Tag: Family

  • Short Story Review: “Ambrose” by Allegra Goodman

    (The short story “Ambrose” by Allegra Goodman appeared in the September 30th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Photograph by Annie Collinge for The New Yorker

    I’m paraphrasing this, but John Lennon said the best way to become a good song writer, is that you first have to write a lot of bad songs. I think that applies to any artist; to make good art, you have to make a whole lot of bad art first. That doesn’t mean that the bad art only serves the purpose of getting the artist to their good art. No, bad art can help in so many ways. That was one of the thoughts that went through my head while reading “Ambrose” by Allegra Goodman’s effectively touching story.

    Here’s a way too short synopsis: Lily is a sixth grader who is writing a story, about the Princess Ambrose, while also dealing with the difficulties of her parent’s divorce. Elements of Lily’s life work their way into the world of Princess Ambrose.

    What Goodman’s story just smashes are the little details. The way Lily decorates her notebook that contains the story, her parents concern, the words and phrases used by grownups talking about kids, and the way Lily sees her parents sitting together when they haven’t in a long time. I appreciated how Goodman approached Lily’s struggles by never belittling them, and though the school might have over reacted, the adults in Lily’s life take her seriously. But my favorite aspect was that Lily’s story wasn’t particularly good, in regard to originality or grammar. Lily creating a “good story” really isn’t the point so much as Lily discovering, maybe subconsciously, that the issues of her life can be expressed and dealt with in the art she is creating. I felt that was a very honest and authentic way to dramatize the creation of this writer, showing us how important it is that she writes this story, even though it isn’t very good. I think lesser writers would have made Lily’s story epic, and original and well written… and that would have missed the point.

    My only criticism of the story is the ending. Not the climax, which was handled very well. No, I’m talking about the last nine paragraphs. After giving us a nice honest moment between Lily and her mother, the final scene is in Lily’s dance class with an odd fitting “deus ex machina” of a substitute dance teacher. This felt tagged on, as if to give Lily a win in the story, or to end on a button. I found it distracting because the story was taking us to a place where Lily, and her parents, are all learning that this life together will be difficult, but they will face it as a family. Just didn’t sit right with me.

    That’s not to say that I’m not recommending this story. “Ambrose” is sweet, and moves with an airy confidence that is charming. Goodman makes Lily a very interesting, and intelligent kid who is going through a time in her life which makes everything a challenge. This isn’t life and death drama, but Goodman shows how impactful moments in a six grader’s life can be.

  • Making Gumbo (assuming that you’ve made it before)

    So… I made gumbo over the weekend. It turned out good, but still not what I was aiming for.

    See, I have a friend who used to live in New Orleans, and he gave me his gumbo recipe a couple of years ago. Not that I do it often, but every now and then, maybe once a year if that, I will get in my head that I really need to eat gumbo. Just happens. Anyway, somewhere back in June, I knew I wanted gumbo when Fall rolls around. This past weekend it was a little rainy and cool, and that makes it soup season in my book.

    Now, over this past Summer, on our travels, I happened to come in contact with a couple of restaurants that had gumbo on the menu. Some of the gumbos were great, some were okay, but none of them were bad. What they all had in common was that they were more stew than soup, multiple proteins (chicken, sausage, shrimp, crawfish… take your pick) and the gumbo’s color was brown.

    When it came to making my friend’s recipe, I did notice one ingredient that stood out to me; a can of diced tomatoes. Not only were tomatoes in his gumbo, but you also added to juice from the can. To me that said this was the reason my gumbo was going to turn out orange. Unless, I took that roux down to a deep brown color.

    That was my plan. It was also my plan to take lots of pictures and put together an awesome food blog post. What I found out was that taking pictures while cooking was not my thing. As in, I just kept cooking and forgot to take pictures. BUT, I did get a couple when it came to making the roux. See:

    Though I didn’t get a final picture of it, I did get the roux down to a dark brown color without ruining it. But as I continued to make the gumbo, and added those tomatoes, what I ended up getting was an orange gumbo, and to be honest, one that tasted more tomato like than what I had over the Summer. That’s not to say the recipe is bad or wrong, because this recipe is solid and tasted good. It just wasn’t what I was aiming for.

