Food for the Spirit and the Soul

The Wheel

October 1999: It is an overcast morning in the Arkansas Ozarks, and the lowering clouds threaten rain, but the air is fresh, and I am going to the War Eagle Craft Fair. I have never attended this almost legendary fair, but the trip will be a return, of sorts, for when my children were young I spent many happy hours playing with them in War Eagle Creek. Those days are past, but not their recollection, and any journey backward through the shoals of memory is fraught with some measure of emotional peril.

The weather holds, and I drive through rolling hills, their contours softened by cloud-wrack, until suddenly the creek appears below me. In the bowl of the valley the evergreens stand out dramatically against the background of the hardwoods, some of which have already begun to lose their foliage. From the hilltop, the tents of the fair on the valley floor resemble a medieval bazaar, and they are oddly enchanting.

Once I have parked the car and entered the fairgrounds, I am overwhelmed by the number of booths and the variety of the wares they display. The items for sale are wonderful, awful, lovely, and bizarre. People are buying some astonishing things: golf tees whittled from oddly twisted driftwood, angels made from dried mushrooms, gnomes carved from deer antlers, wind chimes welded from cutlery. I find myself constantly thinking of Shakespeare’s line, “Oh reason not the need,” and I suddenly realize that I am seeing into the future, for many of the objects now in the hands of contented shoppers will soon be back on the market, this time at garage sales.

I take a seat beside a flagpole, and as I stare up at Old Glory, I think how appropriate it is for our nation’s flag to be flying above this most American of rituals – buying and selling. Some dazed people are obviously afflicted with Craft Fair Dementia, a disorder that deserves scholarly attention from psychologists. In fact, some especially dedicated shoppers have actually attained Craft Fair Consciousness, a Zen-like state of mind in which the sound of one hand clapping involves the exchange of money. These religious adepts even have their own mantra, which they repeat constantly: “What about this? What about this?”

I watch children skipping rocks across the creek, a timeless ceremony of American innocence. I look across the stream, and there, turning quietly, is the wheel of War Eagle Mill. Banjo music drifts across the water, and the children laugh.

I enter one of the tents and find an elderly couple who make some of the most striking furniture that I have ever seen. Their work is so exquisite, in fact, that it blurs the distinction between craft and art.

I hear the sound of the waterwheel, and decide to visit the mill; along the way I pass a booth purveying a charming sort of batik, patterned mostly with the forms of local birds and beasts. Scarves hang from lines, moving gently in the breeze like Ozark prayer flags offering wind-borne benefactions to the friendly people who inhabit the mist-shrouded hills.

While crossing War Eagle’s rustic bridge, I catch sight of some swans paddling in the middle of the creek, and I recall that in London all the swans on the Thames belong to the Queen. Here they share their beauty democratically with everyone; their reflections on the stream look like clouds. My thoughts, too, have grown cloudy. It’s time to leave the fair.

In the parking lot, I find cars bearing license plates from many different states, including New York, Florida, and California. It is a sobering appraisal of our Republic: Craft Fair Dementia, from sea to shining sea. So many pilgrims, so many journeys; we seem to move straight ahead in our lives, and yet, somehow, things go round and round, like money, like water, like love. The air is filled with exotic scents: jasmine, tangerine, smoked meat, kettle corn. Fiddle music floats through the valley from somewhere just beyond the creek. I take a last look at the fair and the mill, hold fast to the wheel of the car, then turn onto the highway and head for home.

June 1994. I am with my family at a campground in Chalk Creek, Colorado. The creek is at flood stage, and so my children, disappointed in their hopes for fishing, divert themselves by talking with other campers. One of them is a woman who is making jewelry at a small forge on the back of her pickup truck. As I approach her, she smiles and says, “You’re from Arkansas, aren’t you? I saw your car’s plate. I sell things at craft fairs all over America, and every year I return to War Eagle.”

May 2000. “Return is the function of the Way,” wrote a Chinese sage, and I am returning to War Eagle Craft Fair, this time in its spring manifestation. The morning sunlight is gorgeous, the sky is clear, and I drive through verdant fields filled with flowers. A sign greets me at the gate of the fair: “No Dogs Allowed,” but there are dogs everywhere, further evidence that Americans are the planet’s most sweet-natured anarchists. There are not as many booths as there were at the fall fair; things seem somehow diminished, despite the glorious abundance of the season. It is not what I expected. But I do discover one gentle tribute to spring’s fertile character: there are couples everywhere, pushing babies in strollers; it is such a lovely world, with so many forms of blossoming.

Among the dozens of booths selling scented candles, which are our unofficial National Craft, I discover a wood carver delivering a fascinating lecture. He tells his audience that when he finds an interesting piece of timber, he stares at it imaginatively until a figure inside reveals itself to him; then he simply pares away the unnecessary lumber. With his charming Ozark accent, he sounds like a down-home Michaelangelo.

