Sunday, June 28, 2009
Westward Ho!
So husband and I took a road trip to find a new home. While on the trip, I took along Women's Diaries of the Westward Journey by Lillian Schlissel. I loved reading about ladies' experiences on the same terrain I was driving. (7 hours in NE gives one lots time to ruminate about those poor women's travels and trials.) When we arrived in Ft. Collins I 1) thought it was beautiful, 2) was glad to be rid of the Midwest's humidity, and 3) decided that that was the point in the journey where in the 19th century I would have told my husband I refused to go any farther west in an oxen-pulled wagon. I am not going over the mountains in any sort of animal-pulled wagon ever. All this to say, I was both amazed and horrified by these women, their families, and the things they endured in the hope of finding a better financial/living situation. It makes me being disappointed in my new, mediocre apartment as a college student seem a bit pathetic, really. Still, while I don't love it, I am glad we can check "apartment to live in while in FC" off our list of things to accomplish in the next month.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Paying attention in MUS115 was a good idea after all!
A week ago I had the most wonderful conversation with a teenager. While visiting me at work, her family seemed smitten with the parlor organ. Noticing the music book's small size, this teenage girl asked about it, and this launched us into an exciting conversation about Sunday Schools, revivals, and 19th century hymnody.
I think we reached the high point/nerd threshold when we talked about how hymns' texts and tunes were written to be interchangeable. I taught her about metrical and tune indices, and she was actually excited to learn that the TUNE NAME is the thing in caps and number and dot combinations like 8.6.8.6. (CM) describe the beats in each phrase.
I was so happy for the rest of the day. I love talking about hymnody, but I haven't really done so since college. In fact, the only reason I know this stuff is because I took too many church music classes. (Thank you Greg Scheer.) Anyway, I guess sometimes you do get to use the "useless" information you absorb in school.
I think we reached the high point/nerd threshold when we talked about how hymns' texts and tunes were written to be interchangeable. I taught her about metrical and tune indices, and she was actually excited to learn that the TUNE NAME is the thing in caps and number and dot combinations like 8.6.8.6. (CM) describe the beats in each phrase.
I was so happy for the rest of the day. I love talking about hymnody, but I haven't really done so since college. In fact, the only reason I know this stuff is because I took too many church music classes. (Thank you Greg Scheer.) Anyway, I guess sometimes you do get to use the "useless" information you absorb in school.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Tambourine Trauma
I was not meant to be a percussionist. I know this because I played the tambourine for church (while singing) yesterday, and I was definitely the weakest link. I played too slowly because I was concentrating too hard on other things. This slowed down the entire ensemble. My director was very frustrated. However, as far as lasting trauma goes I think I win. This lovely bruise is a result of repeated collision with said tambourine. In an effort to preserve the side of my leg which was sore and puffy after Thursday's rehearsal, I decided to use the back of my leg as my smacking place. Obviously I am now aware that there are a lot of blood vessels in that part of my leg. The funny thing is that while this is by far the coolest, biggest bruise I've ever gotten, it itches, but it doesn't hurt much.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Where's Jackie?
I believe I may have partaken in a truly pathetic illustration of people unable to accept change gracefully this morning. Today, as every Wednesday morning, I went to breakfast at the Shed with my coworkers. I have been doing this for seven years. Yes, seven years. And for five of them, we have had the same waitress, Jackie.
Jackie is amazing. She knows to pull two tables together so we will all fit around BEFORE we arrive. She knows that when one of my coworkers says, "Half and half," he is not referring to cream and milk but a glass of chocolate and white milk. She knows I usually order a half order of sour dough french toast with fresh blueberries on the side. She knows we all "love eggs". We love Jackie. So imagine our devastation when she wasn't there this morning!
I arrived rather early and immediately noticed that 1) the normal pot of hot tea and bowl of lemon wedges weren't on the table, 2) no peanut butter was to be found on the table, either, and 3) an unfamiliar face was serving drinks and taking orders! "Where's Jackie!?!" I asked. "She's not here," was the mournful reply. The waitress's name was Kelley. She didn't stand a chance.
One by one, coworkers began filing in. Each one reacted the same way--worried glances, shock, horror.... "Where's Jackie?! Why isn't Jackie here? Why is someone else taking our order?! She's going to mess it up. Where's Jackie?!" A fellow coworker remembered Jackie had said she'd be out of town this week. "When is she coming back?! She better be back next week!"
The carnage continued. We complained about Jackie being missing while Kelley was there and while she was away. If I were her, I would've spit in our food. We were awful and rude and very, very pathetic in that sad, abandoned puppy way. Lost without our caregiver, we all ordered breakfast sandwiches without any special requests.
It seems Jackie has become as much a part of breakfast as any one of us. We know about her kids, her husband, her interests. Coworkers have come and gone, but Jackie has remained the constant in our lives, something to hold on to as our lives constantly change. I know I will be just as sad to leave Jackie as I will many of my coworkers, but more importantly, I really hope she's there next week.
