Worth a Thousand Words

Starry Night Over the Rhone, Vincent Van Gogh
(via Lines and Colors who has a very nice essay about seeing the Van Gogh connections in Arles.)

Miracles ... In Our Time

The parting of the Red Sea, the feeding of the five thousand, the turning of water into wine - miracles. Miracles? Yet miracles have been part of human culture for thousands of years. From beliefs about the shin bone of a saint to ideas about the nature of creation and the laws of nature, miracles have been a measure of disputes within religion and between religion and rationality from St Augustine in the 4th century to David Hume in the 18th. They have also been used by the corrupt and the powerful to gain their perverse ends. Miracles have been derided and proved to be fraudulent and yet, for many, the miraculous maintain a grip on our imagination, our language and our belief to this day.

BBC's In Our Time is back from their break with a look at miracles. Anne is a Man reviews this episode and says, among other things:

... A lot of fascinating aspects were touched upon, but the subject flows like fine sand between your fingers; it is so difficult to get a grasp.

... this is a weakness that is unlike In Our Time: it was too fragmented. There are glimpses of intelligent and provocative thoughts, but they fleet a bit too easily. Still, this is In Our Time, one of the best podcasts around. But be prepared.

Read his whole review here.

Angels and Wonders: Mary's Mantle

Now to get us all in the mood for angelic conversation on Monday, here is a feature story from Joan Wester Anderson's newest book, chosen for us by the author herself.

Mary’s Mantle

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
—Cecil Frances Alexander, “All Things Bright and Beautiful”

When bombs fell out of the sky on Sunday morning, December 7, 1941, Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, was not the only city to suffer. Many areas in the Philippine Islands were also hit, including the city of Baguio. Baguio was a place of pine trees and mountains, surrounded by fields and gold mines, where Lolo Joaquin worked as an engineer. Lolo’s family, all devout Catholics, had spent the weekend visiting him at the mining site, and everyone was driving home to Baguio for Mass when they heard the bombs exploding. Terrified, the family turned the car around and sped back to the relative safety of the camp. For the next several months, they and many others, stayed near Itogon at a mission run by Father Alfonso, a Belgian priest and longtime friend.

Lolo had graduated from the Colorado School of Mining and had American friends, so as the Japanese army invaded city after city, he became involved in the resistance movement. He refused to work in the copper mines, knowing the metal would be turned into bullets used against his friends. His wife, Lola, smuggled messages inside loaves of freshly baked bread to American prisoners in concentration camps. But both knew it was just a matter of time before the Japanese made inroads into more distant areas, and discovered their activities.

Early in October 1942, as monsoon season began, word spread that Japanese soldiers were heading in their direction. “We’ll go deeper into the mountains, to Dalupiri,” Father Alfonso told the families that had been staying with him. They could hide among the Benguet tribe, whose kings were sympathetic to their plight.

The journey began early in the day, but Lolo soon realized that, for his family, passage was going to be difficult. Not only were the Joaquins traveling with four young children, but Lola had recently had a miscarriage and was still very weak. As miles passed and the trails became rockier, she often stumbled and fell. Other families tried to help, and Lolo knew that his was holding the rest of them back. With the Japanese on their heels, this could be disastrous for everyone.


“Go on ahead,” he finally told Father Alfonso. “We’ll catch up.”

Father nodded reluctantly. “We’ll send people back to help carry Lola as soon as we can,” he promised. “God go with you.”

“And you.”

Soon their friends were gone. Frightened, everyone looked at one another. “Daddy, it’s starting to rain.” Nine-year-old Patricia glanced anxiously at the sky.

Lolo followed her gaze. Clouds were gathering, and the sun had dropped, leaving a chill in the air. “Come,” he said, lifting baby Sonny into his piggyback sling. “Everything will be all right.”

But it wasn’t long before the wind picked up and rain pelted the little group. Soon everyone was soaked. The baby whimpered, and seven-year-old Teresita jumped as the trees swayed, whispering ominously. Lola grew increasingly exhausted. The monsoons had begun. How could they go on?