Then I make the best discovery of the day, an elderly woman selling her cookbook, though with typical Arkansas hospitality she is giving away her recipes freely to anyone who requests them. Her name is Cleo Stiles Bryan, she has ribbons in her hair, and her book is titled Seems Like I Done It This-Away. I look into her kind face and think, “Cleo, named for history’s muse, write it down, sweet lady, write it all down. Little abides in this life: memories fade, hearts change, and words alone can arrest time’s reckless flow.” Her photograph, taken twenty years earlier, adorns the cover of her book. In her darker locks, she wears the same ribbons as the ones cascading down her now gray hair.

I head for the mill; the creek, swollen with spring rain, flows swiftly. Children throw sticks into the flood, and they are swept downstream and carried under by the dark current. The waterwheel turns so rapidly that it makes my heart turbulent to watch it. There are butterflies everywhere, but no swans. Perhaps they have returned to London to enjoy the patronage of the Queen. However, there are plenty of geese, and children chase them along the banks of the creek. Their indignant honking echoes through the valley.

I feel the enchantment of the fair waning, and so I walk back to the parking lot, distracted by foggy memories. But a young boy fishing along the creek startles me by yelling, “Dad, I’m caught in a line,” and I pause. Child, you cannot yet imagine how tightly we are bound by things in this lovely world. There are lines everywhere, and like gliding serpents, they entangle us in life’s bittersweet poetry. I look at the waterwheel, turning steadily in the same, yet ever-changing steam, and I stand there, with my thoughts going backward and forward and around.

From across the creek, I hear the graceful lilt of dulcimer music; it is as if someone were hammering gently on an angel’s heart. I start the car and drive across the lot, but I pause at the gate, turn the mirror slightly, and take a last backward glance at the fair, the creek, and the mill. Then, holding the wheel firmly in my hands, I ease onto the pavement and follow the ribbon of highway up into the hills.

Food and Wine

Though I am notoriously lactose-fickle, at the moment my favorite cheese is Cabot Horseradish Pasturized Process Cheddar Cheese, largely because of a discovery that I made concerning its affinity with wine. While the delectable tanginess of this cheese could overwhelm many wines, if thin slices of it are placed on just-grilled burgers – beef, turkey, or veggie, depending on your degree of hippiehood – and allowed to melt, they will amplify the pleasures of the meal considerably, especially if the burgers are paired with a stout Shiraz or robust Zinfandel. I suggest as side dishes sweet potato French fries and steamed broccoli, though I include this last item largely to silence any health nuts – I mean, of course, any wellness advocates – who might be present at the meal and who could compromise its pleasures by complaining about the richness of the fare. I promise that this wonderful cheese, if served as I have suggested, will help take the edge off the chill of even the bleakest winter day.

Movies for Valentine’s Day

As part of my mission to champion the cause of romantic love in the world, albeit only for today and in a curmudgeonly way, I am going to recommend three movies that love-struck couples can enjoy together on this, the most cloyingly wonderful day of the year. I am not, of course, going to offend my readers by selecting the sort of loathsome cinematic fare that passes for romance among people who require conventional and Hollywood-like depictions of love. Rather, I have chosen films that require someone with an almost poetic sensibility to discern their subtle charms, which lie hidden beneath admittedly gritty, if not gruesome, surfaces.

Hellboy. To the discerning heart, this film is practically a modern re-make of Romeo and Juliet, except that, in this case, the families of the boy and girl are not feuding, Romeo is the son of the Evil One, and although Juliet does die, she comes back to life. But these are quibbling differences, and the movie is otherwise perfectly faithful to the play in every way, except for a few other modest descrepancies in matters of plot, character, setting, and theme. In any case, Hellboy has everything necessary for romantic greatness: love lost and won, great monsters, even greater weapons, Nazis, a character who lives in an aquarium, and an organization with its headquarters in New Jersey that is – implausibly, I concede – legitimate. Finally, Hellboy and his girlfriend Liz are the hottest couple in cinema history, since one of them is impervious to flame and the other can burst into it almost at will.

