How time files when you’re having fun. Though idle on the intertubes for the past few weeks I assure you dear reader¹ I have been a busy little bee.

So, for the sake of posting something, and at the expense of long-form coherence, here’s what I’ve been up to. Many of these could have been – and still may be – their own posts, but so it goes. In bullet form:

• Presenting to the regional VEMA conference on recommending books to older teenage readers. Powerpoint here and book list here.

• Reading Alex Berenson’s The Faithful Spy and The Silent Man – books 1 & 3 of his John Wells series. Short review – Pass. Slightly less short review – Berenson tries to shoehorn Baldacci’s Oliver Stone character into a John LeCarre novel. Just doesn’t work for me.

• Playing lots and lots of Angry Birds and Plants vs. Zombies on the iPod.

• Taken up running again. Specifically, waking up about an hour-and-a-half before G-D himself and whipping my lazy butt back into shape.

• Thinking about the National Broadband Plan supposedly being released today by the FCC. Hoping they will follow up on their ambitious goals with an actionable plan. CNN has an interesting take on the issue, highlighting a woman who makes her living designing websites but doesn’t have access to broadband in her home. Worth the read.

So that’s the news from down on the farm. Hopefully we’ll be back on a semi-regular basis with your weekly recommendations and ramblings. Until then.

^{1 Surely there’s at least one of you still out there. Yes? Hello?}

I won’t go through the numbers, percentages, etc.¹ but two baselines for TV viewing within these metrics appear to be two hours per day and four hours per day. Sweet Jeebus! We might watch four hours of television per week. That is to say that we have about six shows that we try and see every week and have our TiVo dutifully record. We then plow through them, commercial-free, in the brief time between getting Zeke to bed, and succumbing ourselves to the day’s weariness.

So, with three masters degrees between us, K and I seem to give credence to this notion that More Education = Less TV. Or does it? Thompson rightly points out that while this is interesting data, there’s a lot more going on here. He, for instance, came of age² in environs lacking easy television access. His habits thus cemented, he watches very little TV in his adulthood.

I submit to you that the reason K and I watch very little TV these days has little to do with education or formed habits and everything to do with having a two-year old in the house. Morning television is out of the question as we race to shower, dress, eat and get out the door on time. Zeke gets to watch a spot of tele in the evening as K prepares dinner. Then as soon as I get home we eat, play for a while and then head straight upstairs for bath time, jammies and books for Zeke. By the time he’s safely ensconced in dreamland, neither K or I has stopped to breathe for more than about 20 minutes during the day and it’s time to sit, debrief, play online and/or watch television. I assure you that there is not a spare four hours each day for us to watch the tube even if we wanted to.

Which brings me to the story I wanted to tell in the first place. Last week we decided it was time to join the 21st Century and buy a large flat screen television. After spending much of a day off running between stores and comparing prices we brought home a 42″ plasma at a pretty good price. We then set it up realized it was way too big and were underwhelmed by a standard definition picture on a high definition TV.

We dutifully researched the exorbitant prices that Comcast would charge us to upgrade from basic³ to any sort of HD package and realized that this $600 TV was going to cost us far more than that initial cost in the long run. This information in hand, we calculated the value of cable service over the 4-5 hours per week of television and promptly took advantage of Costco’s generous return policy.

Do you, my educated readers, view less television than the unwashed masses that surround you? Is it because you’re wicked-smaaht, or do other factors come into play? Or do you watch far more? Weigh in with your comments, and go visit Hunch for more crowd-sourced conversation starters.

^{1 that’s what the link is there for, silly.
2 went to college
3 veeeeerrry basic.}

Apparently our roof has been leaky since the building, but rather than replace it the county has been repairing it piecemeal for years. Last week another crew came in to “fix” the roof and after some significant overnight rain the section above the reference area finally gave up the ghost. At least the torrents of water missed most of the super-expensive reference books. Our Civil War collection was not quite as lucky.

Since Rainey works Sundays we actually went out Saturday night to eat sushi and pick out my gift – a new Japanese Maple for the back yard. Rainey is one significant source of my embarrassment at being celebrated. In the midst of everything else she juggles, she had the time and thoughtfulness to think of and research a gift that both caught me by surprise and was one hundred percent perfect for the occasion. She had even picked out the tree and planned to have it sitting in the back yard when I got home from work Saturday except that she had Zeke on her hands and a band of terrible storms blew through town that afternoon. Hell, all I had to do was change him before I left for work and spend the day standing behind a circ. desk in an air-conditioned building.

