Laurel Massé

Coming up for air

 

The past few days have held delight and stress and a lot of rain. RIght now, it is raining so hard that I cannot see the building on the other side of the street, and am glad to be living on a hill.

I have been very busy - singing a wonderful concert in Connecticut with my sister, Babette, performing with JaLaLa gig at Birdland. Tomorrow I travel (much earlier in the morning than seems possible) to Washington, DC's Kennedy Center, where JaLala is part of the Mary Lou Williams Women in Jazz Festival, and teaching a master for students of the Duke Ellington High School.

But once I'm back home (and after the predicted end of the world on Saturday), I expect I'll have fewer distractions. I'll brew up a pot of tea, and tell stories.

 

Wherever there is love

Because I lived in England when I was little, because I know all the verses of God Save the Queen, because I believe in the healing properties of good cuppa of tea, because I am still as much of a romantic as I was when I thought Paul McCartney would realize any minute that he was The One For Me...

Because I think that "holy matrimony...is an honorable estate"...

Because I have seen and sung a lot of weddings, and mourned for how the ceremonies sometimes fail...

Because of all this, I watched the Royal Wedding. It was beautiful, stately, and joyous.

Now, I know a lot of married folks (and have been one myself), and not one of us has had a wedding like this one. That's allright. What's not allright is that some people, though they love each other deeply, and though they show tremendous commitment to the relationship, aren't allowed to marry in royal or in any other fashion.

Love, long love, requires all you have in you. I believe that every couple - and by couple I mean two people - who have courage enough to pledge to live the rest of their lives for, and with, each other should be allowed to do so with the full blessings of church and state. My church, the Episcopal Church, is walking prayerfully and purposefully toward that goal, for which I give thanks to God. 

The most glorious music in the ceremony was Paul Mealor's exquisite setting of Ubi Caritas et Amor, and here it is, as sung during the wedding. The clip is in stereo. Be patient, and let it load all the way before you listen. It is well worth the wait.

 

Here is a link to the tape of the whole event without any of the distracting/annoying/sometimes inaccurate commentary, which you will not miss, as I am also linking to the official programme.

 

Fools on every hill

I'm currently enjoying actor Harriet Walter's book, Other People's Shoes: Thoughts on Acting, in which she writes about her acting life. It is a very conversational book, and, as I read, I feel as though I am taking tea and chatting with a wise friend. In fact, sharing a cuppa with Ms. Walter is now one of my genie-lamp wishes.

In several passages, she mentions "sod's law", the British term for what we in America call "Murphy's Law", which states that anything that can go wrong will. I love words, so because I hope to keep increasing my working vocabulary until eons after the day I die, I did some research into origins.

"Sod" is a slang term that can be defined as a pitiable, awkward, or objectionable person. No one ventures an opinion about who the original "sod" might have been. But I'm voting for Adam, in the Bible, because his very name means dirt, or earth, which is also the non-slang meaning of sod. And, it could be said that he did act like a sod, too.

In any case, I found this passage, from British stage magician Nevile Maskelyne, writing in 1908. He doesn't name it, but he does describe sod's law:

It is an experience common to all men to find that, on any special occasion, such as the production of a magical effect for the first time in public, everything that can go wrong will go wrong. Whether we must attribute this to the malignity of matter or to the total depravity of inanimate things, whether the exciting cause is hurry, worry, or what not, the fact remains.

Personally, I am not convinced that depravity lurks in inanimate things. Nor am I certain that there is any such thing as an inanimate anything. Rather, I suspect these entities are animate, but move so slowly that we can't pay attention long enough to be aware of their progress. In fact, we don't even live long enough to do so. It's all relative, isn't it? To a fly, we are ponderously slow; to a slug, we are a blur and a breeze.

Furthermore, I don't accept that such objects are necessarily depraved. In fact, I think they might be terrifically funny, and cracking jokes all the time, hoping we'll laugh. How else to explain the car keys that vanish and reappear? Or the cell phone one searches for frantically, while it is hiding in one's hand? Or my laptop, which changes the character palette for no reason - as it is doing this morning, insisting on returning to italics even after countless corrections, and arbitrarily switching to the Polish kezboard so that I find I am uging some verz odd spellings of words?

