To Sleep, Perchance

This is going to be a fairly short post, because I have to go to sleep now.  As it does every year, the recent time change has kicked my butt. I know that this will happen; and yet each time we spring forward or fall back, I forget to make allowances, and somehow manage to stay up even later than usual.

And that’s not the only reason I should know better.

My mother was the poster child for lack of sleep. I was well into my thirties before I realized that normal people did not have to replace their car every few years because they fell asleep at the wheel and totaled their old car.

So, instead of posting something long winded tonight, I’ll just leave you with these links and head off to get some shut-eye:

• Slate.com reviews some recent studies on how the switch to and from daylight savings time messes with your circadian rhythms.
• Harvard Magazine profiles some of the sleep scientists on the faculty. (This was the article an old boss told me about to convince me that all those people who say they can survive just fine on less than seven hours of sleep a night are  deluding themselves.)
• New York Magazine talks about new research that shows that sleep deficits so affect kids’ school performance that, for example, over-tired sixth graders end up performing at a fourth-grade level. (This begs the question of what lack of sleep does to us folks in our forties who are losing brain cells by the minute.)

Sounding Off

Yesterday Mark Liberman at Language Log posted about a Christian Science Monitor article by Matthew Rusling, an American expat living in Japan. Since Rusling picked up Japanese intonation and idioms from his Japanese girlfriend, he unknowingly picked up speech patterns that native listeners interpreted as female.

I had a similar problem the year I lived in Sweden, although I ended up sounding like the someone of a different age, rather than a different gender. Since I was attending classes at a folkhögskola — roughly equivalent to an American community college — I spent a lot of time listening to and talking with people in their late teens and early twenties.

By the end of the year, my Swedish was fluent, but it was fluent teenage-speak, which must have sounded ridiculous coming out of the mouth of a thirty-something woman with a vaguely American accent. Imagine a middle-aged immigrant in this country speaking fluent, American slang with a non-native accent, and you’ll get the idea — something like Dan Akroyd and Steve Martin’s two Czech brothers, the Wild and Crazy Guys of Saturday Night Live fame.

Of course it didn’t help that my classmates were always trying to get me to say things that they knew sounded goofy — either because they knew it was something I couldn’t pronounce quite right or because it was up-to-the-minute hipster slang. Even three years later, some of my Swedish friends will still try to get me to pronounce the words for frogs (grodor) and sprouts (groddar), two pronunciations I have a particularly hard time with.

One last point about Rusling’s original article and some of the responses to the Language Log post. Two other anglophone men mentioned similar problems with learning Japanese. One even concludes “…Just resign yourself to talking like a little girl for the rest of your life and hope to God that no one beats you up.” The underlying message is that, for men, sounding like a woman opens you up to ridicule, if not violence.” Interesting that, apparently even in Japan, the country that brought us the onnagata (male Kabuki actors, often renowned, who play female roles), one of the worst transgressions a man can commit is doing something that might cause him to be mistaken for a woman.

Reason # 4124 Why Everything’s Better in Sweden

Coffee Naïvté

In 2003-2004 I spent year studying music in Sweden. One day, at the end of lunch I drank a mug of hot chocolate and leafed through my new copy of The Atlantic that had just come in the mail. My classmate Gustav reached out and grabbed my hand just as I was about to turn the page and conceal a Hewlett-Packard ad. “Ooohh, psychedelic,” he said as he looked over the rainbow-hued artwork.

The type, which looked like it was fading into multicolored smoke, read “Stop and smell the coffee” and touted a business partnership between HP and Starbucks. Gustav is fascinated with all things 1970s, despite being born in 1979 (or maybe because he was born then).

After a second Gustav looked at me and asked “Vad är en Starbucks för nånting?” (What the heck is Starbucks?), and I just laughed and laughed. When I saw the look in his eyes change from indignant to hurt, I tried to explain. “I’m not laughing because you should know what Starbucks is. I’m laughing because I think it’s great that I’ve spent the last eight months in a place where it’s possible for people not to know what Starbucks is. Back home, you can’t escape Starbucks, they’re everywhere with their green logo and their expensive coffee.”

I’m sure Stockholm exists somewhere on Starbucks’ road-map to global domination, but it was comforting to know that young Swedes could live their lives in blissful ignorance of all things tall, grande and vente.

I Must Look Non-Threatening

I don’t know what it is about me that makes random strangers want to stop me for information or conversation. Maybe it’s that I look like I know where I’m going — even in foreign countries. I still remember the first time a French person asked me for directions in Paris. “Now I must really belong here,” I thought.

Sometimes I wonder if I give off some secret pheromone that whispers “good listener” or even just “too polite to tell you shut up.” A few days ago, I sat down on the bench in the subway station to read my magazine until the train showed up.

As I’m reading the first paragraph, I realize that the man sitting next to me is talking to me. And we’re not talking friendly chit-chat, he’s off and running with a full-blown rant about the subway conductor who closed the doors in his face and how rude all the public transit personnel are, and don’t I think they’re rude too. I nod and make agreeable noises, wishing he’d let me go back to my article. After a minute or two (which feel like twenty or thirty), the train pulls in and I melt into the crowded car.

