Come, thick night (then go)

Temperature: -4/25ish, and finally: some snow! On the eve of the longest night of the year, thank you, universe, for every flake of light.

Eating: persimmons and clementines

Drinking: Hardys Brave New World Shiraz Black Edition. Well, not at this very moment, over Christmas, sure, and if you like your reds full-bodied and ambrosial, tim-tim, sweetie darlings.

Watching: Game of Thrones all over again. Yes, the whole damn thing, just so I’ll be on top of things in April.

Listening: to The Snowman, which celebrates its 40th birthday. I’m in my forties, so I can honestly say I don’t remember a Christmas without him.

Reading: Breaking news: the remaking of journalism and why it matters now by Alan Rusbridger.

Thinking: how strange and bittersweet the holidays will be for my father-in-law, for all of us, without my mother-in-law. I hope we can make it easier on one another by keeping her favorite traditions going. When I look closer at the traditions we do have, they’re all here. All the loved ones we’ve lost are here with us. In the recipes and decorations, in the music and stories, in the ties that bind us together.

Happy Holidays, dearest denizens, wherever you are. 😘
 

Bake the world a better place

My children love gingerbread in any shape or form, and I love the holiday season, so I decided to surprise them with these tokens of maternal love and devotion and it's-almost-Christmas-why-isn't-it-Christmas-already. No, I didn't get up at the crack of dawn to bake. They're teens, barely conscious at noon on weekends, so I had p l e n t y of time. 

Happy December 1st!

Under control

How has your week been, sweetie darlings? Everyone okay? Hanging in there? Thriving? Surviving? I had such a crappy weekend last weekend that it has taken me all week to get over it, not that I have, really. What made it worse: I wasn’t hurting, a dear friend was, in a way I could not change or make better and how frustrating is that? Unbearable, at least to me it is.

She had invited me and another friend over for drinks and dinner while her husband was away. Except he learned of her plans. Told her she could not have anyone over. Told her he would call the police on us if we came over. And they’d arrest us for what? Having drinks and dinner in a private home she co-owns? On Saturday morning he called to tell her he was heading back and no one was allowed to visit since he had fallen ill. Of course, he wasn’t actually ill, it turned out, to no one’s surprise, just determined to torpedo her plans after she refused to cancel them.

Who does that? He does that. Any chance he gets. All the time. So often over the course of their marriage she doesn’t know what to think or feel or say anymore. He has taken control of her life. He has imposed his will on her. He has crushed her spirit. What once seemed like interest and attentiveness was in truth a hunting and gathering expedition. Every vulnerability he now uses against her. Every hurt is an opportunity to wound her further. Everything is her fault, her doing.

You better believe all of her closest friends have begged and pleaded, ranted and raved, for her to leave before the emotional abuse turns physical. But she is in such a paralyzed state she can’t find the strength to make decisions let alone pack up and go. (We have offered to fricking carry her out of there along with all her belongings, if that’s what it takes.) He has messed her up beyond all recognition and even though she acknowledges that theirs is not a normal relationship, that she is not the woman she used to be, that she does not like the woman she has turned into, a future alone, the great unknown, is such a terrifying prospect she hangs on to every sliver of hope she can, wishing they could just start over.

Because they have. They have been here before. And ended up in the very same spot they are now. And still she seems ready for one more cycle of tip-toeing, trying to please, wishing, hoping, dreaming, dreading, all he has to do is signal he’s ready for another round. We have tried and tried and tried to tell her that he won’t change, he has shown his true colors time and time again. She can’t change him, and he hasn’t given any indication he is ready, willing or able to grow as a human and a husband. Whatever his demons, whatever makes him so very unhappy he has to make those around his as miserable as he is, it only makes him more determined to take her down with him. And we’re supposed to watch her drown, admit we can’t change her any more than she can change him?

Fuck that and screw him. I used to feel sorry for him. Now all I feel is anger and contempt. I will never forgive him for how he has treated her, his wife, and numerous other people in his life. (And he has been cruel. Deliberately so.) He needs help. Well, he can get it on his own time and his own dime. She owes him nothing. None of us do. We tried to be there for him too. Didn’t make a lick of difference. He knows best, as always, and the rest of us are idiots. Okay thanks bye. Now let her go. Just leave her alone. Damn right we will see her through this.

