Henning Mankell’s Kurt Wallander mysteries are nothing new to the readers of serial crime novels.  And these days it seems almost trendy, or worse – trendy but slow, to read something Swedish.  Nevertheless, I’m walking out onto this limb fully aware.

Mark Lawson wrote about why he loves Henning Mankell’s Wallander series in The Guardian in 2003, you can read what he had to say HERE, but his review is a bit on the short side and somewhat unsatisfying.  There is so much more to say about what there is to love about both the novels and the unbloodyrelentlessly miserable but nonethless endearing Detective Wallander than Lawson gave up.  The mysteries are tight, the police work is fascinating, the characters are realistic and full of the itchy oddities that real people are made up of, and the grey, grey, grey Scandinavianness of it all, punctuated by the fleeting rarity of color – but not flashy red or kelly green or royal blue that Stieg Larsson gave us, but maybe, just maybe if you’re very lucky you might glimpse a sliver of teal or lavender. 

There are 11 Wallander novels, and now…behold, what joyous discovery I have made:

It’s almost enough to get me through my period of mourning after finishing The Wire (R.I.P. Omar).

I’m not a huge fan of New Year’s Resolutions, but this year I started out with a general theme of simplification.  My goal was to pare down most aspects of my life.  Clear my schedule, my house, my mind, my focus, my body, all of it.  Get rid of the excess that cluttered my literal, emotional, mental pathways and concentrate on the things I really care about and that ultimately feel the most rewarding: the dinners around the table, the time to think about some idea that has grabbed me, the comfortable and informal gatherings of friends and community.

So, you know, I decided to paint the hallways, redecorate the basement, plow through the extensive “must read” list I created, start cooking the kinds of meals I used to cook, ebay a bunch of crap in the attic, clean out my closets, refinance the mortgage, plan two vacations, train for a half-marathon, dive into a jump-start-the-creative-mind project…and then break a thumb, throw out my back, have a kid with strep, a kid with a stomach virus, and catch the Cold of the Century.

Oops.

I dusted of my “No, thanks,” and “Sorry, can’t do it” and put them back into regular rotation this past week.  I’m sticking with the reading and some of the cooking, and I have to finish painting the hallway because it’s almost finished except for one wall and that would just look weird.  Otherwise, no, thanks, and sorry, can’t do it.

But I’d love to talk to you about the books I’m reading, and you are always welcome for spaghetti.

My son eats anything.  Sushi?  Why not!  Indian food – sure.  Hey, want to try some octopus?  Abso-lutely.

My daughter.  Not so much.  Food can’t be touching and must be being in color. Possibly yellow.  Occasionally orange.  If it’s a month with a “Y” in it.

So I made fondue.  Modified.  No wine, I made a roux, added a lot of milk, stirred in Gruyere and cheddar.  Weird consistency, so I whisked it a lot.  It needed a ton of salt and pepper not to be bland.  Frankly, regular cheese fondue with wine and kirsch is a ton better, but I knew that would never sell.  We ate it with crusty bread, tomatoes, cauliflower, and green peppers. And by “we” I mean three of us.  One of us ate a lot of bread and melty cheese.

Good times were had by all.  So much, in fact, that I forgot to take a picture.

Until…dessert.

Then I remembered.

Melt chocolate – mostly semi-sweet, some milk, over a double boiler, add half and half or light cream until it’s a pourable consistency.  Serve with fruit, cut up pound cake, and marshmallows.  Give children Benadryl so they sleep.

Yes.  I just said “saucy.”

We saw We Bought A Zoo over the weekend.  Worst title for a movie I think I’ve ever heard.  It wasn’t a movie I really cared much about seeing.  I’m not a big animal-story fan.  It’s not about animals, as it turns out.  It’s about people – and I cried seventeen times.  Every so often my son would look over at my and announce, “Oh look, there goes mom again!”  I was like the freaking Trevi Fountain, minus the filthy tourist-maimed coins.  I don’t even know if I liked it;  I know I wasn’t manipulated.  I just know it worked.

Animal print hair extensions:

Nope.

Temporary lip tattoos:

Oh, yes.  I rather think so.

