in which I am boring

but not myself. I present to you a few words of the fascinating Thomas Laqueur, on the subject of gender, biology, difference, and equality:

"Liberalism postulates a body that, if not sexless, is nevertheless undifferentiated in its desires, interests, or capacity to reason. In striking contrast to the old teleology of the body as male, liberal theory begins with a neuter body, sexed but without gender, and of no consequence to cultural discourse. The body is regarded simply as the bearer of the rational subject, which itself constitutes the person. The problem for this theory then is how to derive the real world of male dominion of women, of sexual passion and jealousy, of the sexual division of labor and cultural practices generally from an original state of genderless bodies. The dilemma, at least for theorists interested in the subordination of women, is resolved by grounding the social and cultural differentiation of the sexes in a biology of incommensurability that liberal theory itself helped bring into being. A novel construal of nature comes to serve as the foundation of otherwise indefensible social practices.

"For women, of course, the problem is even more pressing. The neuter language of liberalism leaves them, as Jean Elshtain recently argues, without their own voice. But more generally the claim of equality of rights based on an essential identity of the male and female, body and spirit, robs women both of the reality of their social experience and of the ground on which to take political and cultural stands. If women are indeed simply a version of men, as the old model would have had it, then what justifies women writing, or acting in public, or making any other claims for themselves as women? Thus feminism, too-- or at least historical versions of feminisms-- depends upon and generates a biology of incommensurability in place of the teleologically male interpretation of bodies on the basis of which a feminist stance is impossible."

from "Orgasm, Generation, and the Politics of Reproductive Biology," 1986

decadence

This morning the Pocket Linguist came over and made breakfast, but since it was a German pancake and I just told you about those, I didn't feel it necessary to take any pictures. (And not to lord it over you poor souls without pocket linguists of your own, but after breakfast, he proceeded to wash the dishes. I would like the record to note that I totally would have washed them had he waited a minute or two more, but please, like I'm going to object to someone else cleaning up.*) There is one more thing I would like to say on the subject of German pancakes, though, and it is this: powdered sugar is excellent, lemon is classic, and jam and fruit may very well be tasty, but if you or your pocket linguist happens to have, say, raw buckwheat honey just languishing on a shelf somewhere, there are worse things you could do to a German pancake than drizzle some honey over it-- in an attractive crisscross pattern, if you like, or even just in a glob on the side of your plate. Far, far worse. (Probably any decent honey would do, but something good and strong is especially delicious.)

*We'll ignore the fact that I have, in the past, been seen to do so. I know better now.


Last night was really more gustatorily interesting, but I'll save that for another time. I'll just leave you with one parting word to ponder: quinzertorte.

easily distracted

Oh man, do I have something to show you. It's not this:


But actually, this'll do. It's a German pancake, and it is easier than scrambled eggs, no lie. (Which is not to say that it isn't better if someone makes it for you. Breakfast is always better if someone else makes it. And it's even better if someone else cleans up.) In fact, it is better than scrambled eggs, because you don't have to scrub icky egg residue out of the pan afterwards. (Blegh.) Sadly, I had to both bake and clean up this particular breakfast, but that also meant I got to eat it all.

German pancakes are kind of like bigger, floppier popovers. They have the same buttery and eggy taste, the same moist/flaky texture, the same wonderful air pockets, and the same tendency to disappear immediately. I ate mine with powdered sugar and great gusto, but I imagine jam or fresh fruit would also suffice. Some people suggest lemon juice instead of or in addition to the sugar; I have not found that quite to my liking in the past, but perhaps you would like it. I won't judge.

German Pancake (recipe adapted from Smitten Kitchen)

2 eggs
1 tsp sugar (or two, if you want)
1/4 tsp salt
1/3 c flour
1/3 c milk
1 Tbsp butter, melted and cooled

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Butter one 9" cake pan. In small to medium bowl, whisk eggs until light yellow. Add everything else. Pour into pan and bake for 20 minutes, then turn oven down to 350 degrees and bake for 10 minutes more.

Note about the butter: Since the batter takes about two seconds to get ready, it may end up sitting for a bit while the oven heats up. In my experience, this gives the melted butter an opportunity to begin to separate from the other ingredients somehow, resulting in a puddle of butter somewhere on the finished pancake. Better to give the batter a quick stir just before pouring into the pan, just in case.

