Are we done fretting about princess culture yet? Because I think I’ve found the final word on what it really means to be a princess.
Abzeita Djigma is a real live princess from the Western African country of Burkina Faso. She is “a direct descendant of the famous warrior and legendary Princess Yennenga,” she has a message for us: “Go where people need you.” She wants to enlighten the lives of her people — literally.
If you came in in the middle of the process, you’d think I was being totally unfair. You’d see me letting one kid stand there and have center stage, while everyone else has to just stand around and listen to half-truths, exaggerations, and self-pity. You’d think I was a fool for listening gravely and seriously to what is obviously a biased, self-serving version of what happened.
Or maybe you’d see me letting one kid stand there and having center stage, while everyone else has to just stand around and listen to a bullying, overbearing, jerk. You’d think I was a tyrant for listening gravely and seriously to what is obviously a harsh and inhumane version of how we should treat each other.
This is what it would sound like if you saw only part of the process. But I hope you’d have a different point of view if you tried to understand what I was actually trying to accomplish.
My kids’ experience with opera comes entirely from Bugs Bunny, and we really wanted them to branch out. So, with great trepidation, we showed them Don Giovanni last weekend … and they loved it. More or less.
We did it in two nights. The first night, I set out some trays heaped with treats in the living room. We had brie, havarti, and honey goat cheese and three kinds of crackers, red and green grapes, mini chocolate eclairs, and sparkling cider. So the kids were all excited and cheerful, and ready to have a fancy good time. For my kids, this step is essential. If they get any whiff of high art or culture, they turn into jerks and refuse to enjoy themselves, so they need to be softened up. This is okay with me, because I, too, enjoy cheese.
We went with the Metropolitan Opera’s 2000 production with set design by Franco Zeffirelli. This production has large, clear subtitles, and all the literate kids followed the action just fine. (And the story doesn’t waste any time, but leaps right in, which is one of the reasons I chose this opera.)
The amazing thing was that Benny (age 3) picked up an awful lot, too, and was engaged throughout. She could tell that DonjiManji was one bad dude. She called all the women “princesses” (score one for the wonderful costumes, which were everything opera costumes should be) and said that Donna Elivra was “sad, and mad.” When Don Ottavio was pestering Donna Anna for the umpteenth time, she remarked, “The princess wants him to shut up.”
They laughed at the funny parts (Ferruccio Furlanetto as Leperello did a great job of making all the subtler jokes obvious with gestures and smirks) and were aghast at Don Giovanni’s wickedness.
The NYT review said that Bryn Terfel
comes to the Don with his own powerful if somewhat repugnant point of view. If the production is about period elegance, the character itself achieves a modern mean-spiritedness. Endearing naughtiness is replaced with outright sadism. This is a coldly obsessive figure for whom rape and murder is not offhand but committed with pleasure.
Well, that is the role. I don’t see how the rest of the opera makes any sense if the Don is just endearingly naughty; and his sneering callousness helped the kids to see why (spoiler) Don Giovanni goes to Hell but Leperello gets off the hook. Terfel’s power and command were sufficient to explain why the women found him hard to resist, and, as the NYT says,
this not very nice man sings like an angel. The articulation was wonderful, and Mr. Terfel commands such a depth of color that his ”La ci darem la mano” could soar out into the hall even at half voice. Volume does not necessarily conquer the Met’s bigness. Quality and focus have a better chance.
The entire cast had that focus, and no one seemed dwarfed. Here’s the rest of the cast:
Bryn Terfel (Don Giovanni), Ferruccio Furlanetto (Leporello), Renee Fleming (Donna Anna), Solveig Kringelborn (Donna Elvira), Hei-Kyung Hong (Zerlina), Paul Groves (Don Ottavio), Sergei Koptchak (Commendatore) and John Relyea (Masetto). James Levine was conductor.
