At the eleventh hour, I compose a few e-mails.

TO: One of my favorite students

FROM: your professor

DATE: The day grades are due, @ the 11th hour

RE: I have a question

Remember last week, when I told you how strong your work was, and what a fine job I thought you had done this semester? And we both got tears in our eyes?

In light of this memory, I feel I must ask you: where is your final exam?

_________

TO: One of my favorite students

FROM: your professor

DATE: the day grades are due, @ the 11th hour

RE: I have a question

Remember how we met two times during the semester, the last time in late November? And how, at that time, I read a bunch of your work and gave you feedback, preparatory to you revising and submitting your final portfolio? And I praised that work?

In light of this memory, I feel I have to ask you: where is that portfolio?

Christmas. Finally.

Dear Meltdown,

I appreciate that you waited patiently until six days before Christmas to point out to me that we really really really needed a Christmas tree. But, dear Meltdown, you did not so forcefully point this out until just after the television started to make the in-your-face gesture of a blue screen, which threatened to take away one of the most basic of human rights, the right to lie in bed and watch a little television, especially before falling asleep. That blue screen really kicked the "We Need A Christmas Tree NOW" campaign into high gear, so that, in fact, we did go get a Christmas tree. Three of them. Live, planted in pots, and 40% off at Lowe's. They are glowing in the living room as we speak.

Dear Meltdown, I also appreciate that you did not assert yourself in the face of the grading that still, still is waiting to be finished, especially if by "finished," we mean "started," really.

I appreciate that you, Meltdown, abated while I made the pizzas for the belated birthday party for Running/College/post-Mission son, and that you withdrew entirely for the viewing of Christmas Vacation that was the specified activity for the post-pizza evening.

But that rant by Clark Griswold--you know the one, the one that ends "Hallelujah! holy shit, where's the Tylenol"? That rant, dear Meltdown, that rant reminded me of you.

Sincerely, lisa b.

On sports and sports movies.

I do not love baseball, either playing or watching. But I love baseball movies (Bull Durham, Bang the Drum Slowly, Bad News Bears, The Natural [is this really a baseball movie? probably not.]). I do not love football. But I love football movies (North Dallas Forty, Any Given Sunday, Invincible, etc.). And--here's a theme--I have no idea if I love hockey, but I do know I love hockey movies (Slapshot, Mystery Alaska,). I actually love soccer, watching and playing, and also I love soccer movies (Bend it Like Beckham, Victory). Running? cannnnnnnot love running, but I adore running movies (Chariots of Fire, Personal Best). And I love basketball in all its forms, especially the movie form (Hoosiers, He Got Game, White Men Can't Jump, possibly others too embarrassing to mention).

And boxing movies: I'm pretty sure I don't have what it takes to actually see a boxing match. I once watched Ali fight Spinks (I think) on television, and it was hard to watch, how he stayed on the ropes and took the punches to the body. But a boxing movie is great. I just perused a list of boxing movies and there are a bunch of great ones I have not seen, but we just saw The Fighter tonight, and it was entirely satisfying in the way that sports movies are. It's partly about the kind of naked need to prevail, but it's more about the life in the body, I think, the in tune-ness that an athlete exhibits. And a good actor can convey what an athlete does, living in the body in a way that is completely at one with character.

Some stuff I could tell you about.

1. how my oven has it in for me.

2. how our lights are flickering, dimming, then brightening (poltergeist?).

3. how we're calling an oven repair guy and an electrician guy tomorrow morning (also: exorcist?).

4. how the e-mail is still a-tricklin' in.

5. how there is a dearth of excellent Christmas movies showing up on television at the moment--is The Wedding Crashers a Christmas movie? I submit to you that it is not.

6. on the other hand, if I never see White Christmas again, that will be just fine with me.

7. how we ate (a) jasmine rice, (b) broccolini, and (c) plain old salad, plus (d) oranges and bananas for dinner: the plainest dinner ever. Did it ever taste good.

8. how it is super cold when you walk the dog at 11:15 p.m.

9. how I got a draft of a poem ready for my writing group.

