Bread and music. Two of the most important things in life. I just finished a great book about baking bread and bought a wonderful new CD .
Bread first. You may remember a book from the past called The $64 Tomato in which author William Alexander humorously described how expensive it is to grow your own perfect organic tomato. His forthcoming book is called 52 Loaves (May)
and is a foray into the perilous realm of baking artisan bread. I have just spent the past year doing the same thing, though I never felt the urge to write about it and my experiences were not nearly as funny or intense. I enjoyed this book so much. Not only is it very amusing it is also deeply inspiring and I discovered that we had some identical epiphanies and shocking failures. The section of the book where he goes to a French monastery to rediscover the roots of baking bread and ends up helping the monks re-establish their own lost baking tradition becomes a spiritual journey for the reader as well.
Now for Music.
A new recording of traditional Celtic ballads always finds its way to my music collection. I’ve been waiting for this one. These original members of Solas, have joined their considerable talents for Exiles Return. Most of the songs I’ve never heard before, but they seem familiar and sweet as traditional ballads do. John Doyle’s masterful but spare guitar and the magical blending of his fine voice with Karan Casey’s superb and distinctive singing is truly thrilling.
These two carry on the tradition along with so many other musicians from this generation. Individual talents emerge from bands and pursue solo careers and still find different combinations of talents and new ways to keep the music fresh.
It probably won’t surprise anyone who knows me that “raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens” would not appear
Andrews on an Alp.
anywhere on a list of my favorite things. Nor does the source of those charming sentiments appear on my list of favorite films, although I’ve always harbored a knee-jerk distrust of people who are too vocally dismissive of The Sound of Music. They must, I think, be hiding something. How can anyone just dismiss Julie Andrews and the Alps in one breath?
There are any number of criteria that might influence a recitation of my favorite movies, including the circumstances of simply being asked. I wouldn’t be likely to name Guarding Tess as one of my favorites at a cocktail party at Bennington College even if I was ever asked to a cocktail party at Bennington College. I would be more likely to
Regina schemes.
mention The Little Foxes in that environment.
By the same token, I would hesitate to identify The Heiress as one of my favorites if I was having a beer in the lounge with the guys on my bowling team. (Alright, I haven’t been on a bowling team since Watergate was prominent in the national discourse and I’ve never much liked beer.) The subject of film never came up, but because of a column I write for the local newspaper, I was occasionally asked about movies. In that situation, I would be much more likely to name John Frankenheimer’s The Train or John Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.
Burt Lancaster beside The Train.
I like to think of myself as adaptable rather than hypocritical, but the instances cited above might give you some pause as to how sincere I am being now. I can only state that the absence of direct intimidation encourages the honesty in me. And a lot of the stuff I have just imparted has a very honest ring to it. I mean, who would name Guarding Tess as a favorite movie if it wasn’t?
There is one film that I have no hesitation whatsoever to name as my all -time favorite. It doesn’t matter where I am or who I might be talking to. Psycho has always seemed — at least to me — to be both the perfect film and a terrific movie. With the possible exception of the psychiatrist’s long-winded explanation for Norman Bates’ peculiarities (perhaps necesary for 1960 audiences) at the conclusion, there is not one single wasted moment in the film. Joseph Stefano’s sparse script was perfect for Alfred Hitchcock, who always felt that words just cluttered up his movies.
Janet Leigh pays for her transgression.
It is testimony to Hitchcock’s mastery of the medium that the visceral impact of Psycho doesn’t diminish even after repeated viewings. The shadow on the other side of the shower curtain is just as chilling and I still have to stifle the urge to tell Vera Miles that there’s nothing down in that cellar that can possibly help her find her lost sister.