Renee Fleming was tremendous. I think a few of the kids were crying when she wept, “O padre mio!” The NYT:
Fleming’s Donna Anna had unusual breadth. ”Non mi dir” luxuriated in the softness of her timbre, yet the early scenes abandoned beauty for its own sake and took on a wonderful fierceness. She is in both moods a splendid musician; the attention to rhythm, phrase length and pitch legitimized the emotion.
Quite right about the two moods. She showed real depth. Her character is naturally more interesting than Don Ottavio’s anyway, but I was really struck, in this production, by how unworthy he is of her! And what a pest, good heavens. I think if she broke a toe or won the Nobel prize for phsyics, he’d scoot over and explain that this was the perfect time for her to get over her grief and marry him. Anyway, she was immensely present in the role, and plus, she is just so beautiful.
Solveig Kringelborn as Donna Elivira was a revelation to me. I’ve heard this role mainly played as straight up crazy bitch; but Kringelborn brought out some real pathos and humor, and avoided sounding screamy in a role that has a lot of high notes. I enjoyed every minute of her performance, and the kids loved her.
Zerlina, I was not so crazy about, and the kids had a hard time with her character. I’ve seen her played more winningly. Her voice was crystalline and her diction was perfect, but there was no appeal in her stage presence, that I could see. It would have been fine as an audio performance, but I wouldn’t seek out Hei-Kyung Hong out for this stage role again.
Masetto did fine. Paul Groves as Don Ottavio was nicely stolid and useless, and his voice was as lovely as you could wish for his lovely arias. Don Ottavio is not actually allowed to breathe at any point, and Groves did not. The Commendatore was nice and creepy. I totally would have repented if it had been me holding that cold hand!
assuming I was still awake by the time the Commendatore showed up
We rented this two-disc set through Netflix, which has several Don Giovannis available. You can buy the DVD set on Amazon, or you can rent it directly from the Met for $3.99.
Very sensitive audiences will be upset with the scariness of the final scene, and with Don Giovanni’s handsiness, but it is an opera about rape and damnation, so. There was nothing so explicit that we found it off-bounds for the kids.
Next up: not sure! I think Mozart is great for kids: the emotion is so evident, and he doesn’t waste any time. Maybe The Barber of Seville.I’m sadly ignorant about Italian opera, and I’d like to remedy that. What would you suggest?
Just the facts!
These are not only delicious, easy to make, and filling, but they are cheaper than making pizza, especially if you use pre-made dough when you make pizza. I find that I use about half the amount of cheese and sauce as I do to make pizza for the same number of people.
We made these with cheese, pepperoni, and some bottled pesto. Spread the outsides of the sandwich with butter mixed with garlic powder and oregano
a promising start to any recipe
and on the inside, spread sauce on each slice of bread, then add a handful of cheese, and whatever filling you like. Then put it together and grill as you would normal grilled cheese sandwich. I like to grill them until they’re golden on the outside, then put them in a warm oven for a bit, to make sure they’re cooked all the way through, because they are pretty thick.
This recipe works well with sturdier bread, like sourdough or something. Or, if you are using softer bread, just make sure the butter is nice and soft, using whatever kitchen tools you have on hand, like a potato masher or an elephant
Hey, I didn’t kill anybody this week. Where’s my medal?
Poach chicken breast, then dice or shred it. Cook and drain a bunch of pasta (farfalle/bowtie/butterfly pasta is good for chunky recipes like this. We used penne, because it was what we had, and it was fine), mix it with the chicken, and add in a bunch of pesto*, a bunch of crushed fresh garlic, and a ton of grated parmesan cheese. Add salt and pepper. Serve hot or cold.
*I didn’t even make pesto, I just chopped up a bunch of fresh basil and mixed it with olive oil. Pretty yummy. Better the second day.
This really needed a side dish, but I went to lie down instead.
I’m the only one in my house who thinks this is funny.
What they don’t realize is that it takes all my effort to resist making a nice perky set of Double D meatloaves.
Our meatloaf recipe: good old Fannie Farmer. As she says, this recipe is “susceptible to many variations.”
