Should these Connotations Always Apply?

Dark

Just read any book or film review.  Dark implies deep, complex, fascinating, intelligent, and, therefore, somehow worthy.  I tend to think that dark is just dark.  It's not good, it's not bad.  It's just dark.  But, since we're on the subject, I believe that, for reasons possibly akin to the force of gravity, which bodies obey without needing to make any effort, it is easier to depict something dark that something Light.  The same way as it is easier to write a tragedy than a comedy.  The elements of tragedy are the same throughout nations, cultures, and centuries.  Their weight keeps them fixed, unchanged.  Comedy, however, is therefore ever-changing.  A sense of humour alters over time, and doesn't necessarily translate from one culture to another.  So, surely, writing enduring, internationally appreciated comedy requires true genius.  

Light

You hear this word and you think weightless, low-fat, superficial, not requiring much thought, lacking in substance.  And yet think of the actual meaning of the word Light when it's a noun.  Light.  Sunlight.  Daylight.  How many of us can stare at a light without wincing and shying away? Brightness.  Truth.  Speed.  All the colours of the spectrum.  Understanding.  LIGHT.  

Comfort Zone

For some reason, people described as "not wanting to leave their comfort zone" are always viewed with disapproval.  The comfort zone is a synonym of limitations, of fear, of narrow mindedness.  What exactly is wrong with comfort, anyway? Besides, a comfort zone could be a choice that fits our strength and abilities.  In my experience, people who accuse others of remaining in their comfort zone are, quite often, people who are very firmly set in their own comfort zones.

Can I be honest?

Since when has the term honesty equalled negativity, insult, rudeness and unsolicited opinions that are too personal? Someone says, "Can I be honest?" and you can bet all you have that a negative comment is about to follow.  Not only, but that the speaker feels that the word "honest" somehow entitles him/her to impose their opinion on you, and judge you.  "Can I be honest? I don't like the way you've furnished your house." "Can I be honest? I think you have such or such a defect." When was the last time you heard, "Can I be honest? I think you're a wonderful person"?

Real People

For some reason, only working-class, underprivileged, socially and financially disadvantaged individuals are referred to as Real People.  A play, film or book about Real People.  So not Downton Abbey, then.  Rich, privileged people are therefore imaginary.

I once had a play workshopped in a London theatre.  The characters were a barrister, a Cambridge academic, and a polyglot photographer.  During the feedback session, the man chairing the discussion asked the audience, "Yes, but don't you think this play isn't about Real People"? At that moment, I mentally measured the distance between my fist and his face, and wondered how real or imaginary he'd feel my punch landing on his nose. 

Organic

The buzz word of the decade.  Of course, I do believe that everything should be grown organically, i.e. without harmful pesticides, or GMOs.  But I do find that the word Organic is being somewhat overused and abused.

I ask, as I order breakfast in a café, what their baked beans are like.  "Oh, they're organic," the waiter replies, as though that means the baked beans are automatically in a league of their own in terms of high quality, flavour, health benefits, and probably ability in guaranteeing eternal youth.  I have had food poisoning from so-called organic vegetables just as I have had from non-organic ones.  Organic is politically, correct, healthy, tasty, and generally superior.  The other day, swayed, I bought a box of organic cherry tomatoes.  Their skins were so hard, I could probably have used them to re-sole my shoes.  There's a wonderful scene in the film version of David Auburn's play Proof.  A do-gooder older sister is insisting her rebellious younger sister try a hair conditioner with jojoba.  The girl asks if it's a chemical. "No, it's organic," the older woman replies.

"It can be organic and still be a chemical.  Haven't you ever heard of organic chemistry?"

Natural

There is Natural, and there is good.  They two are not necessarily synonyms.  A hairdresser I used to go to kept asking me if we should have my hair look "natural".  

"No," I replied.  "'Natural' would mean I don't come here to have my hair cut at all."

I have a natural tendency towards being impatient and abrupt.  Left in my natural state, my presence in a social scenario would be intolerable to many.

Popular

Sales assistant seem to think that if they tell a customer that a particular item is Popular, then you'll think it's automatically worth buying.  This is based on an assumption that the said customer believes that the majority is always right.  Wrong.  Whenever I'm standing in a clothes shop, dithering over a dress or a handbag, and the sales assistant tells me it's a very Popular dress or handbag, then my knee-jerk reaction is NOT to buy the said item.  I wouldn't want to turn up at a party and see another woman wearing the same dress.

