Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, by Barbara Kingsolver

A family moves from its home in Arizona to a farm in southern Appalachia and, by trial and error, build a new life reflecting on the age old saying: “We are what we eat.” Throughout this work are detailed accounts of the art of growing vegetables, fruit trees, and raising animals for human consumption. Barbara Kingsolver asks:

Will North Americans ever have a food culture to call our own?  Can we find or make up a set of rituals, recipes, ethics, and buying habits that will let us love our food and eat it too? Some signs point to “yes.” Better food – more local, more healthy, more sensible – is a powerful new topic of the American conversation." … 

This book tells the story of what we learned or didn't, what we ate, or couldn't, and how our family was changed by one year of deliberately eating food produced in the same place where we worked, loved our neighbors, drink the water, and breathe the air.

Daughter Camille and husband Steven L.  Hopp contribute throughout the text with collaborating essays and mouthwatering recipes.  Some of Kingsolver’s discourses surround controversy all topics such as global climate change;  CAFO's, or concentrated animal feeding operations, commonly known as factory farms; genetic modification, currently known as GMO, or genetically modified organisms: fair trade: and pesticides , to name a few. Kingsolver's emphasis is on growing our own produce in our backyard and becoming regular customers a farmers’ markets, whose vendors sell local and organic produce.

One section of the book is devoted almost exclusively to the authors’ curiosity and eventual observing and caring for the family’s Bourbon Red turkeys and their offspring, which is quite comical and interesting. Several chapters give accounts of the family’s endeavors of seed saving, harvesting, and freezing are canning items when the season has passed.

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is filled with helpful anecdotes, such as what to eat when the food is out of season. It is not preachy, but commonsensical and witty. There is an extensive references and resource section at the back of the book for additional research. And the authors have added a handy online site with recipes specific to the four seasons. Check it out here.

—Laurie Jones

Poetry is Brewing

The best part of Books, Brew, and Banter is the brew.  No, not the coffee, though it’s good.  The brew that comes from stirring our backgrounds, interests, and personalities together. And right now, poetry seems to be on the hob.

The first drops fell into the pot when we read poet Maya Angelou’s memoir I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.  Then Ken, blogging about his conversation with Truman Capote, mentioned that his brother Ron was a budding poet in those Capote days.  And at about the same time, Pat happened to be reading Billy Collins’ Aimless Love.  And Ronda, passing through a Barnes and Noble on her winter travels, not knowing poetry was brewing back home, almost bought Billy Collins’ newest volume.

Into this thickening brew, people began tossing names:  Robert Frost, Dorothy Parker, Gertrude Stein, Emily Dickinson, Ronald Johnson, Herbert Scott. 

We began emailing each other poems – for example, this one from Marilyn who wrote that it made her cry when she tried to read it to her professor during her freshman year in college.  (She was forty-five at the time.)

For Hettie

My wife is left-handed, which

implies a fierce determination.  A complete

other worldliness.  It’s WEIRD BABY.

The way some folks are always

trying to be different.

A sin and a shame.

But then, she’s been bohemian

all her life . . . black stockings,

refusing to take orders.  I sit

patiently trying to tell her

what’s right.  TAKE THAT DAMN

PENCIL OUTTA THAT HAND

YOU’RE RITTING BACKWARDS.  And

such.  But to no avail.  And it shows

in her work.  Left-handed coffee,

left-handed eggs; when she comes

in at night . . . It’s her left hand offered

for me to kiss.  Damn.

And now her belly droops over the seat.

They say it’s a child.  But I ain’t

quite so sure.

                        Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones)

Also, there seems to be a flurry of media attention to poets in the last few weeks. Deborah Garrison (A Working Girl Can’t Win) celebrated a birthday in February.  Krista Tippet (On Being, NPR) interviewed past poet laureate Mary Oliver.  And The New York Times this past weekend ran a story on the death of past poet laureate Philip Levine.

Now, Lent—that season meant for settling in and getting ready for the great, grave mystery of death and resurrection – is upon us.

Maybe this is a good time to consider the religious poetry of T. S. Eliot (Ash Wednesday and The Four Quartets).  Or the poetry of seventeenth century cleric John Donne, who didn’t separate his passion for God from his passion for Anne More (with whom he had twelve children).  Donne’s fusion of the worldly and the spiritual feels particularly serendipitous on the heels of An Altar in the World. 

Or we might read Gerald Manley Hopkins.  Here is a famous Hopkins poem, and one of my favorites, about God’s revelation of Himself in the physical world.

                God’s Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;	5
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;	10
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

                                               Gerald Manley Hopkins

I’m glad poetry is brewing, that our group is toying with the idea of adding poetry spacers between the book discussions.  We could all use more poetry in our lives.

By Sharelle Moranville

What to eat when, according to Barbara Kingsolver

In today's discussion of Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, we talked about how the book might change our behavior. Several of us said we would probably get fresh vegetables of farmers' markets more often. But we weren't confident, city kids that most of us are, what normally grows when.  So, thanks to Melissa Dunagan for compiling the list below to guide our shopping.

April / May:  spinach, kale, lettuce and chard

May / June:  cabbage, romaine, broccoli and cauliflower

June:  snow peas, baby squash, cucumbers

July:  green beans, green peppers, small tomatoes

July / August:  beefsteak tomatoes, eggplant, red and yellow peppers

August / September:  cantaloupe, honeydew, watermelon, pumpkin, winter squash

My date with Tru

 In the late ‘60s I lived in Topeka, Kansas, married, raising two young daughters and finishing college. The hottest book at that time was In Cold Blood, written by one of my favorite writers, Truman Capote.  It was about the murder of the Clutter family by Richard Eugene Hickock and Perry Edward Smith, in the rural area close to Garden City, Kansas.