I get to my destination and board the bus for home and the guy in the seat behind me starts talking to me about the latest headlines from Iraq. At first I can’t tell if he’s seriously agreeing with Bush and the neo-Cons or if he’s being sarcastic. I say something vague, hoping that he won’t go off on me, and he tones down the irony. Thank goodness, he’s just an eccentric with no boundaries, not a right-wing wing-nut with no boundaries.

Nothing tops the experience I had on an overnight bus trip I took from New York City to Columbus, Ohio to see Earl Scruggs play banjo at a bluegrass festival. I was digging through some old computer files recently and found this journal entry I wrote after the trip:

I settle myself into the line for the 7:05 p.m. Greyhound to Cleveland, Columbus, and Cincinnati (continuing on to all points through Dallas). I’ve arrived far enough in advance to score a good position in the queue and hold out hope that I may yet scramble into one of the coveted front seats where my view won’t be blocked by another seat.

While I’m silently debating whether or not to take my homeopathic sleeping pills now or once I’m on the bus, a strapping woman in her 30s blusters her way into the line. I’d seen her earlier when I was buying my ticket and noticed that she seemed astonishingly dressed-up for a long-distance bus trip. Her long auburn hair is twisted up into a knot. She’s dressed entirely in white — from the short blazer and camisole to the matching mini-skirt and strappy spike-heeled sandals. She carries two matching pieces of hard-shell, sky-blue American Tourister luggage — the old-fashioned kind from the days before suitcases came with pop-up handles and wheels.

When she plops her luggage and herself into the file of waiting ticket holders, I can see that she’s not as put-together as I thought. Her fingernails are talons. I can tell they’re real, not press-ons, since two are noticeably shorter than the others. The front of her blazer is tinted with faint pink blotches as if she spilled grape juice or wine down her front, but couldn’t entirely scrub out the stains. When she parts her lipsticked lips to smile, I can see that half of her front teeth are missing. The ones that remain are gray, angular stubs.

She rummages through her purse and asks the air, “Does anyone have the time?” This is the moment of truth. If I volunteer, I may have a companion for the trip.

I imagine my mother warning, “Don’t talk to strangers!” and blurt out “6:30.”

We exchange pleasantries — “Where are you going?” “Where do you change buses?” I tell her I’m going to Ohio. She used to live in Ohio. She hates Ohio.

She is going to Kentucky. The dispatcher at the trucking company where she works is sending her on a twenty-hour bus ride to a town in Kentucky that I’ve never heard of. He could have given her a rig to drive there, but instead, he’s making her take the bus. She vows revenge. “When I come back that truck’ll be broken. I’ve had one day off in the past five years — when my truck broke. This way, I’ll get him and a day off. He’ll never send me on another bus trip.”

When we board the bus, Penny — somehow I’ve found out her name — chooses the free seat next to me. She tells me about the house she’s building. Actually, she doesn’t know where she’s building it yet — maybe Alaska, maybe upstate in Sullivan County — but she has architects working on the design. She’s disgusted with their inability to translate even her most basic ideas into blueprints. The bedroom is the biggest point of contention. The architects are stymied by the waterfall and the stream she wants flowing past her bed.

Although she’s mentioned a fiancé (a fellow trucker), he doesn’t seem to be involved in the creation of The House. In fact, it sounds like she hardly ever sees him. His driving schedule and hers rarely overlap. She spends more time with her dog — a ferocious-looking wolf hybrid — that she bought for protection on long runs. “My company,” she confides, “carries expensive cargo.” She gives me no more detail than that.

By the time we pass through the Delaware Water Gap, sunset has given way to twilight. There’s not much to see out the windows, so both of us nod off, snoozing through the long-dark stretch of central Pennsylvania.

Black Bean Chili for a Chilly Night

For weeks now (maybe even months), I’ve been swearing that I’ll start cooking big batches of food on the weekends so that I can take my lunch to work instead of buying pizza or a bagel or some other starchy snack. I finally got it together tonight and made an enormous pot of black bean chicken chili.

The recipe started out as Jack Bishop’s “Black Bean Soup with Cumin, Chiles, and Lime” recipe from A Year in a Vegetarian Kitchen (a recipe I highly recommend, by the way) but quickly metamorphosed into something more like chili than soup, not to mention something definitely not vegetarian. The seasonings and the lime juice, which, in my opinion, make the dish, are all Bishop’s. The chicken, red bell pepper, tomatoes, tomato paste and Worcestershire are my modifications.

Here’s the recipe. By all means, do try this at home.