Scribe Doll

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Tails I Win!

 

El Springador celebrates his prime on a very special occasion with a retro post of seven years ago. At eight-four, he's still a live wire!

 

I have pawsed the high-octane adventure that is my life to let you folks know that today is my birthday. I'm five! Thirty-five in dog years – the canine calendar runs on bobbins – neither Pup Gregory nor Caesar (the fellow who invented canned dogfood) could get the hang of it.

Einstein, of course, came up with his major breakthrough based on knowledge of Springadors:

E = MC2, that is, Energy equals More Chips, Too.

And I taught him all he knew about Black Holes, but not where they were located! Or wot they were for! Better whisper it low; mustn't get Herself started on that one. She's been missing a memory stick for a while now. I think we probably can't keep putting it down to a Spinone moment, or the onset of Alsatians. The thing is, you see, I read in the nosepaper about this dog-bone shaped asteroid they've discovered up there. If it should land in my patch, I need somewhere to bury it.

She's fully convinced that I'm also the genius of Chaos Theory when scatter cushions go AWOL and my rubber DNA toy is fielded by the nest of wires behind her computer. I keep telling her it's all on account of some Chalkhill Blue batting his wings up on Devil's Dyke - actually saw him once, right under my nose, looking for a pollen pad to land on - but will she have it?

Now go on, admit it. The world's still barking mad, but it's been a better place since July 10, 2004, when Dog put a spaniel in the works to set about uprooting unwanted Bushes. I'm good at that. Roses are a bit tricky, but dahlias come out a treat and I quite like the taste of camellias. I've been in the doghouse (again!) - just as well I've got my own little brick-built paw-de-terre in the garden where I can chill out – because I crashed into a blooming clump of her treasured arum lilies chasing off a hedgehog. They'd never let me in at the Hampton Court Flower Show!

Wot a life, eh? I just love every moment. And birthdays give you an excuse to create real mayhem!

It sure was a red-litter day, July 10, 2004!

Wags and Woofs,

 

Jack (Canine-Still-In-Much-Waiting to Herself)

 

Copyright

© Rosy Cole 2009 - 2016

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Adventures with Chicken Soup

My acupuncturist takes a quick look at my tongue. "You've got a low blood count," she says. 

I smile and roll my eyes, thinking of how my GP had to draw blood and process it for a whole week before working that out.

The acupuncturist carries on her diagnosis with remarkable accuracy.  As part of her list of suggestions, she advises me to have chicken soup. 

"I very seldom eat meat – I haven't liked it since I was a baby," I reply.

"Well, try it," she says, "and see how you get on.  It does wonders for the immune system.  Only make sure you boil a whole chicken, to get all its goodness."

 

"Dearest, will you make us some chicken soup, please?" I say to H. – a meat eater – as soon as I'm back home.

Once he's processed his surprise at my request for meat, and my explanation for it, he stares at me, his eyes momentarily blank behind his glasses.  "Why can't we just buy some ready-made?" he suggests, clearly trying to be helpful.

"Because this is supposed to be for my health, not something in a plastic tub, full of additives and preservatives.  In fact, we'd better get an organic chicken.  So will you make us some clear chicken soup? You keep talking about the one your mother made with Kneidel..."

"I don't know how to make chicken soup..."

It's my turn to look blank. I finally burst out, "Your family were Ashkenazi Jews from Poland – how can you not know how to make chicken soup?!"

"My mother was the one who made it."

"And didn't you ever watch her in the kitchen?" I say, and immediately realise the futility of my question when addressed to a man.  I remember, not without resentment, the hours spent – under duress – in our family kitchen.  My Armenian grandmother would say, in a self-satisfied tone, "Watch, Katia.  Watch and learn."  Being a girl can be so unfair.

"Where can I buy an organic chicken?" I ask no one in particular.

H. gives a constructive shrug.

"OK, I'll go and find one – and a recipe – but I've never handled raw meat, so you'll cook it, right?"