Soon the trail became so narrow that it could only accommodate one person at a time. To the right rose the cliff-side, straight up, stony and forbidding. To the left a precipitous chasm dropped to the overflowing river. The rain continued, pounding them as they struggled to stay upright on the slippery bluff. Finally Lolo stopped. “We’ll sit now,” he said calmly, although Patricia had seen the worry on his face before the last of the light faded. “Your mother needs to rest.”

Slowly the family put down their packs and sat against the rocks. It was dark now, Lolo realized. Even worse, somewhere in the last mile or two, he had lost his way. What should he do? His little ones were exhausted—how could they continue across those treacherous cliffs, especially as night fell? But they couldn’t sleep on the mountainside either, not with these heavy rains and soldiers trying to ambush them.

The wind grew wilder, and soon Lolo stood up again. “Perhaps we should crawl,” he suggested. “One hand on the ground and the other on the wall of the mountain for guidance.”

“Why don’t we light a torch, Daddy?” Buddy asked.

“We can’t, son,” Lolo explained. “The enemy might see it and shoot us.”

Teresita began to cry. “I’m scared, Daddy,” she sobbed as thunder rolled across the mountains. “I want to go home!”

“Hush,” he soothed her, patting her with one hand as he held the sobbing baby in the sling. “Stop crying, my little ones. This is not a good place to be caught by darkness and rain, but we must make the best of it. This situation calls for courage, not fear!”

“What can we do?” Lola asked, drawing four-year-old Buddy close to her.

Lolo paused. “We can pray,” he said. “Haven’t we always turned to heaven when things got bad?”

The children nodded. They had all read prayers from books, or recited those they had been taught. Of course they could pray. But now their father threw out his hands and lifted his voice in a way they had never heard before. “Cover us with thy mantle, oh Blessed Mother of God,” he pleaded, “that we may be saved from all evil and temptation, and from all dangers of body and soul!”

It was a wonderful petition. It had power and hope, and their terror seemed to recede, just a little. Lolo felt it, too. “I have an idea,” he said slowly. “It is too dark now to see ahead, but if we go in single file, each taking the hand of the person in front, we will all feel safer.”

Teresita wanted to be brave. But she trembled as the river beneath them roared. “I’m afraid, Daddy.”

Her father grasped her wet hand. “We will say the rosary as we walk, loud, so God can hear it over the storm! Buddy, you lead the way because you are the smallest and closest to the ground. Is everyone ready?”

“Ready.” Slowly the little group moved forward, water streaming into their eyes, clothes plastered to their shivering bodies. They would not make it. One child would trip, and all would lose their balance, plunging to the canyon below. “Hail Mary, full of grace.” Shakily they clung to the familiar biblical phrases, the reassuring cadence, the memory of their father’s impassioned plea. They would not make it. And yet . . .

The journey seemed to last forever. But as they approached a sharp turn in the path, Buddy was the first to see. “Mama! Daddy!” he shouted. “Look!”

The rain had abruptly stopped, the air seemed sweetly fragrant. And before them, as far as they could see, stretched a long line of luminous candles winding around the curve of the mountain and on to a wide plain. But no—not candles. For these lights were bouncing, dancing, twinkling like stars illuminating the heavens.

They were fireflies! Thousands, millions of them, all hovering about three feet from the ground. In their combined greenish glow, Lolo could see the path as bright as day, even the footprints of the refugees who had gone ahead of them.

Awed, Lola dropped to her knees in thanksgiving. The children laughed, catching some of the little insects and wrapping them in their handkerchiefs. “We can use them for lanterns!” Patricia cried, delighted.

Clutching the baby, Lolo stared at the scene, incredulous. In all his life he had never seen such a huge collection of fireflies in the same place, or massed in a precise pattern like this. Fireflies didn’t come during monsoon season. Nor did they hover close to the ground, preferring
instead the tops of trees. Yet here, hip-high, were an incredible number, waiting for his family, enclosing them—like a mantle of protection, he realized suddenly. A queen’s mantle, edged with gold.

