Caramel corn

One of my favorite memories of my great grandmother was making caramel corn. This is her recipe, and it’s super crisp. She taught me how to make it – it’s one if the first things I ever cooked, although I haven’t made it in years.

Once, she made a batch and we laid it out to cool. Then we went to break it up with our fingers and save it. Somehow, every single kernel of that batch went to either her mouth or mine. We finished the whole thing. She winked at me and made another batch for everyone else. I still remember that conspiratorial wink.

To Frances Finley, caramel corn maker extraordinaire.

Ethical Internetting

All opinions are my own and do not reflect those of my employer

It’s hard to be lately what you want to spend your limited horrified energy tackling. But I was listening to a podcast, and it was talking about 2018 predictions. One of the predictions which had come true exactly as stated was that social media had been the primary driver of a genocide. In this case, Facebook and the genocide in Myanmar of the Rohingyas. How can I ethically contribute to making that platform successful – especially given Facebook’s lack of caring about the impact of its platform?

I’d already been uncomfortable with Facebook. There’s the whole Russian election meddling, the emotional experiments, and the fact that it’s both addictive and makes you feel crappy when you’ve had too much of it. I’d quit it if I could. But I can’t. I think that looking at the places where there is no legitimate competition to Facebook raises interesting questions that only regulators can answer. For me, I need to run my church social media presence (Facebook is a big part of that). I have a number of communities which are only collected on Facebook. And there are people I care about where my communication with them only happens there.

Additionally, I have been connecting and posting my thoughts on the internet since there was a public internet. I have been making status updates since they were a .plan on our PINE system. I *like* connecting with people online. I like writing short autobiographical segments. I think that I am perhaps beginning to be a writer whose writings I’d be willing to read, and that’s due almost entirely to my practice in digital media – this somewhat neglected blog being the primary venue, but the short thoughts having their place too. Facebook killed Livejournal, where I did this before. But I cannot find the thing that is killing Facebook. It needs to be widely available to reader, low barrier to entry, access controllable, mobile-friendly or mobile-first, and not a propaganda tool of the Russian government. Ideally I’d control what I read instead of having that algorithmically decided for me. There are a bunch of new entrants and throwbacks (and I’ve tried most of them at some point), but none of them have really delivered. The things that are closest, like Instagram and Twitter, have their own deeply problematic elements. (Instagram is owned by Facebook. Twitter is, well, Twitter.)

I finally decided that the thing that comes closest is… this blog. I’ve been using it for in depth, long form pieces. (And I’ve been having trouble getting those out lately.) My posts average about 1000 words, which takes me about an hour to write depending on how much research I need to do. (I know it doesn’t look like my posts have any research. But sometimes they do.) But what if I mixed it up? What if I kept my long form pieces, but then felt no hesitation in posting a picture and two lines in the interim? Like a bloglet? I know that many fewer people will read my blog than read my Facebook. History says that I’ll have many fewer comments and less interaction. But maybe it will scratch a portion of my itch. And maybe it will help ease a tiny bit of the stranglehold of Facebook if people don’t need to be there to keep up with *me*.

The holidays are a great time for this kind of experimentation. I tend to write a lot during the holidays (it’s one of the things I like to do when I have free time). So I’m going to try creating “bloglets” on this site. They won’t be edited. They may feel random. I may cross post them to FB manually (FB decided to make automated cross posting not possible due to them wanting to make things like this harder). They will also cross post to the soon-to-die Google+, Twitter at fairoriana@, and Tumblr “I sought fit words”. I’ll be posting the kind of stuff I usually post to Facebook/Instagram. (I may keep using Instagram, haven’t decided yet.) I’ll likely still read in Facebook (see also: they have me in a spot I can’t just walk away from). But we’ll see.

#bloglet #experiment

The season of rituals

Ritual has an interesting place in the culture I find myself living in. Rituals, especially shared rituals, are falling aside in this era of individualism. What are our remaining shared rituals? I find myself thinking “Well, there’s Sweet Caroline in the 8th inning…” Many of our oldest, time honored rituals seem to be evolving past recognition (weddings used to be a religious service) or falling away altogether. I myself didn’t watch fireworks this 4th of July, and have eaten Thanksgiving dinner at a Denny’s.

