Weekly: Nov. 24 - 30

This morning on my way in to work, I was thinking about how just a week ago, I was watching Matt Lauer on the Macy's Day parade, wondering how much longer people would still watch such a commercialized parade. Little did I know it would be the last time I'd actually watch Mr. Lauer himself. Barf. I, along with everyone else I know, am praying Tom Hanks is still a decent dude. My faith in male celebrities hinges on this. What a horrible spectacle this all is, but glory be to all the women who are braver for this chapter in our culture.

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Moving on, then.

What I ate: If you've noticed recent posts on my blog, I'm indulging in butter and stewed prunes. Welcome to the edge! Other things include:

• A recipe, from my friend Sara, for Mediterranean baked sweet potatoes. She sent me the link last week and at first glance I couldn't understand why she was so wild about it. I'm not that big on sweet potatoes, but I had some left from my last CSA box. On a night when I was on my own for dinner, I had my perfect opportunity to try this out. Verdict: this recipe is worth raving about. It actually reminded me a lot of my favorite recipe for baked falafel with the spices, chickpeas, tahini sauce and tomatoes. If you're intrigued, try it.
  
• Sugarplum gingerbread cake, which I blogged about.
• Peppermint ice cream. Because this is one thing I crave at Christmas time, as I do Celestial Seasonings Nutcracker Sweet tea (which I can't find anywhere in Spokane, harumph).
• Autumn minestrone, an oldie but a goodie.
• And these meatballs, another Smitten Kitchen favorite, paired with a perfectly complementary pasta.

What I read:

• Enormous Changes at the Last Minute by Grace Paley. She was never on my radar before now, and this was published in the 1970s. Her short stories in this collection are challenging and I'm about halfway through them, just relishing and re-reading parts in an attempt to understand what she's really talking about. I am trying not to consult Wikipedia too.
• My friend Leah contributed a couple pieces to this issue of The California Sunday Magazine, which is devoted to teen voices in this complicated moment in time (though it's never not been complicated). While I consider it a personal mission to not become too out of touch with younger generations, I know I can only understand so much. But several of these stories hit so close to home and also open my eyes to the complex issues and tragedies these teens are dealing with right now, unique to their generation.

Afternoon at Rockwood Bakery

What I watched: 

• 20th Century Women, available on Netflix streaming right now. I really liked this one, particularly the era in which it was set, the use of music in showing generational divides, voiceovers, the kid who played the son (Lucas Jade Zumann), and Annette Bening. She was so, so good. 
• Lady Macbeth. Not my cup of tea. 

An unfinished blanket Margot found to collapse on. Alternate title: The Kitty and the Pea

What I listened to:

• My two song obsessions right now: "Makeba" by Jain and "Soy Yo" by Bomba Estéreo (the videos are awesome, too). 
• We have listened to a LOT of Natalia Lafourcade this year, and this week was no exception. And I just learned she's on the soundtrack to Coco. (If you're a jazz-standard nerd, you should watch this video for its sweet similarity to "The Nearness of You.")

Other excitement:

• I decorated for Christmas a little. The tabletop trees are plugged in, but no ornaments yet.
• A puzzle. We're a week in and it's finally feeling like we're making progress. (It's the Cinque Terre in 2,000 glorious pieces.)

Most of the remaining pieces are shades of blue

Paul Simon life goal

He was with me during the sentimental awkwardness of high school when we sang "Old Friends" in jazz choir, when we were too young and not self-reflective enough to appreciate the words until our choir director told us to stop thinking so hard about the harmony (that we were butchering) and listen to the lyrics. He appeared after 9/11, singing "The Boxer" on Saturday Night Live and gave me a lump in my throat. He was there, with Art, to help me through a tumultuous college summer with the help of the entire Bookends album, gently letting me know there was a world to be explored; my own life's poems were yet unwritten. He sang "Still Crazy After All These Years" to me from the other room while I wallowed in heartbreak and bathed in self-care. He accompanied me on a windy trip down Chuckanut Drive in "American Tune," a moment when I had never felt so happy.

This past weekend I was with him, watching him perform from a rain-soaked field, drinking wine and celebrating the life that brought me to that place with hundreds of other people who have their own Paul Simon moments. I'm pretty sure many of them are now finding that "Old Friends" lyric, "...how terribly strange to be seventy..." all too true.

