Mark Bittman in the NYTimes yesterday had recipe for what he called Greek Nachos.
I made this last night (minus the mint, forgot; minus the olives, too expensive) added oregano (Turkish, from Penzeys, couldn't resist) and green onions to the meat at the end. It was wonderful. The feta-yogurt-lemon sauce is absolutely inspired and could find a home in many other dishes. Also, his method of warming pitas (that is, rub with olive oil and heat in 350 degree oven for 10 minutes) gives store-bought pitas just the lift they need to become enjoyable. I had this for dinner last night, breakfast this morning, and finished it off (with some pinot blanc) tonight. The dish did not lose any luster overnight, and I made them more like a regular pita (split, with a spoonful of the goodies inside) and less like a nacho. Highly recommend, and could not stop talking about the recipe today.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Monday, December 22, 2008
The greatest of these is charity
There is an op-ed piece in today’s New York Times that is not really an op-ed in the traditional sense, but rather a sweet story of one man’s grandfather who came up with a novel way to helps his friends and neighbors during the Depression. A newspaper ad placed on behalf on one Mr. B. Virdot “promised modest relief to those willing to write and speak of their struggles.” There was a remarkable response, and Mr. B. Virdot dispatched small checks to many of his correspondents. Excerpts of the letters show honest, hardworking, literate people at their lowest point, and this notion of exchange—trading a story for a few dollars was palatable to those who were bothered by the 'sting and pain of forced charity.'
The author of the Times op-ed was neither aware of this story, nor of the meticulous records that his grandfather kept, until his mother thrust him an old valise stuffed with papers. Here the author “took the suitcase with me to our log cabin in the woods of Maine, and there, one night, began to read letter after letter.”
This seemingly random disclosure throws off the reader. Casting a glance at the bio line, it appears that the author is a professor at Case Western Reserve University. Living full-time in Ohio and having a cabin, especially one of logs, and in Maine, really makes for more questions for than it should. Was this a family home, built by the man who shared his wealth with the town of Canton, Ohio? Did the old man hew the logs himself? Or was the purchase of the house a lark prodded on by a loved one? An investment? A dare?
It would have been sufficient for the author to note how he took the letters from the case, and read them one at a time, savoring particularly beautiful turns of phrase, or lamenting the crumbling state of the letters themselves, and reflecting on how privileged he was to be part of this odd little history. The fact that he had to pack the letters in his car, drive them up to Maine, unpack them from the car, and stow them in such a place until he was ready to read them, is a distraction, and takes away from the full force of the small story about his grandfather.
What is missing from this piece is the author’s personal memory of his grandfather. Biographical information is provided, like any resume. The author includes another quirky example of the man’s charity (such as the hundreds of overcoats he sent to the British troops in 1940, each with a handwritten note, “urging them not to despair and expressing America’s support”). There is no trace of the impression that the grandfather left on the author as a youngster or even a young man. Did his watch his pennies by wearing worn and mended clothes or saving string? Was he particularly benevolent to beggars? Was there a key to this man’s later behavior—something that a child would notice— that would cast light on his Depression-era generosity?
The general thrust of this piece is not just the story of the generous grandfather, but to draw parallels between the Depression and now The author claims to “hear the words of our neighbors”—those cast out of jobs and who have lost homes. But the story of Mr. B. Virdot is not about a man who solicited and “heard” stories of hardship, but a man who acted. The lesson of Mr. B. Virdot is not in the listening, but in the doing.
The author of the Times op-ed was neither aware of this story, nor of the meticulous records that his grandfather kept, until his mother thrust him an old valise stuffed with papers. Here the author “took the suitcase with me to our log cabin in the woods of Maine, and there, one night, began to read letter after letter.”
This seemingly random disclosure throws off the reader. Casting a glance at the bio line, it appears that the author is a professor at Case Western Reserve University. Living full-time in Ohio and having a cabin, especially one of logs, and in Maine, really makes for more questions for than it should. Was this a family home, built by the man who shared his wealth with the town of Canton, Ohio? Did the old man hew the logs himself? Or was the purchase of the house a lark prodded on by a loved one? An investment? A dare?
It would have been sufficient for the author to note how he took the letters from the case, and read them one at a time, savoring particularly beautiful turns of phrase, or lamenting the crumbling state of the letters themselves, and reflecting on how privileged he was to be part of this odd little history. The fact that he had to pack the letters in his car, drive them up to Maine, unpack them from the car, and stow them in such a place until he was ready to read them, is a distraction, and takes away from the full force of the small story about his grandfather.
What is missing from this piece is the author’s personal memory of his grandfather. Biographical information is provided, like any resume. The author includes another quirky example of the man’s charity (such as the hundreds of overcoats he sent to the British troops in 1940, each with a handwritten note, “urging them not to despair and expressing America’s support”). There is no trace of the impression that the grandfather left on the author as a youngster or even a young man. Did his watch his pennies by wearing worn and mended clothes or saving string? Was he particularly benevolent to beggars? Was there a key to this man’s later behavior—something that a child would notice— that would cast light on his Depression-era generosity?
The general thrust of this piece is not just the story of the generous grandfather, but to draw parallels between the Depression and now The author claims to “hear the words of our neighbors”—those cast out of jobs and who have lost homes. But the story of Mr. B. Virdot is not about a man who solicited and “heard” stories of hardship, but a man who acted. The lesson of Mr. B. Virdot is not in the listening, but in the doing.
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