There were more miles to go, but now the path seemed enchanted as the blessed fireflies lighted their way to the little village. Finally! They ran the last muddy yards and pounded on Father Alfonso’s door.

“We had given you up for lost!” the astonished priest cried, coming out to embrace them. “How did you do it? How did you cross the mountains in the dark, in this raging storm?” Patricia and Teresita looked up. The deluge had started again.

“Father, we can’t explain it,” Lolo said. “Look behind us and see this miracle for yourself.”

Father looked past Lolo. But there was nothing at all to see. No fireflies, no softened sky—nothing but darkness and streaming water. Lolo understood. “Has it been raining like this all evening, Father?” he asked quietly.

“It has not stopped at all, Mr. Joaquin,” Father Alfonso answered.

The following day, Father Alfonso called a meeting of the tribal elders, some of them over one hundred years old, and showed them the fireflies left in Teresita’s handkerchief. “Have any of you heard of this?” he asked. “Fireflies coming in a storm to light a traveler’s path?”

The elders conferred. They were experts on the ways of nature, and fireflies. There was no possibility of such a thing, they all agreed.

Such a verdict did not matter to the Joaquins. For they had seen, not only with physical eyes but the eyes of faith. Life would be difficult as they struggled to survive in their war-torn land. But they would not be alone. How wonderful were the ways of God!

"Rapunzel! Why aren't you at the fair?"

The book went on to spin the tale of a charmed girl named Rapunzel, who spent her days in the tower sewing dresses with a friend. She loved when the witch came to visit and teach songs, including one that made Rapunzel's hair grow longer. But tension arrived: One day, Rapunzel looked out the window and saw a fair in the village nearby. She wanted to go, but the witch was off tending to her garden and couldn't let her out. Fortunately, a prince riding by in his carriage called up to her, "Rapunzel! Why aren't you at the fair?"

This was not the fairy tale I vaguely recalled from my childhood - the one with the mother who gives up her child, the vindictive witch, the powerless girl trapped high above the ground. This new version was sanitary and safe in a way that modern parents will easily recognize. In an age when some families ban the word "killed" or come up with creative euphemisms to mask the death of goldfish, it's not hard to see why a toy company would reduce Rapunzel's story to its prettiest parts. Real life, presumably, packs enough trauma for children to think about later.

Read the whole story here

Joanna Weiss talks about the evolution of fairy tales from dark and frightening to whitewash, sanitized "feel good" tales.

Saint Superman, whence I found the link originally (are y'all reading him because he's really great, by the way), talks about what Tom and I often wonder ... has everyone forgotten what it was like to be a kid and experience deliciously scary stories?

When I was ten, I lived in Pan’s Labyrinth, a place filled to the brim with demons and witches, monsters and swords. I hoped my house was haunted, and I prayed for some supernatural thing to happen to me. I wandered in the woods between housing properties at night and at day, looking for some monster, king, or sage, or looking in the dark sky for some flash of alien light. It wasn’t something fearful; I’d read Herschel and the Hanukkah Goblins, and I knew that monsters could be fooled, even if they were not to be trifled with or ignored. It was people that scared me.

I know just what he means. I think, too, that people forget another valuable aspect to the dark side of fairy tales. Not only do children not process them as adults do, but the stories provide valuable lessons for children in dealing with problems later in life. When they are being picked on in the school yard, the last one chosen for baseball, or pointed out as a bad example to the whole class, these stories provide a cultural background that life often is not fair, bad things happen to good people, and that the little guy can win if they keep on trying. Do they think of these things consciously? Nope. But those stories are lurking in the back of their minds nonetheless with valuable lessons for life.

Worth a Thousand Words

Rose Window, Santa Maria del Pi Church, Barcelona
from Barcelona Photoblog, of course!

God Sends His Messages in Humble Vessels

In preparation for Monday's Angelic Blog Tour ... I am rerunning a few of my angel posts. Here's one that is a trifecta of angel stories from friends.

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One of the many lovely cemetery photos taken by Blogging in Paris.

From my friend Don comes this wonderful story.

