Glenda Burgess's Blog, page 21

Wonder Women

Women, Despite Being Leaders, Are Still Not Wonder Women- Debora Spar

Recently I was contacted by Jamie Coffey, Special Assistant to the President of Barnard College, Dr. Debora Spar. Because I had posted an earlier review discussion on Sheryl Sandberg�s book, LEAN IN, and the challenge of women's empowerment in the work place ["Lean In, Sometimes," July 30, 2013], Ms. Coffey suggested I might be interested in the unique perspective offered by a new book on this important topic by Dr. Spar, a Harvard-educated political scientist.

Debora�s new book, "Wonder Women: Sex, Power, and the Quest for Perfection," just recently hit the shelves. Throughout the author's personal and professional experiences, she has advocated tirelessly as a proponent of women�s education and leadership, highlighted both in her new book and in a recently published post by Dr. Spar I have excerpted here.

[guest blog post, excerpt from September 17, 2013 by Debora Spar*]

Feminism gave women of my generation an infinity of choices and opportunities to lead. We could cheer for the boys and play alongside them; look effortlessly elegant while chairing a board meeting, performing surgery, or saving the world. And never for a second did we doubt we would have it all. But then we grew up and the life we were supposed to handle flawlessly in 5-inch heels suddenly became considerably more complicated. Today, women are regularly trapped in an astounding set of contradicting expectations: to be the perfect mother and manager, the comforting spouse and competent boss. Not only do we strive to be the perfect person, and the perfect leader, but we blithely assume we will achieve it all. And when, inevitably, we don�t, we don�t blame the media, or our mothers, or the clamoring voices of others. We blame ourselves. Below is an excerpt from my newest book, Wonder Women: Sex, Power, and the Quest for Perfection, addressing the issue:
�Women are still sorely under-represented at the top of the professional pyramid: only 15.2 of the board members of Fortune 500 corporations, 16 percent of partners at the largest law firms, 19 percent of surgeons. Indeed, there seems to be some sort of odd demographic guillotine hovering between 15 and 20 percent; some force of nature or discrimination that plows women down once they threaten to multiply beyond a token few.�
- Debora Spar, "Wonder Women: Sex, Power, and the Quest for Perfection"

This is a deeply important topic - especially for our daughters, the next generation of women who will wrestle with the challenges of attaining a meaningful career and a sustainable home life. Let's continue this critical dialog...

*Please copy and paste the link below in your browser for the full post, book site, and a brief video clip by Dr. Spar:
http://wonderwomenthebook.com/2013/09...

For more on Dr. Debora Spar: http://barnard.edu/about/leadership/p...

Habits of Creative Practice 2

Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would not otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favour all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man would have dreamed would come his way. I have learned a deep a deep respect for one of Goethe's couplets: 'Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, magic, and power in it. Begin now."
- W. H. Murray, The Scottish Himalayan Expedition

This essay by the Scottish mountaineer W. H. Murray expressing his experience of the well-known adage by Goethe (and collected by Steven Pressfield in a little gem of a creative kick-starter, "The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles") explores the intertwined power and mystery linked to commitment. When we choose, we accomplish. When we commit, we begin. We commence the steps necessary that take us from intention to deed.

On a walk this morning through lacy delicate white grasses beneath an oyster-colored sky of low cloud, I caught myself in mid-stride solving a particularly tenacious creative dilemma - completely unaware my mind had been on autopilot, tasking through its lists of "what ifs" and "now thens." The thought on the heels of this awareness had to do with appreciating the difference between running and walking for me as forms of mental flex. In short, movement is the physical preamble of deep thinking: a commitment to engage.

In my running, calm inner balance comes from the primary focus on breathing and stride. When that concentration relaxes and falls into a rhythmic groove, my forebrain nonetheless remains actively piloting the run. Like meditation, this single simple focus restructures the overburdened, fragmented mind. Stuff falls to the wayside, big ideas step forward, stress seeps away. On a vigorous extended walk on the other hand, the rhythmic physical groove finds me sooner, and with less effort. My mind leans back, trusting in the faith it has in my body's basic balance (to not trip or choke on a bug), and begins to surf the mental intranet: to observe, page through phrases and ideas, connect the random and mysterious.

