Sing a song of … safety?

I am managing not to freak out about COVID 19 … yet. Today, my governor declared a state of emergency, but I haven’t done any stockpiling, and I won’t. Mostly this is true because I am supremely bad at disaster prep. When I was in Jamaica ahead of a Category 4 hurricane aimed right at the part of the island where I was staying, I didn’t even think about doing any shopping until someone on the street asked me if I had what I needed. I went to the store then … and purchased not much of anything: a candle, a bottle of water, a few snacks, some rice and saltfish, a bottle of wine. That was it.

But I’m also not stockpiling because I don’t think it’s necessary — maybe not at all, but certainly not just yet. (Fingers crossed that the cosmos doesn’t decide to show me just how wrong I am to believe that.) I have a regular grocery delivery coming on Monday, and that should be fine.

I have, however, begun paying more attention to handwashing, to the time I spend scrubbing my hands. I couldn’t bear to sing “happy birthday” every time I washed my hands, though. Fortunately, the internet provides. There are several lists circulating that offer up other things you can sing that will carry you through 20 seconds of washing. That won me over. While there were plenty of songs on the lists that I don’t know or know well enough to sing all the way through the designated section, the moment I saw the refrain to Prince’s “Raspberry Beret,” I knew I’d found my timer.

You could, of course, sing anything. And tonight I started thinking of other bits of songs to use for when I want I sing about something other than “the kind you find in a secondhand store.” A few options:

  • “Amie,” Pure Prairie League — final refrain or just the “falling in and out of love” part
  • “Sweet Baby James,” James Taylor — refrain
  • “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered,” Rodgers and Hart — the opening verse that most people don’t sing, or the “he’s a fool and don’t I know it,” part
  • “Don’t Mess Around with Jim,” Jim Croce — the verse, my particular choice would be the one when Slim comes on the scene
  • “Desafinado” or “Off-Key,” Antonio Carlos Jobim — any of the verses, in Portuguese or English
  • “Águas de Março,” Antonio Carlos Jobim — first verse

Okay, I’ll stop. My point is that it’s easy to sing for 20 seconds. It’s easy to sing a whole lot longer, and if washing our hands while we do it will help keep us and our loved ones and people around us safe, it’s time to queue up the tunes and get to singing!

Let us all sing,
it’s good for almost anything.
It’s good for musty, dusty throats
to let out gusty, lusty notes.
It’s good for people, frogs, and goats
to open up and sing!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j5I3pN_9XAY

 


It’s March, which means it’s time for the
13th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Curious? Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to!

Original Slicer - GirlGriot

Counting to Five

This week has been a hard start to the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge. I’ve been super tired and super busy and ideas have either not come at all or have come too big to finish in time for posting a slice.

That’s where I am tonight. I started an essay yesterday but couldn’t get through to an end. Today I was too busy to have time to work on it. With luck, I’ll muddle my way through tomorrow and get it posted.

I still need a slice for tonight, however. Happily, I’ve been reading other slicers, a past time that often results in me feeling inspired by something one of them has written. Over at Teacher Reader Writer, Donnetta shared a list for her slice, a good reminder that lists make excellent slices! And so, following her lead, here is my list of five random facts about me.

  1. I was in the Coney Island Mermaid Parade four times.
  2. I don’t have a driver’s license.
  3. I was once the host of a party at which a friend’s +1 thought his clever party trick would be to insert himself into groups and diagram the sentences of everyone trying to have a conversation. <sigh>
  4. The episode I recounted for my Monday slice isn’t the only time I’ve been lost in the woods.
  5. I am one of those people who has an anecdote for everything (… and one of those people who often forgets that I don’t actually need to share an anecdote for everything).

And there you have it. I have a “random and fabulous” tag … I don’t know if all of these things are fabulous, but they are definitely random!


It’s March, which means it’s time for the
13th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Curious? Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to!

Original Slicer - GirlGriot

Manna from Heaven

Today I was reading Katchori recipes. You know, as one does. I was eating Katchori Chaat and wondered what, exactly, I was happily inhaling. Little did I know I was about the get my whole life.

After I stopped ogling the pictures, I started reading the ingredients. And there it was, right down at the bottom of the list: “amchur,” a thing I’d never heard of and had to click away and look up. And what to my wondering eyes should appear but … mango powder.

Look, I know cloves and turmeric, ginger and coriander. Of course. But mango powder? Mango powder? What is this mystical, magical, heaven-sent substance?

Oh, I’m sorry. Don’t you know about mangoes and their exalted position as one of the three fruit proofs of the existence of God? Well, if you didn’t know, now you know.

So. Amchur. Mango powder. Why am I not surprised to find that it’s a common ingredient in Indian cuisine? India is good at this kind of thing — luxuriant detail, fantasy, extravagance. If anyone was going to think of creating mango powder, it was going to be someone in South Asia.

My Katchori Chaat was delicious. A little spicy, a little thrown-together looking, a little I-made-this-from-whatever-I-had-on-hand looking. Delicious.

My recipe reading, in addition to introducing me to amchur, made me remember the giant 600 Curries cookbook I bought a few years ago. A cookbook so voluminous, so encyclopedic, it’s totally intimidating. I have made exactly one recipe from that book. Indian cooking, I think, requires that I understand food science better (or at all), requires that I understand the complex properties of food.