Jackie is amazing. She knows to pull two tables together so we will all fit around BEFORE we arrive. She knows that when one of my coworkers says, "Half and half," he is not referring to cream and milk but a glass of chocolate and white milk. She knows I usually order a half order of sour dough french toast with fresh blueberries on the side. She knows we all "love eggs". We love Jackie. So imagine our devastation when she wasn't there this morning!
I arrived rather early and immediately noticed that 1) the normal pot of hot tea and bowl of lemon wedges weren't on the table, 2) no peanut butter was to be found on the table, either, and 3) an unfamiliar face was serving drinks and taking orders! "Where's Jackie!?!" I asked. "She's not here," was the mournful reply. The waitress's name was Kelley. She didn't stand a chance.
One by one, coworkers began filing in. Each one reacted the same way--worried glances, shock, horror.... "Where's Jackie?! Why isn't Jackie here? Why is someone else taking our order?! She's going to mess it up. Where's Jackie?!" A fellow coworker remembered Jackie had said she'd be out of town this week. "When is she coming back?! She better be back next week!"
The carnage continued. We complained about Jackie being missing while Kelley was there and while she was away. If I were her, I would've spit in our food. We were awful and rude and very, very pathetic in that sad, abandoned puppy way. Lost without our caregiver, we all ordered breakfast sandwiches without any special requests.
It seems Jackie has become as much a part of breakfast as any one of us. We know about her kids, her husband, her interests. Coworkers have come and gone, but Jackie has remained the constant in our lives, something to hold on to as our lives constantly change. I know I will be just as sad to leave Jackie as I will many of my coworkers, but more importantly, I really hope she's there next week.
Monday, May 11, 2009
It's all in one's perspective
I have a "youthful" face. As a result, I have spent the majority of my time at work in September fielding questions about why I'm not in school over the last few years. Luckily, as I am closer to thirty than twenty, these comments--barring a month ago when a man's first words to me were, "You look like you're about 13!" have become less and less frequent.
Instead, my work with grade school kids is giving me a dose of age's flip side. Take this incident for example:
After a day of talking to children with my equally "youthful" assistant a week ago, I received a call from a coworker. He explained that in his attempt to teach a group of seventh graders by making connections he'd asked them if they had visited the TH. They said they had. He asked, "Did you talk with two girls there?" "No," they replied. At this point, his mind began to race to thoughts of an abandoned house and possible staffing problems. So he asked, "Did you talk to anyone while you were there?!" "Oh yes," they said. "We talked to two ladies, but there weren't any girls."
Instead, my work with grade school kids is giving me a dose of age's flip side. Take this incident for example:
After a day of talking to children with my equally "youthful" assistant a week ago, I received a call from a coworker. He explained that in his attempt to teach a group of seventh graders by making connections he'd asked them if they had visited the TH. They said they had. He asked, "Did you talk with two girls there?" "No," they replied. At this point, his mind began to race to thoughts of an abandoned house and possible staffing problems. So he asked, "Did you talk to anyone while you were there?!" "Oh yes," they said. "We talked to two ladies, but there weren't any girls."
Friday, April 24, 2009
Yea!
I am going to Colorado State University in the fall. I have decided and sent in all paperwork. My dearest husband is looking for work and pondering the most important of important questions, "What is more important to me in a barbershop chorus, fun or talent, and who should I sing with?" Now if only the CSU financial aid department would talk to the history department. The former continues to send me suggestions on how to take care of my $30,000+ bill. The latter claims they will take care of my bill. My vote is for the latter. Now if only I could get the former to leave me alone.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Pork Cake
Yesterday I did something I’ve been meaning to do for several years. I went to Plymouth Congregational Church to photograph a nineteenth century cookbook. I had looked forward to this day for two years and a month—really. Cookbook research is my favorite part of my job as supervisor and dinners coordinator. Geeking out while studying 100-plus-year-old recipes may not be something to which you can relate, but if you are a baseball fan, it’s probably similar to knowing the name and stats of every Yankees pitcher since the team’s inception.
Anyway, I was at this church to take pictures of every last recipe in a cookbook named by the ladies who assembled it back then, most appropriately, ‘76’ A Cookbook, and I needed those recipes to prove that all the recipes I’ve read in cookbooks from New England and the South from the 1870s were also used in Iowa. After all, I spend nearly every day trying to recreate foods eaten in 1875 Iowa. I can’t think of better documentation than a local cookbook.
I got to the church and discovered two things: 1) the cookbook I could photograph was the eighth edition printed in 1887, not the 1876 edition, and 2) they had another cookbook for me to look at and photograph. The first was slightly disappointing. The second was very, very exciting. This meant that my work was doubled, my desire to prove definitively that certain recipes were appropriate for 1875 Iowa was thwarted, and I got to make the acquaintance of two very interesting books. I enjoyed thinking that except for one historian writing for the “Annals of Iowa” twenty years ago I was the only person who had looked at these books in at least fifty years.
