Welsh Rabbit or Welsh Rarebit? I am not the first to ask that question.

I know I have had this discussion before, maybe with my mother. Is the lovely warm cheddar cheese melt called Welsh Rabbit or Welsh Rarebit?

My first introduction to this luncheon dish was during shopping trips with Mom. Lunch in a real restaurant was a real treat, since we rarely ate out. Also, the seasonings and elegant presentation of the luncheon were part of my manners education. Mom schooled me on napkin, fork and spoon use. Our usual biyearly Saturday morning excursion was through Severance Center, and we ate at Halle’s Geranium Room. Mom usually ordered the Rarebit.

Welsh Rarebit was a leading luncheon item on the famous Higbee’s Silver Grill’s menu, a popular dish served over melba toast. Very light, feminine, 60s fare. I only remember eating once in the Silver Grill when I was young. It was special then because of the cardboard stove that came with my meal. I probably returned there a few more times, but memory blurs rushed events. The downtown restaurants that stick in my mind are surrounded by story and special people, like Stouffer's at Euclid and East 14^th Street which was across the street from the Hanna Building. Grandpa Lennon was a stockbroker at the Hanna Building for Murch and Company. On the rare occasions I showed up for a visit at his office, he loved to treat me. I was a college student when, on one occasion, I was truly charmed to be introduced to people who stood up from their desks and adjusted their suit coats before they shook my hand. Then grandpa and I strolled across Euclid Ave. to the elegant dark interior of Stouffers.

Strolling was not a term anyone would use walking with Mom. My steps had to match the speed of her motorized wheelchair. Mom’s handicap meant that she planned her excursions down to the minute. She savored each escape from the humdrum confines of her wheelchair paths around the house. She plotted her trips to the Severance Mall so she could traverse the shops needed and make the purchases on her list within the time frame her body would allow. The luncheon was usually our last stop before Dad picked us up, and the Geranium Room was handicap accessible.

The rarebit was served over toast, but I liked it best when I crumbled the buttery muffins into the cheese. This was also a favorite of Mom’s. Yes, it was listed as rarebit on the menu, but the word never truly made sense to me. What was so rare about a seasoned cheese sauce? Years later, trying to recreate the recipe, the closest that would satisfy me was a sharp cheddar and beer sauce. I also spent years trying to perfect the muffin recipe.

What is in a name? Rarebit dominates in published recipes, but given the history of the dish, Rabbit makes more sense. The disparaging tone of a dinner absent of meet, even of something so humble as a rabbit, seems logical.

Most of the recipes I found in Joy of Cooking and other reputable tomes were named Welsh Rarebit; however, sometimes both Welsh Rabbit and Welsh Rarebit were given as the name of the dish. A hunt through the Oxford English Dictionary presented Welsh Rabbit as having the prior publication as also presented by the Online Etymology Dictionary:

 “Among the English, Welsh was used disparagingly of inferior or substitute things, hence Welsh rabbit (1725), also perverted by folk-etymology as Welsh rarebit (1785).” http://www.etymonline.com 

So the choice of name for a recipe comes down to the intent of the namer. Should the dish be modern or archaic? Should it blend with the heavy white napkins from Halle’s Geranium Room in the 1960s or the rustic table of a dark Welsh kitchen in the 1700s? I don’t think either name will disturb the taste of a good sharp cheddar and beer.

Regarding the linked recipes, the cook truly needs the full half-pound of real butter to recreate the Higbee muffin. No substitute will do.

Bon appetite!

What is Creative Nonfiction?

I sent a notice to students regarding recent notification of the Norman Mailer writing contest. I have had several nibbles, but they always pose the question, "What is creative nonfiction?"

Words that seem to obviously explain the genre are confusing to students who want the security of a form, a guideline, an accepted and recognizable style. It is hard to accept the simplicity of two concepts that are inherent in creative nonfiction: creativity is neither predictable or secure, and nonfiction is true. 

