Dear Lady in the Front Row Who Gasped

I was at the podium and you were sitting in the front row when I heard you gasp.  Some may not have heard it, others thought it was nothing more than a quick intake of breath.  I am going to call it a gasp because it changed my life.

You validated me as a writer.

I was one of four performers at a story-telling event.  You were probably there to see family or friends.  That’s the composition of the audience.  Few people come in off the street.  I was the last storyteller, so your job as a supportive friend was over, but you were kind enough to stay for the entire program.  My friends and family were in the audience, but you were a complete stranger to me.  That meant a lot.

My coming-of-age story was reaching its climax.  Abandoned in the middle of a lake, I had nothing but a frantic dog-paddle to keep me afloat.  I can’t say I felt tension building in the audience or that people were on the edge of their seat.  I had no immediate feedback until I heard you.

You see, I am pursuing story-telling as an alternative to the against-all-odds world of publishing.  I am a writer, or at least I thought so until my MFA program told me I’d be labeled “a hobbyist” unless I got something published.  At the same time, I learned publishing was a grim business with no pay.  The work-around was to embrace rejection as the noble pursuit of a writer.

A classmate asked if I wanted to join a competition to see who would be the first to get 100 rejection letters.  The record was one year.  Only dispassionate, impersonal rejection letters counted.  Any letter with the slightest whiff of encouragement – a closing line of “looking forward to hearing from you,” or the giddy (but now vanishing) experience of a handwritten rejection letter with a coffee stain on it – well, this was no rejection, but quasi-acceptance.

An MFA faculty member waved his ragged sheaf of ten years of rejection letters from the New Yorker. He was a successful, self-sustaining writer with his own Wikipedia page, but he seemed prouder of these rejections than acceptances.  He wanted us to know he was out there, aiming high and laying it on the line.

I get it, I’m never going to win races I don’t enter, but his locker-room pep talk fell flat.  I have experienced rejection, both social and professional, and have learned to accept it with grace and good humor.  But it has never occurred to me to rebrand rejection as success.

Yes, I can send my work off into the abyss and wait for months as some bleary-eyed editor slogs her way through a towering slush pile.  Even if I pass this first hurdle, I want more.  I want direct feedback, not from forgiving family and friends, but from strangers who have no vested interest in me.  Publication only guarantees that strangers will have access to my work.  This is not enough.

I needed a work-around to the opaque layers of publication.  Mark Twain became my mentor.  His early platform was built on his public story-telling.  He reveled in the audience feedback and used that to refine his literature.  He moved between the two worlds, each leveraging the other.

I joined a story-telling troupe, and with trembling hands looked into the eyes of my audience, beyond familiar faces to my target audience of strangers.  I scanned the audience for drooping eyelids, slumping shoulders, heads in hands, and was gratified to see none.  I happened to look down at you when I reached the climax of the story.

You gasped.  I had you.  You thought I was about to drown, didn’t you?

You made me a writer and a storyteller.

With grateful thanks,

Liza Blue

 

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In Praise of Kitchen Gadgets

 

There is nothing like a visit to Bed, Bath and Beyond to restore one’s confidence in American ingenuity.  I’m not talking about the whiz bang intelligence required to send a man to Mars, invent the Internet, or thwart Russian hackers.  I’m talking about the everyday can-do spirit of ordinary Americans who tinker in their kitchens and garages to devise a better way to make it through the day

These humble inventors live in obscurity.  I imagine them fiddling with a spatula or whisk, muttering their mantra, “Some men see things as they are, and ask why. I dream of things that never were, and ask why not?”

The fruits of their labor are on display at Bed, Bath and Beyond, a dizzying collection of specialty spoons, spatulas, scoopers, slicers and dicers, each exquisitely designed to fill a sliver of a niche.

The 1950s saw an explosion of kitchen appliances, all intended to improve the life of the homemaker.  These innovations represented low-hanging fruit.  The demand for a clothes dryer was obvious.  This was an era when it wasn’t yet a cliché for a husband to give his wife an appliance as an anniversary present, perhaps a new-fangled toaster that toasted both sides simultaneously, or a garbage can with a foot pedal to open the lid, leaving both hands free to scrape a plate.