10. how I still have so much grading to do.

But I can't tell you about any of these things, because it's bedtime. See you tomorrow.

p.s. I really want to eat these.

Realistic.

I planned, this week, the week of finals, to be in my office on several successive days, to allow for drop-ins (drive-bys?) from students with questions or last minute thises and thats, to do some grading, to write some documents, and probably to deck the halls with boughs of holly falalalalalalalala, etc. A sensible person would have had a more focused, a narrower, a more realistic agenda. Also, a sensible person would not have set a final due date of tomorrow for stuff to come in. (Note to self: must be more sensible about due dates!) Needless to say, this is more of what happened:

On Monday, I arrive. I plug in. I take a sip of a warm beverage. I contemplate my list. Then, Unexpected Person Number One drops by to say, "Hey! remember when you gave me that incomplete exactly one year ago? Whaddya know, I finished my stuff! It's on my e-portfolio! Have you read it yet? When do you think you'll be able to turn in my grade?" I tell him I will definitely read his work, give him the grade he has earned, definitely by the deadline.

I sip my beverage. I open an e-mail. I sort through what I have and don't have from my students. I send a few e-mails of the "When might I expect this item from you, this item that was due yesterday?" variety. Then, Unexpected Person Number Two drops by to say, "I have a disaster, and you are my faculty leader. Fix it." I tell this person I will fix it, I surely will. I assure this person I will write a strongly worded e-mail, I will make a phone call, I will raise holy hell. I take a gulp of the beverage, and look at my list, and revise my expectations downward.

Etcetera.

It is the end of Wednesday, I have not written any documents, I still have stuff to sort through and numbers to plug in on my grading grid. This week thus far, I have not, in fact, graded one thing whatsoever. Also, I have Christmas presents to buy for the grandchildren! And, for that matter, a Christmas tree. And I need butter. So here is my new plan:

1. Grade things. Everything, in fact.

2. Buy a Christmas tree.

3. Buy some butter.

4. Bake like a madwoman, after the grading is done.

I hope you'll notice that "grade things" was the number one item on my agenda. That means I gots priorities.

Change in the weather.

The wind felt like it was blowing from the north, with us walking into it and it blowing incipient rain or snow in our faces.

I wore something warm, but not warm enough.

In the west, the sky was red or orange or rose--something in that vein--at 10:30 p.m. What's that? we asked ourselves. Was it wind or traffic we heard, or was there a beating of rotors out there? was that light sweeping across the sky?

The dog gallivanted. He raced ahead, dove deep into the yards we passed, turned back on us to play.

The snow is supposed to arrive at midnight. At midnight, there is supposed to be snow.

Monday Ops.

Today had the following elements that had to be planned and carried out with surgical precision:

• birthday breakfast for running/former-missionary/college son (happy birthday!)
• arrival at office when I said I'd be there
• numerous items on the long, long list of shit I had to do
• leaving my office on time so that I could make a luncheon appointment
• leaving my luncheon appointment so that I could shop for two baby gifts for the two (2) new grandchildren who have recently arrived in our family (hooray for babies!)
• expert shopping, so that I could arrive home by 3, so that
• running/former-missionary/college son could take my car to his first interim class meeting at 3:30 p.m.
• packaging up the baby gifts so we could go visit the babies
• visiting the babies, one at home, one at the hospital
• arriving home in time to watch The Closer.

In an example of the crack timing I executed today, let me say that I shopped like a ninja. I was in and out of that Target with two baby jammies and two baby blankets, two festive gift bags, coordinating tissue paper, and a copy of In Style, like it was my job. My ninja job.

In a break from the ninja work, we held two beautiful tiny babies. One of the babies was at home, with her sisters milling around and talking about the Christmas tree (Us: What do you want for Christmas? One of the baby's sisters: I forgot. Us: How about an orange? Sister: . . . or a banana? Us: how about both? Sister: [shrug]); the other, brand new, was still with his mother at the hospital, where it was quiet, even hushed.

Holding a baby is the opposite of ninja work. Holding a baby is the antidote for the suspicion that you might be rushing around just a little too much.