Shoot ‘Em Up. I admit that I am something of a sucker for films that feature a sensitive but misunderstood hero who kills lots of deserving people, since I myself am sensitive and misunderstood, though not as yet given to homicidal reprisals in response to perceived provocations. This movie manages the impressive feat of being, at once, a romance and a vehicle for family values. Consider the facts: the man and woman (an entertainer – sort of) who eventually fall in love first meet in a (sort of) church, and, after overcoming a few minor problems that attend their being hunted by roving death squads actively seeking their demise, they get (sort of) married. Further, there is a baby in the movie, which the man and woman eventually adopt, and you can’t get more family-oriented than that! Even the film’s villain is a family man who constantly and considerately interrupts his murderous escapades to call his wife, and he even takes time out from his business of attempting to exterminate the man, woman, and baby to consult with one of his henchmen about what sort of birthday card to send his young son. I mean, he’s a candidate for “Dad of the Year,” and in a time when movies are so lacking in positive role models, I applaud the director of Shoot ‘Em Up for presenting his audience with so many. Finally, the movie contains a sternly moral anti-gun message, even as it revels in the unbridled use of firearms, and while some people might call that a contradiction, I call it the American Way of Life, and, as the mindlessly patriotic adage puts it, if someone doesn’t love that Way of Life, he can leave it. Actually, “love it or leave it” is, at least in my jaundiced view, a perfectly appropriate motto for Valentine’s Day. By the way, I hope that my male readers winced a bit at my use of “unbridled,” since “bridle” and “bridal,” though deriving from different word roots, can have frighteningly similar meanings. That’s just a friendly Valentine’s Day warning from a guy who’s got your back.

Friday the 13th. I know that many people will have trouble seeing Jason’s brutal ministrations as a form of “tough love,” but that’s not my problem. Labeling this confused young man a “homicidal maniac” solves nothing, but interpreting his admittedly antisocial behaviors as examples of “butchery issues” would allow people to see that Jason’s murderous rampages are merely disguised calls for affection, and that he is, finally, a romantic, albeit a blood-soaked one, and I submit that Jason X is so rife with with richly-textured relationships, that it comes perilously close to being a chick flick. In fact, if Jason were to replace his hockey mask with a smiley-face button, he would likely become a far more caring person, and I think that someone in Hollywood should give serious consideration to making a Friday the 13th movie in which Jason Voorhies meets Dr. Phil, as long as our wayward Don Juan is carrying an axe and our National Therapist is tied to a chair.

I hope that couples find my movie suggestions helpful, and I equally hope that viewing one of these films furthers the progress of their romance. I could, of course, have mentioned a few more of my favorite romantic movies, such as Alien vs. Predator and Blade II, but to have done so might have made me appear sentimental, and that is something that I cannot risk, especially on Valentine’s Day.

Note: For the sake of the sissies among my readers, and by “sissies” I mean “men who are afraid to cross their women by failing to rent a sappy movie,” I will suggest a few films that, while offering more traditional expressions of romance, contain at least a modicum of wit and emotional complexity.
Love Actually. I deplore the fact that the pompous British have so much cause for their pomposity, at least where films are concerned, since their romantic movies are generally so much better than their American counterparts, and I hate them for it. But I love this movie.
A Room with a View. More insufferable British superiority; this has to be among the loveliest, wittiest movies ever made, and the glorious Tuscan landscape is a major part of its appeal.
Clerks II. Beneath its surface vulgarities, this is a very traditional love story, as well as one of the few movies that is able to affirm the value of friendship in an unsentimental way.
Mediterraneo. Another astonishingly beautiful movie, which manages to treat romantic love in a sophisticated and decidedly adult way.
Mamma Mia!. Okay, perhaps this film does not, like the others on this list, “contain a modicum of wit and emotional complexity,” but I like its off-beat charm and up-beat spirit, and I actually enjoy listening to ABBA, and so, after all, I, too, in my own saccharine way, am something of a sissy.

Some Comments on Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day is upon us, and I am quite naturally awash in sentiment, which is equal parts smarm and charm. While it is as easy to puncture the syrupy pretensions of this day with satirical barbs as it is for Cupid to ravish human hearts with his honey-tipped arrows, I have decided to bring a measure of fairness, if not balance, to this romantic occasion by discussing this sweetest of days and the human affection that accompanies it in ways that might convince even love-smitten readers that I am not a complete cynic.

I know that some men buy their lady loves jewelry for Valentine’s Day, but the idea somehow suggests a sixteen-year-old boy purchasing a golden, heart-shaped locket for his first steady girlfriend. Perhaps advertising has conditioned us to believe that diamonds last forever, but most contemporary relationships seem a bit less durable.

I’ve been told that some Romeos buy lingerie for their Juliets, but I’ve never met one of these men, largely, I suspect, because they spend most of their time lurking in dark alleys, hanging around bus stations, or cruising the seedier neighborhoods of eBay.

Women need to understand that it is very difficult for men to give them chocolates for Valentine’s Day, especially if the confections come in frilly boxes. In fact, seeing the word “frill” in print can cause otherwise insensitive males to break out in a rash, and some men believe that touching the stuff will infest them with cooties.