Lillian Moller Gilbreth, born in 1878, is known as the “First Lady of Engineering,” an industrial psychologist and efficiency expert, who studied housewives to identify the most efficient approach to kitchen chores.[1]  It was Lillian who invented the garbage can with a foot pedal in 1920.  Her other standouts included shelves on the fridge doors, such as a butter tray and egg keeper.  Yes, “why not” indeed.

The current generation of gadgeteers face a crowded landscape, and only the most enterprising can identify and exploit an empty niche.  The recent movie Joy profiled the entrepreneur Joy Mangano who made a fortune with a self-wringing Miracle Mop, designed so you don’t have to touch that wet dirty thing.  The movie closes with Joy interviewing a young couple who are seeking their fortune with their ergonomically designed lint roller.

If you want to see where dreams can still come true, go to Bed Bath and Beyond.

The following are the most intriguing items I harvested on a recent stroll through the store.

But I warn you.  You will also confront the silly excesses of our culture.  I think of the millions who make do with a single dinged up bowl and a combination knife/machete.  They must be astonished Americans are so pressed for time that they need a special device to crush garlic cloves, that they are so consumed with presentation they need a special serrated knife to keep the cut edge of lettuce from turning brown, that they have no concept of portions given the plethora of storage containers and that they have unlimited storage space for all this inventive crap.

1.  Measuring cups marked on the inside

My existing Pyrex measuring cups, which have served me well for over 30 years, require me to either bend over to see the volume markers or lift the cup to eye level.  I have meekly accepted this annoyance, but an enterprising housewife banged her fist on the counter and said, “NO MORE!!  Let’s Keep America Great and spare ourselves the agony of Making America Great Again!”

These angled measuring cups allow me to look down into the cup.  No bending or lifting required.

The elimination of bending is a general theme in kitchen gadgets, starting with the aforementioned step-pedal garbage can, followed by the bendable straw patented by Joseph Friedman in 1937.  I grew up with the humble dust pan, but now I have a long-handled one.  I don’t need to bend over anymore.  I gratefully stand on the shoulders of those who came before me.

2.  Angry Mama Microwave Cleaner

My pet peeve is not the grease-spattered microwave, it’s dishes left in the sink, particularly when encrusted with old egg yolks, but I do appreciate the strategy of targeting frustrated housewives.  The steaming mad character captures the mood, but Angry Mama execution does present conceptual problems.  First you have to rip off the Mama’s hair and then her head in order to fill the body with vinegar and water, which comes across as an act of vengeance.  Then you twirl Mama  in the microwave until a vinegar steam bath erupts from the vents in her head.  The package notes that after the steam bath, you have to wipe down the microwave, then clean the woman, so Angry Mama is not a time saver.

I bought the woman to celebrate its creativity, however misguided, but returned it the next day.  In my disorganized hands, the parts would certainly become separated.  I didn’t want a decapitated head rolling around my “things accumulate” drawer.

2.  Scissors-cutting board combination

Chopping carrots has always been a two-step process – first the cutting and then the nano-second time-suck of transferring the carrots from the cutting board to the bowl.  The obvious solution – combine the two by attaching a miniature cutting board to the lower blade of the scissors.

I bought one but always forget to use it.  It takes me more time to find the scissors than use a standard-issue cutting board.  Scissors come in many styles, including one with multiple blades that can mince herbs with one cut.  Over a course of a year, a nano-second here and there might add up to a full second of saved time.

 4.  Collapsible whisk

Oh, the clutter of bulky whisks!  Such an annoyance, particularly when the bulbous whisk jams the drawer that resists all jiggling and jimmying.  I applaud the inventive mind who realized this is no way to live and then did something about it!  I hold the nifty flat whisk in my hand, twist the base and marvel as the head elegantly blossoms and clicks into its full-bodied splendor.

5.  Egglettes

Egglettes address the nightmare of hardboiled eggs that refuse to peal.  Just crack the eggs in the little plastic containers then boil them.   Genius.

However, the bigger question is why some eggs peal like a dream, while others leave you with a flea-bitten egg that is hardly worth eating.