An older man standing next to me took one look at me and said, "You're too young to know these songs!"  I said, "Paul's been part of my whole life!" He looked at me, smiled, and gave me a high five.

To sum up how I felt at the end of it all: in love with the soggy world and those people who share in the joy of this music. And thankful to Paul for bringing us all together.

Welcome Christmas!

I wrote this post back in 2013 to accompany my Christmas playlist that year and never ended up posting it. I'm not sure why, except that I might have worried it was on the dark side of my normal fare.  But the words are still true. I wish you peace and hope. Enjoy this playlist here.

In recent years, I've begun to listen to Christmas music with an ear toward irony. In the midst of sleigh bells and jolliness, Christmas music often seems like a mask, a state of denial, a stretch to find small morsels of joy. I listen to "Deck the Halls" and think of someone sticking fingers in their ears, drowning out reality and singing "fa la la la la..."

At the risk of being a downer, I can't help but think of how hard this time of year can be. Sometimes we have the wherewithal to reflect, but often we work hard to deflect uncomfortable feelings of change and pain that seem to heighten during the holidays. Perhaps it's because the absence of loved ones feels especially obvious when carrying on old traditions. Perhaps it's because we put a lot of stock into making the holidays special for young ones who are in their most impressionable years, knowing that these are the memories they will pine for in adulthood and we don't want to screw it up. Perhaps it's because we spend more money than necessary on gifts that may or may not be appreciated, decorations to make us merry, and big dinners to make us full, and then January comes and we're broke, a few pounds heavier, and baby, it's cold outside, but the weather is not nearly as romantic as it is frightful. Occasionally we stop to consider those who are eating their Christmas meal in a soup kitchen, or alone in a nursing home, or those who have no idea it's Christmas at all. It may make us remember all we take for granted, but to sing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," seems a little over-stated.

Christmas music - some of it, anyway - can be trite and grating when you stop to consider reality. And yet, it's the first thing that I look forward to after Thanksgiving. Why? I don't really know, except that perhaps it represents hope. The first and final track of this year's mix captures this feeling most fittingly - Christmas is here, right when we need it. We may all be making a desperate plea to the world to bring us Christmas joy, whether we're feeling sadder, older and colder, so let's all be festive and love each other. I hope you've had a great year and are spending the holiday with renewed vigor. Notice that the title of this year's Christmas mix is not "Welcome, Christmas" as though you were greeting an old friend. It's a command. Join me in my attempt to welcome everything that Christmas promises in the best ways. This is the time to welcome the season and to look forward with hope.

Saturday Sentimentalist: the 6 Songs of Your Life

I came across a fun feature on NPR that solicited of its listeners and readers a list of the "6 Songs of Your Life." It asks you to consider the songs that "remind you of sometime or someplace or someone," calling on that place in our brains that fuse songs and memories. Narrowing it down to just six seemed torturous, when I could hear hundreds of songs and tell you what I was doing when I first heard them, or who I associate with them.

The first challenge was to figure out how to divide my life's chapters. I thought that because I'm just shy of 32, I would have the ease of smaller life increments to deal with. But now I'm thinking that a greater lifetime of perspective would actually make it easier to choose.

My list is not necessarily my most important songs, but they induce some of the strongest memories. There's a lot of music I've continued to listened to across the decades, so these are songs that have faded away enough that hearing them now take me back to that time and that place.

The 6 Songs of My Life:

1. "Walk of Life" by Dire Straits. I am maybe 4 years old. Sitting in my bedroom, somehow having gotten hold of a radio, I'm learning how to tune it to a radio station. I hear fuzz and suddenly this song soars through the speakers. To this day, that synthesized organ brings me a ridiculous amount of joy.

Here comes Lizzy singing oldies goldies...

2. "Creed" by Rich Mullins. This cassette ("A Liturgy, A Legacy, and a Ragamuffin Band") was frequently played in full, but this particular song, based on the Apostle's Creed, accompanies my first memories of pondering religion and types of Christianity without the aid of adult leaders, during a time when I attended a Christian school where many of my friends thought Catholics were not Christians. Many deep thoughts for a sixth-grader that have stuck with me today. 

3. "Got My Own Thing Now" by Squirrel Nut Zippers. After having spent a lot of time in junior high pining for an earlier era, particularly the 1940s and 50s, the Squirrel Nut Zippers got me all excited to be alive in the 90s - "Hey adults, we're not all about grunge!" I first heard this album over headphones at Barnes & Noble and bought it as soon as I had money for it, even played it for my parents, and listened to it often throughout high school.