A couple of notes on writing.

1. Your plan is nonsense. That list you've made of what you're going to do today, during the 3 or 4 hours you've got to write? You will almost certainly not accomplish what is on that list. And if you do, it won't be an actual accomplishment, more like a gesture in the direction of the eventual accomplishment. You hope. Because that's how writing is.

2. You are going to flail. Just because the last time you took 3 or 4 hours to write, you were able to draft two whole new poems about of your piles of notes, it doesn't mean you're going to turn this particular pile of notes into a whole new draft. Probably, what you'll do is add more notes to the pile. More notes do not add up to a draft.

3. Writing does not necessarily make you feel good, at least not right now. If only you weren't in a coffee house, with people studying for their math exams on the left, their chemistry exams on your right, and talking on their cell phones straight ahead of you--if those people weren't there, and if Christmas music weren't playing overhead, and if all the above weren't be punctuated by steam and clinking ceramics, you could just break down and cry like you want to. Come on. You know you want to.

4. Sometimes the notes you added to the pile of notes yesterday turn into a draft today. Yippee!

5. So it turns out, that list actually does help. It just might take you a little longer to cross stuff off. A little longer, or a lot longer.

I have been hearing the following in my brain.

You can listen, too.




I Walked, Sufjan Stevens

Radiohead, Karma Police

Philip Glass, Etude 1

Billy Bragg (with Wilco and Natalie Marchant), Way Over Yonder in a Minor Key

Stats: pre-solstice, post-teaching.

Teaching: done.

Baked goods: one cake baked; eaten. None remaining.

Illness: inevitable possible cold.

Grading: all still awaits.

Movies: two.

Mood: rainy but optimistic.

Crossword: yesterday's.

Housekeeping: que porquería.

Young men in their twenties in the house: two.

Online status: powering down.

Semester: almost, almost over.

I am so so very tired.

I had this distinct thought while I was teaching today--actually still teaching, on the very last day of class--"Why am I still talking?"

So much talking.

I am looking forward to the grading, in silence.

Endings: an FAQ.

Q. How would you describe the final exam you just wrote for your Grammar & Style students?

A. Fun. No, wait: transplendent.

Q. Tomorrow, will there be cake in class?

A. I believe so.

Q. Will Reading Day be a quiet day?

A. Unfortunately not.

Q. Have you done all that you could?

A. I am not sure.

Q. But will there be cake?

A. I hope so, I really do.

Q. And is your conscience clear?

A. Not quite: it is not quite clear.

Q. And will there be cake?

A. If I make it, there will be cake.

If the semester were a footrace,

it would be a marathon. And I am not even a runner. At all.

An open letter to Going Out on a Weeknight.

Dear Going Out On a Weeknight,

Most evenings, I think of you as a vestige, still to be grasped at fleetingly, of my slightly younger, not yet quite fully fatigued self. That is, when you present yourself, Going Out On a Weeknight, in your cute clothes and high-heeled shoes, an opportunity, a possibility, a proposition, I feel I should take you up on the offer, just on principle. Because if I don't, I must face the probability that life is passing me by. That I am an old-timer, sitting on my porch in a rocking chair, shaking my fist at the young 'uns and spitting my chew into a tobacky can whilst reminiscing about the good old days, when I used to go out on a weeknight regularly.

I don't like feeling like that, Going Out On a Weeknight. I don't like feeling elderly and crotchety. I don't like feeling like horizontality is the most I can hope for, once I slump home from work. What about being vibrant? How about seizing the day, dammit? Going Out On a Weeknight, it's kind of paradoxical, but while you shimmer and pizzazz out there on my calendar, acting all fancy-free and having not even a whiff of the "but it's a school night" about you, really you just make me feel kind of fancy-fail and TOTALLY "but it's a school night." How do you do that, exactly?