ETA: Also, can anybody tell me why this bit is turning out smaller? It looks fine when I'm typing it, but goes wonky in preview and publish.

I don't want to talk about it.

Let's talk about these instead:

Two 6" tartlets, one lemon and one plum, made for my mother's birthday.

I realize that I have been known to say, in tones self-assured and perhaps a little strident, that only young children, small and furry animals, and maybe dollhouse furniture could be termed cute. I'm not redacting that statement, but I would like to add 6" tartlets with golden-brown crusts and glossy fruit fillings to the list. These tarts were pretty darn cute, and tasty, too.

Summer in my little corner of Texas is hot. Really hot. Too hot for frosting, which melts at room temperature, and too hot for any of those rich winter desserts that are heavy with cream and eggs and preserved fruit. No problem, say the West Coast food bloggers, merrily posting pictures of a king's ransom in berries and stone fruits. Problem, say we who wilt and whither in months of drought and eternal sunshine. In a bad year, which this was, the local peach season is over by August, and the supermarket offerings are never quite as good. The blackberry bushes are exhausted even earlier, and that's it for the major local crops. In August it's still possible to find peaches and some berries-- I don't envy September birthdays.

I bought a little bag of plums grown in northern New Mexico at the Santa Fe farmers' market, and manfully resisted eating them before arriving home. The plan for the peach fiasco was to use a fresh peach for aesthetics and previously frozen peaches for flavour, but when I was finally forced to admit my folly I found a lemon kicking around the vegetable drawer and made another tart with it.

I used Dorie Greenspan's paté sablée from Baking from My Home to Yours for the crusts and SmittenKitchen's recipe for the whole lemon tart filling. I found the filling a bit too sweet, and would cut the sugar by a tablespoon or two, but there were no complaints from the peanut gallery. The plum tart is basically Rose Levy Berenbaum's Plum Flame Tart in The Pie and Pastry Bible, with completely invented amounts and proportions. It's just plums barely sprinkled with sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg and then glazed with apricot preserves. (General consensus was that I could have used a little more sugar-- the birthday girl found the tart "ascetic.") The disaster peach upside-down cake is David Lebovitz's, but the disaster part is all mine: the pan was too small, which I knew before I put the batter in, but forged ahead anyway, hoping the universe would surprise me by editing physics and chemistry. I may try it again-- brown sugar! peaches! cake!-- but not, I think, until the smart of failure has faded.

le châle des oiseaux

Swallowtail: knit while the chimney swifts twittered, cast off while the house sparrows piped, blocked while Nightingale warbled. 

Looooooove.

Even the five extra bud lace repeats.

Even the innumerable extra nupps in the lily of the valley borders.

I started it in late May and was making good progress until I came down with mono, which put me off knitting for a bit. (I'd been poking around Ravelry just before the worst of the fever, and that night my fever dreams were about fiber and the Yarn Harlot. I haven't touched a spindle since.) But I figure I made up the time in the past few days, as I've done nothing but read, knit, and write the occasional email. 

I cast off Sunday night and merrily threw the blankets and pillows off of my sister's bed so I could block it immediately. (Shhhh. She never needs to know.)

I already want to knit it again, although I know I need to wait or I'll just get bored. And I have no yarn. (Yes, I mean it. Yes, I'm staring at a plastic storage bin two-thirds full of yarn as I

 type this. No, you wouldn't understand.) I'm a bit picky about shawl patterns-- I like triangular ones with wide borders, and scalloped edges, and a central motif that isn't too fussy or too large or too small or too boring...  

Pattern: Swallowtail Shawl by Evelyn A. Clark

Yarn: Baruffa Cashwool, 2-ply laceweight

Needles: US 3 mystery metal circulars

Finished size: 62" wingspan, 25" down center back

Modifications: 19 repeats of Bud Lace pattern instead of 14, with Pepperknit's adjustment in row 3 of the Peaked Edging to fix the stitch count. I cast off with a US 5 needle but also made my stitches really loose, so it was probably more like casting off with a US 7 or 8. For the nupps, I tried Pepperknit's suggestion of putting the yo from yo, p5tog, yo on the purl rows a few times but I didn't find that any easier, although I did do sl2, p3tog, psso instead of p5tog as she suggests. My needles were so blunt that even p3tog was a bit of a struggle, but I found that keeping the k1, yo business on the knit rows really loose made completing the nupps on the purl rows easier. 