4. "Once Around the Block" by Badly Drawn Boy. There are so many songs that make me think of college, but this one is associated with memories of different groups of people I spent time with over those four years - my friends back home in Boise who were up for adventure and exploring our hometown, my roommates in Ballard with whom I downloaded hours of music from Napster and created playlists for our room, college radio friends who expanded my indie music tastes, and the friends I made on my Jan Term trip abroad and the inside jokes that bonded us. Badly Drawn Boy was a common denominator. If we agreed on this song, we understood each other.

5. "Bubbles" by the Free Design. This song transports me back to the time when I lived in a house with a bunch of fellow grads who put on unforgettable house parties (for better or for worse); when my friend Crystal and I went to all of our friends' shows around town; when I drank the sweet drinks; and when my friends James and Kat played a bunch of records for me, including this one.

6. "Change of Time" by Josh Ritter. This last one was difficult. I've listened to so much stuff in recent years and have listened to some of it hard. But this song has floated through my brain so often that it seems like it must be significant. The secondary anthem is the part that most often gets played in my mind. "Rough seas, they carry me wherever I go." I feel like life needs lyrics that repeat like that, reminding us of coming out the other side of hardship. If I don't need this now, I know I'll need it later.

Christmas Mix 2011: Christmas Shoes

Don't let the title fool you; this mix has nothing to do with the uber-schmaltzy hit that made moms and dads cry across the country during the latter half of the 1990s. I filled this mix with more of my favorite artists from A&M records and a hodgepodge of others that make me feel especially jazzy and snazzy in my patent leather heels. I was especially pleased to find some good gypsy-style guitar tracks that year, and perhaps my favorite track on this mix is the "Blue Christmas/Let it Snow" medley by The Gypsy Hombres (toward the end). Or maybe it's the Mills Brothers singing "You Don't Have to Be a Santa Claus."

This was also the first year I'd ever heard Duke Ellington's Nutcracker Suite in its entirety. Those must have been some saucy sugarplum fairies. The "Overture" is included on this, and if you like it, you've gotta check out the whole album. It's so fun.

Joel introduced me to Trombone Shorty's version of "O Holy Night." This is normally one of my least favorite carols due to the way it's become something of a piece de resistance for vocalists to make incredibly unholy and rather self-worshiping. Strangely enough, he heard this version on the TV show "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" during its Christmas show in the year of Hurricane Katrina, in which Trombone Shorty lead a group of displaced musicians from New Orleans in performing this gorgeous rendition. It gives me a lump in my throat each time I hear it.

Hope you find a few you enjoy.

Christmas Mix 2011 from harpsichordian on 8tracks Radio.

The Proper Ornaments - my first Christmas playlist

When I was a kid, I routinely started digging through my parents' cassette collection to find my dad's curated Christmas music tapes starting in October. Certain volumes were played more than others, but each one was thoughtfully recorded by my dad from my parents' varied record collection. I loved it because the vinyl crackle came through. The tapes featured a great variety, from the traditional carols to the feel-good cozy classics.

The music note doesn't fall far from the staff (sorry) as I've spent a lot of time in recent years separating the duds from the wonderful stuff in Christmas music. Like my dad, I'm easily annoyed by the sexed-up versions of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" and would be happy to never hear "Santa Baby" ever again, but there's a certain amount of kitsch I will always love. I also enjoy refreshing renditions of reverent hymns, as long as it's not any woman under the age of 40 singing "O Holy Night." I'm happy to create my own playlists of stuff that I not only can tolerate but that make me downright gleeful.

I made my first Christmas mix and gave it away to friends and family in 2009. I've since run out of physical copies, but here it is in all its glory for your various devices. I'll post my mix from 2011 next week and debut 2013's very soon. Enjoy:

The Proper Ornaments (Xmas Mix 2009) from harpsichordian on 8tracks Radio.

PLAYLIST: Turkey Trotters

Just one week until the big day of food and I need to keep my energy up. Maybe you do, too. Here's an upbeat mix of some of my favorite brand of oldies.

