The Rake Magazine

Category: Article

  • Talking Volumes: Joan Didion

    With her all-seeing eye and clear, impelling, and quietly humorous prose, Joan Didion helped shape the golden age of literary journalism in the sixties and seventies. In particular, her book of California essays, Slouching Towards Bethlehem, was a landmark work that confirmed for the rest of the country that strange folks indeed populate that state. Since then, Didion has written numerous investigative pieces, essays on personalities and politics, novels, and memoirs. Her latest, The Year of Magical Thinking, chronicles the year after the death of her husband, writer John Gregory Dunne, and the grave illnesses of Quintana Roo, their only child (who died in August). As a writer, Didion is known as the ultimate cool customer, and while she maintains that clinical reserve in this book, the palpable struggle to keep herself together is devastating and compelling. And so the main question here is: How does one of literature’s most esteemed figures conduct a book tour in the wake of her most recent loss? 651-290-1221; www.fitzgeraldtheater.org

  • Philip Levine: O Taste and See: Poetry in a Consumer Age

    In an American literary scene where the writer’s gaze has been steadily turning inward for decades, Philip Levine’s concerns–blue-collar work, exploitation, social justice, and spirituality–are so virtuous as to be almost anachronistic. Born to Jewish immigrants in Detroit in 1928, Levine did a long apprenticeship in the Motor City’s industrial academies, and his poetry–distinguished by a rare absence of flash and by brutal, plainspoken honesty–has consistently ennobled “those who have failed.” His talk takes its title from a powerful poem by Denise Levertov. If this heroic figure in person is anything like the voice in his poetry, expect a straight shooter with plenty of relevant and resonant things to say about the current state of America.

  • Twin Cities Book Festival

    It took a while, but the Twin Cities finally got a literary festival of the caliber of Chicago’s great Printer’s Row Book Fair. Every year, the folks behind this true labor of love seem to push the thing further in the right direction. This is no mere gathering of highbrows and academics; sure, there is still the (always expanding) literary magazine fair, used book sale, and appearances by challenging characters along the lines of Eliot Weinberger–but beyond all that, the festival has become more egalitarian and entertaining each year (this is its fifth). The lineup includes appearances by, among others, Rick Moody, Ana Castillo, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, Pete Hautman, and Alison McGhee. The legendary comic pioneer Harvey Pekar will also be on hand to chat with Mary Lucia, which alone should be worth a whole lot more than nothing, which is all this shindig will cost you. 1501 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-825-1528; www.raintaxi.com/bookfest

  • Pleasures of the Flesh

    Remember Cook’s Choice? It was the most dreaded day on your school lunch calendar. The lucky ones brown-bagged it; the rest of us stood in line for a meal we knew had been planned by a Lunch Lady surveying the walk-in cooler and reading expiration dates. As we bravely offered up our trays for a plop of this and a smear of that, there was always a special sort of dismay reserved for the grayish slice of undesignated meat that was served.

    At a time when your world safely revolved around beef, chicken, pork, and fish stick, taking a bite of the mystery meat might have been the first indication of an adventurous life to come: one that refused to remain within the confines of a TV dinner tray, one that might someday include oysters, blue cheese, and goat tacos. Or perhaps your childhood revulsion sealed the fate of your food life to nothing more daring than buffalo wings. And that would be a shame, because most of us, in the new protein-obsessed world, actually wish for some adventure in the meat department.

    Many a well-intentioned cookbook is devoted to making chicken exciting, but at what point do you break down and weep at the sight of another pale breast? Steak is no longer special, now that Taco Bell serves steak fajitas and chains are churning out steak platters faster than you can say “blooming onion.” And sure, you can always count on a good Asian restaurant to throw you for a loop—but let’s face it, for many of us, jellyfish might be going too far, too fast. What we long for is a mix of the new and the familiar—something easily identifiable as meat by its appearance and its texture, but that also delivers a strikingly (maybe not radically) new flavor. Something we can add to our repertoire without going too far out of our way or freaking out our loved ones.

    Ostrich was one of the first “new” meats that sought contemporary mainstream acceptance. In the early nineties, food industry insiders in this country began extolling its virtues, pointing to its traditional role in South African cuisine (in the spicy, dried form of biltong) and more recent appearances on trendy European menus (pan-fried with leeks and smoked bacon). While ostriches are indeed big birds, they don’t produce poultry-like meat, but rather a dense, red flesh that is healthier than beef. It’s also lower in fat and calories than even skinless chicken or turkey. Add to that ostrich’s high iron and protein content, and it’s easy to see why this meat is recommended by the American Heart Association and American Diabetes Association.