I am aware that some love doctors advise their masculine patients to get an anti-cootie booster shot each February, but I have a simpler remedy for sentiment-borne diseases. Any male who wishes to remain psychologically balanced on Valentine’s Day should watch the “Oprah Winfrey Show” until he passes out from boredom; for any man with an emotional IQ above the double digit level, ten minutes of viewing should suffice, and his immunity to mawkish drivel will last at least one month.

However, the major risk males face when giving candy to their girlfriends is that doing so might result in a discussion of weight, one of the most hazardous minefields in the relationship battle zone. Nothing will more quickly reduce a man to stammering incoherence than seeing his lady stare ruefully at her Whitman Sampler and, after a few deep sighs, have her ask, “Do you think that I’m too thin?,” a statement that even the most poetically obtuse male can interpret as, “Don’t you love me the way I am?”

Alas, a dangerously prideful man who seeks to avoid this doleful conversation by purchasing diet chocolates for his beloved will likely compound his emotional felony, and in these technology-driven times, the almost inevitable question, “Do you think that I’m too fat?” translates as, “The moment you leave, I’m going to access dumphim.com.”

Women need to be prudent about the sorts of conversations they initiate during special Valentine’s Day dinners, since men, especially young ones, fear that in such a romantically-charged atmosphere even the most casual talk might suddenly veer into a discussion of “us,” the most emotionally taxing subject for males. Just thinking about this calamity can give some men a migraine.

Rather than take his current love interest to a restaurant, a man would be wiser to cook her a good meal, but always at her place, so that if the subject of “our relationship” comes up, he can make a quick exit. I also suggest renting a movie, in part to forestall any risky after-dinner conversation, and it would be thoughtful for men to choose a film that steers a middle course between excessive love interest and its complete absence. Thus, Return to Me and Predator would be bad choices, while Die Hard 2 would be perfect.

Some boyfriends like to buy their sweethearts perfume for Valentine’s Day, and while this seems like a selflessly sweet gesture, I suspect that part of their motive for doing so involves the fact that they get to flirt with the pretty, alluringly fragrant women who sell the stuff. It’s a good thing that girlfriends don’t know this, or else their male consorts might be charged with scent-based cheating.

Buying flowers is a daunting challenge for some men, and florists should therefore understand that they can make male customers feel uncomfortable and incompetent by the simple and altogether innocent expedient of asking, “Can I help you?” In truth, men often purchase a dozen red roses not because they are unimaginative but because doing so is conventional, and there is emotional safety in convention. In matters of the heart, being creative or original can be a dangerous tactic. What if the lady fair doesn’t like yellow roses or had actually been expecting red ones? Males are not especially intuitive creatures, but they are born knowing exactly why roses have thorns.

Some men fall prey to the “amplification fallacy,” the misguided assumption that, “if twelve roses are good, then twenty-four must be better.” These hapless males fail to comprehend that many women will regard this largesse as evidence of their “non-specific guilt,” a female synonym for “being male.” If in the course of the relentless interrogation that is almost sure to follow such suspicious behavior, the accused should for any reason whatsoever utter the words, “I’m sorry,” his apology will be construed as proof positive that he has “done something,” which of course he has, by virtue of drawing breath.

Even if a man is financially destitute, I recommend that he should think carefully before engaging in the floral subterfuge undertaken by one of my college classmates, especially since it is decidedly at odds with the spirit of the day and more than a little morbid. Finding himself short of cash but long on ardor, this enterprising young man presented each of his three girlfriends with a lovely Valentine’s Day bouquet that he had acquired at a local cemetary. Unfortunately, his romantic duplicity was exposed when one of the girls discovered a card inside her flowers that read “Condolences.”

Flushed with sentiment-induced pride, some men might be tempted to compose a poem to accompany their sweetheart’s Valentine’s Day gift. If they are reckless enough to do so, they should avoid using the archaic “thee,” even if comparing their lovely lady to “a summer’s day” or, in a less exalted idiom, “a Chevy truck,” unless, of course, the female in question is either a Quaker or a clerk at AutoZone.

As I promised at the beginning of this posting, in the interests of fairness, I will now make a few brief but positive comments on the subject of love. Naturally, I cannot defend its delusional excesses, but I will nonetheless advocate its possibility. Whenever I find myself despairing over the fact that so many things in modern life conspire to degrade the human heart, I reread A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I regain confidence that, with a bit of magic, the haunted wood of self-absorption can once more become the enchanted forest of romantic love.

Leo Tolstoy once worried that human love is entirely self-centered, but he changed his mind after witnessing a modest but remarkable event. Walking down a boulevard, he came upon a grandfather seated on a bench next to his granddaughter; the old man was feeding the little girl strawberries, and while Tolstoy was not surprised by the delighted look on the child’s face, he was converted to the cause of altruism by the sight of the old man beaming, since his joy had nothing to do with self and everything to do with the happiness of another.