The work solution rose far down the trail with a simultaneous awareness of a nearby crow, mixed with new knowledge that hawks actively hunt crows, alongside a mental appreciation for a pine frosted in white, needles encased in gloves of white tulle. A floating transparency linked my body and winter and my movement through space. A seamless knitting together of physical boundaries, a blending; and a gold nugget amongst the gravel shaken loose in the brain pan. I had my writing answer. I headed home. In addition to the much appreciated book solve, I possessed a clear awareness of something new: I run to disengage and refresh, and walk to re-engage and newly associate. For me, running is mental strength training while walking is a free-climb.

How does this unexpected insight impact productivity habits? It says that for me, beginning to engage with work (or life in fact) has multiple entry points with differing yields. Am I facing distraction? Do I need to open my thinking to help myself through a creative block or pace my attention through a long haul work effort? Committing to a run versus a long walk addresses a different need, and the question to ask myself is straightforward: Do I need a break or a reboot, or inspiration and new thinking?

I believe there are similar patterns within all of us linking thought and breath, movement and idea. What works for you?

Habits of Creative Practice

...That writers are special people. In fact we're most of us quite ordinary, only - well-suited or not - equipped with the habit of art, a susceptibility to language, a practice of noticing, a faith in writing itself learned from reading.
- Richard Ford, upon being asked what he believed to be the greatest myth about being a writer

I love this comment by Richard Ford about writers. Because it reminds me that writing is, as all of life, a practice. Practice involves repetition of process and the techniques of skill. Writers read to hear the music in sentences, and to think in terms of situation and story. Writers listen to the way people use language in dialog and bend meanings and sounds to extract meaning and nuances. Writers pay attention. An abruptly-ended conversation on the street corner catches our eye from the bus: Why did that man smack the other with his newspaper and then wink? What was said? Was it funny? Perhaps not, given the way the other fellow stiffened and inhaled sharply. We suspend our observations in writer's time and space. We lean in for the story, imaginations engaged, shading in the inferences and mysteries of what we can only guess at. Reading anchors our work, our empathy that story is more than entertainment or record, it is understanding. We find ourselves everyday in the pages we read.

But what speaks to me as I begin this new writing year is Ford's first observation: that working writers are "equipped with the habit of art." Which is to say, productive work routines. Habits of art establish the foundations of discipline in all creative endeavors. Grand ideas remain chimeric and unformed - never translated - if they fail to make it to the stage, the canvas, chisel or pen. Projects languish as conceptual glimmers without good work habits: artistic inspiration is transformed by work guided by intent, shaped and layered in the studio into the very thing originally just imagined.

What habits of art in your life need changing this year? Beefed up, edited, tweaked into a better fit with the schedule and goals you've set for yourself? For me, focus this year is on ways to amp up early morning productivity. Never a "Heh Sunshine!" kind of gal, the first hour of the day for me is one of worldly re-entry: fuzzy time when dreams dissolve and sort out their meanings, for stale emotions to reset, mental lists prioritize, to gather my creative tumbleweed "intent" from wherever it has tumbled away to during the night. Once that hour is behind me (usually two mugs of coffee in) I can begin a working day.

The goal is to get through my morning reentry earlier and at my desk sooner. I've explored various methods and discovered a few surprises: morning yoga puts me back to sleep on the mat and an early run revs me up too much, erasing the soft edges of tentative new ideas that bloomed in the night. Why not edit at the other end? Focus on the night before the morning in question. Accumulate less of what needs to be swept clear? Find better productive ways to lighten the content of that early morning drawer?