But I’d like to learn how to make Katchori … and then take my learning a step further to Katchori Chaat. And yes, I want to do this so I have a reason to acquire some amchur, but also because I love to cook, and I love a challenge.

I have questions, though.  There are so many kinds of mangoes. Can amchur be made from any of them? How is the result different when you use different mangoes? How many of the kinds of mangoes I’ve eaten would make good amchur? Have I ever had an Indian mango? (Seems pretty likely that the answer to this is no.) Why haven’t I?

I’ve got some research and adventurous shopping to do. Stay tuned …


It’s March, which means it’s time for the
13th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Curious? Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to.
Or … it’s not too late to join in!

Original Slicer - GirlGriot

Euphonious Exhortations

My voice is having one of its moments. These come around from time to time. This week I’ve been told not once, not twice, but five times that my voice … “has something.” This morning, I gave a family directions on the subway and both the mom and a random person who overheard me commented on how pretty and comforting my voice is. The homeless man I gave my half sandwich to in Grand Central Market yesterday said I sounded like a fairy godmother. A friend who wants to work with me on a film project hopes I’ll do some narration because I have a good voice. And the young woman who sells me my iced chai every morning told me on Monday that I talk like I’m singing.

I’ve had that last before. A woman once asked if I was a jazz singer because she said my voice sounded like I should be. A coworker once told me I should record bedtime stories because my voice is soothing. A friend’s baby sister told me I could scold her and it wouldn’t feel like scolding because I said everything “in a warm tone.”

It’s not always cute and sweet, however, the reactions to my voice. A man who was trying to date me (quite unsuccessfully, as this will illustrate) insisted I had to be faking my voice, that there was no way I could look like me and have this voice. Clearly, I have a face and figure made for radio! Another man said I should do audio porn, that my “Snow White sound” would make sexy text that much more titillating. Yup.

My voice is fine. It has probably gotten better with time. It certainly used to be glass-shatteringly high. My students used to tease me by repeating my instructions to one another in squeaky mouse voices. I don’t know that I really sounded that awful, but my voice is high. My dream of a Lauren Bacall or Kathleen Turner deep sexiness will never come true, but my voice is fine. Like I said, better with time. I’ve come to terms with it. I think of it the way I think of my face, thoughts perfectly articulated by this limerick:

As a beauty I’m not a star,
There are others more handsome by far.
But my face, I don’t mind it
For I am behind it.
It’s the people in front that I jar.*

I don’t think anyone is particularly horrified by the sight of my face. Certainly, the whole of me has elicited startled responses, but that’s generally about racism, and those folks can’t actually see my face. I’m not always aware of the reactions people have to my face, but reactions to my voice are much more noticeable. I can hear the change in other people’s voices when I’m on the phone, can see people turn and look when I’m out and about. And, of course, there are the folks who just tell me.

I like to say it doesn’t matter, that it’s just how I talk. I know I’m lying, however. I know how I respond to certain voices. And there would be no way to count the number of times I’ve successfully used my voice to impact a situation. It matters. And that seems so unfair. We can’t help the voices we wind up with. Yes, there are classes that teach people to sound different, but why should anyone have to take those classes when they already come equipped with perfectly serviceable voices?

I can’t change that random inequity. But I suppose I can try to use my gift for good, right? What does that mean? Well, maybe it means my friend with the film project is on the right track. That baby who told me that my scolding her didn’t feel like scolding because of my dreamy, “warm tone,” was the clue. Instead of only writing my anger, maybe it’s time to put my voice to it, time to start telling people all the ways they need to step up, just how they can straighten up and fly right, just how fiercely they can work at being anti-racist, at dismantling the structures of racism that are destroying us all.

Let me just clear my throat.

__________

* This limerick credited both to Woodrow Wilson and a poet I never heard of named Anthony Euwer. I have no idea whose poem it actually is, but I am choosing to believe it is Euwer’s poem and that Wilson was known to recite it (I’ve seen two different stories of people saying Wilson recited it for them).


Sending a warm thank you to my friend Lisa at satsumabug.com. Her decision to start making space for short-but-with-a-whole-arc musings was a good push for me. My essays of late have been getting longer and longer and longer … so long that I cannot find my way to the end and so have nothing to post on this blog. So I’m going to try writing shorter pieces, no more than 1,000 words, and see if I can’t get through some of the topics on my pages-long list of essay ideas! If this works, I may catch up with my #52essays challenge by year’s end!

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Tiny Little Dirty Feet

I was out and about yesterday, which means I am flattened by exhaustion today … ergo, this post will be short and silly. (I really want to use “ipso facto” here instead of “ergo.” Thoughts?)

I managed to have three phone meetings today without falling asleep in the middle of any of them. I managed to get a few paragraphs written and submitted for a project at work. I did a LOT of napping.

Late in the afternoon, I decided to make myself move. I had trash to take out. I wanted to check my mail. I needed to give myself proof that I had not done a south Brooklyn take on Gregor Samsa and morphed into a giant slug.

On my way down the hall to the elevator, I noticed something weird was happening with the floor. An odd pattern of shiny splotches. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that they were bare baby footprints. Up the hall, pivoting, back down the hall. But what must she have stepped in before tottering down the hall? Baby oil?

I got my mail, then followed those shiny little prints back to my door. I really hope the next stop for my baby neighbor was the bathtub!


It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!