My last bit of testimony on behalf of romance concerns a paradox that no one can logically explain but which all lovers have experienced: the profound weight of absence. That is, when the beloved person is not present, the heft of nothing sits upon one’s heart like a cold mountain. Despite the mass-produced sentiments and emotional froth that regrettably attend Valentine’s Day, its rituals can nonetheless remind us that love is related to levity, since it lifts our hearts by affirming the truth that we truly love only when we take ourselves lightly for the sake of someone else.

A New Superhero?

I recall my sorrow many years ago when I learned that Superman, at least in one updated and “improved” version, would no longer fly or even wear a cape. I was dismayed not only by the fact that an American cultural icon had been toppled in the name of progress, but also because it seemed to me at the time that there were a diminishing number of traditional heroes in the modern world, especially those of the super variety.

In fact, upon further consideration, wine lovers have never had a superhero of their own, and so I am considering undertaking the project of personally providing one. While it is true that I am neither faster than a speeding bullet nor more powerful than a locomotive, I do wear glasses, I am very mild-mannered, and for many years I wrote for a great metropolitan newspaper.

I have even decided on a heroic name (Vineman), a logo (a “V” decorated with grapes), and a costume (svelte burgundy tights, claret shirt and cape). As Vineman, I would pit myself against wine criminals and their nefarious deeds, at least on this Web site.

I took my first test as a superhero earlier this week, when I went to the local mall to buy part of my superhero uniform – the tights, to be precise. I was a bit abashed when the first salesclerk I approached at Dillard’s referred me to the women’s lingerie department, and I admit that I told the young lady who waited on me that I wanted to buy a pair of burgundy leotards for someone with a “full figure.”

Alas, when I got home and examined my purchase, I discovered that the tights were not, after all, burgundy, but a more sensitive color – magenta. I suppose that this initial setback confirms the fact that that part of the schooling for those with a newly-assumed superhero identity is the discovery that their vocation can involve trials more complex than those one expects in combating vinous villains and detecting their heinous wine crimes. In short, the world will test Vineman in unexpected ways. But I am fully prepared to meet all manner of challenges, and besides, after donning my tights and studying myself dispassionately in the mirror, I have to admit that, at least in my opinion, Vineman doesn’t look too bad in magenta.

Note: I first published this posting in 1997 as a frame for one of my wine columns, and I still think that the wine world needs Vineman, despite the very vocal doubts of my sons, all of whom had the insolence to suggest that the entire idea is preposterous. Well, that’s what they said when John McCain chose Sarah Palin as his running mate, though, upon reflection, that might not be a very effective example to employ in a counterargument. At any rate, I still think that it would be of immense benefit to the wine community if I were to drive around the country in my Vintage Van, which would sport all manner of wine-related pictures and paraphernalia, as a deterrent to wine crimes, whatever they might be. As for my disrespectul sons, I have decided that will they will all be the leading candidates for the demeaning job of comic sidekick to Vineman, and while I have not yet settled on a name for their group, I am considering both Yeast Youths and Bouquet Brats but favoring Grape Goons. As a much-put-upon father, it would be deeply satisfying to turn to these unfilial brutes and say, “Quick, Grape Goons – to the Vintage Van!”

The Year of the Ox

The Year of the Ox arrived on 26 January 2009, and as I used to enjoy doing when I wrote editorials and wine reviews for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette , I am going to offer my predictions for the coming lunar year for people born under the twelve signs of the Chinese zodiac. Readers can be as certain of the accuracy of these forecasts as they can of the authenticity of prognostications made by Western astrologists, since both are equally grounded in reality. However, it might help to establish my credentials if I mention two facts: I did live and teach for a year in Taiwan, during which time I was able to study the methodology of Chinese horoscopes under the tutelage of accomplished masters; second, I spent two years of post-doctoral work at Miskatonic University, where I was a student of many arcane arts.

I know that for most Westerners, the Ox has only a few postive associations, and being called an ox is hardly a compliment, unless you are an offensive lineman in the NFL, but in East Asia people born under the astrological influence of this sturdy beast are respected for being sensitive to the value of tradition while being receptive to new things. At a time when America is facing a severe economic crisis, this is not a bad outlook to have on life. Further, Ox people are usually loyal, determined, and realistic, and it is said that they have the ability to inspire confidence in others. It is perhaps auspicious for America, then, that Barack Obama was born in the Year of the Ox.

Indivuals can determine the zodiac sign under which they were born by counting in multiples of twelve from the dates that I have provided for three of the birth years of each horoscope animal. Finally, it is important to remember there is no such thing as a “good” or a “bad” sign; they each have strengths and at least a few potential weaknesses. However, some signs, like some people, have character tendencies that are particularly annoying, at least to me, and I am the one writing this posting. Finally, I am not going to discuss the sorts of relationships that can obtain among people born under these signs. With Valentine’s Day approaching, there is already enough emotional treacle in the air for me to bother adding to it.