The books were not in great shape due to age and use. “76” had obviously belonged to someone who loved to cook. Brown spots from grease, sugar, and other food dotted its pages. The owner wrote recipes and comments in the margins and on blank pages. The cover’s printing was worn off, and the binding had completely disintegrated. The second book, Adeline Club Cook Book, was compiled by a Plymouth girls’ Sunday school group who used its sale as a fundraiser. The edges of its blue paper cover threatened to dissolve if I looked too closely at them. Still, I was up for the challenge. I spent most of the day bent over the books trying to take pictures that would be clear enough for me to read later. (I was mostly successful.)
While taking pictures, I was inevitably distracted from my work by the recipes. Cranberry ice, olive sandwiches, baked beans, salad dressing, and queen of puddings caught my attention. Some recipes made my mouth water; some grossed me out. Still, none of them were as memorable as the first recipe on page 158 of “76”. As I turned the page, my eyes fell on “PORK CAKE”. In disbelief I read, “Pour over one pound of pork chopped fine, one cup of boiling water, and add two cups of molasses, one cup of sugar, two teaspoons of soda, spices to the taste, one and a half or two pounds of raisins, one pound of citron, two eggs and flour to make as stiff as pound cake.” YUCK! Pork flavored fruit cake?! I don’t think I’ve ever eaten fruit cake and thought, “You know, this would be greatly improved by some bacon.” To make it worse, the recipe underneath read, “PORK FRUIT CAKE”, which means at least two Victorian ladies thought this recipe was tasty and worth sharing with their fellow Congregationalists.
Even while my stomach churned, my curiosity got the better of me. What if pork cake really was tasty? After all, I do have an unspoken rule that I must try something before I decide I don’t like it, and I discovered I like stewed cucumbers and dill pickle soup while following this rule. This means I’ll have to try the recipe this summer at the TH. Hopefully my staff won’t mutiny and will instead be intrigued like me. However, I get the impression pork cake is more likely to join aspics and melon on my short list of foods I consider inedible. Fortunately I’ll have a chance to try and enjoy some of the other thousand edible recipes in these cookbooks as well.
Anyway, I was at this church to take pictures of every last recipe in a cookbook named by the ladies who assembled it back then, most appropriately, ‘76’ A Cookbook, and I needed those recipes to prove that all the recipes I’ve read in cookbooks from New England and the South from the 1870s were also used in Iowa. After all, I spend nearly every day trying to recreate foods eaten in 1875 Iowa. I can’t think of better documentation than a local cookbook.
I got to the church and discovered two things: 1) the cookbook I could photograph was the eighth edition printed in 1887, not the 1876 edition, and 2) they had another cookbook for me to look at and photograph. The first was slightly disappointing. The second was very, very exciting. This meant that my work was doubled, my desire to prove definitively that certain recipes were appropriate for 1875 Iowa was thwarted, and I got to make the acquaintance of two very interesting books. I enjoyed thinking that except for one historian writing for the “Annals of Iowa” twenty years ago I was the only person who had looked at these books in at least fifty years.
The books were not in great shape due to age and use. “76” had obviously belonged to someone who loved to cook. Brown spots from grease, sugar, and other food dotted its pages. The owner wrote recipes and comments in the margins and on blank pages. The cover’s printing was worn off, and the binding had completely disintegrated. The second book, Adeline Club Cook Book, was compiled by a Plymouth girls’ Sunday school group who used its sale as a fundraiser. The edges of its blue paper cover threatened to dissolve if I looked too closely at them. Still, I was up for the challenge. I spent most of the day bent over the books trying to take pictures that would be clear enough for me to read later. (I was mostly successful.)
While taking pictures, I was inevitably distracted from my work by the recipes. Cranberry ice, olive sandwiches, baked beans, salad dressing, and queen of puddings caught my attention. Some recipes made my mouth water; some grossed me out. Still, none of them were as memorable as the first recipe on page 158 of “76”. As I turned the page, my eyes fell on “PORK CAKE”. In disbelief I read, “Pour over one pound of pork chopped fine, one cup of boiling water, and add two cups of molasses, one cup of sugar, two teaspoons of soda, spices to the taste, one and a half or two pounds of raisins, one pound of citron, two eggs and flour to make as stiff as pound cake.” YUCK! Pork flavored fruit cake?! I don’t think I’ve ever eaten fruit cake and thought, “You know, this would be greatly improved by some bacon.” To make it worse, the recipe underneath read, “PORK FRUIT CAKE”, which means at least two Victorian ladies thought this recipe was tasty and worth sharing with their fellow Congregationalists.
Even while my stomach churned, my curiosity got the better of me. What if pork cake really was tasty? After all, I do have an unspoken rule that I must try something before I decide I don’t like it, and I discovered I like stewed cucumbers and dill pickle soup while following this rule. This means I’ll have to try the recipe this summer at the TH. Hopefully my staff won’t mutiny and will instead be intrigued like me. However, I get the impression pork cake is more likely to join aspics and melon on my short list of foods I consider inedible. Fortunately I’ll have a chance to try and enjoy some of the other thousand edible recipes in these cookbooks as well.
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