Something happened this week that reminded me of you and one of your posts awhile ago. I had a business lunch date at a restaurant in Silver Spring, MD. I had gone to confession on my way to the restaurant, and I took a new way across the MD ‘burbs to the place. The drive was lovely—Sligo Creek Parkway. I had driven past it often, and I was always curious about just how much the parkway lived up to the name. As it turned out, it was beautiful. It follows the creek up into Montgomery County; the parklands were thickly forested w/ trails and picnic areas. Just beautiful. We were also enjoying temps in the 70s with no humidity. So the sun roof was open, and old Lyle Lovett was playing in the CD player. I arrived in a fine mood.

My lunch date was late, so I hung around outside. As I waited, a very scruffy older man shuffled up to me. He had bad teeth. His remaining hair was uncombed. He wore an old t-shirt and torn jeans. When he got close, I smiled, and he said, “Your light is shining.” I wasn’t expecting an exchange, and I was kind of distracted. I had no idea what he was talking about—my car’s headlights? I smiled again, and said “Excuse me?” He smiled and repeated, “Your light is shining.” I realized that he was talking about me. I thanked him profusely, and he grinned and wandered off. I was touched, and he efforts seriously brightened a day that was already wonderful. ...

I thought immediately of your posts regarding angels, especially the one about the homeless man on the median. A wonderful lesson: God sends his messages to us in humble vessels. You could go on forever from there.

On the related subject of angels, A. Alve left this comment yesterday on one of my angel posts. It was too good to leave buried there.

A few years ago, I took a one-week vacation in Geneve, Switzerland. I was flying from Lisbon with a stop in Italy. When I planned my return to Lisbon, I booked an early flight from Geneve to Rome and a late flight from Rome to Lisbon. My idea was to spend some hours in Rome to pray at Saint Josemaria's tomb, where I had been 15 years earlier. I had to arrive in Geneve's airport really early and therefore I had to leave the place where I was staying and catch a bus to the airport before sunrise, when it was still really dark. I was travelling alone and I was concerned about my safety. I had to be at the bus-stop, with all my luggage when it was still dark, and that prospect frightened me. The night before I prayed and asked for a safe journey to the airport.

When I arrived at the bus stop, I was relieved to see that there other people there as well, in particular a woman with a long blond hair who had a reassuring and peaceful smile. When my bus arrived, I was happy to see that she took it too. She left the bus before I did, and when she did it, she nodded at me, she smiled and I heard her saying "Bonne prière", which means "Good pray". How could she know what the purpose of my trip was? I had never seen her before, nor had talked to anyone about I was going to do in Rome. Up to now, I have the clear feeling that she was my guardian angel, to whom I had prayed asking for protection. This is one of the happiest memories I have and I wish I could go back in time and experience that moment again. Now I know the face of my guardian angel.

Needless to say that I arrived sound and safe in Rome, where I prayed as I had planned, and in Lisbon.

To make a trilogy of humble vessels, Penni tells the story of how a 3-year-old boy inspired her to make a "Bible flip" that gives her God's answer to her innermost thoughts.

How can this be? This is one of my favorite places to be. I sigh inwardly and make my way out, pushing on the heavy wooden door to go back into the light. Quiet, silent. Disappointing. But even as I leave, I thank God for being with me, even if I can't feel Him. I thank Him for the steadfastness in being with me, even though I can feel no indication He is paying attention.

"At least I hope so," I thought to myself and returned to the clinic for the balance of the afternoon.

Rediscovering Catholicism Sounds Like a Fantastic Book

In Rediscovering Catholicism, Kelly has taken the complicated language out without dumbing anything down. He’s given me a resource that can be easily passed along to anyone - and most especially other Catholics.

He gives tips for the tough things - living an authentic life, say - that make sense AND can be put into practice easily, even as he explains other difficult concepts - like mortifications - in a way that made me see, immediately, how to apply them.

He talks of witnessing and salvation with an enthusiasm that’s hard not to catch. This book burns with a fire that comes straight from the Holy Spirit, and the practical advice Kelly gives is perfect for us normal folk. He writes it as a real person, not as someone who assumes that their canonization will take place five minutes after their death.

