Category Archives: Jean Zimmerman

The Flow of the Jet Stream

I actually read something wonderful in The New York Times. About the change from summer to fall, the feeling of it in the air:

“In the cocoon of the home, in the unaccustomed silence lately filled by the air-conditioner, the air flowing in feels, smells, tastes different — not just because it is cooler, but also because it is different air, hailing from a different part of the planet. Sultry summer nights are made of stiflingly hot air from Southwestern deserts simmered with emanations from the Gulf of Mexico into a thick gumbo. But now the jet stream, the ever-flowing border zone between hot and cold air masses, is making its tentative, give-and-take pilgrimage southward, and on cool nights, the air is fresh from the pine forests of Canada.”

Inhale deeply. This is magical sleeping weather.

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Who Owns This?

Organizing my desk, I unearthed this note authored by my kindergarten-aged nephew Jasper. It’s so handy, I’m going to switch it around just to keep things straight — to my laptop, my phone, my knitting, my Kindle, my lip balm, my Klonopin…

Who Owns This?

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Gertrude Stein’s Apology

Look outside. The hot sun, the flawless sky. Other than the season, today is like another day.

“It was a very lovely spring day, Gertrude Stein had been going to the opera every night and going also to the opera in the afternoon and had been otherwise engrossed and it was the period of the final examinations, and there was the examination in William James’ course. She sat down with the examination paper before her and she just could not. Dear Professor James, she wrote at the top of her paper. I am so sorry but really I do not feel a bit like an examination paper in philosophy to-day, and left.

“The next day she had a postal card from William James saying, Dear Miss Stein, I understand perfectly how you feel I often feel like that myself. And underneath it he gave her work the highest mark in his course.”

Gertrude Stein, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas

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An Italian Observation

In a few weeks I am flying to Italy, to Siena. I will be staying in the countryside, but perhaps we’ll get into the city, about which Henry James has this to say:

“Other places may treat you to as drowsy an odour of antiquity, but few exhale it from so large an area.”

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New Amsterdam in 3D

Check this out. The New Amsterdam History Project has a 3D rendering of Stone Street during the time of the Dutch settlement. You get a vivid feeling of how low the rooflines were, how close the settlement was to the sea. Interesting to insert your imagining of  The Orphanmaster into this setting.

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Web of Facts

A wolf spider facing off against a honeybee. Now those are two worthy opponents, currently tussling in a cozy corner of the porch rail against a curtain of cicada racket.

A lot like me today confronting my article for the Times T Magazine, scrambling around within my web in an attempt to provide facts for the checkers in the research department. No, the metaphor is not perfect. But it is amazing that for this breezy story of 1,000 words (really an excuse for a lavish design pictorial)  I can dish up 48 annotations. A far cry from book publishing, when it is hoped you know your stuff but no one has the interest/time? to challenge you.

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Word Game

A fill in the blanks poetry writing game: the “adjectiveconcrete noun-of-abstract noun.” Gil suggests the “fat phonograph of lust.”

I suggest the “twinkling morning glories of bliss.” What can you come up with?

The Garden Today

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Croissants at Rest

The butter being whacked first thing this morning, as per Julia Child’s intricate instructions, with an attentive audience.

After the dough is done “resting” a few more times, we undertake the following steps with military precision.

We don’t have the specialized cutter Child prescribes (it looks an awful lot like a mysterious wedding gift we saw Celeste Holm scrutinize  in High Society last night) , so we might have to use an apple corer or a cheese grater. We should be done six hours from now.

In the meantime I’m going out to the garden to admire the morning glories and try to make myself weed.

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Whacking Butter

Croissant dough beginning its long (five and a half) hour rise.

Dough on Grandma’s Table

It’ll spend some time in the fridge before we whack and smear butter, work it into the dough, cut the stuff into precise geometric shapes and shape it into horns. My grandmother’s table is the perfect spot to knead dough, but I don’t think she ever would have made a croissant in her life!

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Kane

Saw Citizen Kane today for the first time in years. I’d forgotten how over the top  it is. Some incandescent camerawork, of course. And moviemaking doesn’t get better than the scene where the young Kane jigs around the room with the dancing girls in his newspaper office, a marching band in the background. I hate the expression “old soul,” but wasn’t Orson Welles one? All that good guy/bad guy, progressive/rapacious millionaire stuff really resonated, especially after learning about I.N. Phelps Stokes, who spent his early years reforming tenements by day then going home to sleep in a castle of his own making by night.