In truth, my computer's shenanigans do seem to be inching toward the doorway to Depravity, as Ms. Mac answers my "Why must you?" with "Because I can". 

In any case (aauurrrgh!), I feel lukewarm about the expression "Murphy's Law". Why does Murphy get the credit? Actually, there is an answer to that question, and it's here.

But the older usage "sod's law" seems more democratic somehow, and more polite. No matter how our lives unfold, we all get an equal chance to take our turn being the sod.

 

 

Walking on sunshine

It's a glorious day in New York City, and I am going out for a long walk in the sunshine and fresh breezes to the lovely place where I am meeting a friend for tea. Walking and contemplation go hand-in-hand - when I get back, I'll share the treasures I've found along the way. May your day be blessed.

 

                                                                 Henry Hudson Bridge

And then they said...

I have been reading a lot - a lot - while I recover from this whatever-this-Thing-is that I suspect is the fruit of air travel. The least I can do is share a bit (of the reading, not the Thing). Any book I finish reading is not necessarily related to the next one I start; I'm just shortening the stack next to the bed, with the occasional stroll through the news on my laptop.

 

Randy Newman, in The NY Times, on breaking into the music business now:

Who would want to break into it? It’s like a bank that’s already been robbed.

 

Alan Alda, in Growing Up Laughing, by Marlo Thomas:

I think it's good for [actors] to laugh together... because then they'll be vulnerable and opened up to each other. You can't stay guarded while you're laughing. You can't be in your own world when you're on stage.

 

Bella Abzug:

Real equality is going to come not when a female Einstein is recognized as quickly as a male Einstein, but when a female schlemiel is promoted as quickly as a male schlemiel.

 

Marlo Thomas, in Growing Up Laughing:

No one ever tells you that grief is physical.

 

Dame Judi Dench, in her new memoir, And Furthermore:

[In] the economy of presenting a character...I think what you leave out is more important than what you put in.

 

Louisa May Alcott, in Little Women:

Jo read till her eyes gave out.

 

Believe me, it can happen. Of course, I have the perfect cure for that: cold teabag compresses... and maybe a tiny tiny very wee piece of chocolate (no, not on my eyes).

 

 

Jiggety jog

Upon returning late last night to the Bronx after my flight from Chicago, I didn't have more than ten minutes of consciousness left in me before my brain switched off. Our foster nurse of nature is repose, Shakespeare's Gentleman said to Cordelia, and repose I did, every aching suitcase-racked muscle of me. It has taken half of today to realize that it's Wednesday; now that I know that, things seem to be falling into place, but it's almost bedtime. Still, torturous suitcase has been unpacked, and mail collected. And  - O frabjous day! Callooh Callay! My box of tea came while I was away! I should be able to stay awake till the next millenium.

There is always a lot to do when I get home. Some of my friends travel very efficiently. They check items off their task lists wherever they are. They use their time well, and put in the necessary hours on their computers, and when they walk back through their front doors, the only thing they have to catch up on is laundry.

They amaze me. If I wore a cap, I'd doff it.

Regardless of my intentions, I drift when I travel. I observe, and dream, and write a bit, sniff and taste and consider. I adhere to the schedule I have to adhere to - when in a town to do a concert, for example, I show up at the theater when I am supposed to - but beyond that, though I may be productive, I may just as easily take a walk. If only my computer were lighter, if only I were more focused, if only, if only, if. But then... I would not have been able accept a last-minute invitation to sit in on a friend's theater class. I would not have found the best coffee and tea shop in Chicago. I might not know the name of the day manager of the hotel, and where that name originated. It is as much the memory of these moments as it is my cosmetics bag and the boots that I am unpacking and stowing away for later use.

For me, travel pries gravity's fingers loose - both kinds of gravity. My problems look smaller from the altitude of a plane's path, sorrow is eased by the rocking of a train, and there is precious little I can't conquer from the height of a horse's back. But getting ready to leave... well, a certain amount of whinging does happen in this apartment, usually about the demeaning and debilitating ordeal that air travel has become. Once I am in motion, though, I have a shine on my sailin' shoes, a melody in my heart, and a smile for my umbrella.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brighter by the lake

I arrived in Chicago last night, after traveling for seven hours, of which three were the actual flight time.