And it's free!

Read all of Sarah's review and you'll see why she's so enthusiastic.

As for me? Yes, I've ordered my copy.

Catholic Voter's Guide

Let us begin with some wise words from Pope John Paul II.

Above all, the common outcry, which is justly made on behalf of human rights—for example, the right to health, to home, to work, to family, to culture—is false and illusory if the right to life, the most basic and fundamental right and the condition for all other personal rights, is not defended with maximum determination.”

Christifideles Laici, no. 38

There are numerous places out there to help Catholic voters inform their consciences for the upcoming election.

I would like to direct people to these that cover everything pretty well as far as I can tell.

• The U.S. Bishops' Faithful Citizenship page that has links to informative pieces as well as a pdf of a scripture study, a novena, and (I find this curious) an iPod giveaway for those signing up on their Faithful Citizenship List. (And, yes, I did sign up ... so I guess it's working to some degree.)
  
  I would like to suggest that Catholics especially consider the guidelines in the Statement on Responsibilities of Catholics in Public Life when evaluating candidates. Although the bishops certainly direct this at politicians, the name of the document suggests that these guidelines apply to any Catholics in public life ... or who might be opinion leaders. I would think that this applies to bloggers also, especially those who are popular.
  
  
• Joint Statement from Bishop Kevin Farrell and Bishop Kevin Vann to the Faithful of the Dioceses of Dallas and Fort Worth
  
  
• The Catholic Pro-Life Committee has a Civic Action Voter Education Page. The linked documents have been approved by Bishop Farrell for distribution in the churches and organizations of the Diocese of Dallas.

Worth a Thousand Words

French Cottage, Lavender and Vineyards by Manuela Valenti

Signs and Mysteries: What You Didn't Know About that Fish Symbol

So we all know about why the fish symbol is used by Christians. Don't we? Well, maybe we do ... and maybe we don't. Or at least, maybe we don't know everything about it. As Mike Aquilina is ready and willing to point out. Love these details, don't ya know?

But we have not yet touched on the original and the deepest meaning of the fish. The fish is the primal symbol of the Holy Eucharist. One need not be Catholic to recognize this fact. Erwin Goodenough, an agnostic scholar at Yale University, wrote that the Gospel According to John — which he called “the primitive Gospel” — gives us “the earliest explicit acceptance of the fish as a eucharistic symbol and as a symbol of the Savior who was eaten in the Eucharist.” John does this, in his sixth chapter, by moving immediately from Jesus’ multiplication of the loaves and fishes to the Bread of Life discourse, His most famous eucharistic sermon. Jesus is the bread come down from heaven, multiplied for the multitude. At the end of John’s Gospel, we see the figures of fish and bread return as Jesus prepares a lakeside meal for the disciples (Jn 21:9). For the early Christians, all of these events prefigured the life-giving blessing that Jesus bestowed upon the Church. The Protestant scholar of archeology Graydon Snyder concluded: “the fish was, with the bread, the primary symbol for the Eucharist, the meal that developed, maintained, and celebrated the new community of faith.”

No text could make the association as clearly as one particular depiction in Rome’s Catacomb of St. Callistus. There we see two fish on a gravestone, one fish bearing bread, the other bearing a cluster of grapes: the eucharistic bread, the eucharistic wine . . . and the symbolic eucharistic fish.

Signs and Mysteries: Revealing Ancient Christian Symbols
by Mike Aquilina

Worth a Thousand Words

From Dark Fun by Mercer's Daughter

I really love those big spider webs. This brings back memories of sitting with my mother on her front porch in the night, watching a large garden spider fix up her web to get ready for the evening's catch. Mercer's Daughter has some wonderful photographs that take me back to time in the country (my favorite place, truth to tell). She's an artist so it isn't surprising that her photographs are great. Check her site out.

All Compline, All the Time

Ok, not really. However, The Anchoress has organized her compline prayer podcast into one handy spot to make it easy for everyone. Check it out!