Then comes the hard work of writing that my students need to embrace. Gather the ideas and information, organize the presentation, and polish-polish-polish the language. Whether truth or fiction, the story must be well told.

 "Ultimately, this controversy over the form or the word is not only rather silly but moot; the genre itself, the practice of writing nonfiction in a dramatic and imaginative way, has been an anchoring element of the literary world for many years," Lee Gutkind reflected. 

Yes, the genre has existed since the first true fish story, but Gutkind has defined it through example by giving us the Creative Nonfiction journal.

The Alliance for Young Artists & Writers » John Steinbeck’s Advice to Beginning Writers

The Alliance for Young Artists & Writers » John Steinbeck’s Advice to Beginning Writers

I cannot call Steinbeck's advice inspirational, but I will say is is honest. In a writer, that is an extremely admirable attribute. Know oneself, aware of shortcomings as well as gifts, because perseverance in one's craft it tedious. A writer's lot can be lonely in spite of the numerous characters with whom she lives.

Internet safety: Whose job to teach kids about it?

Internet safety: Whose job to teach kids about it?

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Sonnet Attack #123

How I attack, parse, chew and digest a sonnet (or any poem through the first read) is usually intuitive. Since I am female, I read Shakespeare's sonnets as a female and claim the emotions presented in each line unless there is something that jars within me. Why should I care if Sweet William was presenting himself as a lover or father figure to a man or a woman unless I am being judged for my historic analysis? Most of the time, for me, Sweet William's sonnets are songs of enjoyment or little toys - think rubrik's cube - to be turned inside out and reset with colored inflections.

Helping a student through an interpretation of Sonnet #123 in lieu of a performance, I found myself playing with the sonnet. I truly must be careful how I play this game with students, because I see patterns of images that are outside the box. Truly, I wonder how many scholars or pleasure readers link time's "pyramids" to Stonehedge or legal "registers" to tallies at a bridge game? Yes, Shakespeare was an astute business man, but there are many opportunities to list figures.

My student and I, also female, were discussing the dramatic recitation of Sonnet #123. Trying to loosen her up so she could relax into the game, I asked her to try a sultry voice. Her eyes widened while her analytical mind raced through the images of pyramids and historic measurements (registers) trying to find a hook on which to hang my request. "Sultry?" I responded that we are all seduced by Time, a frequent metaphor in literature, but this sonnet implies that the speaker is defying Time. Then I took my interpretation one step further. What is stronger, to argue or to attack? What attack is more effective against Time, combative or seductive?

I came home and checked my favorite tome, Helen Vendler's The Art of Shakespeare's Sonnets. Nothing from Vendler contradicted me, which was reassuring, even though it did not jump into an analysis of images. She stated that, "Time always brings out the Latin side of Shakespeare, as his mind instinctively goes to Ovid [...]" (524). Linking phrases and specific words so my pencil practically imposed an geodesic dome over the sonnet, Vendler encouraged my game. Insinuating myself within Sweet William's head, I weighing the images: pyramid versus standing stone. Which evoked the truer, stronger, more exotic response? For the renaissance man, it was obvious. For me, I view his choice as evidence of his seduction by Time.

Playing with Time, I continue to ponder my own defiance.

Still Grieving

The following continues my reflections on the sudden death of one of my students.

Dealing with grief for both myself and my students will continue to be an ongoing process. In my research on the topic, I have found some interesting sources. The Grief Blog is a wonderful resource for information and provides a forum for questions and stories. I was impressed with the professional outreach the site provides.

Searching for reliable sources with reputable contributors, I found a comprehensive article at the Scholastic site which was clear and helpful in explaining the importance of mourning, a society’s controlled and formal process of responding to death, and how mourning differs from the emotional grieving that a person experiences and, frequently, has little ability to control. Directed at teachers, Perry and Rubenstein’s article covered a number of questions succinctly. It ends with the following insight:

“Always remember that the loss does not go away, but the way children experience loss will change with time, hopefully maturing in ways that make it easier to bear. The traumatic loss of a parent, a sibling, and a peer will always be with these children. With time, love, and understanding, however, children can learn to carry the burdens of traumatic loss in ways that will not interfere with their healthy development.”

