Jodhaa Akbar

Yes, there’s a movie of that name that’s just been released, but more imp-ly there’s new short fiction by Rushdie in the New Yorker.

The movie trailer is full of beautiful people, sumptuous jewelery,* spectacular scenes and still feels insipid as recycled paper. (And I’m aware that director Gowariker is highly regarded for Lagaan—but apart from a few playful scenes, most of that movie’s chest-thumping didn’t impress either.)

Now Rushdie’s story, on the other hand, brimming with trademark impishness and characteristically diagrammatic characters reminds me of why I used to lurve him so much. Here’s a nibble:

The mud city loved its Emperor, it insisted that it did, insisted without words, for words were made of that forbidden fabric, sound. When the Emperor set forth once more on his campaigns—his never-ending (though always victorious) battles against the armies of Gujarat and Rajasthan, of Kabul and Kashmir—then the prison of silence was unlocked, and trumpets burst out, and cheers, and people were finally able to tell one another everything they had been obliged to keep unsaid for months on end: I love you. My mother is dead. Your soup tastes good. If you do not pay me the money you owe me, I will break your arms at the elbows. My darling, I love you, too. Everything.

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* I could really spend all day looking at the jewelery. Also in related news, my birthday’s coming.

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Adventures in breastfeeding (III)

Baby A is strangely big for a breastfed baby. Actually she’s practically falling off the height and weight charts and I guess that makes her big for her age whether bottle or breast fed. But she’s so tiny compared to us and not particularly chubby cheeked (she carries most of her weight in what her pediatrician calls her “meaty thighs” ) that it's easy to forget. So far she’s been exclusively breastfed--exclusively i.e. other than the daily vitamin drops we remember to give her once every fifteen-or-so days and the splashes of bathwater that she slurps up at bath time and the night that Big A and I were fighting so hard that my body seemed to forget that there was a baby I was supposed to be making milk for.

If you can’t tell, I really enjoyed breastfeeding Baby A--she has an awesome latch, is an eager nurser, and got progressively snugglier. Also, I’m proud of how baby and I did a good job. Especially since much of what the lactation consultant suggested at the hospital didn’t seem right to me. Use a Boppy pillow to nurse? No, thank you, we like snuggling. Football hold? Uhh, I want a natural embrace.

So now that she’s four months old and has significant spit-up, the pediatrician would like us to introduce solids. And it’s so strange because I loved, loved, enjoyed, loved breastfeeding her, but I’m so relieved not to be her only source of sustenance any longer.

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Write Green Right

A six-word memoir contest from Smith Magazine and Treehugger.com:

Got a swell philosophy? Traveled a strange path? Fall off the eco-wagon often? Lay your tiny tale on us…

I like these:

· Future grandchildren, I'm so sorry.

· Take only one napkin not ten

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Valentines: Still nice!

Yesterday Li’l A and I made chocolate and almond V-Day cookies. They looked perfectly heart-shaped pre baking… and came out quite round. Li’l A says, “Well circles are hugs aren’t they? Like XOXO? That’s still nice!” That ought to be our theme.

This year, Big A and I have put ourselves through some super stressors--new baby! trying to sell our house on the crappy market! our first grown-up job searches! less income because I’m not modeling—so yes, some of them are super *sweet* stressors, but… nevertheless… yet… I think that’s why this year we’re almost acknowledging (celebrating is going too far) Valentine’s Day for the first time ever—because these last couple of months have been quite difficult—and pedestrian, trumped-up fest or not, a day for love sounds—nice.

If you're reading this, i'd like you to know that i send you love and wish you much joyous love.
(Now forward this post to 15 friends if you want to meet your true love today... Just kidding!! :)

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QUALIFIED

Thunder seizes
fist to throat.
Falling leaves,
tapping fingers
street noises, rain--
all remind me of tears,
our pain--and that
only you get me.
Only you can get me
so crazy with anger
so hungry for peace.

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Smells like fish, tastes like salvation

I have a cold. What kept me going today (other than my family calling me, “snotface,” and making me beam, shiny nose and all) was bowlfuls of “Robust Winter Fish Stew.”

It’s a recipe that I saw in The Whole Foods Bible, although typically for me, the recipe provided an improvisational entry point rather than a inflexible plan of action. I added julienned ginger, slivered garlic, snips of fresh tarragon and oregano, plus hearty red potatoes to the called-for crushed tomato base with onions and cannellini. I used freshwater fish, but in retrospect should have used something fattier and brinier--salmon may be.

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Duper

Tonight (Super Tuesday), at the risk of being instantaneously divorced, I timidly admitted to Big A that despite the biblical imagery and craptacular agenda, I found Mike Huckabee “very likeable.” This was the very first time I actually *saw* him speak. I’ve read about him and continue to disagree with many of his opinions--but there it is: I saw him; he looked human; ergo, I like him. To me, he seems like an underdog, a reasonable person, resembles my friend Kevin, has a charming cheekbone dimple. Of course I don’t want Huckabee to be the next U.S. president--but some mushy part of my brain roots for him anyway.

I think of this inability to dislike as a key failure--it interferes with my aesthetic as well as ethical judgment. And then… then I let people who depend on my judgment--for their next read, for their safety, for the integrity of their next deadline--I let them down... Because I am incapable of vetting people correctly. Because the philosophy geek in me can argue either side of every problem, but my decisions bend to emotion.

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