    Serving up this huge, flightless bird still seems exotic, but ostrich farms are popping up all over the country. Blackwing Quality Meats, the best known name in the industry, has been selling fresh and frozen ostrich meats for twelve years. It shuns the use of hormones and additives, and, recognizing the need to gain fresh converts, its website offers helpful cooking tips and decent recipes for an herb marinade and ostrich scallopini. Ostrich meat doesn’t shrink like beef or pork when cooked, so a seven-ounce filet will remain at seven ounces from fridge to dinner table. It can be grilled, braised, smoked, fried, or roasted, but like any other red meat it’s best medium rare. Ground ostrich can be substituted for ground beef in any recipe, and it makes great burgers. Ostrich carries a delicate flavor, doesn’t have the fatty richness of beef, and has a soft, less grainy character that’s light on the tongue. The only thing ostrich needs is the patronage of some celebrity chef to elevate it into the cult of cool food. Locally, I’d love to see what Seth Bixby Daugherty of Cosmos would do with a heavy cut.

    Bison, too, has been on the cult radar for some time. (American buffalo and bison are the same animal, and in general their meat is referred to as bison.) Bison burgers are popular fare around the country—there’s even one on Ruby Tuesday’s menu, next to the turkey burger under the “Exotic” heading. Richly flavored yet lean, high-quality bison meat tends to be a touch sweeter than beef, although lesser cuts can be gamey or sharp. Beyond the ground meat, you can find steaks and roasts, as well as sausage and jerky.

    Locally, bison is big business. These naturally hearty animals thrive in summer heat and winter cold. Unlike cattle, which drift with the wind, bison turn their massive heads into a snowstorm, plowing drifts with ease in the search for food. Numerous ranches in the area have revived the tradition of bison grazing on thousands of acres of prairie lands, even though their herds are a tiny fraction of those that once thundered across the prairie. At places like Silver Bison Ranch near Baldwin, Wisconsin, bison are not given hormones or antibiotics, and feed only on native grasses that grow without aid of herbicides or pesticides. Prairie Heights Bison goes a step further into the past, inviting guests to take part in day-long guided bison hunts on its acreage in the Blue Mounds area of southwest Minnesota, which was a popular hunting ground for American Indians. Like those early hunters, Prairie Heights believes the field kill produces the finest meat and is most respectful to the animal.

    Rabbit is not an exotic meat by definition, but most Americans find it difficult to visualize their fuzzy bunny friends as good eats. They should meet Lenny Russo of Heartland, the St. Paul restaurant known for its fresh and seasonal Midwestern ingredients. Russo doesn’t hesitate to include rabbit on his menu when he can get it, even during Easter. Yielding a meat not unlike chicken, yet a touch sweeter, rabbit plays well with fresh fare from all seasons. At Heartland, it’s usually paired with whole grains, like an earthy barley risotto, to bring a heartier quality to the dish.

    Ready to banish chicken and have a go at hasenpfeffer? Clancy’s Meats and Fish market in Linden Hills has frozen rabbit, as well as fresh bison meat in its cases. A good glass of wine may help quicken the courage. A less tannic Pinot Noir with berry tones goes well with bison, while ostrich calls for a good California Cabernet, and rabbit loves a Sauvignon Blanc or Chardonnay. All it takes is that first leap of faith to widen your horizons.

    Blackwing Quality Meats; 800-326-7874; www.blackwing.com

    Silver Bison Ranch; bison@silverbison.com

    Prairie Heights Bison, Luverne, Minnesota;

    507-283-8136; www.buybison.com

    Heartland, 1806 St. Clair Ave., St. Paul;

    651-699-3536; www.heartlandrestaurant.com

     

    Herb-Roasted Buffalo Tenderloin With Blue Cheese Butter

    1⁄4 pound (1 cup) crumbled firm blue cheese

    1 stick (1⁄2 cup) unsalted butter, softened

    2 tablespoons port

    3 tablespoons olive oil

    31⁄2 pounds buffalo tenderloin, cut crosswise

    into eight or more 11⁄4-inch-thick steaks

    1⁄2 cup Dijon mustard

    3⁄4 cup packed freshly chopped rosemary leaves

    Salt and pepper to taste

    Preheat oven to 450 degrees; place rack in middle of oven.

    In a small bowl, mash together cheese and butter with a fork; stir in port until smooth. Form butter into a log on sheet of plastic wrap, roll up, secure and chill until firm, at least 2 hours.

