quotable

"The less you know, the more you believe."
Bono aka Paul David Hewson (born 10 May 1960), musician and activist best known as the lead singer of the Irish rock band U2. Bono has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, was granted an honorary knighthood by the United Kingdom, and was named as a Person of the Year by Time magazine.

black is gorgeous

We didn't set out to adopt a black dog, but realized that several of our "favorites" -- dogs whose photos we'd seen online and wanted to meet (before Ruby) were black. We're thrilled with Ruby and love her shiny, jet-black fur (even when we're vacuuming it off of our maple hardwood floors). We're not alone -- check out these photos of beloved black dogs.

You mentioned a walk, no?
by comment dit-on

Black pups face doggie discrimination
Dark-coated pooches tend to linger in shelters the longest
By Melissa Dahl ,MSNBC
updated 5:34 a.m. PT, Wed., March. 5, 2008
It's not like Pamela Gregg was a stranger to helping out the underdog. She thought she knew what kinds of pooches linger the longest in animal shelters: Older dogs, abused dogs, sick or injured dogs — dogs like George Bailey, the hound mix she'd rescued after he'd been struck by a car.

But black dogs? While searching for a companion for George Bailey, Gregg was shocked to see a banner on an Ohio animal shelter's Web site that detailed how tough it is for big dogs with black coats to find homes.

"It said something like, 'We know that you people prefer colors, but we've got wonderful black dogs here, won't you please consider them?'" recalls Gregg, who's 49 and lives in Xenia, Ohio. "I was shocked, because I think that black dogs are beautiful — and I couldn't believe people would not get a dog based on its color."

To the uninitiated, the idea seems so strange — doggie discrimination? But among those in animal rescue circles, the phenomenon is commonplace enough to have earned its own name: "black dog syndrome."

"There's not a lot of that type of statistics on many aspects of sheltering," says Kim Intino, the director of animal sheltering issues for the Humane Society of the United States. "But I think that every person that has worked in a shelter can attest that in shelters animals with black coats can be somewhat harder to adopt out — or to even get noticed."

Even after a year had passed at a Los Angeles animal shelter, no one had noticed Estelle. Except, of course, for the staff; they fawned over the big black dog and her gentle demeanor. They started letting Estelle roam the office during the day, which let one couple see her in action — outside her cage and calmly interacting with people. They fell for her, and took her home.

But not every black dog is lucky enough to get that kind of special attention, says Madeline Bernstein, the president of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals in Los Angeles.

"They're the hardest to adopt out, they're in the shelters the longest and therefore, they're most likely to be euthanized if nothing happens," Bernstein says. (Breeders don't tend to face this problem at the level that shelters do, simply because they have fewer animals to deal with than a city shelter that takes strays in every day.)

Bernstein has plenty of theories about why people might not want black dogs in animal shelters. It's mostly an unconscious thing, she says, which may explain why black cats have the same problems finding a home. People who are aware of superstitions about black cats (don't let them cross your path!) may also be unconsciously harboring superstitions about black dogs.

In British folklore, such as stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Sir Walter Scott, the black dog is a creepy, spectral figure that haunts cemeteries and is an omen of death. (Non-lit geeks who've never heard of those stories have at least seen "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban," in which a big black dog called the Grim stalks Harry.) Another Englishman, Winston Churchill, battled serious bouts of depression which he called "the black dog."

But some speculate that black dogs just don't have the right look to catch the eye of potential adopters.

"Black dogs might appear older; even when they're young, they have bits of facial hair that may be white or gray," Bernstein says. And the ignored breeds are often those who simply look a little big and scary, and whose bad reputations may have preceded them, such as Rottweiler, Doberman pinscher and pit bull mixes.

Bernstein says some people turn in their black dogs to the shelters because they've gotten new furniture and don't like the dark fur their pet sheds.

Too hard to see
But it may be the simplest reason that's costing these dogs a good home — their black coats can make them invisible in poorly lit kennels. (Same problem happens with amateur photos on shelters' Web sites, which is how many people find the dog they intend to adopt.)

"Sometimes if a potential adopter sees a whole row of black dogs, they think, 'Maybe they're not being adopted for a good reason. Maybe there's something wrong with these dogs,'" Bernstein says.

So volunteers at some shelters put extra energy into getting their black dogs noticed. They place brightly colored, eye-catching blankets and toys in their kennels. At Bernstein's shelters, they tie pink ribbons around the necks of the girls, and fasten big bow ties around the necks of the boys.

"In our kennels, the black dogs are all decked out," Bernstein says.

One shelter in Kettering, Ohio, the Society for the Improvement of Conditions for Stray Animals even ran a special discount on black dogs in February, slashing adoption fees in half after executive director Rudy Bahr realized that out of his shelters' 42 dogs, 28 of them were big and black. Bahr instructs his employees in the same sort of tactics Bernstein's shelters take to attract attention to black dogs, like tying bandannas around their necks and taking the dogs to a well-lit area outside to have their photo taken for their Web site.

It was that kind of photo on the shelter's site that attracted Gregg's attention as she continued her search for a companion for George Bailey. "I was trolling through their pictures and there she was," Gregg says. "She was a hound mix like George Bailey, but Molly is sleek, shiny black. As soon as I saw her I completely fell in love. I couldn't get in my car fast enough."

Molly and Bailey turned out to be a perfect match, and if Gregg someday rescues another dog, she says she'll definitely go for a big black dog.

"If and when I get another dog, I will probably deliberately look for another black dog, only because I've learned of black dog syndrome," Gregg says. "Bring 'em my way, because I love 'em."

the future is unwritten

"I'd like to say that people can change anything they want to, and that means everything in the world. Show me any country and there'll be people in it.

It's time to take the humanity back into the center of the ring and follow that for a time. You know, think on that ... without people, you're nothing."

Joe Strummer's cover of "Redemption Song."

Via Ryan E.

failure and imagination

I was very impressed by the commencement address J.K. Rowling gave at Harvard on June 5, 2008. I learned more about a woman whose creativity captured my imagination and admire the challenge she issued to Harvard's graduates.

“The Fringe Benefits of Failure, and the Importance of Imagination,” Copyright of JK Rowling, June 2008

President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates.

