Yesterday, People of the Book by Pulitzer prize winning Geraldine Brooks was my book club’s book of the month. In the novel, an Australian rare book restorer becomes fascinated with the Sarajevo Haggadah as she begins working with it. Crumbs of evidence in it lead her to trace the book’s history back from its rescue in war-torn Sarajevo to its beginning in 1480 Seville.
Everybody in the book club found something in the book that spoke especially to her. One liked the dramatic stories of the people who created the Haggadah and risked their lives to keep it safe. Another liked the way the author wove the restorer’s emotion-filled personal life into tracing the book’s history. Someone else was impressed with the knowledge she gained from reading People of the Book, experiencing events and the feel of times in the story while unconsciously absorbing such information as the origin of the word vermillion. I was taken by the voice of Brooks and the way she wove the story into an easy, fun-to-read adventure novel. We all agreed the book was a great selection for our group.
I was the hostess and had decided to serve Australian and Mediterranean snacks, such as grapes, hummus with olives and rosemary, and stuffed dates. Since I didn’t know anything about Aussie food, I went to the Net and found that next to beer the most popular diet item was something called Anzac biscuits. The recipe looked easy so I whipped up a batch that turned out to be a kind of coconut oatmeal cookie. The book club ladies raved about the Anzac biscuits and begged for the recipe. So I obliged, and it’s below for you adventurous bakers.
Ever curious, I later did some research and learned that the biscuits are also called “soldiers’ biscuits” and go back to the Gallipoli Campaign of World War I. The name, Anzac, stands for the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. The biscuits were adapted from an old Scottish recipe by mothers, wives and sweethearts in Australia who were afraid that their loved soldiers were not getting nutritious food to eat. The biscuits had to be edible after two months travel time to the battlefields, and they were. Anzac biscuits are still used by backpackers and campers for this reason. The rest of us just love the taste of them.
Anzac Biscuits
1 stick of butter
1 overflowing tbsp. molasses
3/4 cu. sugar
1 tsp. baking soda
2 tbsp. boiling water
3/4 cu. flaked coconut
1 cu. quick oats
3/4 cu. flour
Dissolve baking soda in boiling water. In a saucepan melt butter, molasses, and sugar, mixing together. Stir in soda and water. Remove from heat. Add coconut, oats, and flour. Mix well. Drop by large teaspoons onto a greased baking sheet. Bake in 350 degree oven for about 6-8 minutes, until slightly brown around the edges.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The Dawn Will Come
What a shock! Two days ago, when I went to my website at www.graceehowell.com, it was gone. In its place was a black and white amateurish mish-mash. I could not believe it! My precious website had vanished, lost in the darkness of cyberspace.
Here's what happened. When True Friends was published in 2005, my publisher wanted me to have a website, and they set one up for me. Less than a year later, at my request, they handed the website at Netfirms over to me. My grandson Dave became my webmaster, and I paid Netfirms for hosting. I asked the publisher about paying for the domain, and was told not to worry about it that I'd receive a notice before payment was due. I never received a notice.
Only after someone else was using my domain, did I learn from Netfirms that they did not provide the domain. That's when I heard about Godaddy and Sunil Nandal, who now holds my domain. I don't know who was paying Godaddy for the domain these last four years, and I guess now it doesn't really matter.
The hard lesson I've learned is: Be sure you know who holds your domain, when payment is due, and who will pay. Now I have a new domain that I registered and will continue to pay for.
My old website is actually safe at Netfirms, but it is too hard for me to handle without a lot of help. So for my new domain, I'm planning a totally new website, one I can manage on my own and change without help. Now I'm cramming like a college student before exams trying to learn enough to create a website. Hopefully, before the next century, I'll learn enough to put a simple website on line. Until then I'll see you here at my blog.