    And here’s my thought; I’m just going to have to make gumbo again. Probably in a month, as my family isn’t as hip on testing out gumbo recipes as I am. When I do take another crack at it, I have to say no tomatoes, I want to add okra (I think that will help thicken it) and add shrimp as I only used chicken and sausage this time. I think my roux was fine, no need to mess with that.

    See you in October.

  • Road Trip Thoughts, Part Three (Unedited)

    The drive back to New York City was over two days. We drove four hours to a hotel south of Harrisburg, then on Sunday, we’d drive four more hours and be back home. I had planned for enough time, so if we saw something that we wanted to look at, we stop and it wouldn’t throw off any schedules.

    Growing up, on family car trips, we had a running joke, which was “we’ll hit it on the way back.” See, mainly the only time we took a road trip was to go up to Illinois to visit family, which we did just about every Summer. My father is an easy-going man, but when it came to driving, we had a schedule to stick to. And though we made this trip every year, there were attractions along the way, and when me and my brothers would squawk to him about stopping to see the world’s largest ball of twine, he’d tell us that we’d hit it on the way back. Then two weeks later, as we were passing the exit for the twine, and the old man would ask us if we wanted to stop, all of us wanted to be home badly, so we’d him that we’ll do it next year. You now see how this cycle repeats itself. At some point, we all came to understand that “hitting it on the way back” was as good as a no.

    With the kid in the car, and on a father daughter adventure, I was determined to not say no to stuff the kid wanted to see. Now, deep in my core, I wanted to be home as soon as possible. I still had a sick wife at home that might need some nursing, and I didn’t want to delay her chance to see her daughter as soon as possible. Yet, when we’d see a sign for something, and I offered to stop, the kid kept telling me; she wanted to get home. She wanted to see mom, and be in her bed. I know I could have stopped – forced her to experience a natural cavern with her dad – but forcing her to do something wasn’t the point of the exercise.

    When we checked into our hotel south of Harrisburg, I knew I had to feed the kid. Luckily, there were plenty of chain restaurants all around us – with unlimited salads and breadsticks, chips and hot sauce, or whatever it is they give you at a road house from Texas. None of it sounded appealing to either one of us.

    “What was the one food you were missing at camp?”

    “Sushi.”

    “I can work with that.” One quick search and I found a sushi place two minutes from our hotel in a very gray cement strip mall – and it wasn’t a chain.

    This is where I got my wish, “Order whatever you want.” And she wanted miso soup, and something called Rock Shrimp for an appetizer. I let her pick out the rolls as well, and she selected an eclectic group. Salmon, and tuna, and something with cream cheese in it, which she had never had before and wanted to know what it was like. “Let’s find out.”

    I don’t know if I’m doing a good job as a father, and I bet I will never know. By not trying to screw her up, I know that I am screwing her up. I don’t want her to be afraid to try things in this world, to go out and do something. That was a huge hurdle for me to overcome. So much of my youth was always staying in the orbit of my parents. Never straying too far. They always encouraged me to go forth, leave the nest and explore, so I honestly feel that whatever was holding me back was me. When I broke free and move away from everything that I had known, it was difficult, and I felt like I was abandoning them – I felt guilty. I still feel guilty from time to time.

    I don’t want her to feel like that. Maybe I do force this on her – pushing her out into the world, telling her that she will leave, and that’s okay, and that’s what you should do. Don’t be afraid to leave what you know. I hope it lands; I hope that she learns this lesson sooner than I did.