Ultimately, I decided it was kind of cool being celebrated. After going out to buy the tree we had some good friends over for an impromptu father’s day cookout Sunday afternoon and a relaxing visit. And just so we didn’t forget who was boss, Zeke decided to make bedtime extra difficult that night, refusing to stay down and leaving us exhausted and with a kitchen full of dirty dishes. I will leave you with the far less tiring photographs of the tree, our landscaping before the tree goes in and a proud papa on his first father’s day.

so much depends
upon

a red wheelbarrow
glazed with rainwater

beside the white
chickens

William Carlos Williams, “The Red Wheelbarrow”

I don’t even remember any more what it was she was even trying to prove. But I do remember scoffing at my eleventh grade english teacher when she quoted me this poem and suggested how meaningful these six brief lines could be. To be honest, I think she was trying to talk me into becoming an English major in college. Somewhere she’s having the last laugh.¹

I now recognize the sense of loss, of dependence that Williams so eloquently captures. Though it is neither glazed with rainwater nor adjacent to chickens, so much once depended on this quaint red item:

It should not take a particularly acute observer to note that as an electric lawnmower with a severed cord, very little now depends on this particular piece of machinery.

This fine item was a $10 yard sale purchase and vaguely resembles the souped up, gas guzzling lawn mowers of today. Vaguely, in that it has four wheels and a rotary blade designed to cut grass. I affectionately refer to this as “The lawn mower of the future” from the 1950s. Sometimes I think the same folks that drew the Jetson cartoons got together to dream this up.

Futuristic looks notwithstanding, this lawnmower cut grass like it was from the distant past. This is to say that part of what depended on this mower was a full morning of dragging extension cords, passing over the same spot at least twice and finishing with grass that was only slightly shorter than when you started.² So what else depended on this red mower? Well, for starters my love of all things thrift – did I mention it only cost $10?

Adequate storage space also depended on this small footprint yard cutting machine. You see, we live in a townhouse with no more than about 250 square feet of lawn to mow. And storage space for a lawnmower being at a premium. This mower was adequate for the size of our yard and fit in our small storage closet outside. Oh, did I mention I only paid $10 for this magnificent piece of machinery?

Now, I won’t go into the gory details of how the power cord came to be severed.³ Suffice it to say that this lawnmower’s end was bittersweet. I was, of course, disappointed to lose a reliable, if somewhat cumbersome, implement. But I was also relieved to be rid of the constant cord dragging and inefficient use of time that appertained to using this beast to cut our grass.

So, with mixed emotions⁴ I went to Home Depot with Rainey in search of a new lawnmower. The criteria were modest – small enough to fit in our shed, gas powered, possibly with bagging or mulching capability. In a fit of decision making not often seen in our household, we walked to the lawnmower aisle, I found the one I had looked at online, pointed and said “I’ll take that one.”

Done, and done:

This picture makes the new mower look approximately 3x as large as the old one, so let’s be fair and show a side-by-side:

Plus, the handle on the new mower folds twice which makes the handle more storage-friendly than that of its predecessor. So now a new – gas powered – mower sits in our shed, waiting for a weekend when it’s not raining, we’re in town and baby Zeke is cooperating long enough for me to go out and cut the grass. Fortunately, the time it takes to accomplish this task is dramatically shorter due to the lack of cords and the efficacy of new steel blades.

The new mower may not be as environmentally friendly, and it certainly lacks the vintage style of my old faithful.⁵ But, as the ancients teach us, all things must pass. So I’ll pour the first sip of gasoline as a silent eulogy each time I fill up the new tank and remember the good times fondly before cranking up the two-stroke and joining the rest of suburban America in the national weekend pastime of revving engines in the pursuit of the perfectly manicured⁶ lawn.

^{1 While technically I did not even end up with an English minor, I did take a fair number of classes as an undergrad in the department and later took a Masters Degree in Religion and Literature.
2 Unless you started, as I often did, with 6-8″ grass because of travel, the needs of a young child, and incessant rain during the month of May
3 Rainey was at the helm, but let’s be honest, something like this was bound to happen no matter who was behind the handles
4 Primarily befuddlement at the prospect of paying more than $10 for a piece of equipment to be used for the maintenance of a, quite frankly, puny area of lawn.
5 Yes, it also cost quite a bit more than $10
6 Or at least moderately under control}

Yes friends, of the two of us I am the one who would be voted “most likely to succeed as a stay at home parent.” This has more to do with my slacker mentality than it does Rainey’s domestic prowess – which is ample. Nonetheless, with Zeke in tow, a clean kitchen and bananas waxing overripe, I dug out one of my mom’s wedding gifts to us for my favorite (read, only one I’ve tried) banana bread recipe.

