Idle Thoughts of a Saturday

This morning we had one of our communal breakfasts, consisting principally of buns from the bakery, hot chocolate, tea, and the spiritual nourishment of golden tulips and daffodils (Mama's contribution). J. was slumbering, despite our invitations to the table, but everyone else was present.

Yesterday we likewise enjoyed a communal supper, which was the joint achievement of Gi. and myself. It was a big pot of "sweet and sour pork," according to a recipe adapted from Papa's past chef d'oeuvres of that dish. I fried ca. 1 kg of pork and 500 g of organic beef in butter, sunflower oil, sesame seeds, chili powder, paprika, and powdered ginger, searing the surface of the meat to seal in the juices (as I promptly explained to everyone who crossed my path). Then I put it in a pot with chopped bell peppers, one green and one red and one yellow, and dashed in liberal quantities of soy sauce. After this point Gi. took over. He poured in 2 jars of plums and, after letting it boil away for a long time, 2 cans of pineapple chunks, and a carton of tomato sauce. Finally he stirred in a couple tablespoons of corn starch dissolved in cold water.

The result resembled a stew. It was remarkable firstly in that the corn starch had refused to dissolve properly, instead settling as glutinous blobs in the depths of the pot. (I didn't mind this at all, because I find that corn starch is too artificial as a thickening agent, and I'm fond of impromptu dumplings if only for their entertainment value.) Secondly, for some reason, the beef truly tasted of beef and the pork had a hint of pork. It may not be everyone's cup of tea, but I liked it.

Since breakfast, at any rate, I haven't done much worth describing. (Gawker and Jezebel. The "feud" between the business channel CNBC and Jon Stewart is enjoyable to read about, but not quite true news.) I did play the piano, mostly Mendelssohn but also a Chopin prelude, Piazzolla milonga, and Field nocturne out of my old piano lesson notebooks.

Yesterday I took a look at English and Irish and Welsh folksongs. To my unappreciative ears, they often sound a good deal alike, but there are a couple of lyrics and melodies with fine pathos and a distinct character ("The Ash Grove," for instance), and I want to learn those. Otherwise I've tired a little of my song repertoire, which consists largely of a handful of Schubert lieder (the boringly famous ones, I'm afraid), the first verse of Bellini's "Casta Diva", and Mozart's "Voi che sapete" and Gounod's "Ave Maria" and the folksong "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton" as far as I can remember the lyrics. "When I am laid" from Purcell's Dido and Aeneas is quite lovely too, and I like "As when the dove" from Händel's Acis and Galatea, but somehow have never gotten around to learning their lyrics beyond the first line or couplet.

My reading has not been too elevated lately, though when bored yesterday I read Racine's Andromaque up to Act II Sc. ii. (I skipped to the end; the corpse count is 2, and the fates of Andromache and Astyanax are indeterminate). At bedtime I am reading Jack London's White Fang, a chapter or two at a time. Even that I've already read twice, but skimmingly and perhaps ten years ago. I like the way London quietly explores the question of survival from such diverse perspectives, though when I was little this heterogeneity irritated me. (My preferred mode of reading was plunging to the action, finding one protagonist and seeing everything through his or her eyes, and then gradually reading the descriptive passages, etc., on the second or third reading, if the book was congenial.)

Anyway, having rambled sufficiently, I'll only mention for the sake of full honesty that I skipped Chinese for the second time on Friday. It felt pretty good, and especially the splendid piano session in the afternoon weakened my feelings of guilt, though in retrospect it wouldn't have killed me to go there for three hours when the entire weekend lay before me, and I do like my classes. The day before I had been in a very miserable mood, besides which my leg muscles are uncomfortably taut with the walking to and fro, so the rest was helpful. The mood was nothing too worrisome but fascinatingly weird; it was a state of profound but transient malaise like the kind that can accompany a fever or a flu, and I have no idea where it came from or what it is. But it is gone and it has had a good effect on my piano-playing. At any rate, enough hypochondriac navel-gazing for one day. (c:

P.S.: The latest episode of America's Next Top Model has made me ashamed to watch it again. Hélas! as a character in Andromaque would say.