Shawl with knitblog!kitten

I'm leaving for Madison, WI in less than a week, although you'd never know it from the state of my room. Yikes. 

the joys of animal husbandry

Why do dogs throw up on the carpet, and cats vomit on the floor? Ugh. 

In other news, I might have mono. Fun times round these parts lately.

First! Lace!

I love it.

I love it a whole bunch.

I love it, and I made it, and it is just the right size.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled radio silence while I'm at NEFFA for the weekend.

the aspiring intellectual falls short once again

So, I lied. Spinning/geekery to follow. David Broockman posted some thoughts on marriage and family, set off by his sister's recent wedding. I started this as a comment on his blog, and then realized that it was turning into one of those post-lecture questions asked by long-winded academics who preface their question with a summary of either their dissertation or their forthcoming book.

Heather K. Love gave a talk for this year's Sager Symposium about the word "queer": what it promised, what it has achieved, and what it has become. She discussed "queer" as insult-turned-memorial, the use of which by queer people serves to remind people (primarily, I suspect, other queers) of the history of violence and hardship experienced by homosexuals. In the question and answer session following her talk, she mentioned in passing that she doesn't think of gay families-- or being a gay parent raising children-- as queer. Instead, gay parenting is just parenting. This statement rang true to me, although perhaps only because I think of parenting as being so child-focused. Kids have to be raised somehow, by someone, and I think the how matters much more-- to children and society at large-- than the one. But if there is nothing queer about gay parenting, is there anything "queer"-- political, radical, different-- about gay marriage? Professor Love and, indeed, my own convictions abandon me here, as they have reservations about marriage itself as an institution-- hers based on Marxist and feminist scholarship, mine based on simplistic observation and deduction. My hot head is on its own.

As I write this (revisions are for pansies!) I am becoming increasingly worried that I won't be able to answer my question (that's the one about queerness and marriage, towards the end of the previous paragraph) without defining what Peter Johnston at the Yale Daily News calls "the foundational character of marriage." He dismisses the possibility of marriage as "'a public expression of love'," but phrasing "a unique relationship set apart from all others" in economic terms doesn't quite work either. If marriage were a contract between two individuals for the benefit of their purses, of the national economy, of societal stability, or of their children, then who is to say that two same-sex best friends or complete strangers could not be married? And if marriage is a contract for the benefit of society, etc. predicated on two individuals being in love, then wouldn't no longer being in love almost require a divorce-- and he is very down on divorce-- lest marriage become an economic contract? And if same-gender people can fall in love, raise children, contribute to the economy, and comfortably settle in middle-class suburban neighbourhoods, then why shouldn't they marry? Please, philosophers, find the faults in my reasoning.

But I digress. Johnston posits that "if proponents would focus on gay family, the acceptance of gay marriage might follow." Love's conception of gay parenting as parenting/gay family as family appears to jive with Johnston's proposed method of spreading tolerance. But if we follow Johnston's advice by Love's method,* from gay family as family, to gay parenting as parenting, to gay parents as parents, to married gay couples as married couples, to gay couples as couples, to gay people as people, then the world frolics with puppies in daffodils but queer culture has been shoved completely out of the picture. If "queer" is equated with-- with what? with the absence of queer, with the experience that is not the experience of queer-- then the history of queer people is subsumed by the dominant history of the ignorance of queerness and queer people. Much as I love puppies and daffodils and peace, I don't think I would be falling prey to the relativistic fallacy if I campaigned for the preservation of queer culture, history, and memory.
*Love's method: not a method advocated by her, or even much of a method at all.

Well. In three expository paragraphs, I have utterly failed even to address my question about the difference between gay marriage and gay family. Is queerness for individuals and childless couples only? How can marriage be reimagined to better serve women, men, individuals, couples, and families? I open the floor to discussion, and urge you to read Broockman's post, as it is far more concise and thoughtful than mine. I leave you with this:

Sappho among the flowers.

A post!

No, really.
.
I've been holding off on posting because I wanted to show you my vest-- my first finished garment, made for me, made by me, altered for me, altered by the seat of my pants me. But while it is finished (yea, even unto all the freakin' ends woven in) (okay, maybe it's not blocked) and I wore it today, I don't have a good picture of it. Look! A puppy!