The first thing I would like to say is ‘thank you.’ Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honour, but the weeks of fear and nausea I’ve experienced at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and fool myself into believing I am at the world’s best-educated Harry Potter convention.
Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can’t remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard.

You see? If all you remember in years to come is the ‘gay wizard’ joke, I’ve still come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first step towards personal improvement.

Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that has expired between that day and this.

I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic success, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called ‘real life’, I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination.

These might seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.

Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation, is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me.

I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that could never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension.
They had hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents’ car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor.

I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom.

I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticise my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticised only by fools.

What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure.

At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers.

I am not dull enough to suppose that because you are young, gifted and well-educated, you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates, and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment.

However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person’s idea of success, so high have you already flown academically.

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.

Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality.

So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all - in which case, you fail by default.

Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above rubies.

The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more to me than any qualification I ever earned.

Given a time machine or a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone’s total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.

You might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathise with humans whose experiences we have never shared.

One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working in the research department at Amnesty International’s headquarters in London.

There in my little office I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye-witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes.

Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to think independently of their government. Visitors to our office included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had been forced to leave behind.

I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man whose life had been shattered by cruelty took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness.

And as long as I live I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just given him the news that in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country’s regime, his mother had been seized and executed.

Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone.

Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard and read.

And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before.

Amnesty mobilises thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.

Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s minds, imagine themselves into other people’s places.

Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathise.

And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.

I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces can lead to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the wilfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.

What is more, those who choose not to empathise may enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.

One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.

That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people’s lives simply by existing.

But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people’s lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world’s only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders. That is your privilege, and your burden.

If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped transform for the better. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.

I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children’s godparents, the people to whom I’ve been able to turn in times of trouble, friends who have been kind enough not to sue me when I’ve used their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.

So today, I can wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:
As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.
I wish you all very good lives.

Thank you very much.

why i'm voting republican

Learn why I'm voting Republican and then do something about it.

Via Bucky

the ghosts of a different philly

I got the chills last week when NPR declared Obama the first-ever Black major party nominee for president. I would've felt proud to hear that Hilary was the first-ever female major-party presidential nominee, but it clearly wasn't her time. Thankfully, she made 18 million cracks in the glass ceiling.

Barack Obama's victory stirs Mississippi ghosts
By Faye Fiore, Los Angeles Times Staff Writer
June 10, 2008
PHILADELPHIA, MISS. -- Some places are defined by a single event. Roswell, N.M., will always be known for space aliens, Dallas for assassination. And this little town in the Piney Woods of eastern Mississippi will forever be the site of one of the most brutal crimes of the civil rights era.

But Philadelphia -- situated in a county once dubbed Bloody Neshoba -- can now add a remarkable footnote to its most nefarious chapter: The rural county where three men were killed for trying to help black people vote has cast the majority of its ballots to put a black man in the White House.

But much is the same. For all the excitement about Barack Obama and his history-making run for president, there is anxiety, too, because the present is still a hostage to the past. Everything in this slow town of one-way streets and more than 80 churches is viewed through the lens of race. Obama's success makes some people as anxious as it makes others proud.

"It's just the impossibility of it," Campbell said again and again of the presumed Democratic nominee. She had just come from a weeknight Bible study at her church, Mt. Zion United Methodist, which the Ku Klux Klan once burned down. "I know Mississippians. Barack Obama will never change the uneducated whites from the South. I don't care what he does. If he made some of them millionaires, he'll never change them."

Obama's victory in the primaries comes just as Philadelphia prepares to mark the 44th anniversary of the killings that put it reluctantly on the map. Racial tensions are not as violently overt as they were then; today the slights are subtle, from the glance averted on the street to the job application that is never considered. With five months of fierce presidential campaigning ahead -- black against white -- there is a sense that simmering racial tensions are about to boil again.

"What happened all those years ago -- that just keeps coming up," said Doris Gray, 81, who is white. The presence of an out-of-town newspaper reporter in her son's chili cafe not 24 hours after Obama cinched the nomination confirmed her fear that people are going to start poking around in matters better left be.



Around here, that always leads to the same date, June 21, 1964, Father's Day to be exact. Mt. Zion, a black church on the outskirts of town, lay in charred rubble, and three civil rights workers -- two white and one black -- came on the heels of that violence to register black people to vote.

The three were stopped by law enforcement officers in league with the Ku Klux Klan and were jailed for speeding. Released that night, they were chased down a country road and shot, their bodies found six weeks later in an earthen dam outside town.

Eighteen reputed Klansmen went to trial on federal civil rights charges, including Edgar Ray Killen, the part-time Baptist preacher believed to have masterminded the plan. An all-white jury deadlocked in Killen's case. The story was fodder for the 1989 movie "Mississippi Burning," which played right here at the old State Theatre. A new trial held in 2005 finally sent an 80-year-old Killen to prison.

With every turn of events, the media converged on Philadelphia, an otherwise uneventful town with a population of more than 7,000 -- 55% white, 40% black. But no one ever seemed interested in its friendly people, low crime rate, quaint shops or the county fair that brought visitors in from all over.

The way it looked to some, everything boomeranged to the town's racist past. Ronald Reagan chose the fair to announce his 1980 candidacy for president -- Nancy sat on his lap in a wood rocker, red Mississippi mud on her white shoes -- and critics questioned whether he was implicitly condoning racism by deciding to come here at all.



Now there's Obama, Philadelphia's most sensitive subject personified.

"I just wish he'd stop talking about race," said Taneil Long, 30, who owns a nail salon on Beacon Street.

A client walked in, a young black woman, with her daughter in tow. Most of Long's patrons are black, ever since seven years ago when word got out that she was dating a black man. Most of her white clients deserted her. Her white landlady told her to move out. Her cousin from Memphis hasn't spoken to her since.

Long is biracial -- part Vietnamese and part white. A Democrat, she likes what Obama has to say, but the subject of race repels her. It runs against the local grain to discuss the matter openly, and it's hard to avoid it whenever Obama's face comes on TV. In fact, that's when she usually changes the channel.

She doesn't think an Obama presidency would change the minds of people who haven't changed their minds already.

"It's just unbelievable how hateful some people can be," she said. But then she decides that maybe a black president isn't such a bad idea. "If he goes in there and does a remarkable job, maybe some will say, 'Hey, maybe I didn't have the right feeling about that situation.' But as far as Neshoba County goes? You will never get nobody to admit it."

