Under a Red Roof

My Life in France

April 2, 2010 in Reading, Spotlighting, Writing by Colleen | 6 comments

Without intending to, I’ve been on a bit of a reading hiatus. I’ve started a few that I actually intend on finishing, but just couldn’t fully get into them. Thankfully, dear Julia came to the rescue. I put my name in the library queue for this last year, probably in September, and it finally made it to the top of the list. This can be blamed on the fact that, if you look at the sticker on the cover, I read the LARGE PRINT edition, of which there is only one copy. But, alas, as silver linings abound under this red roof, the book arrived in the right state, at just the right time. I felt so gloomy last Monday, wondering about my life. Then, when I started to read this boisterously large print, it was like having Julia’s effervescent personality reading aloud to me, the words bright, lively, and heartfelt. The two of us sat in my favorite chair, while she told me all about her remembrances of la belle France, delicious food, and the perils of finding direction a bit later in life, for much like me, Julia Child knew what she didn’t want before she knew what she wanted, and then everything just felt right.

The story moves in time, from her first view of France at Le Havre, at the age of thirty-six, to her last day, closing up her beloved getaway La Pitchoune for the last time in 1992. From her first meal to her last, Julia describes, in glorious detail, what a joy it was for her to discover French food and immerse herself completely in the mind boggling detail of its creation, the painstaking formulation of recipes, and testing, so much testing! Batch after batch of mayonnaise down the toilet, yet totally worthwhile for the knowledge and pleasure it brought her. She also writes about the perils of the publishing world, of working so hard for so long only to wonder if anyone, beyond her loved ones, would ever see the merit of her work. (Gulp.)

Though I certainly got a kick out of her love for all things French, in and out of the kitchen, it was the relationship between Julia and Paul that resonated most with me. They were such a delightful pair: witty, caring, and fun, too. They gave marvelous parties, sent charming Valentines (they weren’t organized enough to send cards at Christmas), loved each other beyond measure, supported each other through thick and thin, and were, quite simply, the best companion each could ask for.

A bit of humor and wonder in the end. The picture shows the lunch I was enjoying as I was reading. I set the book down, and realized, what I was eating – a kiwi, carrot, sliced spicy pickle, and a breaded Quorn patty, slathered in homemade “Come Back” sauce (mayo, yellow mustard, ketchup, and pickle relish) and topped with pickled peppers. Though I made the pickle and the relish, the irony of my choice, and Julia’s certain horror, made me laugh out loud. Truth be told, I can be a very lazy cook, and thought I might be doing the world and the environment a favor by eating Quorn. It’s vegetarian and doesn’t make me feel awful, like soy. Now I’m not so sure. The stuff is made in England. That’s a tad further than the farms where New Seasons gets their chicken (as our friend Hans would say, “Which is more worser?”). With that in mind, I felt inspired to make and freeze some chicken with various seasonings for other lazy lunches. I think she would approve.

Tags: Books, Cooking and Baking, Reading

Cloudy Monday

March 22, 2010 in Being, Thinking, Writing by Colleen | 6 comments

When I was a teacher and a student approached me, bemoaning the fact they didn’t know how to start a particular essay, I would say, “Just begin. Write a sentence, a paragraph, the same silly word over and over again, see what happens.” I find that I am having to take my own advice today. I don’t know quite what to say. Lost..Lost. Lost..Lost. Sad. Sad. Sad..Sad. Disappointed. Disappointed. Disappointed.

And now I begin. I feel lost. I don’t know what to do about my life, and, in particular, my writing. The other day, I was in the car with the hubster; I do not even recall what the conversation was about, and he said, rather matter of factly, “You’re not writing a second book.” My stomach lurched. “I’m not?” Am I? I don’t know. I haven’t touched it in a year. I think about it every day. The characters do new and surprising things, they change their minds, increase in boldness, but I don’t write a single word of it down. Sometimes I would like to blame it on this space here and my desire to keep it going, but I really don’t know that it is true. If I really wanted to write, I’d do it. I’d stay up late (at least for this granny), like I did with my first book, bleary eyed and enthusiastic and feel the words flow from my fingertips. Then, just when I couldn’t do any more, I’d watch Craig Ferguson before retreating downstairs and cuddling with the hubster.