If only she’d take the hand that’s offered.

Step back in time to November 9, 1918

...for a story of friendship, loyalty, betrayal and...sorry, can't say more without ruining the ending for you. Guess you'll just have to watch it, then, to commemorate the WWI Armistice Centennial [this Sunday], and to celebrate masterly storytelling and cinematography.

Calling all angels

Comforting All Souls', dearest denizens.

Along came a spider

𝕳𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖎𝖋𝖎𝖈 𝕳𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓, 𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙𝖎𝖊 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘! 

We're not gonna take it

Temperature: Plummeting after double digits close to 20 °C/68 °F, and do you know how rare that is, in October, in Scandinavia? Getting more common by the year. (One of our neighbors is a dedicated gardener and has been keeping record of the weather for 30+ years. He said he has seen a major shift in the past ten years: winters are getting shorter and warmer.)

Eating: Salmon soup + Finnish rye bread, sooo good and a lunch favorite.

Drinking: Seriously eyeing that Glühwein from Tallinn. Just to ward off the cold, of course.

Watching: My son giving me the Paddington hard stare. "Are you going to fix this [climate change]?" Working on it, sweetie, I swear. Hard to make headway in this WIIFM climate.

Listening: To a lot of conversation and compromise when the time for half-assed half measures has passed. [Re: climate change]

Reading: Misogynation: The True Scale of Sexism by Laura Bates. Have questions regarding everyday sexism, the gender pay gap and/or inequality of the sexes? Have doubts about their existence? Feeling kinda certain feminism is an overreaction? Please read this book. From start to finish.

Thinking: You look drained. Yes, you. Are you? If so, please promise to get some rest over the holiday season. At the latest! Please? For me? But especially for your own sake.

Feeling: Like a White Queen courtier, asked to imagine as many as six impossible things before breakfast. How much BS are we supposed to digest on a daily basis from elected and self-appointed leaders alike?

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

#MeToo has prompted countless men to ask their mothers, sisters, wives and friends if it's really as bad as they've heard, if all women have been harassed at some point. Say it ain't so. Can't, because it is.

Every single woman I know has been sexually harassed at some point. I've been hugged and kissed against my will. A stranger has groped my breasts, crotch, butt. I've been pushed against a wall while a man put his hands all over me as his friends egged him on and laughed. (Several people witnessed my distress as they walked by. And kept walking.) A man has torn at my clothes trying to rip my top off. (He spat me in the face when I told him off.) Strangers have assessed and commented on every part of my body. Asked for sex. Demanded sex. Tried to buy sex. Tried to force me into having sex. Implied rape.

Did I say or do anything? On several occasions. Did it make things worse? Every time. When women stop saying or doing anything, or never even dare to, it's because they know (or know that for someone) it only means more violence, verbal and/or physical. And when you're faced with someone much bigger and meaner than you are, a stranger or acquaintance, boyfriend or husband, whose current state of mind or history or sudden impulses you can only begin to guess, you're not looking for a witty or hurtful retort but a way out, preferably unscathed.

A male friend once wondered out loud how come the statistics aren't reversed, all things considered. Why aren't women killing men and not the other way around. In retribution. In self-defense. As a pre-emptive measure when the violence starts/escalates. I can't speak for all women, but I don't want a war. I don't want violence or vitriol. Or revenge. It doesn't help those men conquer their demons or stop what they're doing. It doesn't solve the problem. Yes all women, but not all men. Some men. I hate what those men did to me, not men in general. I have feared for my safety, even my life, but for every man that hurt me or humiliated me there are ten who would never ever do that to me, or any woman, who detest those men and their actions just as fiercely as I do.

Women of my mother's and grandmother's generation were told to suck it up. Boys will be boys, men are men, and women just had to grin and bear, smile and laugh along. Those who kicked a fuss were only asking for trouble, professionally and personally, so I've been told. Women were told to take it in stride/let it go/develop a sense of humor/think about their jobs and their future...and when they did take it up with the boss what the boss did in most cases was absolutely nothing, or s/he told them to take it in stride/let it go/develop a sense of humor/think about their jobs and their future...