Saturday Sentimentalist: A&M Gems (a playlist)

I was brought up with Bacharach, the Carpenters and the Tijuana Brass on the record player. These bands have always been associated in my mind with my family's existence before I came around in '82. One classic example is a great scene in our family's home movie collection (the film kind) from the 1970s in which my siblings and cousins tube the canal behind our house, which has no audio save for a soundtrack of the instrumental version of Bacharach's "Do You Know the Way to San Jose" that my dad appropriately added.

Even though the records weren't played quite as often during my childhood, if there is one sound that I will forever love, it is that of the early days of A&M Records, the label that helped make a name for all of those guys. Herb Alpert co-founded this record label in the 1960s, and the music that came under it during those early years shared a polished, brassy, Latin, Brazilian, jazzy, easy sound. It's not for everyone, but I can't say I've had a hard time finding people who love it as much as I do.

I resisted my attraction to this music as a kid because it all seemed outdated, but once I got to college, it was a completely different story. Because if there's anything I've learned about college, it's that college is where your unconventional taste in music (or in anything, really) is an effective way to find your best friends. By senior year, I had a late-night radio show, a small gaggle of avid listeners and a solid group of friends who may not have listened to my show, but were nevertheless supportive. I usually stuck to lounge music varieties from labels like Verve and Capitol. But other nights - the truly indulgent ones  - were dedicated to the old gems of A&M.

I'm revisiting some of my favorites with you, as well as some that I've come across more recently. Enjoy this little slice of nostalgia, even if you weren't around to appreciate it the first time. (You'll need a Spotify account to play this...sorry!)

Modern mixtape: Songs about food

The other day, out of the blue, I had a song called "Shoo Fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy" lodged in my head. It's a song from the 1940s, and I know it because of the hours I spent listening to my parents' Time Life "Your Hit Parade" CDs. The song is just one example of how music changes over 70 years: I don't think much money is made these days by artists singing about baked goods. But as I've discovered, a goodly number of precious little ditties about cakes and home cookin' were popular in the first half of the last century. The sentiment behind them sometimes had to do with men being off in the war and missing the comforts of home, or about the ladyfolk knowing the most efficient route to their men's hearts. But songs about food are also that much more evocative: a strawberry moon, a buttermilk sky. Food can be likened to the finer things or the very basics of life. Food is love in many of these songs, and sometimes it's a euphemism for something a little more dirty. Nevertheless, we can all relate to it. We come together for it. Plus, these songs about food are just fun to sing along with, and it's not so bad if they get stuck in your head every once in awhile.

Here is a sampling of musical treats I managed to scrounge up, mostly from the 1940s and 50s. It's not comprehensive, but it might make you hungry or want to bake a cake. You know, just to have on hand.

Tarte au Citron Nézard

Breezy Sunday: Time to put something in the oven, open some windows and turn up some 1940s jams.

Johnny Mercer and a lemon tart sound about right.

 

Because if ever there were a day to accentuate the positive, this Sunday was it. Any day, really. But Sundays always have that bittersweet hue to them, so why not make it tangy and refreshing instead?

Hello, springtime. You should make this.

Tarte au Citron Nézard

(a.k.a. The World's Best Lemon Tart, adapted from Classic Home Desserts)

Rich tart dough

(makes one 9-inch shell)

1 1/2 c. all-purpose flour

2 T. sugar

pinch salt

1/2 c. cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces

3 T. ice water (or more as needed)

I used the food processor: pulse dry ingredients with the butter for 5-6 long pulses, until crumbly, then pour water through feed tube, until it just begins to clump together. Turn out onto wax paper, press it into a ball, wrap it and chill it in the fridge for an hour or more.

Lemon curd filling

2 smallish lemons, juiced

6 large eggs

1 scant c. sugar

10 T. cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces

zest of 3 small lemons

3 T. apricot preserves

1 paper-thin lemon slice

Roll out tart dough on lightly floured surface or wax paper until 1/4" thick and lay it across lightly buttered tart pan with removable base. Leave 3/4" overhang and tuck back into the edges to make a thick outer crust. Trim the top and chill in the fridge while the oven heats to 400 degrees F with a rack in the center.

Line the tart shell with a lightly buttered sheet of foil and place pie weights on top. Place on a baking sheet and bake 9 minutes until the edges are set, then remove weights and foil, prick shell all over with a fork, and place back in the oven for another 9 or so minutes until the crust is just lightly browned. Cool on a wire rack while you're making the curd.