Here's what happened. When True Friends was published in 2005, my publisher wanted me to have a website, and they set one up for me. Less than a year later, at my request, they handed the website at Netfirms over to me. My grandson Dave became my webmaster, and I paid Netfirms for hosting. I asked the publisher about paying for the domain, and was told not to worry about it that I'd receive a notice before payment was due. I never received a notice.
Only after someone else was using my domain, did I learn from Netfirms that they did not provide the domain. That's when I heard about Godaddy and Sunil Nandal, who now holds my domain. I don't know who was paying Godaddy for the domain these last four years, and I guess now it doesn't really matter.
The hard lesson I've learned is: Be sure you know who holds your domain, when payment is due, and who will pay. Now I have a new domain that I registered and will continue to pay for.
My old website is actually safe at Netfirms, but it is too hard for me to handle without a lot of help. So for my new domain, I'm planning a totally new website, one I can manage on my own and change without help. Now I'm cramming like a college student before exams trying to learn enough to create a website. Hopefully, before the next century, I'll learn enough to put a simple website on line. Until then I'll see you here at my blog.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
A Visit with Eudora Welty
Books on the piano, books on chairs and sofas, books on the dining room table, every shelf overflowing with books. A myriad of them greets visitors to the home of Eudora Welty, the Pulitzer prize winner who came home to write. Her house and garden were her sanctuary, her refuge where she always returned after a bustling trip to meet people, accept awards, or charm another audience.
Yesterday I returned to Eudora Welty’s Tudor style home on a shaded street of vintage houses in Jackson, Mississippi. When I was there five years ago with Kathy James and Rebecca Godwin, plans were underway to open the house to the public, but the yard and the garden were all we could enter.
Since then the house next door has been purchased and turned into the Eudora Welty welcome and visitors’ center with an introductory film and displays of her many awards, keepsakes, correspondence with friends, and lots of pictures. Both Lorna Schmidt and I could have spent ages taking in everything in the visitors’ center, but we were politely informed that it was time for our tour of the house. We had to go back later to see all the fascinating material in the center.
Two well-informed and very enthusiastic docents led us through Eudora’s house, exactly as she left it with all her books, furniture, art, and papers intact. Her plain white walls and tall windows with shades and filmy curtains, her collection of paintings and mementoes from family and friends, her kitchen with not a modern convenience in sight told us that she was a woman who cherished simple things like a note from a friend.
On the dining room table were several typewritten pages edited in her handwriting with strikeouts and arrows, words written in. It was easy to see that she was a writer like the rest of us, changing a first draft again and again. A sample of her writing, with paragraphs cut apart, rearranged, and stapled together to improve the flow, was there to see. I remembered when I used the same old, cut-and-paste method before I became a strict computer writer.
When we visited the garden behind the house, I found that the far back had been cleared of brush and bamboo, and a replica of the playhouse Eudora’s brother built had been placed there where she enjoyed so many quiet times among the plants she tended and included in her stories.
The one thing I missed from my previous visit was a row of bright orange-red flowers beside the garden house. When I asked about them, I was told they’d been dug to separate and replant. Then, gardener that I am, I was delighted to receive a bag of montbretia corms from the garden of Eudora Welty to plant in my own garden.
Yesterday I returned to Eudora Welty’s Tudor style home on a shaded street of vintage houses in Jackson, Mississippi. When I was there five years ago with Kathy James and Rebecca Godwin, plans were underway to open the house to the public, but the yard and the garden were all we could enter.
Since then the house next door has been purchased and turned into the Eudora Welty welcome and visitors’ center with an introductory film and displays of her many awards, keepsakes, correspondence with friends, and lots of pictures. Both Lorna Schmidt and I could have spent ages taking in everything in the visitors’ center, but we were politely informed that it was time for our tour of the house. We had to go back later to see all the fascinating material in the center.
Two well-informed and very enthusiastic docents led us through Eudora’s house, exactly as she left it with all her books, furniture, art, and papers intact. Her plain white walls and tall windows with shades and filmy curtains, her collection of paintings and mementoes from family and friends, her kitchen with not a modern convenience in sight told us that she was a woman who cherished simple things like a note from a friend.