Compline Podcasts

A Father Faces His Fears and Finds, "I now believe Genevieve is here for everyone. "

On the ninth day, she came home, and I began to realize that my feelings of fear and anxiety had changed in a way that no prenatal screening could ever have predicted.

I now believe Genevieve is here for everyone. I believe Genevieve is taking over the world, one heart at a time — beginning with mine. I believe that what was once our perceived damnation has now become our unexpected salvation.

When Gregg Rogers heard that their baby would have Down syndrome, he was terrified. Until she was born. A life-affirming story that reminds us that what we often fear turns out to be a great blessing. Read or listen to this short essay here at This I Believe.

Signs and Mysteries: Christ is a ... Dolphin?

I must admit that one of the pleasures of this book is finding out completely new and surprising symbolism that never would have occurred to me otherwise. Jesus as a dolphin. Hmmmmmm. But when it is explained, of course, it makes perfect sense and I will never look at a dolphin without remembering this.

Christian sailors likened Jesus Christ to the dolphin. Pastoral images of the lamb were remote from their experience. But they knew countless stories of dolphins as rescuers, guides, and friends. As the dolphins appeared in the ancient legends, so Jesus served in life: rescuer, guide, and friend.

Dolphins appear frequently on the walls of the catacombs. As symbols of Christ, they bear the souls of the saints to glory. Sometimes they appear crushing the head of a sea monster or an octopus, representing Satan. Often, they are shown twisted around a trident or an anchor, suggesting Christ on the Cross. In underground Rome there is even an image of a dolphin with an exposed heart.

The dolphin usually symbolizes Jesus Christ. In some instances, however, the dolphin seems to represent not Christ, but Christians. Thus the dolphin, like the lamb, holds an ambiguous position for the ancients: the lamb can represent Christ as “Lamb of God” — or the Christian as member of the Good Shepherd’s “little flock.” These dolphin-Christians appear sometimes in pairs, both swimming toward a monogram or other symbol of Christ.

Signs and Mysteries: Revealing Ancient Christian Symbols
by Mike Aquilina

In Honor of Padre Pio ...

... with whom I share a birthday ... and whose feast day I see it is today (read about his life at Musings from a Catholic Bookstore) I am rerunning this post.

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Padre Pio is one of my favorite saints and I see that I'm in good company. John Allen reports that Italian devotion to Padre Pio is reflected by three Italian hostages who were freed by U.S. Special Forces in Iraq on June 8.

On June 23, all three men, accompanied by their families, made a pilgrimage to San Giovanni Rotondo, the chief national shrine to Padre Pio, in order to give thanks to the Capuchin saint ... The three told reporters they had prayed to Padre Pio during their captivity and promised to make this pilgrimage if they survived.

"I'm very devoted to Padre Pio and I prayed often during our imprisonment," Cupertino said. "They too," pointing to Agliana and Stefio, "were united with me in prayer because they know Padre Pio."

In another twist, Cupertino's 10-year-old cousin Carmelina, after going with her parents to San Giovanni Rotondo on May 31, apparently returned home and wrote "freed" on a calendar hanging above the family telephone on the date of June 8 - exactly the day the Italians were liberated. She says the date came to her in a dream.

Worth a Thousand Words

Roe Deer

Taken by a brilliant wildlife photographer, Remo Savisaar. Click through on the link to see the sequence of photos and many more at his site.

Quick Looks at Movies and Books

How to Pick a Peach: The Search for Flavor from Farm to Table by Russ Parsons

"Eat locally, eat seasonally." A simple slogan that is backed up by science and by taste. The farther away from the market something is grown, the longer it must spend getting to us, and what eventually arrives will be less than satisfying. Although we can enjoy a bounty of produce year-round -- apples in June, tomatoes in December, peaches in January -- most of it is lacking in flavor. In order to select wisely, we need to know more. Where and how was the head of lettuce grown? When was it picked and how was it stored? How do you tell if a melon is really ripe? Which corn is sweeter, white or yellow?

Russ Parsons provides the answers to these questions and many others in this indispensable guide to common fruits and vegetables, from asparagus to zucchini. He offers valuable tips on selecting, storing, and preparing produce, along with one hundred delicious recipes. Parsons delivers an entertaining and informative reading experience that is guaranteed to help put better food on the table.