In a double boiler, whisk the lemon juice and sugar together over gently simmering water. Beat the eggs in a small bowl and then incorporate into the lemon mixture. Add the butter and whisk mixture constantly until thick and smooth, about 8 minutes, being sure to scrape the bottom to avoid overcooking. Remove from heat, strain through a fine mesh strainer into a clean bowl, whisk in the lemon zest and pour into the tart shell. 

Bake about 30 minutes or less, until the filling is set and a bit golden. Cool for an hour or two on a wire rack.

Warm up the preserves and brush gently over the top of the tart. Brush a little on the lemon slice and place on the tart. Remove tart from the pan and serve at room temperature.

 

The opera (#69)

Last weekend my parents treated me to a production of La Boheme. It might not have been the Met, or the Lyric Opera which my parents gush about from their days Chicago (we were in Boise, after all), but I can say with full conviction that it was one of my most favorite musical experiences of the last three decades.

We got to watch the whole tragedy unfold at the Egyptian, a refurbished art deco movie theater in downtown Boise.

The space was small and intimate. I could see the singers' faces without the aid of opera glasses (much as I love those). So clearly, in fact, that I had a hard time convincing myself that Rodolfo was not Bobby Moynihan from SNL.

I followed the translation projected above the stage, but sometimes I just had to trust I knew what was going on because I couldn't take my eyes off the action on stage. I've always been just a little bit fascinated by  blocking - that is, how to look natural while being theatrical, setting yourself up to deliver the next line in the best position, knowing what to do with your hands. With opera, not only do you have to figure that out, but you have to interact with the music and the conductor the entire time. It's not dancing (though sometimes it may be), but it's complicatedly rhythmic. To me, at least.

And then, of course, there's the singing: the haughty Musetta with her operatically arrogant laughter and Rodolfo who cries from the very pit of his gut at Mimi's bedside; the reprise of the themes, and never  knowing how Mimi came to be known by that name, anyway.

For the number of times I've seen opera performed on screen, or movies featuring people at operas for that matter, this was the first time I'd actually seen it in person (maybe I could also count Les Miserables and Phantom of the Opera, both of which I love, but they were both in English and they weren't Puccini). It was all the clichéd things I'd hoped it would be and more. Mostly in the sense that I was on the verge of becoming a blubbering mess by the end of it (and so was my mom). I couldn't even speak until we got outside of the theater. I needed distance from that little universe where we had spent the last three hours getting to know these characters as they lived out their lives in the Latin Quarter of Paris. Even looking at people around me made me want to cry because I saw the tears in their eyes, too. It was hard to get over it. I still feel it, just thinking about it now.

Music for these days

Here are some songs for you.

It's for when you start to go bonkers from another gray day, another forecast for rain.

Picture yourself in an old house, looking through a big window dotted with trails of raindrops. There's a crunchy chair next to the window, a cup of coffee and a book on the table next to the chair just waiting for you. That's when you plop down and heave a big sigh. It will be just fine.

This mix is called "Rain in Winter." Imaginative, I know. This season is fleeting and the least we can do is appreciate it in all its soggy glory. The songs are mostly simple, raw and comforting. Some of these, I daresay, are plumb optimistic.

Waking up

Over the last week, I've been getting into journal mode. I have a horrible track record of maintaining a regular diary or journal. I start writing and then I wonder why I'm doing it. After a couple sentences I'm already bored with the details of my own life, weighed down by "and then I's" and "so after that's." Not that it's truly boring, it's just that I haven't found a successful way to write about my life in a way that reads like good fiction - or, at least, a way that will make me want to read it when I'm 80. But lists? I can do lists. They are focused and manageable, like "great things that happened to me today" or "two things I learned today," "places I walked," etc. Lists can be reflective or superficial depending on my mood. Most important, though, they remind me of the details without bearing too many - just small glimpses into my life at that moment. And I know that in the next few weeks, I'll want to remember all the wonderful things a person can feel and experience when traveling around Europe, so I better get some practice in now so I'm somewhat in the habit and gung-ho for writing and documenting when I'm there.

(Buying a cute new journal helps, too, especially the kind with un-ruled pages and plenty of open space for other friends to write in, as well as for your own doodles and souvenirs and impromptu lists. [Thanks to my college roommate Laura for showing me the beauty of this kind of journaling.])