I'm experimenting with two new habits. Skipping the last hour of late evening news (and all of its upsetting headlines, traumas, and pointless weather repetitions), and substituting in an hour of inspirational reading. Not novels, as has been my past habit. (A good novel puts sleep far away, and when I do finally drop off I dream plot lines and character dilemmas - not a clean slate for morning work of my own.) I've stocked my bedside table with inspirational reading - poetry, books on creativity, great old photography collections, interesting artists' memoirs - material better suited to settling my mind into the right groove before sleep for waking in the habit of art. Cancel the news, switch to a new kind of reading, and hopefully wake with the brain-pump primed.

Let me know what habits of art have worked well for you. Let's get productive!

Trickle-down Story

OLD STORY
The clock doesn't have an amygdala
so it doesn't worry, it tells
its own quick trickle-down story
of now and now and now until
neither yesterday nor tomorrow
is where it should be.
Welcome, traveler!
You might as well stay a while
and kneel to Happiness
and its hymns and its cross.
- Catherine Barnett

As we re-engage today with the world after the long holidays, return to our work and routines, put away the festive decorations and clean up the party platters and fold away the guest laundry, many of us feel neither recharged nor ready for re-entry. The in-box awaits, filling daily. New budgets and projects and meetings fill the weeks forward. We are worn-out with the busyness of the holidays and ready for simple days, yet crave mental space to rekindle both anticipation and energy for a new year.

This feeling is both replete and overflowing, empty and odd, all at the same time. I used to think of this period after the holidays as the inevitable "celebration burnout," but in truth it's about the need to take real time to recharge.

This year my husband and I planned an immediate trip to the Hawaiian Islands after New Year's Day. Many variables in our lives came together to make this possible. No children (all grown) or extended family to arrange for; no invited colleagues, or groups. Just the two of us. With an agenda equal parts work and play, we book-ended the work part with solid days of rest and recreation. A serious experiment in meaningful personal downtime in the aftermath of the hosting and travel and parties of the holidays. Primed for swift re-entry to work but seeking balance to the dark cold hours of our northern winters (which we find depressive and muting), this island week has been a blessing. Much as Catherine Barnett's clock ticking through the "now and now and now," the fatigue of the soul drops away.

More than a vacation, this break has been about slowing everything - including me, work, and the daily to-dos - down to the fulsome completeness of a given, measured day. Discovering what it means to absorb the happiness of the present, its freedom from urgency, planning, and anxiousness. We walk warm sands and talk, float in a lengthening and sustained present sense of time. We hike clouds on a crater and stand in the shimmering sunset. Wake, after deep restful sleep, heartbeats in keeping with the surf rolling against the shore. Experiencing now and now and now what it is to exist one moment to the next as Barnett's clock, "until neither yesterday nor tomorrow is where it should be."

Although we are (happily) at work here in our paradise, the days swell from sunrise to sunset complete unto themselves. And within each day, the seed of serenity and industry, celebration and reflection. May we keep tranquility in our pockets long after we return to the daily grind. And may this New Year be one of gentleness and joy, friends. A trickle-down story for you and yours of days well lived.

Aloha.

The Year Turns

HERE, THERE ARE BLUEBERRIES
When I see the bright clouds, a sky empty of moon and stars,
I wonder what I am, that anyone should note me.

Here there are blueberries, what should I fear?
Here there is bread in thick slices, of whom should I be afraid?

Under the swelling clouds, we spread our blankets.
Here in this meadow, we open our baskets

to unpack blueberries, whole bowls of them,
berries not by the work of our hands, berries not by the work of our fingers.

What taste the bright world has, whole fields
without wires, the blackened moss, the clouds

swelling at the edges of the meadow. And for this,
I did nothing, not even wonder.

You must live for something, they say.
People don't live just to keep on living.

But here is the quince tree, a sky bright and empty.
Here there are blueberries, there is no need to note me.
- Mary Szybist

I don't love the media end of the year reviews, the summations, the lists - the best of, worst of... These were not merely days, months passing, but the end of a period of history. The end of a shocking, fabulous parade of surprise and pageantry that is the conclusion of a year. Mary Szybist's poem, from her complex, rich, 2013 National Book Award collection "Incarnadine," evokes the inconsequential angst that sweeps through us when our world turns once more on its axis without thought or note of the human narrative. We are all of us small parts in the machinery of time.

