SOMETHING IMPORTANT IS HAPPENING!

There are few things I enjoy more than making bread.

If I'm puttering around the house and need to feel like I'm doing something, I sling some yeast into a bowl of water, get out the flour and salt and dust up the countertop. Working my knuckles into the soft dough fulfills some primitive urge.

And as long as bread is rising in the kitchen — even if I'm lazing on the couch — I feel like something important is happening. Someting is being accomplished.

The first real bread maker I knew was Rick. Occasionally my mom would make some sort of homemade bread, usually something quick without yeast. And the lunch ladies at my small, rural school made dinner rolls from scratch. My favorite lunch as a kid was "pig in the blanket" — a hot dog encased in a giant, soft, freshly baked bun.

But Rick was the first person I ever knew who loved making bread, who really delighted in the process from beginning to end and thought hard on how to improve the next batch. He made circular loaves in coffee cans using a sourdough starter he brought home from Africa. He experimented with different fats and flour and molasses and yogurt and herbs. I'd go over to his apartment and there'd be a dozen brown loaves cooling on the countertop. The fragrance would make you weep. And nothing was better than the sight of butter melting into the round slices, except the taste.

My ex-husband, Steve, was also a bread man. He got a hankering once to make a baguette at home, and I thought he was crazy. Who is qualified to make French bread at home? Don't you have to have a special oven? And equipment and ingredients? Don't you have to be French, for Pete's sake? It reminded me of when his mother, in one of those ridiculous cost-saving measures that bored, well-to-do housewives are so mysteriously susceptible to, tried to make "Heinz" ketchup at home. A complete disaster.

But Steve was determined, and before long he had learned to make a long, beautiful, tasty loaf of golden goodness — and it was authentic to boot: no ingredients except water, white flour, salt and yeast. The variables are rising time and humidity and oven temperature and a lot of little factors he loved to obsess over. (Come to think of it, Steve and Rick also made homemade beer and I've heard lengthy discourses from each on the miracles and vagaries of yeast. God, I love men who make things — how they combine their boyish passion for science and erector sets and "how things work" into something so delightfully domestic and earthy as bread and beer).

One Christmas, my parents bought us a bread machine. We used it maybe a dozen times before I gave it to Goodwill. The bread was passable, but not exceptional, and if you don't get your hands gooey making bread, then you haven't really made bread.

So my favorite thing to do on my day off is to mix up some dough — like that which became the Irish brown bread pictured above — to get my fingers all sticky with goodness and wait for the miracle. Sometimes I get the hankering rather late in the day, so I don't have a finished product until almost midnight. And I have no one to share it with. Thank God!

SPRINGTIME CAN KILL YOU

Happy birthday, Billy. And thanks for teaching me about flowers. On my early-morning walks to campus this week I photographed all of these plants, beginning with these purple hyacinths you planted in the yard. On my birthday, in October, all the plants are in their last flourish. And on yours, in March, they're in their first. I just thought of that today. The blooms are so touching now. I've said to myself about 50 times this week "springtime can kill you," in homage to Jolie Holland, to whom you also introduced me, thinking of how her songs are about the surfeit of life and the unbearable sweetness of things — thus her plea for that old-fashioned morphine, to soften the poignancy.

The first thing you gave me was a hand-drawn map of your mother's yard showing all the flower beds and various plants. The first picture I had of you was taken in her garden. Occasionally, I find landscape ideas you drew for our house — they make me smile at their outlandishness, and I always think, yes, I should do that!

The first poem I heard you read was about fiddlehead ferns.

I remember when we had no money and you would go out in the spring and spend what seemed like an extravagant amount on plants. I saw a movie recently — The Painted Veil — where two characters contemplate the wisdom of "wasting" money on flowers that are destined to die soon. Like you, they decide nothing could be more worthwhile.

WONDER WOMAN!

THE PLANE!

I'm sitting outside with my dogs on a beautiful afternoon. People are walking toward downtown dressed in green for the St. Patrick's Day Parade. A low rumble in the sky becomes louder and louder. The air starts to vibrate. Then, out of the blue, a warplane — yes, a warplane — slices through the sky.

It's the military "flyover" that now marks the beginning of too many public events. Football games. Parades. Pep assemblies. Whatever.