What I would like most, Going Out On a Weeknight, is for you to pose your invitations more sparingly. What with the once a week poetry readings, the once a month jazz concerts, the end of the semester events, the thises and the thats, I find myself facing you pretty much at every turn. It's not nice to do that, Going Out On a Weeknight. It's not nice to flash your sassy smile at me almost every night, as if to say, "Hey! How's abouts we go out tonight? A weeknight! Won't that be shiny?" You have to know that all those invitations are going to make me wilt. But I'm starting to think you kind of enjoy that. And--I think this goes without saying--I'm starting to resent it a little.

I get it, Going Out On a Weeknight. You're young. You're full of zip and razzmatazz. Whereas I am full of "let's put on the slippers and call it a night." I believe you've made your point, Going Out On a Weeknight: now give it a rest.

Sincerely,

htms

Today while drifting through the winter smog

I talked to Scotland, made some crepes, read the Times, wrote a couple of drafts and revised another poem, listened to Sufjan Stevens and Glenn Gould, ate leftover enchiladas, walked the dog, watched a movie with my daughter, thought about my life, wished I had Christmas lights up, thought about John Clare and getting lost, sent some worky e-mails, corresponded with students, and wished I had a piece of pie. And now I am in my dressing gown and shall read and do a crossword and dream about next week.

That is all.

Soon.

Soon there will be grading a-plenty, and after that or maybe before, a Christmas tree and lights, and baking and gift-buying and birthdays, at least at my house, and festivities galore. GALORE.

But before that, I am trying to do a little writing. This afternoon, I went down to the Roasting Co. for a few hours and took out my second manuscript, the one that I worked on during my sabbatical, and tried to do a little assessment and revision. The last time I did this was one month ago, I happen to know, because one month ago was the date on the notes and drafts I looked at then.

I have to say, it felt good. It took a minute, though, to get in gear. First I had to locate everything, both hard and digital copies. Then, I had to note which drafts were pretty far along, and therefore closer to finished, and which ones weren't really drafts at all. Then, I had to assess my resources--my inner resources--to see which project I was capable of addressing.

I got there when it was still light--at 2 in the afternoon. I had to sit tucked away in back because there were no window seats, but that was okay--less traffic. When I left, it was dark, but I had a draft that was significantly closer to being finished(-ish) than when I arrived. I believe I will do the same tomorrow, and hope that it takes a little less time from arrival to sinking in. I have three fat piles of notes that aren't drafts yet, and I think I will try to get one of those into a draft(-ish).

Perhaps tomorrow, I will also grade. But I believe that before I grade, I will write.

The best part.

The best part of mole poblano is how complex it tastes: it has sweetness to it, like a fruit or, yes, probably the chocolate, but a faint bitterness in back of that, and then there's heat, a little, and it's earthy and round.

The best part of mole poblano is that it is more versatile than its usual applications imply: I made enchiladas with it, and the vegetarian ones, with goat cheeses and chopped squash peppers onion mushroom were so good.

The best part of mole poblano is coming to understand the character of those dried peppers: mulato pasilla ancho: torn into pieces and fried, the unbelievable aroma of them frying, then soaking and pulverizing them, their pulp the deep dark basis of the sauce.

The best part of mole poblano is that I made it, that I made it over the course of three days, that it was an ordeal and a process, and that that ordeal, that process, yielded something so completely satisfying.

And that is the end of the mole poblano. At least, the end of the mole poblano posts--I have a lot of the actual mole left.

Long day in high heels.

. . . but a good day. We celebrated the new issue of Folio, our student literary and arts publication. I am on a predictable high after a predictable era of mounting anxiety. We had tons and tons of students submit, published more work than we've been able to before (at least since I've been the faculty advisor), and have a new website with web-exclusive stuff. Overwhelming, the good stuff. This is why being a teacher is a great job--because you get to see these students make something amazing happen.

oh gush gush gush gush gush GOSH. But I dressed up for the event, including wearing high heeled boots, which were just fine till around 4 p.m. when I realized that, predictably, my feet were tired of being high heeled. Anyway, the event, which started at 6 but really started at 6:20, ended at about 8, with us getting home around 8:45. Whoa. That is a lot of high heeling.

Why high heels, you ask? Because, I answer. Because: Folio. Folio is worth dressing up for. And having hurty feet for.