In another poem, "Entrances and Exits," Szybist writes a line that has echoed in my thoughts for days: Duccio's subject is God's entrance into time: time meaning history, meaning a body. God steps into time through flesh and bone. Do we not wonder at the truth of this? That what is true of blueberries and sky is deeply essential to being human?

Consider the signature artistry of narrative history, of evolving thought. Is this not a footnote to the universe? Are we as individuals of note, or do we merely note ourselves? The vanity of the self, singing its odes of self discovery. Birds, so to speak, on branches of our own making. The one and the wave. Atoms studying themselves. But here is the quince tree, a sky bright and empty.

My thoughts on the last year are quiet: 2013 was a hard and incomprehensible year. Wind-twisted disasters, fires and floods and incomprehensible violence. Families struggling across the globe with loss, tragedy, war. My wishes for the new year are simple: I hope for blue skies. For moments of serenity; the grounding of commitment, good work. Goodness that pulses like breath from our chests, easy and true. I hope 2014 is good to you. Blessings.

Winter Hours

Today I thought I would offer part of an essay from December of 2011. This post resonated with me, especially rereading Mary Oliver as I thought about Winter Solstice. The continuous nature of shifts, equalizations, balance. In the experience of finding center, the remix of things we value and give meaning to is in constant flux. Life ripples behind us across the glassy surface of time. The past we've lived leaving a fleeting mark on the present, hinting at choices for the future. This year the remix words for me are commitment, work, serenity. I want to work toward my goals with focus and effort, with an eye to the bigger picture, and in particular, toward inner peacefulness. The world has so much white noise, it's easy to become lost in the digital buzz and static. I hope to live purposefully. Find the notes that matter.

Happy Winter Solstice and Merry Christmas, friends.

December 2011:
SETTLING INTO ONE'S LIFE

I don't think I am old yet, or done with growing. But my perspective has altered - I am less hungry for the busyness of the body, more interested in the tricks of the mind. I am gaining, also, a new affection for wood that is useless, that has been tossed out, that merely exists, quietly, wherever it has ended up. Planks on the beach rippled and salt-soaked. Pieces of piling, full of the tunnels of shipworm. In the woods, fallen branches of oak, of maple, of the dear, wind-worn pines. They lie on the ground and do nothing. They are travelers on the way to oblivion... Call it Rest. I sit on one of the branches. My idleness suits me. I am content. I have built my house. The blue butterflies, called azures, twinkle up from the secret place where they have been waiting. In their small blue dresses they float among the branches, they come close to me, one rests for a moment on my wrist. They do not recognize me as anything very different from this enfoldment of leaves, this wind-roarer, this wooden palace lying down, now, upon the earth, like anything heavy, and happy, and full of sunlight, and half-asleep.
- from "Winter Hours," Mary Oliver

This idea of settling into one's life: Having built the house to build it. And having done so, what rests in its shadow is all that lives and occupies the geography of personal space and time. Mary Oliver's essays in "Winter Hours" are thoughtful observations, both detached and intimate, crisp exploratory writings about what it means to at last see one's life whole, an organic, evolving, theme of the self. One of the important passages of the New Year for me is checking in with my own evolving self. How have I fared in pursuit of my goals? How have I absorbed the unpredictable, the shift of borders, edged a toe through limitations? Have I learned anything?

Oliver writes perceptively of human endeavor as a construct, a shelter for creative thought. She stands before a cabin in the woods she hand-built, a private room for writing which in time became a little-used potting shed. She realizes she built the cabin not for writing, not for thought, but for the sake of building. The work done, she can lie in its humble shade among the blue butterflies. She becomes aware her presence lies in nature, not in her construct. Oliver points out that it is instinctive to examine life, ponder what makes things work, what causes one thing to nurture another, that creates the future out of the past. We view ourselves as part of the vast natural interchange of what lives and dies, but also are stricken by the secret wish to be beyond all that. Oliver concludes wryly, You can fool a lot of yourself but you can't fool the soul. That worrier.