The South of the Old Confederacy is changing, outpacing the rest of the country in population growth and jobs -- CNN, Coca-Cola and FedEx are headquartered there. Once-rural states like Georgia, Florida and Tennessee now have more racially tolerant metropolitan centers.

But in Deep South states like this one, change has come more slowly. Two Indian casinos outside of town have boosted the economy, and Philadelphia is, as they like to say, fixin' to get a bowling alley.

A stronger black leadership has stepped up to demand better police protection and community services, such as equal distribution of parks money, making sure the one in the black neighborhood doesn't get short shrift.

James Prince, editor and publisher of the Neshoba County Democrat, framed the progress this way: "There are people who, if they could get away with not doing the work in the black park, probably would, but they are not going to get away with it."

Patricia Madison is a clerk at All About Her, a boutique that sells purses a few doors down from Long's nail salon. It's owned by a young black woman, and that in itself is a departure from how things used to be.

Still, Madison, a 39-year-old African American, can point to uneasy moments. A restaurant with an all-white staff advertised for a waitress, but wouldn't give her a second look. When her white friend invited her to her wedding and the groom's parents objected, she stayed away so as not to create a disturbance.

Maybe Obama's candidacy -- or presidency -- could help break stubborn stereotypes, she mused, sipping a soda between customers. "Maybe people might view us different -- see that we are not ignorant. Some of us have class. We can do more than work in the kitchen and be somebody's housekeeper."



Just about any adult you talk with here has experienced racial prejudice from one side or the other. Steve Wilkerson, a white lifelong resident of Philadelphia, worked in high school for a service station with one bathroom for men, one for women and one for "coloreds." The first two were cleaned daily, the third once a week.

Now Wilkerson, 55, owns Steve's on the Square, a landmark clothing store downtown. He is a member of a multiracial commission that has worked to bring healing to Philadelphia: The attorney general issued a formal apology, and Highway 19 now bears the names of the activists who died there: Andrew Goodman, a 20-year-old white college student from New York; Michael Schwerner, a 24-year-old white social worker also from New York; and James Chaney, a 21-year-old black man from nearby Meridian.

But Obama's strong performance in a county that is 65% white is less a sign of racial tolerance than of white flight to the Republican Party. Those voting in the Democratic primary were mainly African American or white liberals.

Wilkerson predicted Obama will have a hard time winning Mississippi's white voters in November. Those who do support him will do so discreetly.

"They won't have bumper stickers and lawn signs. It would not be comfortable."

On this warm, humid night, Margaret White, 54, stood outside Mt. Zion, the church she has attended all her life. Today it is rebuilt in fire-resistant brick rather than wood. The old bell -- all that was left from the arson -- is in place and a gray stone engraved with three names stands outside the sanctuary, laid with a wreath every June.

It's a proud time for the church, but there are no high-fives or yelps for Obama's victory. "Low-key is the way," the Rev. Willie Young tells his flock.

White went into work clapping her hands the morning after Obama won. But she was careful not to flaunt her enthusiasm in front of her white colleagues at Mississippi State University, where she works as a program assistant teaching nutrition. "Here, you have to know somebody to get a job," she said. "You can't afford to tick people off."

She doesn't hold much hope that Obama's rise will reform old-school Southerners, but she can't help but notice the changing attitude of the next generation drawn to his candidacy.

Color is not the dividing wall it once was. While neighborhoods remain somewhat segregated, workplaces are more diverse, biracial couples more common. Children -- black and white -- play together on sports teams; they grow up not only to attend each other's weddings, but to take part as bridesmaids and groomsmen.

"One day, the old history will just die off and race will still be there, but it won't matter so much," White said, swatting away the mosquitoes as children, freed from Bible study, ran in circles around the memorial stone, oblivious to its meaning.
Via Hilstah

bailey's plea

Bailey is the son of a high school friend that I just reconnected with. He has Rhabdomyosarcoma and is fighting tall odds at CHOC (Children's Hospital of Orange County).

Rhabdomyosarcoma is a fast-growing, highly malignant tumor which accounts for over half of the soft tissue sarcomas in children. Rhabdomyosarcoma tumors arise from a cell called a "rhabdomyoblast", which is a primitive muscle cell. Instead of differentiating into striated muscle cells, the rhabdomyoblasts grow out of control. Since this type of muscle is located throughout the body, the tumors can appear at numerous locations.

His comments in the first video are a good reminder of what's most important in life.


Bailey and his sister Gaby loving each other


Bailey (SuperBay) and his sisters Gaby and Addison enjoy Halloween at CHOC.

it's good to be on top

From the maps section of Scandinavian Airlines' magazine.

Proof (yet again) that it's all a matter of perspective.
"Upside-Down" North America
Originally uploaded by Claire L. Evans

Via Mercedes

breathing again

This semester was arguably the most stress I've endured in my academic life. It wasn't so much the difficulty of the subject matter -- it was the confluence of circumstances that left me spent.

I realize that most of this stress was due to choices I made, but I survived it, in large part because Leo kept me pointed in the right direction and did all he could to help me keep it together.

Here's a snapshot of what I've been up to since January, which may explain why the hell I haven't been blogging on a regular basis:

1. Academic highlights: My two classes in two different colleges included midterms one day apart, short papers due biweekly (one day apart), 15-page research papers and 30-minute group presentation projects one week apart.
2. Professional highlights: Getting and starting a new jobby job, one with corporate hours and a very steep learning curve in an industry that's new to me and a product release cycle that's dizzying.
   
3. Health highlights: A "routine" surgery on my right wrist that was anything but routine and required Leo to feed, bathe, and dress me for a while.
4. Family highlights: Adopting Ruby, who is super smart, amazingly cute, awesomely gentle, and very willful and taking the time to properly socialize and assimilate her into the pack order of our home.
5. Mental health highlights: Agreeing to do a big favor for a friend when I should've held my ground after saying "no" several times. Feeling bad about doing a crappy job for that friend because I really didn't have the time to do the job correctly. Coming to terms with regret, finding peace, and saying goodbye to a different friend whom I should've been a better friend to while he was still alive.