Acorn squash! So seasonal! My usual recipe is to buy it, put it on the counter, look at it guiltily a few times a day for a few weeks, notice someone has stabbed it with a screwdriver and there is now something squirmy living inside, and throw it in the swamp out back; but here’s the technique we used this time, and it was much more popular:
Cut squash in half, scoop out seeds and pulp, put them face down on a pan and bake at 350 for half an hour. Turn them over, but a blob of butter and brown sugar in each one, and put them back in the oven for another half hour. Tasty.
I feel like we had something else, too, but I forget what.
Definitely a low point of the week, food-wise. English muffins undertoasted, eggs burned, sausages are fine because how the hell do you screw up frozen sausages, cantaloupe dessicated and improperly peeled, and the quinoa, well . . . I bought this pre-flavored, pre-vegetabled quinoa and it turned out looking like something that nobody wants because nobody needs. And it was expensive!
Quinwhat?
Boy, I had really high hopes for this recipe, which I got from the NYT; and it smelled fantastic as it was cooking. TO BE FAIR, I was missing a lot of the ingredients. I think it’s worth making again when I have more stuff on hand, because pork is still cheap; but I was expecting this dish to redeem the entire week, and it did not do that.
It didn’t help that I didn’t fry up the meat nearly long enough after it was shredded, and I think that’s not cilantro. I think that’s parsley. Also, I forgot that corn tortillas are bloody awful when you don’t fry them. Boo.
The “raw broccoli and sweet pepper” part is the voice of optimism speaking. But I do feel like I can heat up some frozen fish sticks, and probably strong-arm some teenager into making a pot of rice.
In conclusion, this week can eat my poo. Did I say that last week? Well, still.
I’m struggling a bit with InLinkz. I paid the little fee so that entry thumbnails would be displayed at the bottom of the page, but I think you still had to click through last time. Grr. Here’s hoping it works this week. Anyway, I hope you join in! Anything you want to say about food, here’s the place.
Because now every time I see one of these:
I’ll be armed with a bunch of these:
So the town will soon covered with these:
Yes, I’m a ridiculous, childish person. Yes, I actually ordered this sticker. You can too,here.
Please note, I will earn 20 cents for each sticker sold. I intend to use this money to build a BYOOTIFUL WALL to keep the kids out when I’m trying to go to the bathroom.
The British get Tom Jones and Dickens and Shakespeare’s comedies, but what do we Americans get? Death and sadness, that’s what — at least in literature.
Are there American novels with happy endings? Here’s our list . . .
I’m reading . . .
Allende is definitely a guilty pleasure. Zorro is silly fun, very typical of Allende, with her contemptuous fondness for Catholicism, the silly sex scenes mashed naively in with a kind of lascivious clumsy feminism, a few plot turns that don’t make any sense and quietly get abandoned, and lots of running around, sailing, fighting, crying, eating, singing, being squalid, and more running around. I like the bouncy, tasty prose, and her characters are always memorable. So sue me.
I’m watching . . .
The Sopranos for the first time.
Damien is a few seasons ahead of me, but is watching along with me on Amazon Prime. This show blows my mind every single episode. It’s super violent, and we have to look away during the sex scenes, but the writing and acting are even more brilliant than everyone said. Probably the best TV I’ve ever seen in my life. Every episode leaves me something to think about, and funny, oh my gosh.
DO NOT TELL ME WHAT HAPPENS. I’M ONLY ON SEASON THREE.
I’m listening to . . .
Jessye Norman singing Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde.
I honestly thought I didn’t like Jessye Norman, but hoo boy. We were driving home from Philly and I dozed off in the back seat, and this came on the radio sometime during interminable Connecticut. That woke me up! Here is “Der Abschied” (“The Farewell”)
Three personal disasters befell Mahler during the summer of 1907. Political maneuvering and anti-semitism forced him to resign his post as Director of the Vienna Court Opera, his eldest daughter Maria died from scarlet fever and diphtheria, and Mahler himself was diagnosed with a congenital heart defect. “With one stroke,” he wrote to his friend Bruno Walter, “I have lost everything I have gained in terms of who I thought I was, and have to learn my first steps again like a newborn”.[3]
A translation of the words:
The sun departs behind the mountains.