I am very very happy to be here in this great big, beautiful city, especially for a recording project, but the journey here... well, traveling ain't what it used to be, and I wish it were. It doesn't bear dwelling on, really, except to say that I am committed to finding a way to manifest a good, bracing cup of tea while traveling, because one requires a lot of bracing.

We are told there is a logic to the removal of shoes as you go through security. Remember when Logic was taught in school? It may be time to bring it back. Because "One dog tried to bite, therefore all dogs bite" is not good logic.  But we take off our shoes anyway, because the choice not to is not available. Though I  wonder what might happen if everyone just said no....

The floor that we shuffle along has not been cleaned for a while. I cut my foot on a protuding piece of metal while shoeless in just such a line several years ago, so the cleanliness of the floor matters to me. The TSA folks seem to have no bandaids or hydrogen peroxide among their supplies, and on that day, in that particularly busy place, they were fresh out of sympathy, too.

I also wonder why a machine that can "see" through my blouse can't see through my suit jacket or the scarf draped around my neck. A lot of undressing and re-dressing has to happen, and in a hurry, as bags continue to roll through the scanners, and a line of disgruntled folks is clotting up behind you. Once inspected, you simply grab your clothes and shoes, and try to find a place to sit down so as to reassemble - and there often isn't one, other than the floor. Which, as I've said, is filthy.

All this merriment, and we have not even reached the gate!

The flight itself was fine. The plane went up in the air, stayed up in the air for the appropriate amount of time, and came back down to the ground in an orderly fashion at the pre-determined location. That's about all one can hope for now. Alas. No more Junior Pilot wings for me. No food service. $25 to check the single small suitcase. An argument from the flight attendant about the amount of milk I wanted in my tea.

(f you have been reading my blog for a while, you may be asking what madness possessed me to such an extent that I would be having tea on an airplane. Well, I did it in the interests of research. One should not presuppose, though if I had, my presuppositions would have been accurate. The tea was both wretched and lukewarm. But I wouldn't have predicted the styrofoam cup, which added an extra sparkle to the exercise, and made me giggle. Even McDonald's has renounced styrofoam. Such whimsy from an airline! All of this was, though, was lightened by the presence of friends on that flight, and by the flight announcements in the voice and accents of an actresshoping to play Miss Adelaide.

This morning I woke in a hotel room with big windows revealing roughly the same view you see in the photo. Light! My room is full of light! The sky is blue this morning, the sun is shining brightly on the city and the lake. It's lovely indoors, but I have to go out, and breathe in the beauty.

 

 

A second cup, my dears?

Reader Ernest has reminded me of something I left out of yesterday's post about the proppa cuppa tea, something that is is yet another link in the chain that leads to a truly discouraging brew in most restaurants here in this coffee-centric culture. Remember that the water used to make your tea often runs through the coffee machine to be heated. Remember that black tea needs boiling water poured on it. Remember also that coffee machines heat water to below the boiling point, so the hottest that water is ever going to be is not hot enough, and  - what I failed to include - the too-small mug it's poured into is usually a heavy ceramic thing, and has not been warmed. Say bye-bye to a few more degrees of heat. I would have included this, but I was already lying on the floor, whimpering.

However, now that I am writing this postscript, I really should also introduce the microwave issue. When microwave ovens first came into use, it was thought they might be a danger to pregnant women. That seems to have been addressed, and the things are everywhere. I have friends who almost never use their stoves anymore. And I have friends who, on offering me tea, fill a mug with water, plonk in a teabag, and thrust it into the microwave to boil (or not boil, depending on what the thing is set for).

I have noticed that tea thus prepared does not taste the same as it does when steeped in water boiled in a stovetop or electric kettle. It's not quite the same color, either; the rich brown I expect becomes a little greyish. I thought for a while this was because microwaving does something to the tea. So I did an experiment, using several different microwaves (thank you to my tolerant and amused friends!). I heated the water only. Just the water in a clean cup. Here's what happens: put in a teabag, and get greyish-brown tea that does not taste the same, even when I use my beloved Yorkshire Gold as a control.

It is true that putting the tea on top of the water isn't really the done thing. Pouring the water onto the tea is what I do at home, so I have done that, too, with microwaved boiling H²O. It still brews up grey. It still tastes... funny. I am convinced that microwaving changes the water itself.