In other news: I have now tried to order Watermark, a book of prose poems about Venice by Joseph Brodsky, for the third time. The first two times I ordered a used but in good condition copy from two different Amazon Marketplace booksellers. Each time, I got an e-mail a day later saying, Whoops, so sorry, we're out of that book. And I was all, well why'd you say you had one, then? Just because the New York Times travel section mentioned it on Sunday in an article about going to Venice in the wintertime which I totally want to do and so, apparently, does everyone else in the bookbuying universe. Anyway, it's a dirty plot to make me buy a new copy from Amazon. Which I did. Today. Hopefully this order will stick.

In other other news: For those of you watching the mole poblano situation closely, there is a mole update, if not much of one. This morning before work, I went to the Mexican grocery store. They had ancho, pasilla, and mulato chiles. So I bought them. Also, regarding the family dinner that the mole poblano is a part of: I lied to myself today, saying, "When I get home I will make the tres leches cake and also the pumpkin flan! It won't matter that it will be after the Folio reading and I will have hurty feet and also won't feel like making two desserts anyway, not to mention tearing up chiles, frying them, and soaking them. No! I will be making cake and flan!" So now I'm telling myself another lie about how I will get up early early to make a tres leches cake and pumpkin flan and fry the chiles etc., even though probably I will get up at 8, as usual. And yawn around for a minute or an hour. Why? Because: Folio. Folio is worth sleeping in and yawning around for.

Mole poblano.

[So: I am making mole poblano with turkey for a family party. I have never made it before. I will be reporting in stages. Rick Bayless is my guide.]

[Note to anyone who is coming to the family party: this will be delicious, I promise. But do not pay attention if you don't actually want to know what is in the dinner. I mean it.]

Stage 1. Toast the seeds and toast some other stuff as well.

But first, put 3/4 of a 15 oz. can of tomatoes in a bowl. Or, guess how much is the equivalent portion of a 28 oz. can, and put that in a bowl.

Then, crumble 2/3 of a tablet of Mexican chocolate into the tomatoes. Try to think of this as a step and not something really disgusting.

Then, assemble all your ingredients for the toasting before you start the toasting. Or, if you are me, toast and scramble for the next item in the list: sesame seeds, coriander seeds, chile seeds (see note below). Then almonds and raisins. Then onion and garlic, a tortilla, and two slices of stale bread.

The toasting seeds is aromatic and not something you should do whilst scrambling for the next item on the list. Happily, there was no scorching. Toasting chile seeds is a heady--not to see cough- and sneeze-inducing--experience for the 30 seconds it lasts.

A note on chile seeds: For this recipe, you are supposed to tear apart piles of dried chiles, taking out the stems and ribs and reserving 2 t. of the seeds. Except I did not find the proper chiles at my store which has a pretty well-stocked Mexican grocery, which even so did not have: ancho, pasilla, or mulatta chiles. I thought to myself, well, I will just get these other kinds of chiles and we'll figure out which ones will approximate. But The Bayless says: "Mole poblano calls for the triumvirate of ancho, pasilla, and mulatta chiles. If you can't find these chiles at your otherwise well-stocked Mexican grocery, pick up your marbles and go home. You are not making mole poblano." So that means I need to go to a real Mexican grocery. Tomorrow. And find ancho, pasilla, and mulatta chiles or die trying.

Anyway! I decided that my inferior chiles could still yield chile seeds, so I tore some up and got the seeds, and toasted them. Heady, cough-, sneeze-inducing. Etc.

Also, I ground up some spices (aniseed, cinnamon, pepper and maybe one other thing), and I toasted the almonds in oil (delicious!) and also the raisins, which, how curious is that? But kind of fun, to watch them puff up, and some onions and garlic, and finally a tortilla and the bread. Toasting toasting toasting. All of this stuff is in a bowl now, each thing getting acquainted with the other.

Tomorrow, assuming I find the illustrious tres chiles, I will fry and soak them, and then blend up the chiles with all of the above along with a lot of broth until it is the mysterious, the ineffable, the awesome mole. I will report how it goes.