So that's one reason it has taken so long, in case you've been wondering. No effect, no consequences, no comeuppance. If there was, it was usually felt by the girl/woman who dared cry foul. No more. Time's up. Time to stop shrugging it off, making excuses, protecting perpetrators, blaming the victim.

It's absurd to even have to say this, but I don't exist for a man's pleasure or entertainment. No one is entitled to my body. I'm not obligated to let men touch me when they feel like it, or take sexist shit from anyone. No woman is. But that's how we feel at times, too many times over the course of our lives. Like objects. Things. Public property.

Men know this. They know the difference between a sincere compliment (something you wouldn't mind men saying to a female friend or family member) and sheer crudeness (something you would definitely mind men saying to a female friend or family member). They know the difference between forced and consensual. They know the meaning of the word 'no'. Those who don't know? They deserve no pity or protection, they are responsible for their words and actions, and everything that follows.

This is not a war on men. Women don't want revenge. We want justice. Equality. Equal pay, equal opportunity. We want to be heard, taken seriously, believed when after perhaps decades of shame, pain and silence we dare utter the words, "You hurt me, viciously. I don't know why, and I can't forget. But I am not responsible for your words, actions or impulses, you are."

The times they are a-changing. Slowly but irreversibly. Finally.

Kiss me hard before you go

When in Scandinavia, do as the Venetians do: say goodbye to the summer and sailing season with a festival of water, fire and light. Why? Why not? We are all Europeans, some southern, some northern, all bound by a common history and traditions that know no borders. So that's what we did last weekend, the last summer weekend. Ate, drank and made merry.

Teetering on the northern edge of the globe as we are up here, the sun now veers away day by day as summer surrenders to fall. The mornings keep getting cooler and the nights darker, but the days still offer some warmth and light, and this child of the tropics is soaking up all she can get before it's irreversibly over. We sweltered May through July and many are relieved the heat has moved on, but I'd like one last sizzling smooch before we part.

Kiss me like you'll miss me, because I sure as hell will miss you, dearest loveliest summertime.

Ain't nobody got time for that

Brazilians love their sweets really sweet. Like really really sweet. They also love lime. As an honorary Brazilian who happens to really really love lime, I give you a cut-a-few-corners key lime pie. Because Brazil. And lime. And all things sweet, summery and delish.

Crust:
16 digestive biscuits
3 tbs brown sugar
100 g unsalted butter, melted

Filling:
350 ml whipping cream
150 ml fresh lime juice
1 can sweetened condensed milk

Optional topping: strawberries and mini meringues

1. Crush the biscuits in a food processor, or bag them and crush with a rolling pin/large can or bottle. Add the sugar and melted butter. Press the mixture evenly onto bottom and up side of a circa 26 cm (~10-inch) tart pan. Bake the crust in middle of oven, 200 C for 8-10 minutes, then set aside to cool completely before adding the filling.

2. Whip the cream until a bit beyond the soft-peak phase. Combine the condensed milk and lime juice in a separate bowl, no whisking required. Gently add the mixture to the cream, no whisking required, really!

3. Once the crust has cooled, pour the filling evenly into the crust, cover with aluminum foil and chill in the fridge for at least 2-3 hours. If you do have time, let sit in the fridge overnight.

4. Optional: top with fresh strawberries and mini meringues (or with whatever you think goes well with lime!) before serving.

5. Enjoy!

California dreaming

I'm in love! In love with a house. A house right up my alley. Well, not my geographical alley; my architectural slash decor alley. (I would add some color here and there, though. But that's just me.)

I've rooted for Reese Witherspoon since the 90's, so of course I watched Home Again. And was caught up in not the plot or characters but every minutia of that eponymous home. Can I marry that house? Is it for sale? Not that I could afford it. Can you? It's my birthday on Thursday. Just saying. Come on, a girl can dream, right? Besides, I sincerely doubt I'd enjoy living in L.A. Perhaps they could dismantle and reassemble the house someplace else? No? Damn.