Last week I kept track of the songs I woke up with in my head. I'm not sure if it's supposed to mean anything, but it's kind of fun. Does it have to do with what I was dreaming about, or my general mood, or is it an omen for the rest of the day? If you're looking for new ways to analyze yourself, try it if you dare. Here's what I came up with, in order from Monday to Friday:

(One thing to note here is that the Maroon 5 version of "If I Fell" is a substitute for the unavailable and much sweeter Beatles version.) I feel that it was a particularly good week for ear worms. Oftentimes I'll trudge off to the bathroom to get ready with a variation on a theme of my alarm clock ringing through my head. I'm impressed with the variety displayed here; old, new, optimistic, lethargic, romantic, scandalous. Lovely!

If you drew any conclusions about me based on this, let me know because I've already given up.

Total turn-off

Maybe you've got "Hotel California," "Devil Went Down to Georgia," "Don't Stop Believin'," and "Total Eclipse of the Heart" on your list of songs you'd like to never hear again. The general public knows these have been played (and sung) far too much.

But for this post, I'd like to share with you songs that much of the general public doesn't mind. For me, though, these are songs that I would love to turn off for the rest of my life, songs that have actually caused me to leave a room. When they get stuck in my head, they absolutely ruin my day. They are the reason I get a little anxious any time I walk into a karaoke bar. Call me melodramatic, neurotic, whatever, but I've given this quite a bit of thought, and though the list is small, it is powerful.

Sweet Home Alabama by Lynyrd Skynyrd: For some, it's just a feel-good tribute to the South. For me, though, just the thought of this song creates so much stress in my body that I find it difficult to write about. Why? I'll admit, I can't pinpoint my exact repulsion, but I could begin by pointing out that this song consists of three chords, over and over, in case you've never noticed that before. This aids in its earwormability. It's also the musical equivalent to the middle finger, directed at Neil Young by L.S., in response to a couple of his songs that offended these boys. Musical conversations in a historical context can be intriguing, but I feel like Lynyrd Skynyrd (even their name bothers me) adds passive aggression with an extra layer of arrogance. Combine that with just the right amount of ambiguity, which they do, and they've got themselves a lot of listeners misinterpreting the lyrics and missing the point. I think that's just lame songwriting. The song's one redeeming quality: the opening guitar line. I can recognize it within one note and turn it off before it gets stuck in my head.

Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffett: The concept could have been fun. A guy on the beach with his parrot (likely his only friend), singing about taking it easy in a postcard-perfect location. But from the moment Jimmy starts "nibblin' on spongecake," I am completely grossed out. Jimmy Buffett is not someone I would ever want to walk in front of, regardless of whether I'm a tourist "covered with oil" or covered with every piece of clothing I own. I just know he's going to undress me with his drunken eyes one way or another to escape his problems, which, judging by this song, could range from high cholesterol to low standards.

My Way by Frank Sinatra: So this isn't a bad song, per se, but geez! When else is this song appropriate except for at a funeral? I remember the first time I heard it I was about 10 years old. I got a gigantic lump in my throat that I was too embarrassed to release into sobs, though I could have, easily. The thought of Frank dying and of him saying goodbye to the world like this was just too much for me to bear, though it would be two, maybe three decades after recording this song that he actually died. And you know what song was featured on all the tributes? Bingo. And you know who cried? This emotional old soul who, to this day, has never stopped being sad about this song.

We've Only Just Begun by the Carpenters: There's a specific brand of "sad" that exists in music from the 1970s and 80s. I'm pretty sure the piano is the common denominator, as well as any mention of a "theme," usually. Think of The Theme from the Ice Castles, Nadia's Theme, even the theme from Cheers. Then we have The Carpenters. They didn't need a theme - this was simply their style. They nailed this sound with pretty much every ballad. Even their upbeat songs had an air of melancholy to it. "Close to You" is about falling in love, but the piano intro could confuse you into thinking the romance was in the past. But the absolute saddest "song of celebration" from The Carpenters was "We've Only Just Begun." I'm certain this song was played at lots of weddings, not funerals, but every time I hear it, I can only think of the tragedy of dying young. For whatever reason, when I heard about what happened to Karen Carpenter when I was a child, it really bothered me. She was beautiful, her alto voice was comforting to so many, she had "so much of life ahead," but she died from complications of anorexia. Cue the seriously sad piano and clarinet intro: she'd only just begun. For my tender heart's sake, please spare me this irony.