As this year comes to its rapid close, I find myself taking stock of my constructs: Family, work, home, friendships. All these organic symbols of my life, of the living I have done. Are they worthy of the sacredness of life, have I lived up to my own soul's expectations? More importantly, have I lived strong and true within the essential principles as nature would have them? My determination for this year end is simple - examine that which is foolish. Where am I following the blueprint of a construct, not a life? Where lies the potting-shed within the palace, the truth of lying down, now, upon the earth, like anything heavy, and happy, and full of sunlight, and half asleep. To find the sunspot of life, not travel lost in the work of working at it.

What We May Give

NOEL
When snow is shaken
From the balsam trees
And they're cut down
And brought into our houses

When clustered sparks
Of many-colored fire
Appear at night
In ordinary windows

We hear and sing
The customary carols

They bring us ragged miracles
And hay and candles
And flowering weeds of poetry
That are loved all the more
Because they are so common

But there are carols
That carry phrases
Of the haunting music
Of the other world
A music wild and dangerous
As a prophet's message

Or the fresh truth of children
Who though they come to us
From our own bodies
Are altogether new
With their small limbs
And birdlike voices

They look at us
With their clear eyes
And ask the piercing questions
God alone can answer.
- Anne Porter

From my earliest memory as a child, Christmas has always meant something special. Something unique to my family. For one thing, I had a Grandma and Grandpa who for most of the Christmases of my childhood, were dressed as Santa and Mrs. Claus. My grandfather, a business executive and El Katif Shriner, cheered the children of The Shriners Childrens Hospital in Spokane all of December with his hearty laugh, smashing red velvet suit, reindeer bells, and thick white hair and twinkly eyes. He loved children, loved Christmas, and growing up a poor Scotsman, felt the very best gift was to cheer up ill children with a hug and toy. My grandmother stood at his side handing out smiles and the presents she wrapped nightly.

Christmas morning spent with my grandparents meant "Santa" would appear at the front door jangling his bells in his amazing Santa suit just for us, his grandkids, home for a week from wherever we were in our lives as a military family. My mother, one of the sick children herself the year she was seven with rheumatic fever, spent a year in isolation in a children's hospital. She both loved her father for his generous spirit (perhaps born of cheering her up in the hospital as a child) and pained by memories of the loneliness and isolation the holidays symbolized for her: separation at a time dedicated to family. Christmas also became the one acknowledged armistice in the conflicted relationship between my parents. Whatever sorrows, arguments or disappointments the year might contain, Christmas marked a time my family came together. My mother, an ice skater, built homemade rinks in our wintry back yards. There were trips to the mountains to hike through the snow and find our tree. There were lights and presents even when the money was tight; sledding, cocoa, and snowmen in the front yard. Christmas Eve was the one night it was okay to fall asleep under the tree, looking upwards at the beauty of the lights waiting for magical Santa. The one night God seemed real and close, an expression of peace and love.

After blending both Jewish and Christian traditions together in my own adult life, I discovered that, like my mother, I have a complicated adult relationship with the holiday now. When my husband Ken was ill with cancer and went into surgery on Christmas Eve of 2002, I sat the night beside him after that failed operation watching televised celebrations from the Vatican, marooned in the cold indifferent rhythms of the hospital and the disconnected attitude of the shift nurse on our floor. The night resonated with the utter absence of God. Where was the magic? The sacred? Simple compassion of the human kind? I held my husband's head as he retched uncontrollably, feeling like one of the lost souls my grandfather might have cheered, not the girl who loved and found solace, always, in this one exquisite night of the year.

Those moments gild the day with a particular melancholy. A poignancy in which the beauty of Christmas subtly marks the prelude to feelings of real loss.