I guess I'll have to settle for the island house in The Thomas Crown Affair (1999). I wouldn't know what to do with a castle, I have no interest in palaces or mansions. Give me that summer house and I’ll write happily ever after. A heck of a trek to the beach, but we'll chalk it up to daily exercise.

New order

Air Force One veered past us last night and I forgot to flip the bird! I respect the presidency, but not this particular president. And I've been getting into heated discussions about what a European or, for that matter, anyone who's not American, can and should say about the state of the union and/or the POTUS.

It's true I don't have to live in your country, abide by your laws or even listen to him speak, or tweet. But I have to live with the consequences of his actions and words. I have to share a planet with this man. A man who happens to have a considerable amount of power, power that has repercussions beyond your borders. A man with more confidence than competence. So whenever what he does touches my life or liberties, I do think I have the right, responsibility even, to speak out. To call out. To shout out.

No one is beyond reproach or above the law, agreed?

What? Not a peep about Putin? I don't hold him to the same standard. He is an oligarch, the autocratic leader of a plutocracy. The last time he pretended to care about democratic values was way back in the 1990's, pretended being the operative word. President Trump, on the other hand, has sworn to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, a democracy. He seems more interested in preserving his image of "successful businessman", protecting his business interests and defending his friends and partners. Just like every other oligarch. It's a corporate takeover. And you don't want that. A rentier state. Rentier capitalism. Look it up.

The leftovers

Life goes on. That's what they say. That's what I've been told, that's what I've told myself, that's what I've told others upon the loss of a loved one. Truth be told, it's but a half-truth. Sure, your life goes on. You wake up happy to find a pulse and get on with whatever your life is made of. But a story within your story has come to a full stop. Just like that? Just like that. You don't get to see how it plays out. The future has come to a full stop. Plans you had, dreams you had, are now plans and dreams frozen in time.

Life goes on. But so does death. Those we lose will remain lost, tomorrow, next month, five years from now. The loss is forever. It's been five months since my mother-in-law died, but I haven't had the heart to tell my husband the bad news yet; that it will always hurt, that there is no use trying to run and hide, pain and grief ride a horse that never tires.

I'll start with the good news. What won't last forever is the bleak, the dark, the black. Colors will reclaim their rightful place as the black block grows smaller and smaller. And love...love and gratitude never die. You never bury those, those you get to keep and cherish for the rest of your days. And some days will be better than others and soon most days will be better than the rest and maybe, as time goes by, that stunted story will make sense or, at the very least, you will come to accept that it never will, and that's just the way it is.

Dita did a bad, bad thing

I know. The den is closed. But I still have the key so I’ll stop by if I want to. And I need a moment. A safe place. And since no one comes here now that we’re closed there’s no safer place, right? So let me sit here for a moment as I take a good hard stare at the error of my ways.

Don’t tell anyone I admitted to this, but I’ve been writing. Fiction. In English. It just...happened. Burst out. People started bursting out. A deluge of dialogue. POV dilemmas I found myself pondering on lunch breaks, storylines coming at me at the crack of dawn, descriptions, the perfect blurb to a story I never sent out, thousands upon thousands of words, as if I’d been taken over by whatever spirit moves these things, forcing my hand, messing with my brain.

 

Is there a pill for this? A specialist? An exorcist? Can you help me? What am I gonna do? Don’t say, “Write!” I…can’t. I don’t have time. I don’t have enough time for an orchestrated, concentrated effort. So what do I do? It’s as if I have to get it out, and those who write, who create anything, know what I mean. You have to get it out. But why now? Why at all? Do I close my ears and mind’s eye? Not working. What the hell do I do?!

And I know what’s going on. At least I think I do. Writing makes me a better translator and translating makes me a better writer, and right now I’m off-kilter. Too much academia and not enough arts. Too little fiction and too much fact. Too much discipline and not enough creativity. I’m off balance and it’s showing. It’s making itself known. I feel it. The pull. The tug inside. The tug of tales. It’s exhilarating and consuming and bloody awful and totally inconvenient. What am I supposed to do with it? What the hell am I supposed to do?

Remember Bukowski?

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.

Remember Nike?

Just do it?

Nancy Reagan?

Just say no?

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!