• 3 tablespoons canola, peanut or other neutral tasting cooking oil
• 1 pound ground chicken
• 2 medium onions, diced
• 4 medium garlic cloves, minced or pressed
• 1 jalapeño chile, stemmed, seeded and minced
• 1 large red bell pepper, stemmed seeded and minced
• 1 tablespoon chili powder (I mixed Whole Foods’ house brand with the no-frills brand from the local grocery store)
• 1 tablespoon ground cumin
• Salt to taste
• 1 12-ounce bottle of beer (Any of the pumpkin brews now in season are delicious in this recipe. Whatever you do, don’t use anything too bitter.)
• 1 cup water
• 3 15-ounce cans black beans, rinsed and drained
• 1 15-ounce can diced tomatoes with their liquid
• 1 6-ounce can tomato paste
• 4 tablespoons lime juice (~2 limes)
• 1 dash Worcestershire sauce (optional)
• Sour cream or plain yogurt to garnish

1. Heat the oil in a large heavy-bottomed pan or Dutch oven over medium high heat. Add chicken and brown, breaking up any large chunks of meat. With a slotted spoon, remove the browned chicken from the pan to a bowl. Set aside while you sauté the vegetables.
2. Add onions and sweat them until they’re translucent. Stir in the garlic and peppers and cook until fragrant.
3. Return the chicken to the pan. Add the chili powder, cumin and salt and stir to blend well with the chicken and vegetables. Cook until the spices are fragrant.
4. Add the beer and water. Increase the heat and bring to a boil. Let simmer until the alcohol burns off, about 5 minutes.
5. Add the beans, tomatoes and tomato paste. Stir to blend with the rest of the ingredients and bring back to a boil. Simmer for about 10 minutes.
6. Add the lime juice and optional Worcestershire sauce. Taste and add salt if desired.
7. Serve garnished with yogurt or sour cream.

Serves: 6

When the Wild Things Are

6:07 a.m.

That’s when I left my house this morning. (The precise details of why I was leaving before dawn are not important, but I will admit that I got up early to do work that I should have been doing last night when I was watching the latest episode of Bones with my housemate.)

Anyhow, I came downstairs, and the front hallway wreaked. For a few seconds, I thought the neurotic chihuahua (is that redundant?) upstairs had skunked himself, but I quickly realized that the smell was coming from outside. I walked up the hill looking all around so I wouldn’t end up accidentally tripping over one of the neighborhood skunks.

Then, as I was standing at the bus-stop, I noticed a raccoon sneaking out from between the laundromat and the neighboring house. It snuffled around the sidewalk for a few minutes. Every time a car went by it jumped on to the closest tree trunk and clung for dear life.

Finally it started waddling across the road with me stage whispering “hurry up, hurry up!” as truck headlights bore down on it. It made it to the other side unscathed and went straight up onto the front porch of a house, presumably to root through their recycling bins.

BTW, I don’t think I’ve mentioned here that my favoritemost word in Swedish is tvättbjörn, raccoon. It literally means “wash bear.” The Norwegian version, which has the same literal meaning, might be even better: vaskebjørn. Try saying it to yourself to see what I mean.

Vas’-kuh-byern. Vas’-kuh-byern. Vas’-kuh-byern.

This Says Something About Me (I’m Not Sure What)

I arrived home for the bookstore tonight with two purchases crammed into my handbag: a copy of Roland Barthes’ Mythologies and the new issue of Martha Stewart’s Everyday Food.

Broadway, 17:07

If there’s any smell better than honeysuckle after a late afternoon thunderstorm, I can’t imagine what it might be right now.

Chow-dah

After two days and trips to three grocery stores, I finally managed to make the batch of chowder I’d been planning. Here’s a picture of the finished product (in a cup made by my friend Kelly). I snipped some chives over the top of the soup for garnish.

Click for the chowder recipe.

Snow Day!

I slept in today.

I don’t know when I last managed that. (Last weekend when I slept through the alarm clock on the morning after the time change doesn’t really count since I had been up until 2 a.m.) Waking up early is one of the curses of adulthood. Barring too many late nights, it’s hard to sleep much later than whatever time your alarm clock usually rings.

Today I woke up at  7:30 and decided that was far too early to be awake, so I went back to bed. And, miracle of miracles, I actually fell back asleep. The falling back asleep part is always the problem. I’m one of those people who’s much more sensitive to light than to sound, so once the sun’s up, I’m up.

Not this morning though. I somehow managed to nod off until 10:30. Then I stayed curled up in bed with my blankets and my heating pad and my pile of pillows and read a novel until noon. I may have wondered, just for a second, if I should have been working on homework or cleaning up my room, but it felt so wonderful to do nothing but have fun.

Eventually I got up and ate buckwheat pancakes and surfed the Net for a while. Then I watched a sappy movie on TV and played piano for a while. I know that I titled yesterday’s post “Weekend Project #1″ — as if I were going to accomplish a lot — it’s just that it’s been so long since I’ve both managed to do nothing and to not feel guilty about it.

My only regret is that I never did end up making chowder. And that had nothing to do with my day of self-indulgence. My local grocery store, with its limited selection, didn’t have any leeks, so I’ll have to go to the next town over to get them tomorrow.