I'm just grateful that I got through it all and managed to taking a week to get out of dodge with Leo and enjoy the California coast between San Diego and Monterey. There are plenty of other things to celebrate, like good friends getting engaged, me regaining almost full range of motion in both hands, and other friends finishing chemo and radiation. But right now, I'm just glad that I don't have to be in a classroom for two whole weeks and that there are only 219 days until my MBA is done and I get my life back.

do you wear nail polish? dress for breakfast?

I routinely put my ice-cold, candy apple red-painted toes on Leo to warm them up.

Clearly, that explains why I'm not marriage material according to this marital suitability rating scale.

obey

I love the Duderino.

keep calm and carry on

My colleague was sent this after she had an especially craptastic day at work this week.

The poster is a reproduction of the British government's message during World War II. As the Battle of Britain wore on and Nazi bombs were falling left and right, the government urged citizens to adopt a stiff upper lip and not to give the Germans the satisfaction of disrupting every aspect of daily life.

I find it refreshing and sage advice and a stark contrast to our own government's pumpkin, fuschia, and chartreuse color-coded warning system. I'm hereby adopting this as my new mantra. It should be particularly helpful as I finish graduate school.

Only 231 days, 03 hrs, 04 mins, 30 secs to go.

Keep Calm and Carry On: sage advice from a sane wartime government
Back in WWII, when the UK was being pounded by daily barrages of high-explosive, the government's message to the people was Keep Calm and Carry On. Not "ZOMG TERRISTS GONNA KILL US ALL ZOMG ZOMG ALERT LEVEL BLOODRED RUN RUN TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES MOISTURE BOMBS ZOMG!"

rusty, the narcoleptic dachshund

Nancy and Ryan went to UC Davis' picnic days, where they saw the Dachshund "races." Here's what she had to say about it:

"Some of them just take off, while others promptly go behind the starting line to where they know someone will pick them up and snuggle them. I now want a mini-dachshund, but suspect the cat would kill me or it if I did."

After reading that, Leo and I got a good laugh out of the idea of a "mini" dachshund. So I googled to learn more and found this video.

I realize it's no laughing matter, but it's the funniest thing I've seen in a long time.

quinoa, corn, and tomato salad with chive-infused olive oil

Leo and I have made this several times and always love it. The chives and limes make for a light, refreshing taste. The corn and tomatoes are beautiful and flavorful in this salad.

Use the leftover chive oil as a dressing or on grilled fish or vegetables. Garnish with whole fresh chives, if desired.

Ingredients
1 1/2 cups water (or broth)
1 cup uncooked quinoa
1 cup fresh corn kernels (about 2 ears) or frozen corn (we use Trader Joe's frozen roasted corn)
1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved
1/4 cup finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
2 tablespoons Chive-Infused Oil (recipe below) 2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 garlic clove, minced

Preparation
Combine 1 1/2 cups water and quinoa in a medium saucepan; bring to a boil. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 10 minutes or until liquid is absorbed. Remove from heat; let stand 10 minutes. Fluff with a fork.

Combine quinoa, corn, tomatoes, and parsley in a medium bowl. Combine Chive-Infused Oil and remaining ingredients, stirring with a whisk. Drizzle over salad; toss well to coat. Let stand 10 minutes before serving.

Yield
6 servings (serving size: 2/3 cup)

Nutritional Information
CALORIES 179(34% from fat); FAT 6.7g (sat 0.7g,mono 4.1g,poly 1.3g); PROTEIN 5.2g; CHOLESTEROL 0.0mg; CALCIUM 20mg; SODIUM 145mg; FIBER 2.4g; IRON 2.2mg; CARBOHYDRATE 26.1g

Lia Huber, Cooking Light, AUGUST 2007

Chive-infused Oil Recipe
3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/2 cup (1-inch) slices fresh chives
1/2 teaspoon salt

Preparation
Place all ingredients in a blender; pulse 6 times or until chives are very finely minced. Strain mixture through a fine sieve into a bowl, and discard solids. Store in refrigerator in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks.
Yield
3/4 cup (serving size: 1 1/2 teaspoons)
Nutritional Information
CALORIES 63(100% from fat); FAT 7g (sat 1g,mono 5.4g,poly 0.6g); PROTEIN 0.0g; CHOLESTEROL 0.0mg; CALCIUM 0.0mg; SODIUM 49mg; FIBER 0.0g; IRON 0.0mg; CARBOHYDRATE 0.0g

beef, it's what's for dinner (and breakfast, and lunch, and ...)

James sent this to us this morning, with "I think I'll like Uruguay" in the subject line.

Leo said there were protestors about the wood, vegetarian protestors, and probably some folks protesting the price of meat. I will say this -- I loved the asados we enjoyed down South.

Uruguay hosts biggest BBQ, grills 12 tons of beef
Sun Apr 13, 2008 7:59pm
MONTEVIDEO (Reuters) - More than a thousand barbecue fanatics in Uruguay grilled up 12 metric tonnes (26,400 lbs) of beef on Sunday, setting a new Guinness world record while promoting the country's succulent top export.

Army personnel set up a grill nearly 1 mile long and firefighters lit six tonnes of charcoal to kick off the gargantuan cookout.

Some 1,250 people grilled the beef and about 20,000 spectators cried with joy when a Guinness judge confirmed the barbecue record had been broken.

"I'm very proud to be Uruguayan. We have the best beef and now we have the world's biggest barbecue," said one of the volunteer cooks, sporting an apron and chef's hat.

The South American country bested a Mexican grilling record from 2006 by a resounding 4 tonnes.

The barbecue was organized by the National Meats Institute, or INAC in Spanish, which tracks beef sales abroad.

Beef exports raked in $817 million last year for Uruguay, a laid-back country of some 3.2 million people squeezed between larger neighbors Argentina and Brazil, also major cattle producers.

"Uruguay is very small, it's not known for other events so we have to use these kinds of gimmicks so people find out where Uruguay is and what it has to offer," said INAC's vice president, Fernando Perez Abella.

(Reporting by Conrado Hornos; writing by Hilary Burke, editing by Todd Eastham)

if you want to be happy for the rest of your life ...

Call me naive -- but I know a few relationships where the men are hot and evolved. Scratch that. Call me lucky, because my man is hot and evolved.