The answer is related to the anatomy and chemistry of the egg.  I’m sure you’ve noticed the membrane that separates the egg white from the shell.  This keeps the sticky and acidic proteins in the egg white from glomming onto the shell and making it impossible to peel.  You can guess where I’m going here.  It’s all about the membrane, the difference between success and failure.  Is that flimsy membrane stalwart enough for the job?

Here’s the kicker – the fresher the egg, the lower the pH of the egg white and the stickier it becomes.  The membrane is overwhelmed.   Old eggs don’t have this problem

Egglettes are the clever work-around.  Hard boil the egg outside the shell.

I love this product.  It provides an ingenious and time-saving solution to a truly annoying problem.  I hope the inventor makes a fortune, but I didn’t buy any Egglettes.  They would take up too much room.  I’m waiting for the  next-gen, collapsible Egglette.  Besides, there’s and easy work-around.  Problem solved if you let your eggs languish in the fridge for a few days.

6.  Hydralight Flashlight                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             The Hydralight makes the list as a cautionary tale illustrating the hyperbolic advertising that accompanies gadgets.

I responded to the claim that the flashlight “runs on water,” and “no batteries needed.”  Here, midst the maze of Bed Bath and Beyond, I was privy to the fruits of another inventive tinkerer who had tapped into the energy potential of good old H2O.  I looked around to make sure that I hadn’t stumbled into the thermodynamic or cold fusion aisle of the store, but no, the aisle was devoted to other “As Seen on TV” items.

I bought a Hydralight, excited about the prospect of living in a world without the crushing disappointment of a flashlight with dead batteries.

On closer inspection, which required a magnifying glass, I saw the “Runs on Water” claim came with an asterisk.  The faint print on the back of the package noted that water was not the energy source, but merely activates the “fuel cell.”  I was in the presence of champion dissembling!  In smaller, fainter print the package made a clever distinction between a battery and a fuel cell.  Specifically, “a battery makes energy stored exclusively inside the battery.  A fuel cell requires external elements, such as water.”  Rocket scientists may embrace this distinction, but for the pedestrian flashlight, the subtleties of a battery vs. fuel cell are irrelevant.

Chastened, I returned the Hydralight the next day.

The missing words in the following poem are a collection of anagrams, i.e. words that share the same letters like spot, post, stop, etc.  The number of asterisks indicates the number of letters in the word.  One missing word will rhyme with either the previous or following line, giving you a big hint.  Your job is to solve the missing words based on the above rules and the context of the poem.  Scroll down for the answers.

In the American kitchen, not one convenience should be ******,

Time saving gadgets are a particular point of pride.

******, time spent bending over is time that is lost,

So my purchase of a special measuring cup is well worth the cost.

However, gadgets have accumulated and without even knowing.

* ***** ended up with drawers and shelves, cluttered and overflowing.

 

 

 

[1] Lillian Gilbreth (1878-1972) is a trail blazer on many fronts, one of the first women to get a PhD in engineering and psychology.  She was a full partner with her husband Frank in their engineering and consulting firm.  The two had twelve children together, and the children participated in many of their efficiency studies.  The novel Cheaper by the Dozen, written by two of their children, is based on their well-organized home life.

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Podcast: In Praise of Kitchen Gadgets

If you want a jolt of American ingenuity, go to Bed and Bath and Beyond and take in the splendor of all the kitchen gadgets.

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Podcast: The Banana Incident

I felt the tightening grasp of the humble banana.  It had the potential to scuttle a promising friendship.

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Podcast: The Slippery Slope to Sloth

A Lazy Boy is epitome of sloth, and now one commands my living room.  How can I get rid of it?

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The Slippery Slope to Sloth

 

Definition: Sloth

/slôTH,slōTH/

noun

1. disinclination to action or labor; spiritual apathy

Symbolized by a Lazy Boy in the living room.

2.  A slow moving tropical American mammal

Derived from the activity level of a human in a Lazy Boy


My anxiety spikes as the burly delivery men settle the Lazy Boy into my living room.  This isn’t a discreet model, but a full-on Lazy Boy with oversized, plush pillows and a lever to stretch the chair into a near horizontal position.