H. nods with deliberate obligingness.

Before my irritation degenerates into an accusatory rant, I grab the shopping bag and venture to the supermarket.

 

An hour later, there's a small, organic chicken on our kitchen counter.  I'm on the phone to my friend Sue.  

"Now whatever you do, don't wash it first," she says.

"Oh, but my grandmother always used to wash meat thoroughly before cooking it."

"So did my mother."

"Then why?–"

"They're now saying it's safer not to."

"'Safer'?"

"Yes.  They tell you to cover every surface with clingfilm, and if any raw chicken touches anything at all, then make sure you clean it with anti-bacterial detergent."

I suddenly remember stories of the extraordinary precautions taken by my mother, when giving me the polio vaccine when I was a baby.  Holding my hands to prevent me from putting them in my mouth.  Boiling or burning any contaminated bibs, towels, or kitchen utensils.

"Why do people eat chicken if it's so dangerous?" I inevitably ask.

"Oh, it's perfectly safe.  They just tell you to be very careful because of the bacteria."

"Who are 'they'?"

"The experts."

Oh, them...

 

After half an hour on the 'phone, I read out all the health and safety instructions to H. 

"Oh, yes, everybody knows that!" he says, casually.

I briefly consider hurling the chicken at him, then remember that, at all other times, I do love my husband.

 

I watch him at work.  As he cuts the string that holds the dead bird together, its limbs suddenly pop apart.  I gasp and jump back.  Perhaps I should leave the kitchen... No, I'd better watch and learn.

 

We take our largest pot but even that doesn't look big enough to contain the chicken.  H. stuffs it in with difficulty.  I hear something crack and feel nauseous.  I struggle to remember why I suggested all of this in the first place.  We cover it with water and add my home-made vegetable stock.  As it starts boiling, some disgusting-looking froth forms on the surface.  Neither of us knows what to do with it, so we take the executive decision of skimming off with a spoon and throwing it down the sink.

 

Then, something unexpected and terrifying happens.  The chicken, the dead chicken, slowly starts to move of its own accord.  It spreads its wings, its legs rise over the edge of the pan, and the whole carcass floats up, emerging from the stock.  

"What the hell is that?" I say, wondering if I should reach out for the rolling pin.

H. is very calm before this unexpected development.  "I don't know," he replies, "but I definitely think we should add some pearl barley."

 

An hour later, the flat is heavy with the smell of fat, the sick ward in a hospital, the sour, musty smell of a second-hand clothes shop.  We sit down to eat.  I stare into the swirls of fat forming shapeshifting paisley patterns in my bowl, stir the slippery barley, keep telling myself this is good for me.  I finally muster the courage to lift the spoon to my lips.

 

A smile is beaming over H.'s face, as he wolfs down his second bowl of soup and reaches out for a third helping.  "Mmm... Just like the soup my mother used to make," he says, dewy-eyed.  

 

I push my bowl away.  The yellowish, viscous liquid has gone cold. 

 

I go and raid the kitchen for bread, cheese and olives.  There's a bag of curly kale in the fridge.  Tomorrow, I'll bake it to a crisp in olive oil and salt.  I'm sure it will raise my blood count.

 

 

Scribe Doll 

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Matchless

 

 

b2ap3_thumbnail_Oddsocks.png

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He makes quite an impression

The chair knows who he is -

forget memory foam -

It hears him coming,

catlike and unshod,

and braces for the slump

 

 

He sports a dark blue sock

with an emerald toe

and a furry one, ankle-patterned,

Got another pair like these, he says,

somewhere,

I wouldn't bet on it, I say

 

 

Outside, the clink of recycling,

the dog lets rip a volley of ire

Don't tell him to put a sock in it,

he needs no excuse, he says

There was this Great Dane on the News,

couldn't stop retching

 

 

They opened him up

and found forty-three socks

and a half,

all the colours of the rainbow,

Just proves that silver technology

can't be any good for you

 

 

No, I say, I imagine not,

Makes you wonder what happened

to the half,

the other half,

Well, it wouldn't make a pair,

he says, that's for sure

 

 

 

b2ap3_thumbnail_GreatDaneLaundry.png

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/sep/04/great-dane-portland-eats-43-socks-hospital-wins-prize

 

 

Copyright

© ©Rosy Cole 2014

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