There’s not much to the recipe – flour, some baking powder, eggs, sugar, oil (or butter), said overripe bananas, cinnamon and some nutmeg. As I often like to say, you’re playing with a stacked deck. Even if it doesn’t bake into a perfect loaf, the right proportions of those ingredients will, without fail, taste delightful. The trick then, was managing baby Zeke. This proved to be a bit tougher than blending sugar, eggs and oil in our trusty Kitchen Aid.

To spare you the bulk of the gory details, we persevered. By a combination of singing silly songs to Zeke, listenting to him roll, laugh, then squeal for attention on the floor and, finally, one-armed batter pouring, the loaf was set to bake for “55 to 65 minutes at 350 degrees.” Approximately 55 to 65 minutes later our entire downstairs smelled of ripe bananas, nutmeg and cinnamon as the loaf cooled on a wire rack.

By this point I had tried all my tricks on the Zekester and he was starting to tire of my game. And tire in general. This is the thing about babies – two hours of growing, learning and general mischief can really wear them out. The thing about our baby, in particular, is that when he’s worn out he doesn’t think it’s in his best interest to rest. There’s learning, growing and general mischief to get into after all.

So after 30-40 minutes of shushing, comforting, cajoling and rocking, baby Zeke was down for the count and I was again faced with a blank kitchen canvas. Here I should mention that Rainey and I don’t always do a great job of using all the food we buy. Often we end up throwing away remnants of supplies that were purchased with eyes larger than stomachs. A situation we are constantly trying to remedy.

So then, the bag of potatoes sitting innocently untouched on the counter. This recipe is easy. And, allow me to say, completely of my own origin. Four white potatoes, medium size. Enough vegetable oil to fill a cast iron skillet to about 1/2″, spices to taste.

• Heat approx 1 1/2 to 2 cups oil in a cast iron skillet
• Slice the potatoes as thin as possible. I won’t spend the time here but to say that a very good knife (or knives) should be your first real purchase if you intend to do much cooking.
• In a medium bowl toss your slices with a dash of vegetable oil and chosen spices. I did two potatoes with a hot curry and salt combo and two more with mesquite flavoring (cooked separately, of course)
• Place slices in hot oil, turning once or twice, until cooked. Potatoes will be light to medium brown and will start to curl
• Remove slices as they are finished and drain on paper towels.

That’s it. Let those puppies cool just long enough to pop one in your mouth and you may never go back to Lays again. Ok – it’s a little time intensive (and potentially messy with all that oil) to do without a dedicated fryer, but it’s great fun on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Pour the oil into a modestly priced receptacle and your skillet is left with just enough coating to bake at 450 degrees to keep seasoned.

Miraculously, Zeke stayed asleep through the whole potato affair, and Rainey and sis returned just in time to sample homemade potato chips fresh from the skillet. And ask about dinner.

Well, I did have a skillet to season, so what else might I find to bake at 450 degrees that would also suffice as an acceptable offering for dinner. Rainey’s sis being a vegetarian, we decided to go light. Some salad, blue cheese stuffed olives, and flat bread followed by the earlier sweet banana confection for desert.

The flat bread is my own recipe, modified from the breadstick recipe in my all time favorite cook book – The Vegetarian Express Lane. This particular work got me through three years of bachelor living without going the way of a super-sized Morgan Spurlock and an early heart attack from too many burgers and fries. Inexplicably, until recently this book sold used on Amazon for over $100. I briefly considered hocking mine after photocopying my staple recipes.

The beauty of this book is in its minimal number of ingredients and the expediency with which the recipes can be prepared. The recipe for breadsticks (my substitutions in brackets) follows.

• 2 1/2 cups all purpose flower (sub 1 cup organic whole wheat)
• 1 package rapid-rise yeast
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 tsp sugar
• 1 Tbsp sugar
• 1 Tbsp olive oil
• 1 cup hot water
• Coarse salt (I used a rosemary infused Mediterranean sea salt courtesy of my spice-maven mother)
• (5-8 calamata olives, chopped)
• (1/4 cup roasted red pepper, chopped)

Preheat oven to 450 Degrees. Combine ingredients (sans salt) in a bowl, stir with a wooden spoon, adding flower if necessary. Transfer dough to a lightly flowered countertop, knead (adding flower as necessary) until mixture is smooth and not very sticky. Separate into two equal parts, use a rolling pin to flatten (about 1/2 to 1/4 inch thick) and place on a greased baking sheet. Bake for 15-20 minutes, or until lightly browned and cooked through. Remove from oven, slice as desired and serve warm.

Oh yeah, the most important part of this recipe: allow spouse and her sis to care for Zeke while you turn on the happy homemaking charm. Good times and good eats were had by all. Let me know if you try any of these, or plan to, in the comments. Cheers.