Life goes on. My family and I make holiday cookies, decorate a tree with ornaments and vintage decorations that hold memories of people and places and times past. There is a "Just Married" ornament with Ken; a pewter engraved book celebrating my first published novel; framed pictures of the kids; glass ornaments from Germany my uncle bought my grandparents during the Korean War; a hand-painted ornament with my mom's and my name on it the year I turned one; the Christmas stocking my grandma made me of hand-stitched velvet and sequins, the stockings I made everyone in the family after that. My daughter's stocking from her Godmother and the quilting club that is 4 feet long. School ornaments from the kids' colleges, travel mementos gathered with my second husband, Greg; the dog and ski and music and Barbie collections. The album of my life is on that tree. I tell my life in Christmases.

Christmas isn't a religious holiday or a festive month on the calendar for me: the season signifies a willful decision to create joy, when the human need to love reaches across disappointment and misfortune. Christmas is my grandfather with a sick child in a hospital johnnie on his knee holding in his hand a new toy. It is my parents pulling something happy together. Christmas is the time of year, for me, when people try a little harder and often succeed at making the world a better place. Snowflakes and glowing lights, mystery packages and sweets. When we battle the darkness with as much light as we can muster.

So as James Taylor sings his particularly melancholy "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" in my study as I write this, I smile. Yes, it is a world of chipped edges and tattered corners. But life is also beautiful in its capacity to reflect the best we give it.

The Year in Gratitude

Be in a state of gratitude for everything that shows up in your life. Be thankful for the storms as well as the smooth sailing. What is the lesson or gift in what you are experiencing right now? Find your joy not in what's missing in your life but in how you can serve.
-- Wayne Dyer

Last Saturday all across America we celebrated our favorite local independent bookstores. Here in Spokane I joined fellow authors at Aunties Books. The experience of mingling with shoppers in the aisles, talking books, life, meeting other area authors�all of this was deeply affirming for me. I am grateful, beyond measure, for the beauty that writing has brought to my life. How much there is to give and receive.

I learned from a young Canadian man about adventure literature of the 1930s. ("The White Spider"...anybody?) I talked with a lovely woman who radiated such quiet gentle strength it was no surprise to learn her story of survival infuses the grace she lives by. And of course there was the funny family from Florida, in town for the holidays - all of them opinionated, smart, verbal - who split to the far corners of the bookstore, browsing and reading in the stacks. I met grandparents searching out perfect book gifts for grandchildren, young couples browsing, outdoorsy guys killing time before a Pearl Jam concert. The talk was so much about favorite books (and life stories) I jitterbugged my own little "Snoopy dance of joy' down the aisles. (Sorry if you saw that.) This season, may every good book find its devoted reader.

I am grateful for what is present, this very moment, in my life. A loving family. A quirky, funny, devoted spouse, who brings all that is fresh and new from his realm of medical science into the bookish hours of my day. I am grateful for the gifts of friendship - especially those of you I have known for years now, you are gold. I hope there are surprises of utter joy in store this coming year.

I am grateful for my publishing family. My "knights in industry" who do battle with the odds, flying their faith in books and writers, in me, daily. Where would I be without your loyalty and love and insight and determination? Where would writers be without you, and readers without writers? Thank you all for this amazing year, and for the work you do. I hope your stockings are filled with bows and garlands of royalties and accolades.

And finally, I want to express my gratitude to the unseen hands throughout the world - the angels that bring peace, ensure safer hours and places for children to play, bring knowledge to dark corners, protection in danger, leadership through passages of fear. I stand daily in awe of the many humans, anonymous, official, noble and humble alike, who give and serve and build community within the human race. We are all of us connected by family and community and hopes for a better world. May the stars atop your dreams cast the brightest light.

I wish you the long-abiding warmth of gratitude. Thank you. Thank you for your presence in my life and your presence in the world.

Small Business Saturday - November 30, 2013

As many of you know, this upcoming Saturday is "Small Business Saturday," better known as your community "shop local" Saturday, when we all have the opportunity to demonstrate support for our main street businesses by making our purchases downtown. As the holidays draw near, purchases we make locally support a community business in an important way, which in turn strengthens our communities and hometown economic vitality. For authors this upcoming Saturday is a special opportunity to hand-sell our favorite books (and sign our own for you if you wish) in local bookstores and talk books. Many of us all across America will be present in the aisles of local independent bookstores chatting about books, pressing our favorite reads in your hands, making holiday recommendations and hearing what you love to read.

