to perform every year in Doha, too, I think it was a French team. Imagine, having a career as a stunt flier, in one of these powerful machines. Oh, what fun.
Our first worker arrived well before seven in the morning yesterday; fortunately I am still jet lagging and had been up moe than an hour when he drove up. He was followed shortly by the contractor, who took out my range top, in preparation for the tearing out of the kitchen counters on Monday, and later by the tile guy, coming in to measure and give an estimate on what he will charge to put tile on the wall, once the new counter and cupboards are finished.
We are putting in a Silestone countertop in Blue Sahara. It isn’t really blue, it is a variety of sand colors, with some blue flecks, the exact colors of their wedding china.
I looked at granite, but didn’t like all the upkeep, the sealing, the stains . . . someday, when I have a grown up house, I might have marble, which I had in Tunisia and loved, but I always worry about red wine spills. 😉 Meanwhile, I think the Silestone is going to be a great fix. The current countertop is an old white streaky laminate, reminds me of a diner from the fifties. They liked it so much, they ran it right up the wall to the underside of the cupboards.
Dear old friends who live nearby came for lunch, and we went to the Oyster Barn. They loved it. Said “this is REAL Florida!” which I totally love. We had grilled tuna, which had a smokey deliciousness, and grilled grouper sandwich, also looked good. We talked about our days together living in Germany, travelling in France – oh, the fun we had!
Ridin’ Dirty
My sis made this comment in my blog today:
BTW – it makes me giggle to think of you as my “Gangsta Sista” with her throwdown…and bling, too, as I read backwards in your blog! LOL, LOL, LOL!
It gets worse, sis. My rental is this long sleek black thing. I’m not used to being so close to the ground, and the thing drives like a boat – it’s heavy and luggy, and it wasn’t my choice, it’s just what I ended up with.
And I was really uncomfortable driving it, I felt just WRONG. Finally, I figured out that the seat was tilted back, and that’s what was making me have to drive with my arms straight out. I’m slow, but I’m slow . . . it only took me a few days. Now the car is still lunky, but at least I am sitting up straight.
And the takeoff, by Weird Al Yankovitch -White N Nerdy:
No bling for me, dear sis. But hey – don’ t YOU have a birthday coming up soon? 🙂
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