It's the anti-culture brought in to make us grateful for culture. A symbol of brute force brought in to celebrate civilization.

It's obscene.

Only people who have never lived in a war zone — where warplanes mean bombs and death — could think this is neat.

Rah rah, America.

Meanwhile, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is fighting the enemy at home: homosexuals.

The very butch Marine Gen. Peter Pace, right, instead of looking after military affairs, is going around saying gays are immoral.

And: Republican presidential candidate Sam Brownback is backing the Pentagon's top general. The Kansas senator planned to send a letter to President Bush supporting Pace, who earlier this week likened homosexuality to adultery and said the military should not condone it by allowing homosexual personnel to serve openly.

God knows homosexuals played no part in creating arts and letters and music and all the things that make this culture worth defending. I bet there's not a single gay person at the St. Patrick's Day Parade. So why should there be one symbolically protecting it in a warplane?

Meanwhile: In Mexico City — yes, our "backward" Third World neighbor to the south — the first legal gay civil unions were celebrated yesterday.

How is it possible that I could have a civil right in MEXICO that I do not have in the UNITED STATES of AMERICA? What is the use of that big old jet fighter anyway?

A VIRTUAL YEAR

I have been blogging for one year today.

I started on a lark. More or less.

I got the idea from George and Christy.

George doesn't blog anymore. Christy does in secret.

After I wrote my first post, I told Erin and Ben to look. They seemed surprised. Ben said the voice of the post didn't sound like my voice. I don't know what he meant.

Erin asked what possessed me to start a blog. I said it was a relationship substitute.

In my second post, I wrote this: "The handful of people I told about this blog seemed surprised that I even started a blog and that I wrote about what I did. One person, acting disappointed, said she expected it to be funny."

I don't remember now who that person was. Erin?

I also wrote: "Having a blog is totally anathema to my personality. I am morbidly private."

I am less private now. I have typed things on this blog that I have yet to say out loud to another person.

Rick said I should add pictures. I did. And "recent comments." I haven't.

He said I should have a permanent link to the first post, which explains the blog's title, "walls without mirrors."

It seemed like a good idea. But I haven't done it.

A wall without a mirror reflects a deeper kind of vanity. And a fear of blankness.

That is probably too obvious to need explanation.

I wasn't sure how long it would last. Or how often I could make myself write. I haven't written every day, or even every other day. I've written every three and a half days, on average.

I could do worse.

But I'll try to do better.

Thanks for reading.

VEGETARIAN MISCELLANY

I don't eat enough tofu. I realized this yesterday when I purchased a small tub of this Thai Tofu Salad and almost died from its deliciousness.

I don't know why it's called a salad. And I don't care, really. Just keep it coming: chunks of tofu marinated in soy sauce, cilantro, ginger, onion and sweet peppers — some sesame oil? — then roasted to tangy perfection.

I was really hungry when I bought the tofu, so I started eating it in the car. And I started doing something I don't ever remember doing, but which I've heard others who live alone say they do: talking to myself. This is so good! God, I have to get some more of this. Oh man, I'm talking to myself! Out loud. Alone in the car. Not even a dog is here. Yeah, but so what, this is so good! Let's eat this piece with all the cilantro on it!

I have to get this recipe. It's made me totally excited about being a vegetarian. And it's not that I didn't like tofu. I have always liked it more or less. I was just never super excited about it. I never craved it. I think part of that was because I grew up thinking tofu was a second-rate meat substitute, and I never really shook that notion, even when I knew better. But now that thought is completely, utterly, eternally banished from my brain.

Something else that made me excited about being a vegetarian — usually I just feel blase about it — is that as I was leaving the public library I noticed a sizeable PETA display by the children's section. Not something that would normally attract my attention, but I thought it was really interesting that the city library was providing a forum for a group that our milque-toast citizenry tends to think of as "radical." So I looked at some of the display items and left with a "Vegetarian Starter Kit," which is a little magazine explaining all the major myths about vegetarianism — like you won't get enough protein — and why celebrities like Clint Eastwood and Carl Lewis are vegans. (The reason why Josh Hartnett gave up meat is fantastically gross).

I imagined some little kid at the library picking up one of these magazines (they have a very kid-friendly design) and assaulting her parents with a blistering critique of the family's diet. What could be a better crusade for vegetarianism than some 9-year-old-super-annoying-fundamentalist-vegan-convert harping at every meal about ethical treatment of animals? You'd give up meat just to get some peace and quiet.