Yesterday, whilst dodging reminders that it was someone else’s VERY SPECIAL DAY, I got a present.  This book:

Not only is the book completely spectacular – more on that later, but the giftiness of it just took my breath away.  You know how you’re just living your life, minding your own business, when these perfect people wander through your door? Out of the ordinary but sane, funky but brilliant, uplifting but grounded? And then they become your friends and your life is so much the better for having them in it – there is laughter and community and did I mention the laughter? Well…that.  Sometimes fate has other plans and when you are too good at what you do, you have to follow where your star leads – even if your star leads to New Haven, or thereabouts. So they moved, but not without taking the spirit of Wednesday Spaghetti with them.  They’ve had two of their own Wednesday Spaghetti dinners now in their new home.

This cookbook begins with an introduction written by the author that captures the absolute spirit of Wednesday Spaghetti – don’t freak out, just invite people over.  Of course, then she gives some gorgeous recipes so that the food is somewhat more impressive than boxed noodles and jarred sauce.  Maybe if I can, one week, get the numbers down under 50, I’ll rustle up a Wednesday Pork Roast (but don’t count on it).

I don’t usually review non-fiction books.  In fact, I don’t usually read much non-fiction, especially diet related non-fiction.   I like to do book reviews, though, and BlogHer’s review program is a good way to keep my hand in and I figured that given my little writing hiatus, I could use the kick in the drawers to get going.  The BlogHer review program pays a little bit (a very little bit – as in a few lattes) but I assure you that you will never read anything in a book review I write that isn’t my entirely unvarnished opinion.  Besides, BlogHer is paying me, not the authors of the book.

The authors of the book are William Lassek, an M.D., and Steven Gaulin, a Ph.D.  The title is a bit of a gimmick, obviously, but the premise of the book, refreshingly, is not.  Neither, more remarkably to me, was the delivery of the premise.  The point is the women have evolved to require a certain amount of body fat in certain places in their bodies, and men have evolved to appreciate that body fat where it should, evolutionarily speaking, land.

American women have, in case you haven’t been paying attention or were lost on a desert island island somewhere, are getting larger in an unhealthy way.  Obviously, I’m speaking in a general way here – this shouldn’t be a big newsflash to anybody.  The amount of weight and the placement of that weight on women’s bodies has been changing, particularly in this country, over the last few decades.  The authors of the book wonder why, and in noting that “as the American diet… changed to get ”healthier,’ food got less tasty, and yet Americans – especially women – started gaining weight”  they trace the scientific, anthropologic, and evolutionary history of women and diet and fat.

I could explain it all, but why should I, they did, and far more clearly and compellingly than I could.  (And people are continuing the discussion of many of the finer points of the book HERE, if you’re interested.) My only gripe is that there were times when I found myself saying, “For the love of Canola Oil, just give me a list of what I can and can’t eat,please!”  Which, by the way, they sort of did, in the back.  Instead of me re-hashing the whole shebang, you could read the book, which you might want to do, because I think it’s a gap in our cultural awareness.

I know there are people who are hardcore Food People, but I think most of us who can’t spend all of our food budget on top of the line produce and grass fed everything and who can’t spend all of our time researching this stuff could use a clear synopsis – which this book provides – about cleaner, healthier, simpler eating.

It’s not a diet book, although it might help some people lose some weight.  I appreciated the fact that research and data was explained to me in real terms, and not in metaphors, as though I am some kind of jello-brained seven year old incapable of comprehending anything not put in the context of popular culture.  I also felt comforted by the references to Michael Pollan, a familiar and reliable name.  Maybe that’s silly, but still.

Despite all the science talk and explanation of the principles behind what Lassek and Gaulin advocate and describe, ultimately, it’s about eating real food, rather than the processed crap we’ve been told will make our lives easier and then become addicted to.  It’s all very sensible and straightforward, and, if what it says on page 142, that a person can get as much DHA from the dark chocolate mousse made with omega 3 enriched eggs featured on the book’s cover as from a fish oil capsule, then I’m all for that.

My kids started taking karate lessons.  We figured we should make it official, as they’d been checking books out of the library about karate and practicing their “moves” on one another for over a year now and it was really only a matter of time before we had to explain a compound fracture or concussion to a suspicious ER doctor.

