In a Stew

Mom opened a couple bottles of stew tonight for dinner. I don't know what it is, but the very idea of stew makes my skin crawl, much in the same way that casseroles do. Looking down at the the bowl filled with that brown semi-gelatinous concoction of things that might be better left separate, complete with carrots and potatoes, I began to think of the three witches in Macbeth and wonder if the bottling process for their potions resulted in a similar-looking product. Further enhancing such thoughts, the chopped potatoes in stew often resemble the eyes of a newt, which is disconcerting because, after all, who wants to feel like their dinner is watching them (if Mom had thought to add the tongue of a dog, it would be able to taste me as well). To combat my pre-conceived aversion (brought on by similar encounters with such dishes, as well as watching Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom), I kept telling myself, "the eyes are not here/ there are no eyes here" (from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men"). However, it was the only thing for dinner, and as I was starving anyway (I'd been fasting), the only thing to do in the end was for me to ignore the stares and take a bite. It wasn't half bad.

I took Maren to her speech therapy session today. The whole escapade began fabulously when the administrative assistant at the middle school informed me that I was not on the list of people cleared to pick up my sister. I was half-tempted to tell them to keep her and walk out. However, I took the high road and stayed long enough to sort out that mess, after which Maren and I were soon on our way to Eagle for her appointment.

On the way, I told Maren that we would have some time in between speech therapy and cheerleading practice. She wanted to use the time to visit Deseret Industries and find as she termed it "a Princess Bride book." I informed the child that we might not be able to find said book at DI, but it would not hurt to look for it. She agreed with me (of course she did).

After dropping off an application for employment at Hobby Lobby on someone else's behalf, Maren and I proceeded to make our way to the thrift store area of Meridian wherein we would search for "a Princess Bride book." Go figure, what do you think I found on the first bookshelf I perused in DI?

Nothing interesting.

In fact, the next three shelves held more of the same sort of undesirable tripe, so I hopefully continued my search. Finally, after fifteen minutes of looking up and down, this way and that (looking at bookshelves can make you feel dizzy, sort of like doing the Hokey-Pokey), I found The Book.

No, not the Bible, although they did have those an' lots of 'em. Nope, there on the top right corner of the bookshelf closest to the door, with a red binding and an off-white cover, sat The Princess Bride by William Goldman. I showed it to Maren, and she was delighted (she sort of acted like she knew it would be there). I purchased it for $2.00, and it is now sitting on my bookshelf at home.

Now, you may ask, why isn't it on Maren's bookshelf? Good question.

No comment.

(Note: I intend to let her read the book whenever she wants to if she wants to, but I think she was expecting a book with pictures from the movie, and this one hasn't a single picture in the whole book, which consequently makes it rather boring for her)

Here's the list of everything else I bought:

The Story of the Irish Race by Seumas Macmanus (a rather intimidating, but surprisingly interesting, 600+ page book on the history and mythology of Ireland)
The Complete Poems and Plays of T.S. Eliot: 1909-1950. This volume has everything a man could wish to read from T.S. Eliot, so everyone who has a copy of my book wish list, cross out anything by T.S. Eliot. It's been seen to already.
This Nation Shall Endure by Ezra Taft Benson
The Restoration of All Things by Joseph Fielding Smith


Every week I intend to make a book recommendation or two on my blog. Many people are so plagued by indecision, that is "halt[ed] between two opinions" regarding many things, not the least of which is choosing a good book to read. Most of the time, finding good books is accomplished via trial and error, so the reader is condemned to find out for him or herself whether the book is worth reading or not, and not until the book is partially or completely read. Sometimes, it is helpful to hear from someone else what they think about a certain book and its literary merit before making the plunge for oneself.

This week, I would like to recommend a young adult novel by Armstrong Sperry called Call It Courage. It is the story of a Polynesian boy who is afraid of the sea to the point that everyone makes fun of him for it. He goes on a canoe trip with his dog, Uri, in the middle of the night and ends up on a deserted island. He faces off with a shark, a wild pig, and a giant octopus as he journeys toward self-actualization and manhood.

One might ask, why would I recommend a young adult novel? Won't my blog be read by adults? Another good question (of course it is, I thought of it myself).  I'll answer the second question first, and the first one second. I don't know who, if anyone, will be reading this blog. However, anything I can find in the way of strong and inspirational literature which may serve to encourage any individual of any age in his or her path to enlightenment will show up in my recommendations. I personally believe that any novel worth its literary salt can be read and appreciated by a host of different groups regardless of age, gender, denomination, and so forth. Therefore, I will recommend a young adult novel to adults because I think that some books intended for younger audiences retain a particle of naivete and innocence that many adults have lost somewhere along the way and ought to seek to regain. Now, I know that one of the main characteristics of young adult fiction includes the creation of happy endings for the characters involved, and for many adults such a conclusion may serve as a turn-off from such literature in favor of more, shall we say, realistic types of literary works. However, I think that readers who shun the innocent in favor of realism may be cheating themselves somewhat. In my opinion--and it is my opinion--it is ultimately better to strap the cynicism embodied in reality to your back and tattoo the hope provided by innocence to your chest, thus maintaining a constant contact with two very significant worlds of thought and, by extension, behavior.