The Joker by the Steve Miller Band: I actually do like Steve Miller's voice. And I might have liked this song if I hadn't first heard it in junior high, when the guys in my class were starting to really appreciate the line, "Really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree." Oh man, they loved it. They repeated that line and then would follow it up by vocalizing the guitar's wolf whistle gimmick. That bothered me, too, because that's not even how the song goes (the whistle occurs one line later in the song). Now whenever I hear that catchy bass line, I can still hear some of their raspy voices singing it in history class. Maybe the only reason I detest this song is because it reminds me of the year my romantic notions about nice boys, like the ones I read about in Anne of Green Gables and Little Women, began to change. Do the Gilbert Blythe types actually exist? I wondered. Not in 8th grade, it turned out. In my eyes, they had already become perverts at the precious age 14.

Perhaps you detect a theme here. Songs that make me think of death or dirty old men are indeed the bane of my music listening experience. I'm sure there are more. In the last few weeks I've remembered to avoid "Santa Baby" at all costs.

Lest you think I'm a music snob, be assured that there are a number of overplayed songs that I really do love. Even Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" is up there. And despite the resurgence in popularity of Hall & Oates and the overuse of "You Make My Dreams Come True" in movie previews, I'm still happily singing along to it.

Fleischmann's Yeast Hour

There are certain types of music I prefer to listen to while working in the kitchen, specifically when it comes to baking. You may not believe me, but I'm perfectly willing to swear that I get better results when I surround myself in as much sweetness as possible. For instance, folding chocolate chips into dough requires a voice that's sweet and smooth, even a little smoky, like Jo Stafford, or a wistful clarinet solo like the ones you'll get from Benny Goodman. Listening to the old stuff also reminds me that it's good to take my time and to put a little extra care and tenderness into the process. I start thinking of old kitchens and the ladies who wore curlers and flour-dusted chiffon aprons and listened to their radios and didn't think about calories.

It's especially true when I play the Mills Brothers. Three- and four-part harmony, and lyrics about lazy rivers and rockin' chairs are the perfect companions to my Sunday morning baking, and during the hours of waiting for dough to rise. And apparently more appropriate than I realized, since I just learned from Wikipedia that they used to costar with Rudy Vallee on a radio show called the Fleischmann's Yeast Hour. What a name.

Then the aromas begin to waft from the oven into the room where I'm lounging like a grandma, prompting me to put down my knitting needles and check on these little puppies.

(Sticky Lemon Rolls with Lemon Glaze, rather than the cream cheese frosting it calls for)

Here we are again

New blog. New year. New decade. New era. It's all so overwhelming.

In times like these when I feel big changes are afoot, I tend to latch on to things that are comforting, old and bright. Like harpsichords.

(Think about it: have you ever heard a sad harpsichord song?)
***update 1/13: I just remembered "Because" by the Beatles. A little depressing, but still very ethereal and wonderful.

There probably will be no posts about the zippery clinky-clang of the harpsichord after this one, but I do want to take a moment to explain why "harpsichordian" is an appropriate word creation to use as my blog title. I'd like to think it describes a person who loves the ways of old and appreciates how they can be re-invigorated in the ways of now. It celebrates how we can use ourselves differently and refine our purpose, while retaining our distinct identity. Just like the harpsichord. See for yourself.

Consider the baroque folks, from forever ago:

Years and years later, electricity brought it back to life.

And then at the beginning of the 21st century, college kids like me were drooling over this song:

In each of these cases, you can't deny that these songs would be useless without the harpsichord.

So, if this be my only celebration of this magical instrument, let it also be my launching pad for discovering things to create, to write about and to listen to, searching for the shiny coin in my pocket that says "new and relevant," while never totally emptying out all the old lint that keeps it warm. (Partially stolen metaphor - thanks, Michael Chabon.)

Finally, I can't resist the urge to make sure I stay focused for once and explain this blog's purpose. With a mission statement. Is that cheesy?

Yes?

Perfect.

Mission Statement: This blog is for creative accountability, for myself and potentially others. I want to share with you the things I have made and am making, documenting a beginning and a date of completion, doing what I can at the moment to fulfill my creative entelechy, with a little music commentary (term used quite loosely) to keep things moving along when I'm otherwise stuck.

And therefore becoming one of the millions of craft and music blogs in the world. Oh, well. Mine's called Harpsichordian.

Even better, a goal.

Goal: To never craft quietly.

After all, harpsichords don't come with soft pedals.