I insist the Lazy Boy will be temporary, something my husband Nick will sleep in as he recovers from rotator cuff surgery.  Social media testimonials agree a Lazy Boy is the only way to get even a partial night’s sleep.  I can’t understand why a strategic configuration of pillows on our bed won’t serve the same purpose, but after two agonizing nights, I cave and usher the devil through the door.

I shudder to think that anyone who enters our home will be assaulted with the visible symbol of the deadly sin of sloth, pure sloth.  Right in the middle of our living room. Continue reading

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The Banana Incident

I hate bananas.

Actually, hate is inadequate to describe the depth of my feeling. So is despise, detest, abhor, loathe and revile.

Bananas assault all of my senses.

The wet sticky sound when you eat them reminds me of dogs licking themselves. The smell gags me. The cloying drape of the peel makes me shudder. When I was a kid, my brothers tortured me with banana peels, laying them across my face while taking a nap. I’d wake up, sputter and fling the peel across the room.  I’ll admit I haven’t tasted a banana in at least 60 years, but I’m not about to give them another chance.  The phallic implications of the visual are disturbing.

I’ve always been discreet about my banana issue, except for one salient event about thirty-five years ago.  Nick and I were newlyweds in the Chicago, looking to expand our social circle.  Jay and Sallie, also newlyweds, were prime candidates.  We had some mutual friends, all of us athletic and sharing the same hobbies and interests.  I could see a long friendship, the type that becomes as comfortable as a pair of old shoes.

I was excited to solidify our friendship when Sallie invited us for dinner.  They were also newlyweds and I wondered if they shared my agenda.  Sallie had invited another couple – young, athletic and cute. I felt a bit of competition and jealousy, particularly since this couple was younger and more athletic.  After all, his name was Jock.  Maybe Sallie thought they’d be their perfect friends, but I knew I had a leg up.  The couple was from the East coast, transferred from some New York bank. They were just doing their time in Chicago waiting to be called back to their home town.

I knew the type. Dartmouth squash players who’d be surprised you couldn’t see all the way across Lake Michigan or wonder if you could turn right on red all the way out here in the Midwest, or say they missed the smell of salt water. I wanted Sallie to know I was in it for the long haul, I was a Midwesterner, a low key and loyal friend. I went into the kitchen to help while the other nibbled on hors d’oeuvres in the living room.

She was stressed out, worrying about the entrées, the timing, whether or not she had the right garnish. I told her to relax, everything would be great and then offered to take over the dessert.  She wanted to duplicate a soufflé she’d seen Julia Child make.  She had set a high bar, not only Julia Child, but soufflé, a very fussy dessert requiring exquisite timing and a deft hand with the soft white peaks of egg whites.  Sallie handed me a bowl and I prepared to whip up some egg whites.

It wasn’t egg whites.  It was a bowl of over ripe bananas.  “Here, can you mash them up?” Sallie asked.

I was anticipating a chocolate soufflé, a lemon soufflé, anything besides a banana souffle.

Decision time. Big decision.  I’m not kidding, bananas are a serious problem for me. The sight and smell of the bananas set my salivary glands gushing and I had to repeatedly swallow to keep from succumbing.  My usual work around is to find a plausible reason to leave the room when bananas are present. This was not an option.

If I took that bowl and started mashing, that would be a lie, and not the most promising way to begin a friendship. I also might upchuck in the process. And if I mashed those bananas I’d be committing myself to eating the soufflé – another possible upchuck event. If my acting skills were good enough, Sallie might think banana soufflé was my favorite and make it her “go-to” dessert at all our meals together. Until we died.

And then there was the tyranny of the lie. Once made it would be hard to undo. If I ate bananas once, and then again, and then fessed up, wouldn’t Sallie think this was the worst kind of betrayal? Or patronizing, trying to make her feel good about her cooking skills?  I could tell her right up front about my troubled relationship with bananas, but I didn’t want to aggravate her frenzy. I had come into the kitchen to help, not to reveal that her dessert would make me vomit.  What kind of friend is that?

I felt the tightening grasp of the humble banana.  It held the power to scuttle a promising friendship.

Options and their implications whirred through my mind in the second or two to decide whether to accept the assignment. “Hand me the bowl,” I said, “I’ll mash them for you. Banana soufflé, what a great idea for dessert.”