Year of the Rat (1984, 1972, 1960). Rats belong to the triangle of affinity that includes Dragons and Monkeys – the “doers” of the zodiac cyle, and although most Westerners associate them with betrayal and pestilence, in the Chinese view, Rats are usually shy and sensitive people who make good friends. While thrifty, they are also generous, and while uncommonly loving, they also tend to be demanding perfectionists. Because they are such clever, prudent, and hard-working creatures, Rats are likely to have a very properous year during the reign of the Ox. My youngest son is in many ways a little Rat, and the list of famous Rats includes Al Gore, David Carradine, Samuel L. Jackson, Marlon Brando, William Shakespeare, and, for an uncommonly pestiferous example, Ann Coulter.

Year of the Ox (1985, 1973, 1961). The Ox is part of the triangle of affinity that includes Snakes and Roosters – the three intellectual signs, though their intelligence is inflected in different ways. As I have already indicated, the Ox is a paragon of patience, discipline, and hard work who possesses immense strength of character. The Ox should enjoy a year filled with opportunity and good fortune. In addition to President Obama, famous Oxen include Napoleon, Jack Nicholson, Bach, Meryl Streep, and, for hideous balance, Adolf Hitler.

Year of the Tiger (1986, 1974, 1962). Tigers belong to the action-oriented triangle of affinity that includes the Horse and the Dog, and while they are passionate about life and love adventures and enterprises that require aggression and courage, Tigers are often given to extremes. This means that Tigers must exercise uncharacteristic prudence in the coming year, during which they should curtail – or at least circumscribe – most of their personal and professional ventures. It is not surpising that the list of famous Tigers is somewhat polarized; “good” Tigers include Dwight Eisenhower, Alec Guiness, and Karl Marx; “bad” or “paper” Tigers include Tom Cruise, Karl Rove, and Rush Limbaugh.

Year of the Rabbit (1987, 1975, 1963). The Rabbit belongs to the triangle of affinity that includes the Sheep and the Pig, which are generally termed the emotion-guided signs, but which I think of as “The Food Group.” Rabbits are civil, unassuming, artistic, and affectionate, though their love can sometimes be smothering. Many horoscope authorities consider Rabbits to be lucky, though having people cut off your feet and carry one of them around in their pocket is an odd sort of luck. At any rate, Rabbits are usually good with money, and so they will likely have a wonderful year in business ventures, and they are not likely to encounter many unpleasant surprises. Famous Bunnies include Judy Collins, Ali McGraw, Bob Hope, George C. Scott, and that old softy, Mike Ditka.

Year of the Dragon (1988, 1976, 1964). Dragons are powerful, attractive, and vigorous, but they also tend to be pompous and egotistical. It is not surprising, then, that if the Dragons are just moderately prudent in the coming year, they will enjoy good fortune. Unsurprisingly, many Dragons find success in show business, including Al Pacino, Nick Nolte, Shirley Temple, Ringo Starr, and Martin Sheen, along with writers George Bernard Shaw and Pearl Buck.

Year of the Snake (1989, 1977, 1965). Snakes are wise, seductive, and deeply intuitive. Of all the zodiac signs, they are the most mysterious, with an outward calm and inner intensity that can be either immensely attractive or deeply disturbing. Snakes can also be vain and, despite their considerable inner resources, insecure. However, being eminently compatible with the Ox, Snakes should enjoy a year filled with creative possibilities. Famous Snakes include John F. Kennedy, Mae West, Pablo Picasso, Edgar Allan Poe, Oprah, Abraham Lincoln, and Greta Garbo. I think that Snake women are the most beautiful and alluring creatures on the planet.

Year of the Horse (1990, 1978, 1966). Horses are sensuous, fashion-conscious, independent,
and theatrical, though they are just as commonly garrulous, insensitve, self-centered, and impatient. My olderst son is a Horse, and his decidedly Equine character convinces me that there can be a great deal of truth in Chinese zodiac lore. Given their impetuosity, Horses will need to be extremely cautious in the coming year, especially with respect to money and romance, though they probably won’t be. Famous Horses include Igor Stravinsky, Rita Hayworth, the peerlessly graceful Audrey Hepburn, Rembrandt, Barbra Streisand, Sean Connery, and Harrison Ford.

Year of the Sheep (1991, 1979, 1967). The Sheep is the most feminine of the signs, and so Sheep tend to be sensitive, artistic, compassionate, and gentle, though they can also be painfully shy, needy, and given to whining. With this combination of strengths and shortcomings, Sheep will probably experience a fairly successful year under the reign of the patient Ox, though they should also try to burden other people with their problems less frequently. Famous and infamous Sheep include Robert De Niro and John Wayne, as well as Geraldo Rivera, Jerry Springer, and Pamela Anderson.