 

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Wilde Child

Late summer: sunflowers hanging their tiger cub heads, cicadas in full throat, ripe tomatoes slumping to the ground. And I just finished the article I’ve been working on for the Times, so I’m happy. It’s about a brownstone on the upper east side whose owners worked for seven years to restore it to its high Aesthetic era appearance — that’s the 1880s to those of you who are not Oscar Wilde devotees. Wilde himself toured the U.S. in 1882 promoting the Aesthetic Movement and shocked people with his sunflower-boutonniere. The interior of the house I wrote about is actually pretty shocking as well, so stuffed with an elegant chaos of wallpapers and gothic furniture, portieres and floor urns that it is hard for the eye to even take in. I’ve never seen a house like it. But wonderful in its own way. I’ll give a link when the article runs.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”  Wilde

Oscar Wilde

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The Bafflement of Animals

I’ve always wondered what goes on in Oliver’s head when I look into his pit-hound eyes.

Maybe this is the answer. I heard Jonathan Schwartz read these lines on his Sunday show… they’re from Edith Wharton’s journal in 1924.

”I am secretly afraid of animals…. I think it is because of the usness in their eyes, with the underlying not-usness which belies it, and is so tragic a reminder of the lost age when we human beings branched off and left them: left them to eternal inarticulateness and slavery. Why? their eyes seem to ask us.”

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Meet You at the Fair

Labor Day at the Goshen Fair in Connecticut. Perfection. Contests all around — the lawn tractor pull, the ox pull (hauling tons of concrete blocks), wood cutting (in which the judge cut down the only girl participating) where people employ special axes costing 500 dollars to dismantle 12 by 12 spruce timbers. The Percheron grand champion gelding, its face looming way over our heads. Contests in canning, with winners like this beautiful corn relish:

and this Jersey cow:

In the Jersey competition, the judge uses “dairy” as an adjective, as in, “I wish she’d be a little more dairy.” The usual 4H contests for goat, sheep and rabbit (this year’s best in show one of those mocha colored ones with the glistening eyes and lap ears). And the adult spelling bee, which we arrived too late to enter, but which challenged participants with words like “nemesis,” “analysis,” and mediocre.”

But the most amazing feats were achieved by those who had nothing to prove, like the stoic sow nursing over a dozen piglets:

or the heifer who managed to look like an art object just by standing there:

Fried belly clams, barbecue, a root beer float (Gil) and a bottomless milk shake (me) under the-end-of-summer sun, with no pressure to go up on the ferris wheel — now that’s a fair. And I came home with 288 yards of wool from a Jacob sheep, just spun that morning, from Snook Farm in Stormville, NY. As ancient as any agricultural fair, The Odyssey, which we listened to in the car, read with imposing dignity by Ian McKellan. They probably had Jacob sheep on Ithaca.

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Eating Weeds

‘We ate weeds,” said a writer who had lived through the Great Depression.

That statement has always impressed me. Are they actually digestible? How would you cook them — steamed like artichokes, boiled for hours like collards, sauteed with a little butter like spinach. No butter during the Depression, maybe margarine instead.

But today I am wondering just what weeds they were — I know people who relish purslane, but the redwood-height plants that shouldn’t be in my garden aren’t purslane. We went in and pulled out a wheelbarrow full today, after putting the state of the garden out of mind for the last month or so.

Two things prosper there. Sunflowers, and eggplant. The sunflowers are mammoth and hang their heads like old fashioned shower heads. They all face out of the garden, toward the swamp, so we see their backs exclusively. Purple and white, the eggplant grow heavy, their skins shining in the sun. Actually there’s a third, the morning glory vine, producing dozens of cerulean blossoms every day. This is the first time in my life I’ve successfully grown morning glories.

But the weeds are still the main crop.

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Back to School

Nothing like a dorm room in New York City, with all the rooftops of the city spread out around you, and a spire in the distance — the Empire State Building or the Chrysler Building, it remains to be seen — and a big window that lets in the Manhattan breezes.

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