    In a 12-inch heavy sauté pan, heat 11⁄2 tablespoons oil over moderately high heat until hot. Sear half of the steaks until browned, about 2 minutes on each side, and transfer to a shallow baking pan. Sear remaining steaks in remaining 11⁄2 tablespoons oil in same manner.

    When steaks have cooled enough to touch, spread tops and sides with mustard and sprinkle with rosemary, pepper, and salt to taste. Roast steaks in middle of oven eight minutes for medium rare (tops should just begin to brown). Transfer steaks to a cutting board and let stand about three minutes. Remove butter from fridge and slice into about twenty thin pieces.

    Cut each steak nearly in half horizontally. Tuck a butter slice between steak halves and top steaks with another slice.

  • Good for the Liver?

    What is it about Americans and guilt? Mr. Bush, it seems, may now be willing to admit that the world is warming up. But he would not have us think that the human race (let alone its industries and motorcars) is in any way responsible. Mustn’t feel bad about it, must we?

    This is strange because the sort of Christianity favored by President Frutex (Latin for Bush, don’t you know) used to be particularly keen to impress on people that all have sinned and all have fallen short of the glory of God. Augustine developed the notion of original sin partly from a conviction that the world was actually by nature good (adjust your set, there is no fault in reality). Oliver Cromwell struck a chord with the Puritans of the Rump Parliament when he beseeched them “in the bowels of Christ, that ye may be mistaken.” John Wesley famously felt himself to be a brand plucked from the burning, and generations of evangelical preachers have striven to convince people they are sinners, so that they can then pull the redemption rabbit out of the hat.

    Cromwell’s political successors seem to feel that it is other people who make the mistakes. The axis of evil has moved elsewhere (though the only thing I can see that Iran, Iraq and North Korea have in common is that all three irritate the United States). Of course, politicians are hardly the only ones to deny guilt. We the People do so often, and avidly. I had pupils when I taught in California who seemed simply impervious to the mildest suggestion that a mistake might have been made (which is easy enough when writing Latin sentences); correction, as the Frenchman said, ran off their backs like a duck’s water. The word has even been verbed—as in the accusation, “You are trying to guilt me!”

    Such shunning of a sense of personal error does not ensure universal happiness. The whole horror of modern no-fault divorce is designed to ignore the possibility that sometimes fault is involved. The masterpiece of those who advocate the avoidance of guilt must be the doctrine of passive aggression. This holds that you may employ the patience of Griselda or of Job putting up with my nonsense, but mysteriously it all remains your fault; I am not responsible for the fact that I behave like a bastard.

    Admitting mistakes gives people the chance to put them right. Of course, eating humble pie is not a particularly pleasant pastime. The word “humble” as applied to “pie” does not actually derive from anything to do with humility; it comes from the same root as lumbar (as in lumbar pain), and the humbles (or numbles) of a deer are its innards. All the same, humble pie is the opposite of a delicacy, even if it was a dinner as familiar in the Middle Ages as haggis and chips in modern Scotland.

    Innards are something else Americans have difficulty with. All right, not everyone savors the scrunch of prairie oysters or the sliminess of cervelle. Cockneys can keep my share of tripe and onions. But heart cooked long enough (it is, after all, quite a tough muscle) is, well, heartening, and grilled kidneys on fried bread is one of the most toothsome breakfasts I know. Perhaps the best bargain at the butchers round here is liver. (Is life worth living? That depends on the liver.) Cut thin, dust with flour, salt and mustard powder, then fry fast with bacon and onions—it is one of the few cuts of meat that gets tougher the longer you cook it—and anoint with the pan scrapings transformed into sauce. The gritty flavor of liver is the perfect accompaniment for spinach cooked quickly in butter.

    And a good wine for both liver and spinach together is a red from California that is tough enough to take on any taste (even haggis). Better still, it sells for only about eighteen dollars locally. The 2003 DeLoach California Pinot Noir, from the Russian River valley north of San Francisco, is bright and honest. There is at first a sweetness and flowery charm, but then a delightful roar, as determined as a motorcycle engine, develops in the back of the throat. The sweetness turns into fine strong tannins and, as the wine goes down, aroma rises through the nose. This is wine that engages the attention on every level, like a really worthwhile woman; it has both immediate appeal and depth. But the real beauty of combining it with liver and spinach is the resulting symphony of bitternesses. Who knows, a patient appreciation of these may even make you sorry for your sins.