In all the valleys the evening descends
with its shadow, full cooling.
O look! Like a silver boat sails
the moon in the watery blue heaven.
I sense the fine breeze stirring
behind the dark pines.
The brook sings out clear through the darkness.
The flowers pale in the twilight.
The earth breathes, in full rest and sleep.
All longing now becomes a dream.
Weary men traipse homeward
to sleep; forgotten happiness
and youth to rediscover.
The birds roost silent in their branches.
The world falls asleep.
It blows coolly in the shadows of my pines.
I stand here and wait for my friend;
I wait to bid him a last farewell.
I yearn, my friend, at your side
to enjoy the beauty of this evening.
Where are you? You leave me long alone!
I walk up and down with my lute
on paths swelling with soft grass.
O beauty! O eternal loving-and-life-bedrunken world!
He dismounted and handed him the drink
of Farewells. He asked him where
he would go and why must it be.
He spoke, his voice was quiet. Ah my friend,
Fortune was not kind to me in this world!
Where do I go? I go, I wander in the mountains.
I seek peace for my lonely heart.
I wander homeward, to my abode!
I’ll never wander far.
Still is my heart, awaiting its hour.
The dear earth everywhere blossoms in spring and grows green
anew! Everywhere and forever blue is the horizon!
Forever … Forever …
My teenage daughter is looking for good novels or short stories for a school project. It has to be an American author (per her teacher) and — here’s the hard part — it has to have a happy ending (per her).
My suggestions:
Flannery O’Connor. Okay, no happy endings, sometimes tragic, but not depressing, anyway! We got a little bit into how the bull in “Greenleaf” is Jesus — well, not Jesus, exactly, but — well, you know how Zeus was always . . . well, you know? (Little kids in the room.) And, see, this old woman put up all these hedges, and she never . . .well . . . (but there were too many little kids in the room). See, it’s not an allegory, or an exact code, but how themes in literature work is . . . what are they teaching you in English, anyway? Go to bed, I’m tired.
Walter M. Miller. I urged Canticle for Leibowitz, but as I sketched out the plot, her glower got heavier and heavier. I was like, “See, history is cyclical, and at least this time around, they have a plan! They survive! You’ll love it, because the Catholics save the day! Well, kind of . . . ”
His short stories are tremendous, though, and should be better known. “Cruxifixus Etiam” is amazing. (collected in The View from the Stars)
James Thurber. Probably actually way way darker than anyone else on this list, if you read closely.
Edith Wharton? She’s great, but yeesh.
I also suggested The Space Merchants by C. M. Kornbluth and Frederik Pohl, but it’s so dated, I dunno. Happy ending, pretty much. Literary merit, sure, why not. Weird and funny.
I guess there’s Mark Twain. Do you know I’ve never read Tom Sawyer. Should I? I loved Huckleberry Finn.
Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler? Well, they make me happy.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is pretty good, and comes pretty close to having a happy ending, but the rest of Betty Smith’s books are barely readable. She really shot the wad with the semi-autobiography.
Faulkner? She’s too young, and he doesn’t exactly tend to tie up his endings with a happy bow anyway.
Hemingway? Big fat meh, sorry.
Melville she would hate.
I think she likes Edgar Allen Poe, but they already read a lot of him in class.
Stephen King? Apparently a nice fellow, but why does this man have a literary career?
Henry James doesn’t get to be American.
Robert Penn Warren is another one-hit wonder with All the King’s Men, which I was obsessed with for a while, but now I can’t think why. I read a few other of his novels and couldn’t believe how trashy they were. His novels read like bad poetry, and his poems read like outlines for novels. Feh.
I could make a case for Walker Percy, maybe, but she’s a bit young. Anyway we’re living Love In the Ruins right now, so who needs to read about it?
Who am I forgetting? Help us out! Remember: American, moderately happy ending, some literary merit!
***
Even a family that is nuts doesn’t fit into a nutshell. Families are too complicated for that.