The only downside to karate, as I see it, is the chunk of my paycheck that will be going toward the class.  But that is nothing compared to the many upsides, at least at this particular place.  The biggest upside, without doubt,  being that we no longer have to parent our children ourselves.

In two classes, their instructor managed to drill into them the four or five major lessons kids need to learn in order to grow up to be decent, productive, happy, self-actualized little citizens.

Listen to your parents, and be grateful for the things others do for you.  Respect all other living things and other people’s spaces and belongings.  Take care of your body and your mind.  Self-discipline in the practice of one thing will translate to a life of happiness and accomplishment.  After getting my kids to stand at attention, respond to him with “yes, sir” every time he addressed them, and maintain eye contact with him and obey his every request for a full hour and fifteen minutes, their teacher explained the principal behind the “guard up” stance that all the students assume when they are not at rest in karate class.

You don’t have your “guard up,” necessarily, in order to constantly defend yourself from physical harm, he told them.  Instead, you practice being in the “guard up” position to remind yourself that in life you always need to have your guard up against negative influence – whether that be your friends trying to get you to do or say things you know are wrong, spending your time in ways that are ultimately harmful or not productive for you, or even to counteract your own negative “self-talk” – the nasty and critical, and often inaccurate, things the bitchy voice in your head says to you.

“Tap Tap,” he barks, as a way of initiating the command.  “Guard up!”  They yell out in unison, assuming this defensive posture, one foot back, fists clenched, and hands and elbows facing forward.  They did not take their eyes off him, not even for a second, and they talked about what he had meant the whole drive home.

Again, this is after two classes.  I can hardly wait to see what they’ll be like after a few months.  I’m thinking humanitarians?  Philosophers?  Future world leaders? People who remember to flush?

What is the exact moment that children lose that unselfconsciousness about creative expression?  And how the hell can we get it back?

I am not aware of consciously thinking it, but I know for certain that when I read some books or essays or see some movies or look at particular photographs or paintings or mosaics or watch some tv shows (hello, The Wire, I’m looking at you), some part of my internal critic says, “Well, you’re never going to be able to do that, so why bother.”  There are those totally amazing creative enterprises that blow your doors off and make you want to try and inspire you.  And then there are those than just shut you right down because, screw it.  Or maybe they’re the same and it just depends on who you are at the time you experience them.

Keri Hulme’s The Bone People

REM’s NightSwimming

the aforementioned The Wire

Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window

a perfect creme brulee

White Christmas sung by Bing Crosby

to name a few.

Apparently I haven’t had much to say.  I figured I should show up and say something, if for no other reason than to staunch the flow of emails and phone calls (thank you, by the way, does a heart good) checking in to make sure that I’m a) still alive b) doing fine c)you know, doing fine.   I am all of the above.  In spades. I just haven’t had anything to say.  I have no idea what that’s all about.  Mental holiday?  Dry well? Writer’s block?  Creative drought? I’ve decided not to poke at it.  I’ve also decided that it’s probably not good for me in the long run.

Here’s what else I’ve decided:  BORING.  Socrates may have said, “An unexamined life is not worth living,” but an overly examined life is only worth the examining for the person living the life, the rest of the world couldn’t give a rat’s ass.  Onward.

I haven’t been especially well read.  Or hostessy.  But that’s my goal for the time being.  It’s good to have goals.

David Fincher needs a dope slap.

I read all of Stieg Larsson’s Girl with the Dragon Tattoo novels (3), and listened to them (unabridged – I recommend this, heartily, read by Simon Vance, liked it better than reading the books, which is unusual for me, plus, listened while walking many miles, Bo-NUS). I also saw the Swedish versions of the films, of which I approve.  True to books.  Two thumbs decidedly up.

Neither here nor there.  We can debate Stieg Larsson and the trilogy another day should you wish.  Whomever you are.

Saw the American version of the film on Friday after a serious control-freak meltdown over hallway paint color and the rapidly deteriorating condition of my home which you might notice if you aren’t, say, me.  Or nuts.  Anyway, emergency Must See A Movie Instantly Situation.  Plus, Daniel Craig, so couldn’t really go wrong.  Win, win, win all over the place.

