zirconium

Some KJ Charles fans were chatting on Discord about Cat Sebastian's Hither, Page, which is set right before Christmas and proved to be what I wanted for a cozy reread at 5 a.m. for Reasons. I really have got to get around to reading Middlemarch some day, because it keeps turning up -- in this book, in Marissa's recs, in a beautiful English country dance by Orly Krasner:



(This is a dance I've myself taught. The local group is proceeding with plans to resume hosting Playfords this spring . . .)

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Today's mail brought the latest issue of my college alumni magazine, which is how I learned about the death of Michael Murrin, who was my BA thesis advisor. He was ruthless with me, and I earned honors.

Coincidentally, last month I happened to reread some of my notes from the Arthurian Romance seminar he had led during my third year at U of C. (The reread was admittedly prompted in large part by a sudden deep dive back into The Dark Is Rising fandom.) They were more entertaining than I'd expected -- Murrin was hella smart, and funny as hell -- and now I want to curl up with his books. Someday . . .

Bronchitis is once again kicking my ass, but I am dogged and inventive, and the things that must get addressed are getting addressed. One of the more successful recent concoctions: pecan-apricot macarons. Onward!

Among the items and services I donated to this year's auction at my church, the offer to read sonnets didn't spark any interest, but the winner of the three-month subscription for homemade bao prevailed over other bidders by their willingness to pay more than $125 for the goods. I delivered carrot and mushroom bao to them last month; today's batch was pork:



I worked Sunday night and until 1 a.m. today to clear enough of the decks to take today off, both so I could deliver the bao freshly steamed and to give myself room for rebalancing life with ghosts old and new. My mother would have been 77 today. My Aunt Cherry died this morning. I downloaded Marissa's Grief, as Faithful as my Hound to listen to later.

I have made more batches of bao this year than in any other. I have delivered them to households dealing with COVID-19 and with bereavement, as well as just sharing with friends and colleagues because I was able to. My mom taught me a hack: when you don't have time or energy to make the dough from scratch, Pillsbury Grands or the equivalent will do. As with pie crust, I can taste the difference, so I make my own when I can, but it eases my mind (which in turn adds ease to my prep) to have backup options in the fridge.

That said, I very recently learned that the Quakers are organizing against General Mills/Pillsbury, and that others are on board (see Ora Wise's plans in the Grub Street survey of people at MeMe's).

Both my boss and my financial planner called me this morning at 10 a.m. The call from my financial planner was, well, planned - we needed to touch base about my IRA, and doing so on Mom's birthday was appropriate. We discussed the election, and I was like, "My dude, democracy isn't safe yet." Speaking of which, here are a couple of currently active groups:

https://thecivicscenter.org/
https://postcardstovoters.org/2020/11/15/234/

Current reading includes Kenny Lao's Hey There, Dumpling!. I forget where I read that one should eat dumplings on the first day of winter solstice for good luck (although my intermittent reading pile also currently includes Carolyn Phillips's All Under Heaven), but there are worse invitations to fortune one could extend . . .

Subject line = quote from stellaandbow's Instagram.

At Manhattan's Central Synagogue, senior rabbi Angela Buchdahl (with backing clergy) performed Cohen's "Hallelujah" in tribute:


Cedille Records' statement includes a beautiful portrait by Constance Beaty. Earlier this month, I received a Soirée Cedille gift bag. It included recipe cards. (The bluefish spread is now on my To Make list.)

Last summer, when I went to the Highlands-Cashiers Chamber Music Festival in North Carolina, I was captivated by the beautiful woman turning pages for William Ransom. She had silver hair and wide eyes and she was so engaged with the music -- not histrionically or showtastically or in any way in the way of the performance, yet vibrantly, fully present.

I was introduced to her at a reception after the concert, but with our first names only, so several minutes went by before the clues added up and I realized I was talking to a woman whose hymns I'd sung many times. At which point I fear I went into stammering fangirl mode, but she handled that graciously, of course.

Last night -- at the end of chamber choir rehearsal -- I learned that Shelley's husband had passed away in May, and that she died on Sunday of a heart attack.

I have Singing the Living Tradition open at the moment to #86:

Spirit of great mystery,
hear the still, small voice in me.
Help me live my wordless creed
as I comfort those in need.
Fill me with compassion,
be the source of my intuition.
Then, when life is done for me,
let love be my legacy.

--Shelley Jackson Denham, 1987

...who was also loud and entertainingly opinionated Mike, especially about acting and singing:



That's you on the left, 16 summers ago. I knew something was up when the usher insisted on seating me right in the middle of the front row. That's how I'm going to remember you -- you and Steve, gleefully scheming and getting away with said schemes. It wasn't my birthday any of the times you guys took me to the Mexican restaurant where the staff makes a huge production out of birthdays, which is the type of place I typically avoid like the plague. (I do love big hats, but that sombrero did nothing for my complexion -- not that that mattered in the least, since you and Steve were laughing too damn hard each time the staff cheerfully marched up to our table and serenaded me.)

Here's a better picture from that Forever Plaid production, with you in the very front.

I do hope that the angels around you are singing in tune -- or at least as well as those waiters at the Mexican restaurant. :_)