Pie It's Not; or, Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Why, oh why, just when we seem to be making progress, do we suddenly BOMB?

Yesterday's oboe lesson was so WEAK. I don't know what happened. I've been practicing DAILY. Scales, long tones, method book, and, dare I say it, "repertoire," embryonic though the latter may be. Practices have been going ok, with only a few bumps in the road due to fatigue, lack of technique, lack of know-how, what-have-you. Yesterday I was not fatigued. I was not nervous. I was having fun. 'My teacher was good-natured and laid back, as usual. And I just BOMBED. Couldn't even get through D major. Tone was horrible. Took 10 minutes of back-tracking and re-warming-up to regain my "sound." I was totally inconsistent. I kept making mistakes. I sputtered. What is UP with that?

I have a neurobiological theory, of course. I think when we learn a new skill and begin to practice it, our brains start rearranging little functions and electrical discharge patterns. Neurons adjust to new bursts of neurotransmitter, new connections. But I think there's a shifty phase when they're not quite comfortable with their new assignments. In the building process, with the "scaffolding still up" and some exposed parts here and there, I think some misfirings occur, and we have one of those dreaded bad days that supposedly everybody has. [Speaking of building: even during last week's barn-raising there was a major snafu that needed some re-working to resolve: the center post was actually off-center, so one of the major spans came up short!] I think eventually the activity patterns become established and coordinated, more orchestral, and the brain itself acquires new architectural elements, like a cathedral with a new wing. I guess I need to remember that every work-in-progress has to pass through major imperfections & ups & downs to get to a "more perfect" place.

If only it really were easy as pie. My family is very appreciative of my apple pie. My son calls it "Paradise Pie" because he says eating it is like being in paradise. When he was asked in school last November to write down instructions for how to make a turkey dinner, he wrote on his paper, "My family doesn't like turkey. We have ham and chicken at Thanksgiving." So his teacher asked him to make a list of instructions for any Thanksgiving dish, and he wrote,

How to Make a Pie.
Get 7 apples.
Bake a pie.
Eat it.

Love it! Wish I could apply that to music: pick up oboe, blow through reed, play music. Simple, right? If only!

And it's not like I can use an "oboe simulator" to learn. In medicine some of the best learning experiences I had were at our residency program's medical simulator. We could practice managing some pretty hair-raising scenarios and social psychology quandaries in the sim. I think it's the wave of the future for medical education and crisis management training. But to make music, I can't imagine there being an effective equivalent. The only way to be a musician is to keep TRYING to be a musician. I get so embarrassed when loving family members call me a "musician" - I feel so unworthy of the word right now!

Tonight I could only practice for a short time because it was close to the kids' bedtime by the time I got started. My son came up the stairs because he heard my scales. I said sheepishly, apologetically, that I wasn't that good. Like the supportive son that he is, he said, "I think you are, and you practice every day, so that makes you good." Sweet boy! My daughter soon joined us, and likewise said encouraging things that had more to do with her affection for her mother than her mother's abilities, but hey, no complaints here.

At the end of yesterday's lesson I asked Kyoko to play a portion of the Raymonda adagio I love, which I had transcribed clumsily onto some music paper a couple of nights before. I don't think I've ever heard it sound so beautiful. Wow. She has the perfect, rich tone and gentle vibrato for the piece. It sounded so gorgeous I could barely breathe. *Sigh* Something to aspire to...

Barn Raising

Last fall we bought a cabin from a lovely couple who moved to Gilmanton, New Hampshire to raise alpacas. They bought a 1756 farm house previously owned by Grace Metalious, author of the Peyton Place books. Today we visited them at their new home to help with their barn-raising.

My husband, a civil rights attorney with a yearning to be a builder, had the time of his life. It made me happy just to see even from afar how much enjoyment and satisfaction he was deriving from the work on the barn. Watching an idea become a finished product through the work of one's hands is a blessed experience, even more so when a small community of hard-working friends comes together in trust, commitment to excellence, generosity, and good will to make the dream a reality. I think participation in a barn-raising should be required for business employees, students, and physicians!

Though some women helped with the construction and one of the men helped with the cooking, for the most part we fell into stereotypical gender roles, and LIKED it that way I might add, with the men performing most of the hard labor and the women providing food and drink, keeping an eye on the children, and engaging in some warm conversations over tea or coffee. By midday the "progress" in the work-in-progress was visible.

Today's work was a true labor of love for our friend, who was building the barn for his wife's alpacas. We had the chance to visit a neighboring alpaca farm after lunch. I have found my new favorite animal. My encounter with them was such an unexpected blend of warmth and mystery. Alpacas are cute and gentle, guardedly friendly, with an adorable "humming" vocalization that is much more pleasant than bleating, baa-ing, or mooing. What surprised me, though, was an otherworldly, almost mystical aura about them. I can't explain it, but they exude something really tranquil, an almost palpable serenity. Their presence is somehow actively calming, as if they carry some of the blessing power of Macchu Picchu in their gaze. My children and I felt an immediate affection for them.

I visited one website that defined the word "cria" as an unweaned camelid baby, from an old Spanish word for "create." I seem to recall my parents calling my cousins and me "los crios" when we were kids. Creation, creativity, childlike freshness - I like the suggestion of all these in the word cria.

We spent the rest of the afternoon back at the barn raising, thankful that the predicted thunderstorms seemed to be holding off. The cloud cover and cool temperature were ideal, in fact, for construction work. Afterward the four of us drove twenty minutes home to our beloved cabin, ate a light but yummy supper of homemade pasta puttanesca, and played a rollicking game of Ouistiti, a card game passed down in my husband's family which has some similarities to Hearts and to French Tarot (but is much simpler and faster-paced than the latter). All in all a wonderful Saturday.

***

Pasta Puttanesca for Four

(How can stirring together a bunch of ingredients I don't particularly care for individually result in a sauce we enjoy so much...?!)

Ingredients:

¼ c olive oil
6 minced garlic cloves
1 huge Vidalia onion (or 2 medium regular onions), chopped
6 oz can of tomato paste + equal volume of water
1 28-oz can peeled plum tomatoes in puree
1 can medium pitted black olives (dry wt = 6oz), drained & halved
1 tin of rolled anchovy filets w/ capers, minced finely
1 3.5oz jar of capers
2-3 tsp sugar
¼ tsp salt
sprinkling of black pepper
several shakes of dried basil, oregano, & parsley

Directions:

Heat olive oil.
Sauté garlic & onion 10 min.
Add tomato paste, water, & plum tomatoes (reserving some puree).
Stir & cook 3-4 min.
Add olives, capers, dried herbs, & seasonings; heat & stir.
Add minced anchovies & some tomato puree for volume. Stir.
Adjust seasonings.
Stir & simmer till heated through.
Cook 12 oz of your favorite pasta – tricolor rotelli, penne, linguini, etc. – & serve w/ sauce (either mixed in or on the side).