Why Beautiful Women Marry Less Attractive Men
Jeanna Bryner
LiveScience Staff Writer
LiveScience.com
Thu Apr 10, 11:25 AM ET

Women seeking a lifelong mate might do well to choose the guy a notch below them in the looks category. New research reveals couples in which the wife is better looking than her husband are more positive and supportive than other match-ups.

The reason, researchers suspect, is that men place great value on beauty, whereas women are more interested in having a supportive husband.

Researchers admit that looks are subjective, but studies show there are some universal standards, including large eyes, "baby face" features, symmetric faces, so-called average faces, and specific waist-hip ratios in men versus women.

Past research has shown that individuals with comparable stunning looks are attracted to each other and once they hook up they report greater relationship satisfaction. These studies, however, are mainly based on new couples, showing that absolute beauty is important in the earliest stages of couple-hood, said lead researcher James McNulty of the University of Tennessee. But the role of physical attractiveness in well-established partnerships, such as marriage, is somewhat of a mystery.

The new study, published in the February issue of the Journal of Family Psychology, reveals looks continue to matter beyond that initial attraction, though in a different way.

Supportive spouses
McNulty's team assessed 82 couples who had married within the previous six months and had been together for nearly three years prior to tying the knot. Participants were on average in their early to mid-20s.

Researchers videotaped as each spouse discussed with their partner a personal problem for 10 minutes. The tapes were analyzed for whether partners were supportive of spouses' issues, which included goals to eat healthier, to land a new job and to exercise more often.

"A negative husband would've said, 'This is your problem, you deal with it,'" McNulty said, "versus 'Hey, I'm here for you; what do you want me to do?; how can I help you?'"

A group of trained "coders" rated the facial attractiveness of each spouse on a scale from 1 to 10, with the perfect 10 representing the ultimate babe. About a third of the couples had a more attractive wife, a third a more attractive husband and the remaining partners showed matching looks.

Trophy wives
Overall, wives and husbands behaved more positively when the woman was better looking.

The finding "seems very reasonable," said Dan Ariely, a professor of behavioral economics at MIT's Program in Media Arts and Sciences and Sloan School of Management. "Men are very sensitive to women's attractiveness. Women seem to be sensitive to men's height and salary," said Ariely, who was not involved in the recent study.

In couples with more attractive husbands, both partners were less supportive of one another. McNulty suggests wives mirror, in some ways, the level of support they get from husbands.

"The husband who's less physically attractive than his wife is getting something more than maybe he can expect to get," McNulty told LiveScience. "He's getting something better than he's providing at that level. So he's going to work hard to maintain that relationship."

Men who are more attractive than their partners would theoretically have access to partners who are more attractive than their current spouses, McNulty said. The "grass could be greener" mentality could make these men less satisfied and less committed to maintain the marriage.

Physical attractiveness of husbands is not as important to women, the researchers suggest. Rather, wives are looking for supportive husbands, they say.

So it seems the mismatch in looks is actually a perfect match. "Equitable is unlikely to mean the same on every dimension," Ariely said during a telephone interview. "It just means that overall two people make sense together."
10 Things You Didn't Know About You
The Rules of Attraction in the Game of Love
The Sex Quiz: Myths, Taboos and Bizarre Facts
Original Story: Why Beautiful Women Marry Less Attractive Men

quotable

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

Oscar Wilde

happiness is ...

... a five-minute car ride to VONS for greenies.
... belly rubs from four hands at once.
... sleeping in my big green bed.
... smelling all the other dogs who've peed in my front yard.
... inhaling my breakfast and flirting with Leo to see if he'll give me some of his.
... stalking birds on my morning walk. (Why do they fly away instead of playing with me?)
... greeting the kids waiting for school to start.

... Ruby's thumping tail and happy face when we wake up in the morning.

Ruby is a beautiful dog who is even sweeter than she is pretty. She's our smart new four-year-old Flat-Coated Retriever (yes, she's got a puppy cut right now) who came to us via Craigslist. We're in love and glad that she's an official member of the family.

stuff educated black people like

It was only a matter of time: Stuff Educated Black People Like.

The original: Stuff White People Like

via Yvonne

killing all the right people

Julia Sugarbaker is the bomb. I never watched Designing Women when it was on, but at some point in college, I caught a lot of episodes on Lifetime. (I also watched plenty of Golden Girls then, too.) I hadn't thought about her in a very long time, until I saw a group called "We Want Designing Women on DVD" on Facebook.

Anyhow, Julia Sugarbaker is one of my favorite TV characters ever. She was an intelligent, assertive, classy woman who could tell you to go to hell so smoothly that you wouldn't know she was doing it until it was too late. She also ranted with the best of them. My favorite Julia rant, Killing All the Right People, comes from my favorite episode, which also includes Mary Jo taking a pro-birth control stance with the school board.

Within a few days, one of Julia's longstanding clients, Imogene Salinger (played by actress/writer Camilla Carr), overhears the plans about the funeral and starts to be hateful in her comments towards Kendall, stating, "As far as I'm concerned, this disease has one thing going for it: it's killing all the right people". This upsets everybody but the hateful comments really sets Julia (whose nickname is "The Terminator") off and in a very strong and heated confrontation, she tells Imogene to leave.

Julia: "Imogene, I'm terribly sorry, I'm going to have to ask you to move your car."
Imogene: "Why?"
Julia: "Because you're leaving!"
Imogene: "What are you talking about?"
Julia: "I'm talking about the only thing worse than all these people who have never had any morals before AIDS are all you holier-than-thou types who think you're exempt from getting it!"
Imogene: "Well, for your information, I am exempt! I haven't lived like these people! And I don't care what you say, Julia Sugarbaker! I believe this is God's punishment for what they've done!"
Suzanne: "Oh, yeah? Then how come lesbians get it less?"
Imogene: "That is not for me to say! I just know that these people are getting what they deserve!"
Julia: "Imogene, get serious! Who do you think you're talking to?! I've known you for 27 years, and all I can say is, if God was giving out sexually transmitted diseases to people as a punishment for sinning, then you would be at the free clinic all the time! And so would the rest of us!"