This description may make the book sound clinical but Parsons infuses it with details and personality that make us relate to what he writes about. The argument about whether fat or skinny asparagus are better? Been there. Argued that. To reduce the heat of a pepper remove the ... no, not the seeds ... the ribs, which is where the capsicum is stored. Aha!

For each fruit and veg he provides a very basic preparation method that we might not have considered. Then he goes on to a few more interesting recipes for each. Not too many, but just enough to pique our curiosity and taste buds and make us want to come back for more. Grade: **** 9 thumbs up.

Gumbo Tales: Finding My Place at the New Orleans Table by Sara Roahen

A cocktail is more than a segue to dinner when it's a Sazerac, an anise-laced drink of rye whiskey and bitters indigenous to New Orleans. For Wisconsin native Sara Roahen, a Sazerac is also a fine accompaniment to raw oysters, a looking glass into the cocktail culture of her own family—and one more way to gain a foothold in her beloved adopted city.

Roahen's stories of personal discovery introduce readers to New Orleans' well-known signatures—gumbo, po-boys, red beans and rice—and its lesser-known gems: the pho of its Vietnamese immigrants, the braciolone of its Sicilians, and the ya-ka-mein of its street culture. By eating and cooking her way through a place as unique and unexpected as its infamous turducken, Roahen finds a home. And then Katrina. With humor, poignancy, and hope, she conjures up a city that reveled in its food traditions before the storm—and in many ways has been saved by them since.

What this description perhaps fails to get across is that this is more about falling in love with New Orleans as a place than being a cookbook. In fact, there are no recipes included, although you may find yourself reading it with a pen and paper nearby for note taking on the numerous cookbooks and websites that Roahen mentions. That's what I did. Roahen communicates fully just how intertwined food and place are in this unique US city. I fell in love with New Orleans (doesn't everyone?) during the course of many visits and, to my limited knowledge, this book rings very true. It is a wonderful way to answer the question that Louis Armstrong put, "Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?" For a more complete review, go to Homesick Texan, which is where I came across this book in the first place. Grade: **** 9 thumbs up.

One Door Away From Heaven by Dean Koontz

“Geneva, even if the girl isn’t making up all this stuff, even if she’s in real danger, you can’t take the law into your hands.”

“There’s lots of law these days,” she interrupted, “but not much justice. Celebrities murder their wives and go free. A mother kills her children, and the news people on TV say she’s the victim and want you to send money to her lawyers. When everything’s upside down like this, what fool just sits back and thinks justice will prevail?”

This was a different woman from the one with whom he had been speaking a moment ago. Her green eyes were flinty now. Her sweet face hardened as he wouldn’t have thought possible.

“If Micky doesn’t do this,” she continued, “that sick b*****d will kill Leilani, and it’ll be as if she never existed, and no one but me and Micky will care what the world lost. You better believe it’ll be a loss, too, because this girl is the right stuff, she’s a shining soul. These days people make heroes out of actors, singers, power-mad politicians. How screwed up are things when that’s what hero has come to mean? I’d trade the whole self-important lot of ‘em for this girl. She’s got more steel in her spine and more true heart than a thousand of those so-called heroes. Have another cookie?"

UFOs, aliens, an empathetic dog, a crippled girl, and a host of supporting characters overcoming past traumas to reach out to others all are combined by Dean Koontz in a book that is the most compelling statement I have ever seen made about the right to life, no matter what one's condition. As always with his novels, few things are what they seem.Two basic plots run parallel before their heroes find themselves coming together to fight off a very evil villain. "What is one door away from heaven," is a question that one character has asked another since her childhood. The answer, along with the overall theme of the book, is enough to make us all examine our lives more carefully ... and be thankful that Koontz's writing reflects his beliefs so honestly. Grade: **** 9 thumbs up ... way up!

On the Waterfront

"Some people think the Crucifixion only took place on Calvary. Well, they better wise up!"