And here’s the verdict: well played Hollywood, well played, indeed.  Casting: excellent, I’m not madly in love with the choice of Robin Wright Penn as Erika Berger, but I’ll sign off on that one because I might be biased against her because she has a weird clavicle (I swear, go see it, you’ll be driven to distraction by this thing, it’s bizarre.), and also because her half sister once gave me a tube of MAC Russian Red lipstick in San Francisco that changed my life.  Mood, tone, atmosphere:  excellent.  Loyalty to book:  very good, I am totally OK with the adaptations in the name of expedience.  I never once felt like I was sitting through something I’d read/heard/watched once, let alone three times before.  I was entertained, impressed, pleased, delighted, engaged.  Hoo-freaking-ray.

BUT.

HUGE, BUT.

What, the, holy, hell, was the opening sequence about?

I mean, of all the self-indulgent, directorial, B.S., pretentious, craptastic pieces of nonsense I have ever seen committed to celluloid (OK, digital whatever whatever), this takes the cake.  It had absolutely no relevance,  artistic, symbolic, nor thematic, to the movie.  Why, oh why, was it there?

Days later, I’m still pissed about it.

Also.  The song that played during the closing credits was completely inappropriate and sucked.

The end.

p.s.  happy new year.

p.p.s. if you’re looking for something to read, pick up the Tana French trilogy, In the Woods, The Likeness, Faithful Place.  In that order.

On the one hand, in my new job I don’t have to grade papers all weekend long.  On the other hand, I’m up to my eyeballs in recommendations to write.

On the one hand, in my new job I get to go to the bathroom and eat my lunch and get coffee whenever I want.  On the other hand, I miss being near my friends at work now that my office is in a different part of the building.

On the one hand, in my new job I have a luxury fancypants parking spot.  On the other hand, I keep forgetting to go by the office and check my mailbox because I don’t automatically have to walk by it every day.

On the one hand, I love doing what I’m doing.  On the other hand…never mind.  There is no other hand for this one.

Still, I know when something is clearly not good.  And it disappoints me when people take shortcuts.

Dexter, the Showtime series about the serial killer with a heart of gold (whatnow?) made such a misstep last week.

SPOILER ALERT.

Big, Big, Big, SPOILER COMING.

This season is taking on the Big Kahuna symbolically, good vs. evil manifested in religion.  Thematically, this has always been its domain – sort of hard to avoid when your protagonist is a vigilante psychopath serial killer your audience is always rooting for.  But in the last episode, the bad boy turned good, we think, portrayed spectacularly by Mos Def, the character of Brother Sam, is shot.

We see in the previews for next week’s episode that Brother Sam might live.

Boo.

Not that I wish ill upon Brother Sam.  He is a great character.  A great guy (if he doesn’t turn out to be, in some Dexter-esque plot twist, a sick mofo still hellbent on murderous destruction) full of light and love and instruction and openmindedness and peace, and Mos Def is an acting revelation.  The guy is one of the greatest actors I’ve seen in…ever on television.

But in life, and how ironic that this is the thematic and symbolic crux of the season of Dexter and they blew it, bad shit happens.  Really bad shit.  Just two weeks ago, Dexter’s son got really sick and squeaked through.  You don’t get two “squeak through’s” in two weeks.  If someone walks into a garage, shoots a good guy character at point blank range in the chest a few times, the guy needs to die.  You can’t have it both ways.  Sometimes, if you’re lucky, the bad stuff that happens is informative and leads to growth or change.  Sometimes, often, it’s just sucky. That’s life.  It’s good and it’s bad and there’s both and we have to learn to handle them both when they come at us.  We can be sad about Brother Sam;  we should be sad about Brother Sam, but we have to learn how to handle what happens to Brother Sam, we can’t be bailed out by the eternal Deus ex Machina that we’re all trained to expect anymore.

I feel bad hoping that Brother Sam isn’t going to make it.  I feel even worse about the fact that I think he should have died on the spot on that filthy garage floor.  He adds so much to that already terrific show.  Still, we can’t always have a happy ending.