Suzanne and her mother's friend, Bernice Clifton, also offer their support, echoing Julia's indignation. After insulting Bernice, who deftly insults her right back, Imogene storms out of the store, never to return yelling at Julia "Well, you needn't look forward to anymore of my business in this lifetime!!". As Imogene leaves, Julia points out that her son is excelling in school. Earlier in the episode, she had lied to Imogene to make her happy, saying that he was struggling in chemistry class.

Julia (shouting outside): "Wonderful, I'll close up your account! And another thing, my son has an A in chemistry! In fact, he's making all A's! In everything! Including P.E.!"
After the argument, she slams the door furiously.

herding the cat at six weeks old

These Cardigan Welsh Corgi puppies made my night.
Herding the cat at six weeks old

you gotta love ricochet

I've got puppy fever something fierce right now.

Ricochet is an 8-week-old puppy well on her way to being an amazing service dog.
YouTube - Training: ""

Via Sandra

pismo beach

While on our recent road trip up the California coast, we stopped in Pismo Beach to eat. When I asked Leo what he wanted for lunch, he requested a bucket of carrots on ice. We settled (if you can call it that) for some amazing clam chowder.

Here's what Leo thought of when I asked if he'd heard of Pismo Beach, complete with something about a left turn at Albuhkoikey and a right turn at La Jol-la.

a guide to the french

Having been called an imbecile by a French-born teacher (in the U.S.) and experienced some of these other quirks first-hand, I still must conclude that there's nothing better than living in Paris.

A Guide to the French. Handle With Care.
By ELAINE SCIOLINO
Published: March 23, 2008
PARIS — “Every man has two countries, his own and France,” says a character in a play by the 19th- century poet and playwright Henri de Bornier. In five and a half years living in Paris as an American correspondent, I have tried to make the country my own, knowing that I never will completely fit in, but always will be fascinated. So as I finish my stint as Paris bureau chief and move on to a new beat here, it seems a good moment to offer eight lessons learned.

1: Look in the Rear-View Mirror

To begin to understand France, you have to look back. The French are obsessed with history. Part of this feeling is a genuine affinity for the past, part a desire to cling to lost glory, part an insecurity that comes with a tepid economy and the struggle to integrate a growing Arab and African population.

Marie-Antoinette regularly makes the covers of magazines. So does Napoleon Bonaparte.

No anniversary is too minor to celebrate. In my time here, France has marked the 20th anniversary of France’s sinking of Greenpeace’s Rainbow Warrior, the 200th anniversary of the high school baccalaureate diploma, the 60th anniversary of the bikini and the 100th anniversary of the brassiere.

For the 100th anniversary of her birth in January, Simone de Beauvoir was celebrated with half a dozen biographies, a DVD series, a three-day scholarly symposium and a cover of the magazine Le Nouvel Observateur with a nude photo of her from the back.


2: An Interview Is Sometimes Not an Interview

Their love of history doesn’t mean the French always render it accurately. It has long been common practice for journalists in France to allow their interview subjects to edit their words. “Read and corrected,” the system is called.

I once took part in an interview with Jacques Chirac, when he was president, in which he said it would not be all that dangerous for Iran to have a nuclear weapon or two. That certainly was not French policy. So the official Élysée Palace transcript left out the line and replaced it with this: “I do not see what type of scenario could justify Iran’s recourse to an atomic bomb.”

The practice of doctoring the transcript has continued under President Nicolas Sarkozy.

Last month, the president lost his temper when a bystander refused to shake his hand at the annual agricultural fair. (A polite translation of what he said would be, “Get lost, you stupid jerk!”) The incident, captured on video, was seen by millions on the Internet.

According to the daily Le Parisien the next day, Mr. Sarkozy later expressed regret in an interview, saying, “It would have been better if I had not responded to him.” But the paper’s editor soon confessed that the words of regret were “never uttered.” They had been edited into the transcript by the Élysée Palace.

3: The Customer Is Always Wrong

It is hard for French merchants to admit they are wrong, and seemingly impossible for them to apologize. Instead, the trick is to somehow get the offended party to feel the mistake was his or her own. I’m convinced the practice was learned in the strict French educational system, in which teachers are allowed to tell pupils they are “zeros” in front of the entire class.

A doctor I know told me he once bought a coat at a small men’s boutique only to discover that it had a rip in the fabric. When he tried to return it, the shopkeeper gave him the address of a tailor who could repair it — for a large fee. They argued, and the doctor reminded the shopkeeper of the French saying, “The customer is king.”

“Sir,” the shopkeeper replied, “We no longer have a king in France.”

4: Make Friends With a Good Butcher

With food as important as it is here, one of the most important men in your life should be your butcher. Mine, Monsieur Yvon, is more than a cutter of meat. He is a playful spirit in a rather sober neighborhood — and the exception to the customer-is-always-wrong rule.

In his tiny shop on the Rue de Varenne, between the Luxembourg Gardens and Les Invalides in the Seventh Arrondissement, Monsieur Yvon has donned a necklace of his homemade sausages to get a conversation going. At Christmas, he and his team of butchers put on elves’ hats with blinking lights. He offers passers-by free charcuterie and glasses of Beaujolais nouveau every fall. He is so deeply trusted that when avian flu struck France, his poultry sales went up, not down.

Monsieur Yvon has cooked my Thanksgiving turkey when it was too big for my oven and taught me how to make the perfect pot-au-feu. I have watched him lovingly choose just the right pair of center-cut lamb chops for an elderly client. Were they to be cooked today or tomorrow? Grilled or sautéed?

Even when he bears bad news, his explanations are delicious. Once I ordered a 16-pound turkey and got an 11-pound bird instead.

“It was the fault of the foxes,” he said gravely.

“The foxes?” I asked.

“Yes, the foxes.” It seemed that the electric fence surrounding the turkey pen had shorted out and the foxes had had a field day.

“They only ate the big turkeys,” he explained.

5: Kiss, but Be Careful Whom You Hug

The French need no excuse to kiss. The first time I was kissed by a Frenchman was on July 20, 1969, the day a man landed on the moon. I was a student with a backpack, arriving at the Gare de Lyon. The newspaper seller kissed me on both cheeks because I was an American.

The ritual double “bisou” — the two-cheek kiss — takes some getting used to. There is nothing sexy about it, but it can be awkward, especially for my adolescent daughters when they are required to kiss strange men.