I feel sad that I want so much more than I have, especially when I have so very much. I want my body to look like the idealized version of it that is in my head. I want to be a famous and financially independent novelist (Reading is Sexy!) who turns her awesome book into an Oscar winning screenplay. When I win, I want to stand on stage, in the aforementioned perfect body of my imagination, wearing a stunning dress that Tom Ford designed just for me, tell the hubster he is BETTER than sliced bread and George Clooney and sing the praises of believing in your dreams.

I am disappointed that I have sent out over thirty letters to agents and publishers and only had one even remotely interested in representing me. I am disappointed that I haven’t had the heart to send out a letter since December. I am disappointed that it always seems I can see my dreams, smell them even, they are so close, yet impossibly out of reach. I am disappointed for sharing this with you. I always meant for this to be a positive and uplifting place, full of possibility and hope, but the truth is, I truly feel lost, sad, and disappointed.

Maybe there is, as appears in the photo, a silver lining. Maybe, I just need to make a clearing (I’ve heard this a lot lately) for whatever it is that I am supposed to say, be, do, or feel. Maybe, I need to be okay with not having answers, being sad, and just wondering. Maybe, just maybe…

Flow

March 11, 2010 in Writing by Colleen | Permalink

The loudly simmering whirlwind renders

Golden bolts of bronzed shelter.

Knotted, but paradise.

Mossy, ruby ladder

Running cold.

Roses ramble,

Watching music, night, and rain.

Colleen Sohn

Tags: Poetry

A Whiffle and a Zoom: The Story Before Tomorrow

July 20, 2009 in Remembering, Writing by Colleen | 2 comments

I peer out the window as the car pulls up in front of the house, five humans tumbling out, tired and travel weary. I am weary, too. I wonder what might become of this weekend. Mere days before insides will literally be taken out, via three small incisions. That point continues to be emphasized. Three small incisions. No one has to know. But they do. I am a truth teller, truth sharer. I can’t help myself – the girl can’t help it. Well, mostly.

I keep from my friends that I am terrified of three young things in my house, onto my furniture and floors. They laugh and smile and one cries, uncertain of this under a red roof house. It’s okay; sometimes fear lives here, too. The bear is broken, and the fear is replaced by something softer, lighter: joy.

The trio makes eager, thumping sounds as they descend stairs. Their voices carry, and they like the television loud. I see their small bodies, clothed in character jammies. I remember Underoos. They happily munch cereal and watch the birds and bees. One night under a red roof under their belts, a beautiful, hot day ahead of them.

The day whirls and twirls, a burger at the outside diner, an old friend and a boy whom I once knew crawling, not talking. Now his words and thoughts roll and rock as steady as a boat at sea. His hair is long, nearly covering his eyes, though his mother’s eyes, too, that brilliant, beautiful blue. They both look at me, but, for the eyes, it’s really just like one. Oh no, I’m late! I’m late, for a very important date!

My mush mind is home again, and we dash to THE appointment. The one that spells s-u-r-g-e-r-y. There is a lot that will happen and other bits we sincerely hope not. I take a tissue, but only squish it in my hand. I d o n o t c r y. I am not afraid. It is almost here, and I am not afraid. There are marvelously beautiful people that surround me: doctors, nurses, family, and friends. They make phone calls, send beautiful cards, give giant bear hugs, write sweet comments, all brands of love to keep me afloat in appreciation and wonder.

Milestones. Triplets frolic in a fountain. A sweet boy sits on my lap. Dinner at the Country Cat. A tooth is lost. My heart is broken apart by the love of small children. We sip cocktails and eat splendid food. Drowsy adults talk until there are no words left.

Morning comes. We eat and scurry. Our caravan climbs the hill to Forest Park, vistas and trails await us. Green and lush, filled with voices of excitement and a hush that is wonder. A giant banana slug. Spiders. Ferns. Birds. We search for the letter “K.”

More hugs and a departure. The house is quiet, and we wait. Tomorrow is the day.