Year of the Monkey (1992, 1980, 1969). Monkeys tend to be much too clever for their own good; they possess nimble minds and, in equal measure, inquisitiveness and mischievousness. Monkeys are extremely competitive and uncommonly crafty, and they are not above taking advantage of the trust or gullibility of others. In fact, Monkeys are notorious for their slender allegiance to truth, which might be why they make such good writers and excellent hosts, as well as successful politicians. Monkeys tend to land on their feet, and so they will probably have a great year under the influence of the Ox. In my opinion, Monkeys make splendid, endlessly-entertaining friends, though not very good spouses. Famous Monkeys include F. Scott Fitzgerald, Lyndon B. Johnson, Charles Dickens, Edward Kennedy, Tom Hanks, and Ian Fleming. Since Monkeys are alleged to be notorious liars, it is perhaps not surprisng to learn that Donald Rumsfeld is a Simian.

Year of the Rooster (1993, 1981, 1969). The Rooster is both the most eccentric and the most misunderstood sign in the Chinese zodiac. Intelligent, witty, adventurous, and almost fanatically devoted to work, Roosters nonetheless can be reckless, overly sure of their own opinions, and insensitive about the feelings of other people. My middle son is a Rooster, but he is much kinder and more thoughtful than some of his zodiac peers, perhaps because he was born in Taiwan.
Because Roosters have so many affinities with the Ox, this should prove a good year for them, and they can expect many projects to come to happy fruition, but they must also exercise caution and be ready to assume a great deal of responsibility, especially in financial matters. Famous Roosters include Caruso, Steve Martin, Neil Young, Carly Simon, Katharine Hepburn, and Alex Haley.

Year of the Dog (1994, 1982, 1970). While Dogs are quite appropriately associated with loyalty, this does not mean that they have the necessary acumen to determine whether the principles or persons to whom that loyalty is directed are worthy of it. Dogs tend to be honest and open-natured, but they can also be secretive, petty, and spiteful. The Year of the Ox should be one of mixed results for Dogs, and so prudence is probably the best approach to all matters, as is generally the case, but especially those concerning business or romance. Famous Dogs include Elvis (nothin’ but a Hound Dog, of course), Cher, Sylvester Stallone, Winston Churchill, Bill Clinton (a reminder that not all Dogs are capable of staying on their own porch), George W. Bush (a reminder that not all dogs are bright, something my border collie constantly insists on), and Madonna.

Year of the Pig (1995, 1983, 1971). Pigs can be gallant and noble, but they also have a tendency to fall apart when their hopes fail to materialize. While Pigs are renowned for seeking harmony in personal relationships, they can also be almost wantonly hedonistic, and this self-indulgence can take many misfortunate forms. Generally speaking, the Pig will probably enjoy good luck during the Year of the Ox, though not necessarily in romantic matters. Famous Pigs include Woody Allen, Steven Spielberg, Humphrey Bogart, and Arnold Schwarzenegger; Henry Kissinger and Richard Nixon are also Swine.

I wish everyone a Happy New Year, and I hope that all my readers enjoy much good fortune and a great deal of happiness during the Year of the Ox.

Welcome

I anticipate having many first-time readers today, and so I want to welcome them to “Food for the Spirit and the Soul,” and I also welcome anew people who have already visited my Web Site. In order for newcomers to obtain a sense of my ambitions for this site, I recommend that they begin by reading the “About” posting.

What people will not find here is also of some importance; while I certainly have principles that are apparent in my postings, I will not engage in the sort of extremist canting that unfortunately passes for intelligent discourse in our Republic. Confucius said that to pursue oddities only leads to harm, by which he meant that to take an undue interest in things strange or extreme will eventually distort someone’s view of the world and likely make him or her unbalanced – and we have far too many unbalanced people drowning our media in a flood of one-sided, extremist propaganda. In short, we have an excess number of “odd” individuals posing as reasonable, well-educated beings.

What you will discover in “Food for the Spirit and the Soul” are various attempts at wit, irony, and complexity – the general hallmarks of a healthy civilization or person – as well as a generous dose of skepticism about all received opinion. Like many Americans, I am the heir of Athens, by which I mean that I see life as an exploration that each person must take for himself; no authentic adventure is possible for someone using another person’s map. I hope that you find the various postings edifying, delightful, and, above all, thought-provoking. As you will discover, it is possible to approach this world in diverse ways and to address it with many voices.