When starting a family, especially when far from your own family, one is confronted with the question of what rituals you’ll create. Will you open presents on Christmas Eve? When do you put up the tree? There are other rituals which simply arise through repetition – like when you realize you’ve thrown a last-minute New Year’s Eve party every year for the last three years. And then there are the rituals that are some sort of strange hybrid, like making up your own holidays and investing them with energy, love and meaning until they become as rich and real to you as any holiday that lives on a pre-printed calendar. (Also, it turns out you can now print your own calendars…)

One tradition that I loved from my family of birth, which I had trouble carrying over to my family in Massachusetts, was the Christmas Tree. Living in the land where Christmas trees grow, we’d always go to Jim Hale’s and tromp around the fields getting increasingly cranky and objecting to each other’s selections of tree. (The fight was actually an acknowledged part of the ritual.) Then we’d get a tree that was too tall and struggle to get it home and into the house. Mom would hide in the kitchen “making cookies” while we wrestled the lights onto the timber, cut about two feet off the bottom with a chainsaw, and argue about the best order of cutting the bindings. Then we’d all gather together and hang the ornaments while listening to Roger Whittaker’s iconic Christmas album. It was always a stressful day, but somehow what began in tumult – with broken icy ground underfoot – ended peacefully, eating warm cookies and debating whether Darcy the Dragon was an ironic anti-capitalist morality play in the warm light of our own Christmas tree. (Assuming no one was still on the roof putting the cut-off top of the tree on top of the ridgeline to at least make it look right from the outside.)

I tried to pull as much of this as possible into my home, but my husband does not love hanging lights (so I can’t disappear to make cookies). There are no cantankerous octagenarians selling Christmas trees around here. And our ceiling is now and always has been a mere 8 feet tall. So over time I’ve learned to change the tradition to match our reality. This year, I decided also to give up my hope of recreating what I thought it should be, and lean into what it was at that moment. So maybe I didn’t have all four of us hanging ornaments and talking about their history and what they meant to us. Maybe I wasn’t making cookies (but Grey was). Maybe I would just do the parts that were important to me, and my family would join me if it was also important to them.

The tree got up in record time, and it was much less stressful than usual. But my husband commented afterwards that although he’d never really loved the ritual of adorning the tree, somehow not being in the scrum of snowflake hanging had hollowed out a little bit of the festive feeling he got looking at the tree. As he and I tread through our fifth decade (and third decade together), we begin to understand more about ourselves. A ritual may not need to be fun or enjoyable to be meaningful.

On the flip side, the last year or two I’ve really wanted to pull the Advent Wreath into our own practice of the holiday. I find it hilarious that in a society so willing to create any Christmas crap you can think of (Santa toilet paper? Zombie gingerbread men ornaments?), it’s actually hard to find something that’s a huge part of the religious practice of Christmas. I looked for years for a home advent wreath that would accept thick pillar candles that could burn the season through. I finally found a five-stand candle holder, and discovered Ikea sells advent candles. Woooo!

But you can’t just go light an advent calendar, willy nilly. It needs, well, a ritual. So over the last year or two a small family ritual has quietly evolved. This year, I’ve been particularly enjoying it. We gather as a family in front of the tree, and we talk a little about the theme of this particular week in Advent. Last week was hope. This week was peace. We dwell a brief moment on those, and what they mean in our lives. Then there’s a small reading. Last weekend was the Magnificat. Today, I asked Grey to read The Peace of Wild Things. We light the candle. (Thane likes that part.) We sing a hymn. (I like that part best.) Last week was “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence” (traditional for Advent communion Sunday). This week, I chose “O Come Emmanuel”. And then we are done and return to our evening, the growing line of light fighting against the waning of the sun. It is brief and beautiful.

What are some of your precious rituals? Have you successfully ported rituals from one generation to another? Which ones did you create with intent? Which ones evolved from repetition? Which have you lost forever, and how do you mourn them? What do you wish you had a ritual for – to make deeper and richer?

The children love the angel

The Peace of Wild Things
Wendell Barry

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.