THE BLACK BOWL MYSTERY

I came home from work and found the dog bowls exactly like this. The one on the left has the bottom broken out — very cleanly, in one piece. What do you think could have happened? Cl, I trust you will tap your deep intimacy with Agatha Christie and supply the answer. (By the way, I'm surprised that you — who recently berated me for typing your name with an "ie" — have not altered your spelling in homage to the grande dame of detection).

A clue: Two black dogs were in the room when I left, and the same two black dogs were there when I returned. The beasts have been thoroughly interrogated — with myself expertly playing both good cop and bad cop — and they pretend to know nothing.

Another clue: I could find no evidence of anyone entering or exiting the room — neither from the doorways nor from the window.

A possible red herring: Monsieur Rupert, in his joie de vivre, once broke a matching plate from this same dinnerware set.

A warning: Do not scrutinize the cleanliness of my carpet in this photo. My vacuum is on the fritz.

Mug shots of only known suspects, both unemployed, taken on the night of the crime:

NEED SOMETHING TO READ?

This book is indescribably fantastic. (Thanks for bringing it to my attention, Ben).

"HARRY BELAFONTE TURNS 80 TOMORROW!"

Last night I noticed a trait in a co-worker that endeared her to me even further: If you ask her a question and she doesn’t know the answer, she will substitute some random information to fill the void.

For example, we were talking about an item in the paper regarding Dr. Seuss. Specifically, we were discussing his name: Theodor Seuss Geisel (please notice there is no final “e” on his first name). I asked, “Where is he from?” And my co-worker said, “I don’t know, but his wife’s name is Audrey.”

From anyone else, this answer would have annoyed me. But from her, it was an insight into her charm.

“Why are you giving me some random trivia as a substitute for the information I asked for?” I say.

“What?” she asks.

“I asked where he was from, and you gave me his wife’s name,” I say. “I just realized you do that all the time.”

Her reply to this: “Did you know his middle name is actually pronounced ‘Soyce’?”

I let this non-sequitur pass.

Then I say, “It sounds like he should be from Vienna or somewhere — with the ‘Dr.’ and the ‘Sound of Music’-sounding name.”

And she says, “He’s from Springfield, Massachusetts.”

At last. The answer to my question, which she must have looked up as she was enriching my life with Seuss trivia.

I think she delivers random information so as not to disappoint, to not be empty-handed when something is wanted from her. She doesn’t just sit there and bore you with every thought in her head like some people do. She’s actually pretty quiet. But if you ask her a question and she doesn’t know the answer, she’ll console you with interesting tidbits until she can satisfy you.

This is the same person who, when her husband calls, unfailingly answers the phone with a great big “Hi, Honey!” And ends the conversation with an equally enthusiastic “Bye, Honey!”

I love this more than I can say, especially because I know he is not much of a honey and is usually just calling to ask her what’s in the refrigerator he is standing right in front of.

This is the same person who leaps up in her cubicle, gets everyone’s attention by waving her hands, then makes an announcement like: “Zsa Zsa’s husband, Prince Frederic Von Anhalt (she knows her European royalty inside out, going back to the dawn of the Hapsburg dynasty), wanted to adopt Anna Nicole Smith to make her a princess. But Zsa Zsa said no.” Then she will titter and flap her elbows with glee at the incredible silliness of human beings. This is especially amusing because were her own husband to ask whether he could adopt his stripper mistress, she would not only sign on the dotted line, but would happily describe the contents of the refrigerator to the helpless, hungry lovebirds.

This is the same person whom I can hear sobbing in her cubicle when she reads a story about animal abuse.

This is the same person who occasionally brings a loaf of Wonder bread and a container of margarine to share with her co-workers. And everyone laps it up like it’s caviar.

This is the same person who eats potato chips that have been sitting opened in the newsroom for three days. I know it’s because she doesn’t want the potato’s death to have been in vain.

This is the same person who NEVER calls in sick — out of sheer consideration for her co-workers. Others will stay home with a runny nose, but she will be there with an ailment she could arguably be hospitalized for.

Why is she so giving? If I asked her, she’d probably say, “I don’t know, but Harry Belafonte turns 80 tomorrow!”