No one in Hollywood today has the guts to write a priestly role like the one Karl Malden played. Also Marlon Brando give us a fantastic look at someone who was raised without very little moral guidance and now has to find his own way amid much conflicting advice. I got this from the library and then was cooling off on it until Tom and I read the description on the back, which I share with you here:

Marlon Brando gives one of the screen's most electrifying performances as Best Actor in this 1954 Academy Award® winner for Best Film. Ex-fighter Terry Malloy (Brando) could have been a contender but now toils for boss Johnny Friendly on the gang-ridden waterfront. Terry is guilt-stricken however when he lures a rebellious worker to his death. But it takes the love of Edie Doyle, the dead man's sister, to show Terry how low he has fallen. When his crooked brother, Charley the Gent, is brutally murdered for refusing to kill him Terry battles to crush Friendly's underworld empire.

I was glad that I had recently read Good News Film Reviews' tip about spotting crosses and crucifixes right before watching this. You wouldn't think so unless you keep an eye out but there is symbolism all over the place. Truly an excellent drama about redemption. Personally speaking, I'm not sure I'll want to watch it again but am glad I watched it overall. Grade - *** Liked it despite the absence of flubber..."

Sunset Blvd.

"The poor dope. He always wanted a pool."

This movie starts off watching a dead man floating in a pool, with a voice over from the man himself. You then hear this quote and you remember that Billy Wilder's dialogue crackles with verve and multiple layers of meaning. We then flash back to see the story of Joe who is an aspiring screenwriter but on the run from repo men when he dodges into a driveway to throw them off the track. He finds a dilapidated house from the 1920's and Gloria Swanson as the equally dilapidated former silent screen star who lives in the past and is planning her comeback. Joe finds himself lured into becoming her rewrite man and gigolo.

It is an unforgettable film that is a blistering expose of Hollywood which still holds true today. Interestingly many stars of the silent screen had parts in this to add authenticity and Cecil B. DeMille actually played a much more significant role than we would have thought ... and did so with surprising gentleness and charm. Grade: **** 9 thumbs up.

For those interested in the Liturgy of the Hours ...

... The Anchoress has been podcasting various prayers either in chant or as plain reading. Highly recommended if that is your cup o' tea. I go in and out of it and when I'm "in" these are perfect.

I'm a Sucker for These Freeze-Frame Improv Projects

This one is in a train station in Osaka, Japan. I especially liked the two policemen checking out a group and the little girl at the end. Via Engrish Brog.

I'm Shocked.

Seriously.

I'm actually surprised that I'm so shocked by this political ad in which Senator Obama responds to Gianna Jessen's appearance in this BornAlive.org ad.

I really thought that I was unshockable in the political posturing arena but live and learn. I supppose I'm shocked because that ad seems to me as if Obama's kicking abortion survivor Gianna Jessen. Or calling her a liar. Or saying that her plea isn't genuine.

I don't like to blog politics, although around this time of the election cycle that becomes a bit more difficult. But I really am genuinely shocked. As I keep saying ... I know, I know.

I suppose they thought by positioning the ad to attack John McCain instead that would keep such impressions from coming through. No dice for me on that. Clearly the the Jessen ad is pointing at supporting McCain instead ... but it is not a McCain ad at all. He'd have done better to ignore the ad altogether rather than give people time to examine the various issues, it seems to me. Especially the one about the bills he voted against...

As The Curt Jester points out:

The truth is that he voted against Illinois' Born Alive Infant Protection Act four times and the last time he voted against a bill identical in wording to the Federal version. What is out of context? His ad quotes a Chicago Tribune article saying "None of those who voted against SB1082 favored infanticide." Well all of those who voted against the bill allowed infanticide and thought a dead baby is a better conclusion than challenging abortion in any way. They made a political calculation that a dead baby was better than any chance no matter how slim that it would affect abortion even if the bill specifically excluded that. For Obama infanticide is alright and truth is "sleazy." Of course Obama also called the NRLC liars for proving that he did vote against the bill identical to the Federal version which was passed 98-0.

If Obama doesn't think that is what those bills are about, he'd better get educated fast.