Do we find this acceptable? Ermmm, not really, no. We do not.

Of course, if Parliament had not enacted the Tea Act in 1773, things might be different here. One might be able to get good tea in an American restaurant. Instead, it's coffee everywhere. Coffee made its way to Europe and thence to the American colonies from the African and the Middle Eastern countries of Ethiopia, Egypt and Yemen, and is also a very admirable beverage. It had a big popularity surge during the American Revolution because of that Tea Act, and we've been hooked on it ever since... far longer than we've been mainlining oil from roughly the same part of the world.

 

A proppa cuppa - one woman's opinion

When I run for president - in my next life, of course - I will have a very short agenda. If you are serving black tea, use boiling water when you make it. Simple, yes?

Apparently not. Unless I go to a dedicated tea room, like the slice of sassy British heaven that is Tea and Sympathy here in Manhattan, the aromatic, magical potion that results from pouring boiling water into Yorkshire Gold and letting it steep for the proper amount of time is not what I am going to see coming toward me when I order tea at a restaurant.

I have been a drinker of the sacred beverage since I was ten, and I cut my tea-teeth in Solihull, England, at the daily afternoon break at St. Martin's School for Girls. It was a strong black brew, whitened with whole milk, and sweetened, if you liked it that way. "If you are cold, tea will warm you," said William Gladstone. "If you are too heated, it will cool you; if you are depressed, it will cheer you; if you are exhausted, it will calm you."  Tea at St. Martin's did all that, and set the imprint for what I expect from a cuppa: flavour, heat, energy, and something a little more intangible: gentling.

Let me make it clear that I am talking about tea made from the tea plant, camelia sinensis. Herb tea is made with herbs other than real tea. Confused? Not surprising. It's a simple failure of language. In French - and perhaps in other languages, but French is the one I know - thé is made with real tea, and herb teas (infusions made with herbs, not tea) are called tisanes. It makes sense to have two different words, because most of the time the two are not prepared in quite the same way.

Flavour starts with providing a good black tea to begin with. This tea will not say Lipton on the box. Nor will it say Bigelow, Stash, or the name of an American chain supermarket (I am talking about you, Key Foods!). I'm personally not all that fond of Twinings (as sold in the States) either, because it always seems so, oh, trying hard but too weak in the end to get the job done. My current favourite is Yorkshire Gold, a rich, malty blend that helps me sit a little straighter and think a little faster, and restores my optimism. If there is a good tea and coffee purveyor in your town, you'll be able to get beyond brand names into loose teas from all over the world, and will end up knowing more than I do about the stuff.

Now, dry tea tastes like sticks and leaves (a dry tea bag tastes like sticks, leaves, and paper). You need water, boiling water, to unlock the flavours of black tea. What this means, to the weary traveler, is that one can almost never get a good cup of tea in a restaurant south of the Canadian border, because most of the time the water used has been heated by running it through the coffee maker. Coffee makers are set to heat water to just below the boiling point, because coffee is appalled by boiling water. So it's never going to be hot enough. Then the water, hot-ish and smelling faintly of coffee filters, is poured into a too-small mug, and the mug, with a tea bag (Lipton, most likely) next to it, is brought to the table. Let me recap: it wasn't hot enough to begin with, it's less hot now, and the consummation devoutly to be wished, water and tea together in cup, still hasn't happened. 

One drops the tea bag into the cup and waits; the cold, weak brew that results is just plain discouraging. One may drink it, but why? In fact, why bother with anything? It's all so hopeless, really. Nothing matters.

One is hard-pressed to Get Up And Get On With It.

Furthermore, if it is a gentling of the buffeting winds of life that one was hoping for, and that same sense of being cherished that had extended from teacher Miss Waugh as she poured tea for this little newcomer to a school, a community, and a country... well, it just can't happen. None of the necessary ingredients are present: not the good tea, not the boiling water, not the trusting nature of childhood, and not Miss Waugh.

Therefore, I've resolved that henceforth I shall travel with a little electric kettle and a stash of good tea so that, when it's All Too Much, I can fill that kettle, boil the water, and, conjuring a sweet and personal past, brew some smashing tea, knowing that I wlll, no matter where I am, find therein the strength to Carry On.