Sometimes wallowing in pain feels good, because it is better than the numb feeling that accompanies grief. However, young people are not always aware that emotions can come in cycles. They are not prepared to wait for the uncomfortable time of grief to pass. They are, rightfully, frightened that it will unexpectedly resurface. How vulnerable they are! Youth feel all experiences with such overpowering intensity. It is when they are most vulnerable that they need the most help dealing with their pain.

Stages of grief are not like steps on a ladder or stairs; the stages are more like rooms from a central hall that the person who is grieving moves, wanders, or crashes into at various times. I have to remember this when my students are having a hard time.

A Personal Connection

Shortly after Christmas I was sitting over a leisurely breakfast with my husband. Our children and guests had not yet risen, and we were discussing the various flotsam and jetsam of wrappings and feelings from the holiday. We entered into the uneasy subject of what was different about this holiday.: who had been able to join us and who was missing. Jon mentioned his mother. I said, “It’s been almost a year.”

There was silence. I watched Jon’s face blotch and soften into a blush of deep sorrow. He had entered a space where the very air pressed pain and loss into his cheeks and eyes. For that moment, we were back by Edith’s bedside, and Jon was holding his mother’s hand again.

We have rooms of sorrow next to rooms of wonder and joy.

The orchid from Edith’s funeral is sending off a blossom shoot. I have moved it to a new window; it will be blooming when my daughter Juliet delivers her baby. I wonder how close the great-granddaughter’s birthday will be to Edith’s.

Time does not erase grief. Over time, however, I have learned that I can touch and handle past grief without the fear that the pain will destroy my life. It is not an easy lesson.

Snow Angel

This has been a long hard day. Last night, I received a phone call with the news that one of my students had suddenly died. I went to school knowing that I would need to try to help my students through a very sad day. My job as a teacher was hard because, like my students, I was also mourning.

It is true that each person approaches loss in a different way, but I wanted to give my students an opportunity to step outside of spinning disorientation that came with the unexpected loss of a classmate and friend. So I told them, for homework, to make a snow angel and then write about it for 5 minutes.

The assignment had been easy to think of. All day I watched the snow gently filling the air and softening the view. I longed to leave the ordered desks and rooms and go into the clean cold space that the trees seemed to hold waiting for me. It was evening when I realized that I too needed to complete the assignment.

I put down my purse and shopping bag, found a clean patch of snow by the garage that the dog had not pranced through, and lay down (sans hat). The snow was still sifting down, powdered-sugar style. I remembered that some of the fun of making a snow angel was looking up at the sky while doing it. There was an obvious break in the low clouds. As I looked straight into the sky’s night face, it seemed to open a bit of goodness-knows to me.

I could feel an ice crust under the 4 inches of powder that I swept away into wings. As a kid it had always been important to have your friend pull you up so as not to disturb the angel too much. But I was alone, a grandma in her heeled boots and long down coat (sans hat) who had placed herself in a cloud of snow, between earth and heaven, to make a snow angel.

Such is wonder and awe at the fragility of life. Such is breath and prayer and pulse of awareness. This is how one prays joy to muffle the pain of loss, with the awareness that snow and death are between earth and heaven.

I pushed myself up, and one hand crunched through the left wing. Brushing snow from my hair, I looked at the shadowed marking realizing that in the morning it would be no more than I ripple under the new snowfall. My snow angel would exist for a very short time.

There had been a time when I would have swished my nylon-padded legs all over the yard to place a multitude of angels under the sky. Later, there were the times I watched my children giggling – tongues out to catch the falling snow – while their arms and legs fanned joy. Tonight, I used one short-lived impression as a prayer for my student.

Fragile as a snow angel. We did not know how fragile she was.