Candour, Rancour and the like

Candour: the quality of being open and honest
Rancour: a feeling of deep and bitter anger and ill-will

These words do not originate in the same language, and really, the similarity likely ends with the last three letters. Nor, sadly for me, does rancour become the adjective 'rancid', like 'candour' becomes 'candid'.

Still, the meaning behind the word rancour evokes a sense that if that feeling were to have an odour, it would most certainly be of something that had gone off, and no one had bothered to dispose of it. That sticky, pungent smell that often coats the bottom of the cupboard where the oils are stored that is very difficult to remove. The idea that emotions can be as volatile as delicate oils is a poignant one. And, that exposing them to the air requires that they must be used up and not allowed to linger.

Stale tears smell like walnut oil that should have been in the salad mix last summer. Not something you want on your face.

Deletionism

Wikipedia, in addition to collecting all manner of information both inane and useful, is also coining its own terms. (At least they are self-referential, I suppose.) This one, 'deletionism', is like 'hipster', in a way. Most would never refer to themselves as such, but seem to delight in deeming others to be worthy of the title. Read more about what Wikipedia says about its own term here, and all about the warring factions of deletionists and inclusionists.

Sam Anderson, at the end of his essay, "An Accidental, Experimental Masterpiece", says:

“We need to remember the value of nothing. It’s like breathing: you can’t inhale all day. We need to learn to make peace with the information we don’t know, to embrace the zeroes, to relearn the pleasures of hunger, need, interruption, restraint. We need to work up our ignorance muscles. We need to organize our internal absences to create meaning. We are responsible, in other words, now and forever, for our own deletionism.”

Antoine de Saint-Exupery says it this way:
"Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add, but when there is no longer anything to take away."

Yes. 

Smashed in the Spring

While in Berlin this past fall, I stumbled upon a lovely drink called Russian Tea. As far as I could tell it was hot black tea with black currant compote at the bottom. Black currants being one of my very favourite things, and compote being another, I was quite pleased with myself for ordering something random off the menu, and discovering something delightful.

This drink seems in a similar vein: the Blackberry Smash. The drink's creators consider this to be an excellent 'launch into spring' drink, especially for east coasters longing for a bit of endless Californian summer.

The Blackberry Smash: Carrie and Andrew Purcell

The only problem is, blackberries and plums are only in season at the end of the summer, making this more of a likely launch point from summer into fall. Skipping summer when it is hardly Easter seems like a strange idea to this Northwest-Coaster. For now, I will stick to the hot tea with jam, thank you, and keep this recipe on deck for September.

Now, the Limoncello Champagne Cocktail with Mint: that is a springtime drink I can support.

The maddening allure of Don Draper

Ah, Mad Men. Just when I thought there was nothing to watch, I realized I had yet to dive into this show, one that people had been talking about for so long. Good outfits, great looking cast and amazing writing make for a delicious diversion.

There is something about that Don Draper, in particular. How can one man be so despicable, and yet so intensely attractive, all at the same time? That brooding, dark-clouded artist subsumed under man-sized muscles is a force of nature, I swear.

I was beginning to think that his antics outside his marriage had become a bit much for me to stomach as I devoured the first season. But then, like a shot straight to the heart, the writers had Don reading from Frank O'Hara's Mayakovsky in the last episode. Swoon.

Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.

The catastrophe of my personality, indeed. How better to describe that feeling of passively anticipating change, with none forthcoming, and none on the horizon. You are no longer young. You never will be again. But the inaction, the waiting, continues.

Goodnight, Mr. Draper.