  • Dear Wendy

    American gun lovers who hated Bowling for Columbine have got another thing coming with Dear Wendy. Scriptwriter Lars von Trier already raised hackles on these shores for his blasting of bedrock American values in Dogville; that’s partly why Dear Wendy was directed by his buddy, Thomas Vinterberg, who is himself responsible for The Celebration, one of the best dysfunctional family dramas of all time. Given the proclivities of this Danish duo, expect some outrage over this story of how Dick, inspired by love for his gun (which he calls “Wendy”), establishes a club for the other boys in his small town. Homoeroticism is bound to be the least of Dear Wendy’s provocations. 309 Oak St. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-331-3134; www.mnfilmarts.org

  • Thumbsucker

    In this offbeat coming-of-age story, a meek seventeen-year-old tries to break a lifelong habit with the help of a transcendentalist orthodontist (Keanu Reeves), group therapy, and ADD drugs. The incentives to remove his thumb from his mouth once and for all are strong (and curvaceous), but in the course of doing so he’s forced to transform his life in every regard. This film’s soundtrack has three songs by the late Elliott Smith, whose own inability to cope with the adult world mirrors the struggles of the film’s protagonist; and a score created by the Polyphonic Spree, the psychedelic pop chorale whose music has been described as the happiest sound in the world, gives Thumbsucker a bizarrely inspirational, grand air. 612-825-6006; www.landmarktheatres.com

  • Capote

    Frankly, we’re sick and tired of biopics (Joaquin Phoenix as Johnny Cash? Pshaw!), but this one promises to be a breed apart–as much about the making of an American masterpiece as it is a bio of its author, Truman Capote. He and his childhood friend, the novelist Harper Lee, seemed like an unlikely duo to set up camp in Holcomb, Kansas, and research the brutal murders of a local family for what was to become In Cold Blood. Things grew stranger still when Capote unexpectedly developed a deep friendship with one of the killers, Perry Smith. Both men had tragic childhoods, and Capote saw Perry’s life as one he could easily have lived. Although the twee socialite partied with the likes of Marilyn Monroe and basked in his own celebrity, his past deeply haunted him, and this film explores the personal turmoil and societal changes uncovered as he wrote his groundbreaking “nonfiction novel.” 612-825-6006; www.landmarktheatres.com

  • Ley of the Land

    The other day, Michelle Mayama stood in the Lake Harriet Spiritual Center, an unassuming church at Forty-Fourth and Upton in Linden Hills. She held a chain, at the bottom of which hung a smooth piece of amethyst. As she entered the main glass-domed sanctuary, the stone spun almost too quickly to see—at about six hundred rpm. “I’ve broken a pendulum here before,” she explained. “It just flew off.” But, she explained, that was during a particularly strong surge of energy. On most days, things are pretty quiet here as vortexes go.

    With shortly cropped silver hair, a calming manner, and berobed in loose cloth, Mayama described herself as a “midwife of consciousness” who delivers people into broader self-awareness. Then she described the “ley lines” that serve as a sort of circulatory system for the Earth. She walked around the space, and her pendulum jigged as she moved through the three energy meridians that converge here.

    The vortex has always been here, Mayama said, but its pulse had grown faint when, on September 17, 1992, under an overcast but otherwise calm sky, with no sign of rain, witnesses reported seeing a bolt of lightning travel up Sheridan Avenue. It struck the dome of the church and scorched the interior of the sanctuary. The strike happened around the time of Hurricane Andrew, and Mayama believes that both events happened as the earth realigned and reactivated old vortexes. The resulting fireball inside the sanctuary got the vortex flowing again, rather like Mother Nature using a Bioré strip to unclog a pore.

    Early in the 1900s, an Englishman named Alfred Watkins began to chart the physical features that lined up in interesting ways across the emerald isles of Britannia: church spires and standing stones, barrows and river fords. Watkins was a habitual countryside walker, complete with anorak and walking stick, and, while tramping across the heaths of England, he realized the Saxons had dotted the land with markers that could be sighted from a distance. Over time, these points inevitably became gathering places where cathedrals and public houses arose; they became imbued with the psychic residue of all that passed through.