Mr. Chirac never seemed to relish the formal, jerky air kisses. He is more of a hand-kisser. He knows how to cradle a woman’s hand in his, raise the hand to chest level, bend over to meet it halfway and savor its feel and scent.

Mr. Sarkozy is unpredictable. When he’s in a bad mood, he might offer a curt “Bonjour” and a cold handshake. With those he likes, he gets really close and hugs. They sometimes hug back, as did Israel’s president, Shimon Peres, during a visit this month to the Élysée. But the German chancellor, Angela Merkel, has made it clear through her aides that she is not a hugger and needs her space.

6: Don’t Wear Jogging Clothes to Buy a Pound of Butter

Rules govern even the smallest activities. I was making chocolate chip cookies one Saturday afternoon and ran out of butter. Dusted with flour, still in my morning jogging clothes, I dashed out to the convenience store up the street. The problem was that it is not just any street. It’s the Rue du Bac, one of the most chic places to see and be seen on Saturdays. I heard my name called and turned to face a senior Foreign Ministry official, dressed in pressed jeans and a soft-as-butter leather jacket, wearing an amused look, and carrying a small Nespresso shopping bag.

We went to a corner cafe for a drink. The Swedish ambassador and his wife stopped as they were riding by on their bikes. Both were in tailored tweed blazers, slim pants and loafers. Then Robert M. Kimmitt, the deputy treasury secretary, walked by.

He and my foreign ministry friend joked that my style didn’t match the setting. I made the point that it was my neighborhood and I could dress however I wanted. But as my French women friends told me afterward, jogging clothes (shoes included) are to be removed as soon as one’s exercise is over.

7: Feeling Sexy Is a State of Mind, or: Buy Good Lingerie

In her close-fitting sweaters and pants and tailored leather jackets, Eliane Victor is both stylish and alluring. The retired author and journalist is in her late 80s.

For French women, being sexy has nothing to do with age and everything to do with attitude. Arielle Dombasle, the actress and cabaret singer married to the philosopher Bernard-Henri Lévy, dared to expose her breasts on the cover of Paris Match and took off her clothes in a song-and-dance revue at Crazy Horse in Paris. Some people feel she tries too hard. But give the lady some credit. She’s turning 50 and has a Barbie-doll body.

A 600-page sociological study of sexuality in France released this month concluded that 9 out of 10 women over 50 are sexually active. The sexiest French women seem naturally skilled in the art of moving, smiling and flirting.

Chic French women prefer to peel and polish rather than paint their faces. Too much makeup, they say, makes a woman seem older, or worse, “vulgaire.” “The most beautiful makeup for a woman is passion,” Yves Saint Laurent once said. “But cosmetics are easier to buy.”

French women spend close to 20 percent of their clothing budgets on lingerie. But you also have to know how to wear it. When the Galeries Lafayette department store inaugurated its 28,000-square-foot lingerie shop in 2003, it offered free half-hour lessons by professional striptease artists.

8: When It Comes to Politesse, There Is No End to the Lessons

Never use the word “toilette” when asking a host for directions to the powder room; try to avoid going there at all. Never say “Bon appétit” at the start of a meal. Don’t talk loudly. Never discuss your religion or your money at dinner. Eat hamburgers, pizza, foie gras and sorbet with a fork. Always say “bonjour” to the bus driver, and to fellow passengers on elevators. “Pas mal” doesn’t necessarily mean “Not bad.” It can mean “Great!”

risotto milanese

We made this recently. The flavor of the parmesan intensified wonderfully when we had the leftovers for lunch the next day.

Risotto Milanese
This classic Italian dish is traditionally served with veal shanks, though it would also make a fine side for braised short ribs, roasted and grilled fish, or beef tenderloin.

1/4 teaspoon saffron threads
2 (14-ounce) cans fat-free, less-sodium chicken broth
2 teaspoons unsalted butter
3 tablespoons finely chopped shallots
3 tablespoons finely chopped prosciutto (about 1 ounce)
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup Arborio rice or other short-grain rice
1/3 cup white wine
1/4 cup (1 ounce) grated fresh Parmesan cheese
1/8 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1. Combine saffron and broth in a small saucepan; bring to a simmer (do not boil). Keep warm over low heat.
2. Melt butter in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add shallots, prosciutto, and garlic to pan; sauté 2 minutes or until shallots are tender. Add rice; cook 1 minute, stirring constantly. Stir in wine; cook 2 minutes or until liquid is nearly absorbed, stirring constantly.
3. Add broth mixture, 1/2 cup at a time, stirring constantly until each portion of broth is absorbed before adding the next (about 25 minutes total). Remove from heat; stir in cheese and pepper. Serve immediately.

Yield: 4 servings (serving size: about 3/4 cup)

Nutritional Information: CALORIES 152(25% from fat); FAT 4.2g (sat 2.4g,mono 1.3g,poly 0.3g); PROTEIN 7.4g; CHOLESTEROL 14mg; CALCIUM 75mg; SODIUM 524mg; FIBER 1.2g; IRON 0.9mg; CARBOHYDRATE 20.5g

David Bonom , Cooking Light, SEPTEMBER 2007

quotable

The most beautiful makeup for a woman is passion. But cosmetics are easier to buy.
-Yves Saint Laurent

test your awareness

I counted correctly. But that's really beside the point.

Via Haffner

it matters how you finish

A week ago, I said goodbye to Steven.

Try as I might, I couldn't find joy or celebrate his death while at his homegoing. (As a man of faith, his funeral was no somber affair. Instead, it was a time of singing and celebration.) It was my first funeral, and unlike anything I expected or have ever experienced.

I heard remembrances from friends and family, and laughed and cried at the vignettes shared. One, about Steven's love of music and the first time he took his son Craig to an Earth, Wind and Fire show, had me smiling. Another, about a remark Steven made to his pastor when he was near the end and had a lucid, pain-free moment where he uttered one word -- "tremendous" -- repeatedly, left me hopeful. A final one -- about how Steven always ended his conversations this year with the words "I love you and I appreciate you" -- reminded me to always ensure that my loved ones know how I feel about them.

But one remembrance epitomized why I have such respect for Steven: it spoke of his grace and his strength in the attitude he chose to very end. Our friend Sandra read her beautiful eulogy and said the words that all of us needed to hear, but didn't have language to express.