Auntie's is our Spokane city jewel, an independent bookstore since 1978, staffed by knowledgeable and supportive booksellers. For many Pacific Northwest authors (myself included) Auntie's, or a bookstore like it, hosted our debut author book events. Independent bookstores across America welcome and host community author events and special interest book clubs. Our Auntie's Bookstore gives Spokane the heart and enthusiasm that makes our community a great place to live, and this is our opportunity to say how much we appreciate our local bookstores.

I will be at Auntie's Bookstore, downtown Spokane (Main & Washington), from 2:30 to 4pm on Saturday November 30. So come on down and meet me, and let's do some holiday book shopping together!

[To see the full schedule of authors present this Saturday visit www.auntiesbooks.com.]

I will be chatting about and recommending some of the following recently released books:
Julian Barnes, SENSE OF AN ENDING and LEVELS OF LIFE
Elizabeth Gilbert, THE SIGNATURE OF ALL THINGS
Donna Tartt, THE GOLDFINCH
Dave Eggars, THE CIRCLE
Alice McDermott, SOMEONE
David Gilbert, & SONS
Suzanne Rindell, THE OTHER TYPIST
Adelle Waldman, THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF NATHANIEL P.
Joanna LuLoff's THE BEACH AT GALLE ROAD (stories)
Susan Choi, MY EDUCATION

The Pulitzer nonfiction books of 2012 and 2013

The poetry of Denise Levertov, Pablo Neruda, Billy Collins, Mary Oliver, Anne Carson, and Louise Gluck - and our newest National Book Award winner for 2013 in Poetry, for her work INCARNADINE, Portland poet, Mary Szybist.

Hope to see you downtown this Saturday. Happy Thanksgiving!

Savory Life Lessons

My first gifts to you this holiday season are morsels of goodness, both wise and tasty. The words of life wisdom above came to me anonymously and I regret not being able to tell you more about the folks involved, but I find Mr. Snell's advice worth passing on as it is wise, humorous, and certainly practical.

AND�TIS THE SEASON OF FEASTS & CELEBRATIONS!! Here is a recipe for a holiday family favorite, an English-inspired savory cranberry conserve. This cranberry conserve is a robust recipe that balances the sweet and the tart (and can actually be made into a dessert tart); a recipe we usually double, so popular it is often given as a gift, with the beautiful conserve spooned into a festive jar decorated with a bow on top.

THE SILVER PALATE GOOD TIMES COOKBOOK (1984):
CRANBERRY CONSERVE
1 thin-skinned orange (or two clementines*), seeds removed, cut into eights
1 pound fresh cranberries
1/2 cup dried currants
2 cups packed dark brown sugar
1 1/2 cups raspberry vinegar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 cup coarsely chopped walnuts

1. Process the orange in a food processor until coarsely chopped
2. Combine the chopped orange with all the remaining ingredients except the walnuts in a heavy saucepan. Simmer, uncovered, until all the cranberries have popped open, 10 to 12 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in the walnuts.
3. After cooling, pack conserve not immediately for serving into air-tight containers and freeze, or refrigerate for up to two weeks.
Makes 6 half pints

* The substitution of clementines is my edit to the recipe. I usually double this recipe and cook in one large heavy saucepan; note, the simmer time is closer to 30 minutes then. The raspberry vinegar taste will be too intense if you use a raspberry balsamic, so be sure to look for a raspberry vinegar. (Silver Palate now produces a bottled raspberry vinegar you can fortunately find in most gourmet grocery stores around the holidays. A doubled recipe will use most of three bottles.) I use a wooden spoon to pop any remaining stubborn cranberries open against the side of the pan. Savory taste can be shifted toward the sweet with the addition of slightly more brown sugar and currants, but everyone seems to love the chutney-like consistency and tartness of this blend as is. Also delicious on bagels with a cream cheese spread. Hope you love it!