    Watkins thought it took a special person to dowse such lines. In the little treatise he published on the subject in 1922, Early British Trackways, Watkins mused, “Such work required skilled men, carefully trained. Men of knowledge they would be, and therefore men of power over the common people. And now comes surmise. Did they make their craft a mystery to others as ages rolled by. Were they a learned and priestly class, not admitted until completing a long training—as Caesar describes the Druids. Or did they—as Diodorus and Strabo say of Druids—become also bards and soothsayers. Did they, as the ley decayed, degenerate into the witches of the middle ages.” It begs the question: Which came first, the human or the ley? Watkins suggested that underneath the track lays a force that only a spiritually inclined person could harness in plotting the way from Point A to Point B.

    Mayama would agree. “The Native Americans knew about vortexes, for sure,” she told me. We left the church and walked down to Beard’s Plaisance, the lakeside park one block south. Here a ley line shooting southeast, out of the corner of the sanctuary, intersects with another that runs roughly due east, out across Lake Harriet. Their intersection forms a much larger vortex, and Mayama’s pendulum once again pulled on her wrist like a poodle on a leash. This particular knoll has been an important site for centuries—legend has it that an American Indian chief placed a curse on the Europeans from this spot, harnessing the power of the vortexes. While we looked around, a father and son volleyed a ball back and forth on the tennis court.

    This particular vortex spins counterclockwise, Mayama said; behind us, another up the hill swirls the opposite way. Standing in a vortex is like standing in a hot tub for your mind; meditating in a clockwise vortex can help actualize what you dream for—a career change, a relationship, inspiration—while the counterclockwise vortex helps the body release what it’s been holding on to. Even if I hadn’t had my own pendulum, which was spinning rather limply in my hand, it was a spot I’d be drawn to.

    Mayama pointed out signs of the vortex’s effect on local flora—elms splitting at their bases, trunks skewed at odd angles. Around us, several large trees twisted in their trunks. Their arms flowed counterclockwise, like a frozen whirlpool. It was a peaceful spot, a nice place for a picnic. But you wouldn’t want to set up permanent residence. The constant flow of energy stresses the body, Mayama explained, “Like building a house in the middle of a river.”—Jason Weidemann

  • From V-Mail to E-Mail

    Corporal Anthony Schramm, like most of our brave soldiers on active duty, had Internet access while his National Guard unit was deployed in Iraq. A good thing, too—Iraq was just as dangerous and hot as everyone says, and entertainment was scarce during his eighteen-month tour. Receiving up to twenty emails a day was a great comfort, and surfing the web was a fine distraction, unprecedented in military history. Still, a soldier misses the creature comforts. For fun, Corporal Schramm started looking at personal ads on various dating web sites. One evening, when things were relatively quiet, he read an ad posted by a pretty girl who happened to be from his neck of the woods back in Minnesota. Having geography in common, but knowing he’d most likely never meet her face to face, he decided to write.

    The young woman soon wrote back and readily took on the role of pen pal. Pictures were exchanged along with cordial pleasantries. An electronic discussion ensued over the next week, and Schramm was soon up to date on the weather, news, and other details from back home. Then, a few emails later, his new friend decided to take the pen-pal relationship to another level. She boldly sent Schramm a less-than-kosher video clip of herself “dancing” in her bedroom. Schramm was uncomfortable when he first saw the clip. He didn’t expect her to get quite that personal. But then, he was serving his country. Maybe she felt like it was her patriotic duty to give her correspondent a little motivation to get back home in one piece. Maybe she was crazy. It really didn’t matter to Schramm, though, because he most likely would never meet her face to face.

    After viewing the performance a few more times, Schramm saw the humor in the situation. He popped a few bags of popcorn from his latest care package—his mother was good about regularly sending care packages—and invited the rest of his tent buddies to watch the clip. The guys all had a good laugh, a welcome break from the stresses of the war front. Schramm’s friend had successfully entertained the troops.

    Months went by and Schramm lost contact with her, mainly because he had no idea what to say after seeing (and sharing) her video clip. After months of dodging snipers, enduring the extreme desert climate, helping to construct buildings for his camp, and performing his assigned communication duties, all the while being on alert at all times for an attack from the enemy, it was finally time for Schramm to take a much anticipated two-week leave.

    When he got back to the U.S., he and a couple of buddies dropped their drab green duffel bags in his apartment in Rochester and headed to the Twin Cities. They stopped at the first bar they saw, and Schramm ordered an ice-cold beer. He took a long sip, put the bottle down, and nearly spilled the rest of it when he was abruptly hugged from behind. He turned around and found himself face to face with his risqué friend from the personals.

    Stunned, Schramm quickly devised an exit strategy. He was tired, he said. Long flight from Baghdad, he said. After his narrow escape, he briefed his friends: There would be no further deployments to that particular bar.—Micki Bare