To start another groggy day I am in search of something to help me re-frame this week. From Robert Alter’s translation, Psalm 19 v. 1-4:

¹To the lead player. A David psalm.
²The heavens tell God’s glory,
and His handiwork sky declares.
³Day to day breathes utterance
and night to night pronounces knowledge.
⁴There is no utterance and there are no words,
their voice is never heard.

Hard to complain too much when you put it that way. Hard also to complain when that baby that kept you up at 12, 2 and 5 wakes up and gives you that familiar smile. Today let me listen to the day’s utterance of God’s wonder and be a conscious part of the creation that declares divine glory.

Anyway, I submit for your perusal the violets that appeared, unbidden, in our garden. The offspring of last season’s hastily-inserted-for-color batch. Life is good.

Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Silver sails all out of the west,
Under the silver moon:
Sleep my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Baby Zeke was born on the afternoon of Thursday, December 13 2007. I will remember this day fondly and for a number of reasons. The arrival of one’s firstborn is an occasion not to be forgotten. There was also directed at our newly expanded family that day an outpouring of love, affection and good wishes from numerous friends and family. The experience was exhausting, exhilarating and a fitting kick-off for what has proven to be a fun, scary, difficult, frustrating and rewarding experience so far. And that’s just the first five months.

Now, the day, or night rather, that I do not remember so well is that Tuesday night. That night we were still several days out from the official due date. I was still able to run out for a taco at a moment’s notice, heedless of the needs of anyone in my house but myself. I hazard a guess that I had gone for a leisurely run of between three and five miles early that morning. That Tuesday night, dear citizens, is the last time I slept the whole night through, unfettered by the late night and early morning concerns that would soon hold sway in our home.

Simply reading Tennyson’s “Sleep my little one, sleep” gives me a feeling of restfulness that I have all but forgotten. There is a tinge of yearning in his lines, but it is a yearning afforded the speaker by hours of restful sleep, and the resulting wakefulness spent contemplating the rambunctious newness of life before father comes and his pretty little one is carried by the waves of deep sleep under the silver moon. The poet knows that the cradle will rock, the baby will wake, and life will pick back up but he is wise enough to urge his young child to sleep, sleep.

In Tennyson’s poetry we feel the rhythm of nights and days. This, as the saying goes, happens to be the rub. Yes, I miss the number of hours, but what I find myself wishing for most is the regularity of sleep. If I am destined to nap a meager four hours, let them be the same four hours. But no, baby Zeke makes his wakeup calls scatter shot depending on the evening and the mood. Sometimes 11, 1, 3 and 5; other times 10; 2:30; 4 and 6. We never know and so we go to bed not necessarily in fear but in restless anticipation – the sort of thing we could well start an office pool over if not for our nearness to the consequences.

By now you may think that he doth protest too much. And I concede. Yes, I am tired; yes, I would love to be free to leave the house with my wife past 7 o’clock at night; and yes, I even miss the Sunday mornings at 5:30 AM when I found myself at the cusp of a 13 mile run wondering just what the hell it was I was about to get myself into.

So here’s where it gets good. None of those things compares with the one routine I can now count on. Morning is Zeke’s favorite time of the day, and as soon as he’s out of his crib for the day he turns on the charm. His toothless smiles are enough to brighten any morning, even at 4:30 when he’s clearly up for the duration. He smiles, coos, giggles and puts on a display of general happiness rarely seen in day-to-day life. This is my new constant in life. It doesn’t replace the hours of sleep, but it sure makes the lost hours worthwhile. And, of course, this too shall pass. Too often we’re eager to rush on to what’s next, all the while complaining about how good it used to be.

I look forward to the days where Zeke sleeps and I know I will come to him soon. But for now, I come to him on his terms, as early and often as he needs me. And every time I hope I can remember the lines from another of our dead white poets:

“I have no name:
“I am but two days old”
what shall I call thee?
“I happy am,
“Joy is my name.”
Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!
Sweet joy but two days old,
Sweet joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while,
Sweet joy befall thee!

-William Blake

]]> http://gibberish.sidewhites.com/2008/05/sleep-my-little-one-sleep-my-pretty-one-sleep/feed/ 1 http://gibberish.sidewhites.com/2008/05/photo-karma-zeke-loves-a-parade/ http://gibberish.sidewhites.com/2008/05/photo-karma-zeke-loves-a-parade/#comments Wed, 07 May 2008 00:57:02 +0000 Conan http://gibberish.sidewhites.com/?p=11

Yes, it’s true. My feelings about parades notwithstanding, Baby Zeke, just under five months old, loves parades. We sat on the shaded steps of our church and watched all but about 45 minutes of nearly six hours worth of parades.

Saturday night, he slept seven hours – five more than he usually goes between overnight feedings. Hey, maybe I can get used to this whole parade thing!