The murder and trial had garnered big headlines, and I knew much about the situation since it happened in Kansas, and I had read the book.

My wife’s grandmother was well acquainted with Judge Tate who presided over the trial and held a large party in Topeka in his honor. She was fairly wealthy, having lost three financially well-to-do husbands, and had invited most of the big-wigs of Topeka, and many of the principals involved with the case were also in attendance, including author Capote.

During the party, Capote was in high form and of course was very popular with the attendees, so I didn’t get much of a chance to visit with him then.  However, as the party was ending, some knew that Capote had reservations that evening at a Kansas City hotel, and suggested that it would be great to head there for an after party at the hotel.  There were about three or four car loads, and I was ecstatic to be in the same car as Truman.

So, during the hour or so ride from Topeka to KC, I got to visit with Truman, who I found knew my brother, Ron, a budding poet.  As we were driving into the city, Truman said that, rather than going to the after-party, he wanted to go to the Apollo, which I knew to be a well-known gay bar. So, disappointed that he wouldn’t be joining us, and admittedly somewhat leery about joining him there, we dropped him off at the Apollo.

Without him, the after-party was a dud. But, I bet he had a great time! — Ken Johnson

Grandma's Backyard

While reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, Barbara Kingsolver’s book detailing her family's attempt to eat only locally grown food for an entire year, I was reminded of my grandmother’s back yard where she maintained a chicken coop.

In the ‘40s and early ‘50s, we lived next door to Gram in Ashland, Kansas, a rural town of about 1,400 persons in southwest Kansas, close to the Oklahoma border. It certainly wasn’t unusual for people there to have chicken coops, where they grew chickens and had a ready supply of fresh eggs. Most everyone also had gardens, butter churns, and kept locally grown meat at the local ‘locker’.

To get ready for the evening meal, Gram would head out to the coop, grab the closest chicken, and after taking it out of the coop, would violently wring its neck, breaking the head off. After releasing the chicken, it would literally ‘run around like a chicken with its head cut off’, spewing blood all over the grass.

It was always a spectacle lasting several minutes, and eventually the chicken would run out of steam and drop over dead.  Then she would pick it up and drop it into a boiling cauldron of water on the back porch.  After a few minutes then, it would be removed—ready for plucking. I often had the undesirable chore of removing the stinking feathers and bringing the denuded carcass into the kitchen for cooking.

Today, it’s much less exciting – and cleaner.  We go to the HyVee meat counter and pick up a package of pre-cut chicken. — Ken Johnson

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou writes beautifully and from the heart in the autobiography of her sometimes happy but often painful childhood.  When their parents divorced, she and her brother, Bailey, were sent to live with their grandmother in Stamps, Arkansas.   She was just 5 years old, Bailey, 4. 

Their grandmother was an exceptional woman, kind but strict.  The children helped in the general store she owned and ran in the small, tight-knit all-Black community.

Angelou tells of going to visit her mother in St. Louis and being raped by her mother's live-in boyfriend.  The 8-year-old child was so traumatized that she refused to speak for several years.  She recovered when a teacher, who understood her love of books, encouraged her to read out loud.

Her teenage yeas were difficult.  Angelou grew to be six feel tall, had no self-confidence, believed she was ugly, and had been stung more than once by bigotry.  In her late teens, she visited her mother again, this time in California.   As a result of a one-time encounter, which she initiated to try and reassure herself that she was "lovable," she became pregnant.  The result was "her greatest gift," her son, Guy. 

Angelou went on to become a renowned writer of both books and poetry.  She wrote and read a poem at President Bill Clinton's inauguration. All of her works are written in a direct, personal, sometimes humorous style. She was a civil rights activist, sometimes working alongside Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X.  She also was an educator, a playwright, a singer, composer and dancer; she earned numerous honorary doctorates.  Angelou died in May of 2014.—Gail Allen

Plainsong, by Kent Haruf

A “plainsong” is a simple, unadorned melody, a Christian worship song without instruments, sung in unity. And it’s the fitting title of Kent Haruf’s lyrical novel about mythical Holt, Colorado, its flawed citizens and the angels that help save those most in need, especially the children.

Plainsong, the book, is truly a plainsong, unadorned and melodic. It is a gentle, calm story of human failings and redemption that matches its setting: the quiet plains of windswept northeastern Colorado. The cast of characters includes Maggie Jones, the catalyst who connects lost souls with their saviors; Tom Guthrie and his sons Ike and Bobby, whose mother is not up to the challenge of day-to-day parenting and moves to Denver, leaving the boys to find mothering where they can; the McPheron brothers, bachelor farmers who fill a hole in their lives by informally adopting Victoria Roubideaux, a pregnant teenage whose mother locks her out of the house; and a troublemaking high school student and his obnoxious parents.

At times, I felt like hugging this book because of the goodness of some of its characters, its authenticity and subtle humor.

Haruf is from my hometown of Pueblo, Colorado. Every year when we drive to our Colorado cabin, we pass Yuma, Colorado, which is the model for Holt. And Haruf ended up building a home in Salida, Colorado, one of my favorite places. So this novel had special connections for me. Sharelle Moranville has written about her admiration for Haruf. But we all enjoyed the book and look forward to reading more by Haruf, especially Eventide, which follows the characters five years later.

In a final interview just days before he died in November, 2014, Haruf said, “I want to think that I have written as close to the bone as I could.” He did indeed.— Patricia Prijatel