I kicked the can down the road, embraced the lie, accepted the consequences, the most immediate being eating the dessert.  But it seemed worth it.  I could handle it.

I mouth breathed to block the smell as I mashed the bananas into sticky, dog ball-licking slurry.  Eyes wincing, swallowing hard, but I got it done.

I whipped up the egg whites, folded them in, shoved the concoction in the oven.  I have no recollection of the entrée, which was probably a thing of beauty.  I was numb, reading the final course.

The desert looked gorgeous.  Julia Child would be proud.  It had risen well outside the bowl and had a nicely browned crust. Sallie served it with a flourish.   “Look what Liza helped me make. It’s a banana soufflé. It looks just like Julia Childs’!”

I steeled myself for the final assault, hoping a massive dollop of whipped cream would blunt the taste. Nick looked up surprised. “Sallie I can’t believe Liza helped you. She hates bananas. In fact she can’t be in the same room as a banana.”

I was outed. Ashamed, devastated, a friendship in ruins before it even started.

The room fell silent. I didn’t know what to say. I had been prepared to live with the lie, but wanted to manage its inevitable reveal, soften the blow. But my lie lay openly on the table for everyone to see.

My sweet husband sensed the disaster he’d created and rose to my defense. “Sallie, you should be honored. Liza has never given me the same consideration. I love bananas, but she makes me eat them by myself in the car. I’m impressed.”

Sallie, to her great credit, blushed. “Liza, I’m so sorry.  You didn’t have to do that.”

And then I covered myself in apologies as I pushed the dessert aside.   Everyone else raved about the dessert.  Nick ate mine as well.

Nick’s outing was the best resolution to the dilemma.  An impulsive lie, following by a quick reveal.  It was like ripping a band aid off, positioning the banana incident as a testimony to my loyalty and support.  We’ve been best friends ever since.  That other couple has long since scurried back to their motherland on the East Coast to smell the salt water.

Someday I’ll get around to telling Sallie about my issues with peanut butter and black olives.

 

 

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First Evers, Chapter 2

1.  Respect

I had heard about athletes being “in the zone.”  I particularly remember the Kansas City A’s hall of famer George Brett talking about those out-of-the-blue days when a baseball inexplicably looked as big as a melon.  Brett just couldn’t help but hit a home run and “go downtown.”  It never occurred to me that I could ever be in that zone.  This special grace could only envelop true athletes who had honed their skills with daily work outs, practices and swing coaches.

This was not me.  I was a slow moving first baseman whose offensive output was meager at best.  Feeble pop-ups landing in the mitt of an immobile center fielder were my specialty.  I had slowly drifted down in the batting order of our slow pitch softball team.

One nondescript humid summer evening it happened.  As I stepped into the batter’s box, I felt a cone of magical light shining down upon me.  Everything slowed down as the first pitch came in, the ball hung there as big as George Brett’s melon.  I stepped up and crushed it in a perfectly choreographed display of hand-eye-muscle mass coordination.  This was no bloop, dying quail or Texas leaguer but an absolute frozen rope to dead center, blazing far beyond the dazed fielder.  Not bad for the 7th batter.  I slowly jogged around the bases to the cheers of my stunned teammates. Continue reading

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Podcast: First Evers, Chapter 2

Second installment of vignettes of first childhood experiences of basic human emotions and attributes.

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Key Take-Aways from 5 Hours of Religious Radio

Every month I make the 6-hour drive from the south shore of Lake Superior to the southern tip of Lake Michigan.  Except for Marquette at its northern outset and Milwaukee to the south, the route runs through rural country.  I usually travel with an audio book, but on the last trip, my Great Course on How Jesus Became God was turgid and dull.  I refocused on basic FM radio.

South of Marquette, the NPR station got scratchy, patchy and then dead.  Left to my own devices, I decided to give God and Jesus another chance and dedicated my car ride to religious FM radio.

My knowledge of religion is scant to nil.  Church was not part of my childhood.  I can recite the Lord’s prayer, but that’s about it.  I consider myself a “blue domer” who finds spirituality under an expansive blue sky, my venue for pondering wonder and awe, but what the hell, I thought, I’ll give religion a big chance, be a willing captive for the next five hours.  Bring it on. Continue reading

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