On the dining room table were several typewritten pages edited in her handwriting with strikeouts and arrows, words written in. It was easy to see that she was a writer like the rest of us, changing a first draft again and again. A sample of her writing, with paragraphs cut apart, rearranged, and stapled together to improve the flow, was there to see. I remembered when I used the same old, cut-and-paste method before I became a strict computer writer.
When we visited the garden behind the house, I found that the far back had been cleared of brush and bamboo, and a replica of the playhouse Eudora’s brother built had been placed there where she enjoyed so many quiet times among the plants she tended and included in her stories.
The one thing I missed from my previous visit was a row of bright orange-red flowers beside the garden house. When I asked about them, I was told they’d been dug to separate and replant. Then, gardener that I am, I was delighted to receive a bag of montbretia corms from the garden of Eudora Welty to plant in my own garden.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Place of the Muses
I walked today at Gaisman for the first time in years, and memories of slender saplings, too young for shade, came pouring back. The little trees that saw my young cherubs run from slides to swings, where they squealed with delight as I pushed, now spread their leafy arms high overhead.
Dusty softball fields that heard the crack of the bat sending the ball into the outfield and the pop of another strike in the catcher’s mitt are covered with grass. The old bleachers where I sat cheering every strike that Joyce pitched are now grayed and crumbling. But Gaisman is still very much alive with walkers and runners scattered along the track like cars on a Sunday afternoon and families gathered at the new red and yellow jungle gym with its cushioned floor, no longer a place of skinned knees and elbows.
The sun was warm and a breeze lifted my damp hair as I rounded the old brick pavilion. I remembered True Friends (2005) and how the characters came to me while I walked there. That was where I knew Annie Lou Davis had a story to tell. I’ll never forget the day I swiped away a flood of tears, tears for a death that changed Annie’s life.
Another day under the trees at Gaisman, I met King and his owner. My work in progress, Stuck Together, had a pair of huskies in a major role, and I’d never met a Siberian husky. After getting to know King from his blue eyes to his tail curled over his back, I was pleased to see a real husky was exactly as I had written Taka and Yukon, even his behavior, according the man at the other end of his leash.
Today, following doctor’s orders to walk more each day while my back heals from surgery, I rediscovered the jewel in my neighborhood, Gaisman Park. Walking there is not only good for the body but the soul and mind as well. It opens the doors of my psyche, refreshes me and allows me to listen to the characters in my head and give them a story.
Dusty softball fields that heard the crack of the bat sending the ball into the outfield and the pop of another strike in the catcher’s mitt are covered with grass. The old bleachers where I sat cheering every strike that Joyce pitched are now grayed and crumbling. But Gaisman is still very much alive with walkers and runners scattered along the track like cars on a Sunday afternoon and families gathered at the new red and yellow jungle gym with its cushioned floor, no longer a place of skinned knees and elbows.
The sun was warm and a breeze lifted my damp hair as I rounded the old brick pavilion. I remembered True Friends (2005) and how the characters came to me while I walked there. That was where I knew Annie Lou Davis had a story to tell. I’ll never forget the day I swiped away a flood of tears, tears for a death that changed Annie’s life.
Another day under the trees at Gaisman, I met King and his owner. My work in progress, Stuck Together, had a pair of huskies in a major role, and I’d never met a Siberian husky. After getting to know King from his blue eyes to his tail curled over his back, I was pleased to see a real husky was exactly as I had written Taka and Yukon, even his behavior, according the man at the other end of his leash.
Today, following doctor’s orders to walk more each day while my back heals from surgery, I rediscovered the jewel in my neighborhood, Gaisman Park. Walking there is not only good for the body but the soul and mind as well. It opens the doors of my psyche, refreshes me and allows me to listen to the characters in my head and give them a story.
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