Ha. Thought that would do the trick.

Tomorrow is Wednesday, which means KnitWits, which means that I can wind some skeins into some balls and cast on for something else. Juno? What Juno? Look! Another puppy!

There are lots more where these came from. Don't even think about mentioning anything else that may or may not be currently occupying needlespace. Laminaria, here I come. Pale blue alpaca? Merino, the colourway of which is vaguely reminiscent of mustard? We shall see.

Last weekend was so busy I don't even know what all I did. Friday evening I saw Kate Bornstein perform. I thought it was really good, and I'm not even really her target audience. And we got get out of hell free cards! Saturday I shuttled Japanese students (les étudiants de la langue) to Glenside and back-- boy, the things I've forgotten how to say in that language. Saturday evening there was a contra at Bryn Mawr (Harper's first!). Due to some overenthusiastic balancing of rings my right knee felt a little wonky, but my ACL (or whatever is in there) is young and resilient, so I was mostly back to normal for the three-hour Balinese dance rehearsal on Sunday. Whew.

Next time: Spinning! Geekery! Spinning geekery! But first, the news proof of spring:

Dog Days

Coco and I went to a SXSW film called "Heavy Metal in Baghdad" at the Alamo downtown Wednesday night. It was about Acrassicauda, the only heavy metal band in Iraq. The experience was fun and the movie was interesting, but I'll talk about the movie first. It wasn't just about heavy metal-- thank goodness, since I know only enough about heavy metal to understand that the screaming didn't mean they were doing it wrong. I realized as the camera panned across the view from the filmmaker's hotel room and filmed through the windows and windshield of their car that I only ever see still photos of chaos in the papers. It was a very different, much more personal view of Iraq than I (we) get from embedded newspaper and radio reporters. The movie was more about people's attempts to make music-- in Iraq under Saddam, in Iraq after Saddam, in Iraq under chaos, in Syria, and now in Turkey-- than about the music itself. Although it's not a stunningly well-put-together documentary, as documentaries go (it is co-director Suroosh Alvi's first film), it is very interesting. Watch it if you get the chance. The movie's (and band's) website is here. It will have a limited theatrical release, and probably a tour of about 50 colleges.

Since last Friday, and until this one, chez me has been fairly bursting at the seams with furry things. In addition to the two (2) kitties and our one (1) standard-issue dog, we have the neighbours' one (1) freak of nature dog and the neighbours' parents' two (2) cute-but-emasculating furball dogs. And the names? Ally, Johnny, Chiisaii, Poco, Noko, and Koku. On walks-- oh, don't get me started on walks. Well, if you insist.
Walking two trained dogs and one untrained dog is vastly easier than walking one trained dog and two untrained dogs. And walking one trained dog and two untrained dogs is easier than walking one trained dog and three untrained dogs. In all combinations, the beginning is a bit rough. Between the leashes, the dogs, the dogs' legs, the gate, and the first excited foray outside, the stretch from yard to street is better gone unnoticed. But then we get moving, figure out which leashes do best in which hand, and it's all cool. The fact that I am competently walking four dogs at once-- even if I'm a little hesitant to be seen in public with three of them-- makes me, I'll admit, a bit cocky. Then...then we stop. One dog lunges for a totally innocuous patch of grass, jerking everyone else to a stop. Another dog realizes what is going on, and scampers around my legs to see what the fuss is about. Then another. And even the coolest of dogs eventually gets curious, generally right around the time the first dog's curiosity has been satisfied. Then it's a devil's game of double dutch in order not to fall over or strangle a dog while trying to sort out all the leashes again. Repeat from step 2 as necessary.

jumping on

I intend for this blog to have and include:

1) knitting
2) spinning
3) every once in a while...

a. weaving
b. basketweaving
c. tatting

4) books

a. poetry (not mine; fear not)
b. essays
c. nonfiction
d. novels

5) baking
6) furry mammals
7) pictures
8) wit
9) content
10) readers

I hope that this blog will be:

1) awesome
2) updated
3) read

Well. We'll see.


Edit: You guys, you guys, I just used HTML! Me! Computers! Stuff! I made it do stuff!