For Stevie C. who asked me to speak at his homegoing celebration:

This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

My brother Steven would want me to share that thought with you this morning. He would want me to remind you that despite our tears and sorrow, we have good reason to celebrate today.

We can celebrate because Steven is home. His long night of suffering is over. And our long night of watching him suffer is over. The body that failed him has died. But Steven himself is more alive than we. And we will see him again. This is the great hope that sustained our brother Steven. This is the great assurance we share as people of faith.

Some will dismiss our belief in things we cannot humanly perceive as quaint, naive, even delusional. But how then will they explain the courage, the perseverance, the unfailing sweetness of spirit that Steven displayed throughout a long and grueling illness he knew would ultimately take his life? What we have witnessed over this past year, in both Steven’s and Craig’s responses to inconceivable hardship, has been nothing short of supernatural. I asked Steven once how he did it, and he said, “In the middle of the storm, in the middle of the typhoon, you just close your eyes and say, thank you.”

We have a saying in our family: It matters how you finish. And what we mean by that is, it really doesn’t matter what you accomplish or accumulate in this life, how high you rise in society or business or government, none of that matters if you throw it all away in the end. And conversely, it doesn’t matter how many mistakes you make along the way if you learn and grow beyond them. Because in the end what matters isn’t what we’ve done, but who we’ve been. What matters is the content of our character.

When I think of Steven, I will think of a man no more perfect than any of us, but a man of character and commitment, an extraordinary father and a wonderful friend. I will think of a man of faith, who died as he lived, counting every day a blessing and every blessing a reason for thanksgiving. When I think of my brother Steven, I will think of a man who finished well.

As his casket left the church, I sobbed again when I glimpsed the "get well" banner that Geraghty and Lori made for him last year when he was in the hospital receiving chemo. After leaving the sanctuary, I reached for colleagues and friends who were also grieving, and trying to get to the emotional place where they could celebrate his death as more than just the end of his suffering. But when I left the church, I just wasn't in that space yet.

Over the next week, I had two unexpected moments that got me there. The first came when I turned on the TV in our hotel room in Solvang to do a homework assignment for a Comm class. Although I'd finished the assignment, I lingered on that channel for a few minutes longer before getting dressed to go to dinner. I had to sit down when Earth, Wind and Fire opened the Nobel laureate concert. Two hours later, I was already sitting down when the second moment came with Leo's one-word summary of an exquisite meal we enjoyed at the Ballard Inn: "tremendous."

Both moments left me slack-jawed and incredulous, because I am not a person who believes in god or fate or messages from beyond. What I'm left with is a profound feeling of peace and a heart that is grateful for having shared a few moments with a man who finished well.

coming to an end

Tomorrow is my last day at my current job. I've been blessed with smart, kind, creative colleagues and am sad at the thought of leaving, because things just aren't the same once you've moved on.

I was ruminating on that when I stepped into the elevator this morning. In three short seconds, I was stressing out in earnest about how I was going to get everything done and remain sane through a week that includes handing off my project to a consultant, packing up my office, two midterms, an hour-long (as-yet unwritten) presentation at an annual professional meeting on Friday, and getting myself ready to go out of town for a week. Then I got news that put everything else into perspective -- our colleague Steven lost his battle with cancer this weekend.

As I read the obituary that his good friend Sandra wrote, I learned new things about a man for whom I already had a great deal of respect. Seeing the words on the page early this morning made his death seem real from a purely cerebral perspective. When I re-read the piece tonight and saw the photo of him with his college-age son, I finally processed the news emotionally and the tears began to fall.

I'm glad that he is no longer in pain. I'm glad that he had 10 months to tell his son and others how much he loved them. I'm glad that all of us had 10 months to tell him that we loved him.

It's not the details of how Steven lived that amaze me. It's the attitude he chose to have through the very end that inspires me. Every day was a gift for Steven. But 54 years was a cruelly short amount of time for him to be a blessing to others.

attire for the thinking woman

I hate the trampy-is-trendy look because I think it's ho-rrific.

Working on a college campus means that I get an eyeful of the latest in women's undergarment fashion on a daily basis. I see the color, outline, and (often) the detailing on the thong, panty, or g-string du jour ... I'm a complete stranger and these girls have all of their wares out on display. It makes me very uncomfortable -- not because I'm a prude, but because I wonder if they're even thinking about what it is that they're literally buying into.

I'm also not a fan of the color pink (the infantilization of women -- especially by women -- pisses me off), and I've hated the Victoria's Secret "PINK" line (and Juicy Couture) since, well forever. It's not just that butts are used as billboards by teens and twenty-somethings, it's that PINK is slang for vagina. Say it with me, people: va-gi-na. That just doesn't have the same marketing ring now, does it?

Attire for the thinking woman
Aaryn Belfer
March 1st, 2008

Every time I see a thirteen year old girl clunking through an airport or a mall in Ugg boots and a matching velour tracksuit with the word PINK embroidered across her tender young buttocks in collegiate-style lettering, I can’t help but think there is something distastefully wrong with the message. So, I had a good guffaw-coffee-through-the-nose-hole moment today when I read that the CEO of Victoria’s Secret feels that her company has “gotten off our heritage” (wha…?…the woman needs to look up the definition of the word) by becoming “too sexy.”

The company, according to her, needs a return to their intended ideal of ultra-feminine and I have to agree, since there are a lot of things more feminine than women (of all ages) browsing the aisles of Costco, clad in Victoria’s Secret PUSSY PINK line? When I see that young girl obliviously advertising her vagina across her backside as she boards a Southwest flight to Scottsdale, smacking her bubble gum, holding her In Style magazine and squeezing the oversized teddy bear tucked under her arm, I don’t instantly associate her with ultra-feminine. Of course, it could be that the Uggs cancel out the feminine quota of the tush lettering.

In aiming for the über-femme, I think the CEO should take a more direct approach; a more educational, empowering, PSA sort of angle. I suggest she go straight-up blatant on the consumer with her ass-messages and begin offering a line with choices like LABIA, MONS, PUBIS, VULVA and CLITORIS. Maybe that’s too clinical for some, but I’d wear those pants long before I ever shook my milkshake with a euphemism for my lady bits plastered on it. Because those other words? Those words are ultra-feminine.