  • ODDS and ENDS: Vacation, Euro Final, and The End of the World

    (And I knew there was no turning back…)

    I had been out of town for the past week and a half. You could call it a vacation, in the sense that I left the place where I lived and went someplace new. I was Texas, but it was a new town in Texas that I had never been to before. It was Sanger, TX which is small town country Texas. It had been over twenty years since I had been in a region of Texas that was so far removed from everything else in the world. Though that far out in the country is not a place I would like to live (I am a City kid, after all) having grown up in Texas, there is something comforting and reassuring about being in that world of Texas. Not that I even spent a huge amount of time in the country, but if you dive an hour in any direction from the DFW area, you hit flat land, dusty winds, and a feeling that the world goes on forever. I enjoyed my time in Sanger. Yes it was small, but it was small town friendly, and a good place to have a wedding. (I was there for a wedding, if I didn’t say that yet.) It was also fun to show my daughter, who is a real City Kid, what the country is really like.

    And as I was in Texas for a wedding, I wasn’t able to finish my Euro Cup observations. Well, though I was rooting for England, I never really thought they were going to win. Spain just looked dominating, and they seemed destined to win it all. Now, I will say that England put up a hell of a fight (at least that’s what the highlights I saw showed) and it was entertaining, but England will always be the bridesmaid of international football. England had better players, but Spain was the better team. I have a very odd feeling that this was Harry Kane’s last international tournament. With Southgate resigning, which was expected win or lose, I don’t see Kane wanting to stick around. Not that Harry wouldn’t make the squad, but something strikes me that Kane is ready to pass the torch, so to speak. Botton line, I thought the Euro Cup 2024 was exciting and fun and well worth paying the cable fees so I could watch all the matches.

    I don’t like being this guy, but lately, it does feel like the world is coming to an end. Hopefully, it will pass after November, 5th.

  • Short Story Review: “Consolation” by Andre Alexis

    (The short story “Consolation” by Andre Alexis appeared in the May 20th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by André Derainne

    If you have read any of my reviews, then you know that I am a sucker for a story about death, especially if it’s a story dealing with the death of a parent. “Consolation” by Andre Alexis is such a story, as it deals with the death of both the narrator’s parents, but it is also about how parents’ shame can affect their children, can affect a marriage, and can affect the community they live in.

    The piece begins with the narrator telling how he got in an argument with his elderly mother over driving directions, and the narrator was so hurt but his mother’s anger, that he didn’t speak to her for two years. Only when they reconciled, did the narrator learn that his mother had dementia, and most likely the fight was a precursor of her disease. This leads the narrator to recount the death of his father, which happened a decade earlier, and though we feel that the son loves his father, we also learn that the father was a serial philanderer, thrice divorced, and despised by the narrator’s mother for the infidelity. Then the narrator tells us the story of his father, who was born in poverty in Trinidad, worked his way up and out by becoming a doctor, and then married the woman who would become the narrator’s mother. Together, they started a family, and moved to Canada, to a small all white town, where the father dealt with the indignity of the town’s prejudice, to become a respected member of the community. It is also the place where the father’s infidelities began to be noticed, and affect the family.

    This is a well thought out, and written, short story. The characters are compelling. The family dynamic is honest, complicated, and uncomfortable. It’s paced well, has a very unique climax, and I just didn’t like this story when everything is telling me that I should. I have been thinking about, and thinking about it, and I should like this, but something just feels off to me. And today, it came to me; it’s passion. Which is even more striking as there is a paragraph in this story that is about passion – between the father and another woman, and the son realizing that this moment of discovering this passion lead him to his career as a lawyer. That this is a story about passions, between lovers, between family members, how they can spark trust and betrayals. Yet, I found the narration less than passionate, which I can only say was done on purpose. This passionless narration juxtaposed with these lives driven by different forms of passion which elicit reactions of shame, desire, and anger. I go back to the start of the story and the narrator describing the argument he had with his mother. The way it is described is almost clinical, factual, without any hint of what the narrator was feeling. It is an event that is only described and not felt. I get the decision to write this story in this way, to make the point that is needed for it to have its conclusion. This artistic choice left me feeling divorced from the emotions of these characters, which explains why I couldn’t connect with the story.

    I will fully admit that I am the odd man out here. I can totally understand why people will love this story, and be dumbfounded by my inability to relate to this piece. Yes, it’s me, and it is not Andre Alexis. You should read this story, enjoy it greatly, and then shake your head at me for not getting this story.