I ask my readers, both new and old, to help me in two ways. First, they can spread word of the existence of this site. Second, I need a publisher for my books, including and especially Vintage Days, which is a collection of the frames of the wine columns that I wrote for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette for more than a dozen years, and a few of which appear on this Web Site. If anyone who either knows a publisher or knows the best means by which I can contact one effectively, he or she can write me an e-mail.

Please, then, accept both my welcome and my invitation to read on. Let me know what you think. Authors write for a presumed audience, but it is always gratifying to have a monologue become a conversation, and that is true in more than just writing.

Hippie Puritanism

I know that the expression “Hippie Puritanism” will stirke many readers as peculiar, but I employ it in a light-hearted way to introduce a potentially serious subject, namely, the manner in which many Americans simultaneously maintain an allegiance to two quite distinct and even adversarial value systems. By “Hippie,” I mean that part of our national character that is almost reflexively antinomian and deeply distrustful of established authority, attributes that might generally be termed countercultural; hippies have a sensuous engagement with life, and they take beauty and pleasure seriously.

By “Puritianism,” I do not mean the world-hating theology that so damaged the sensibilities of the earliest settlers in Massachusetts and which can still regrettably be heard in the blathering of many of their televangelist heirs. Rather, I mean the unconscious habit of seeing – and evaluating – the world in a melodramatic way, by which I mean dividing it into rigidly dualistic moral categories, such as good vs. evil, white hat vs. black hat, and decent people vs. neoconservative Republicans. This cultural Puritanism is something that we absorb with the Saturday morning cartoons of our childhood and continue to experience – and at least unconsciously expect – in many of our popular entertainments. Finally, Puritans distrust pleasure and seem, at least at times, to dislike beauty, as well.

Now it should be obvious to everyone that our pleasure-loving Inner Hippie (henceforth, IH) is rarely going to agree on anything with our equally strident and world-denying Inner Puritan (henceforth, IP), and finding a successful means to satisfy them both takes constant effort. Hollywood has found a very profitable way to do this in its seemingly endless cycle of teenage slasher/horror movies. In all of them, IH will get to see a suitable amount of scantily-clad (or less-than-scantily-clad) young flesh on the screen, much to the outrage of IP, but then IP has the satisfaction of seeing these youthful sinners (the ones who dared to have fun, by which I mean those who had forbidden, non-marital sex) killed in suitably gruesome ways, much to the distress of IH, who at least gets to watch the virtuous (by which I mean celibate and generally more fully-clothed ) young man or woman survive. Thus we have our cake and eat it too; IP finishes his popcorn (no salt or butter, of course), IH finishes his soda (sugar-free, naturally), and then they leave the theatre together, in a mutually-happy state of temporary truce.

There are many less-sanguine ways of simultaneously pleasing IH and IP, but in this posting I am going to share a very modest one with readers – my choice of breakfast cereals. I purchase these three products in a local health food store, which delights IH, since the visits allow him to take stock of all the latest advances in New Age nostrums, and which pleases IP, because despite his having serious reservations about the moral rectitude of the hippies who both run and frequent this store and their regrettable allegiance to the (fallen) natural world, he recognizes with smug satisfaction that much of the preoccupation with wholesomeness in the place (non-allergenic products, organic ingredients, holistic medicine, etc.) is actually displaced Puritanism. At any rate, I have found a way to please both my fun-hating IP and unabashedly hedonistic IH in the three breakfast cereals that I will describe for readers as a potential model for their own inner reconciliations. I am not claiming to be the Cotton Mather of the Woodstock Nation in this enterprise, but if I were, my middle name would be “Cotton” and my first name would be “Sustainably-Farmed.”

NATURE’S PATH ORGANIC HERITAGE O’S. IH is quite naturally ravished by both “Nature’s” and “Organic,” while IP likes “Heritage,” since he interprets it as a tribute to the morally upright customs of a now sadly bygone era, customs like dressing in black and white, stealing land from native Americans, and burning witches. This cereal is made from three “heritage grains” – kamut, spelt, and quinoa – and one expert in the science of grains claims that kamut “takes an hour of simmering in order to soften,” a view with which I concur, since Heritage O’s can sit in a bowl of milk overnight and still remain “crisp,” to say the least. IP approves of any food the eating of which involves a contest, and that is also why he likes the “Eco-Pac” which contains this cereal, since the material from which it is made is stronger than titanium, and not even my oldest son, who can bench press a compact car, is able to tear it open. Thus, anyone who wants to eat this wonderful and highly-nutritious cereal must first indirectly affirm his allegiance to the Puritan work ethic in his attempt to open the container in which it is packaged.

The three grains of which this cereal is made provide narrative sub-texts that please both my inner characters. IP knows that spelt comes from the Transcaucasia region, which is the location of Mount Ararat, the purported location of Noah’s ark, and it pleases him to think that while eating his breakfast he is in some gently self-righteous way validating scripture. IH regards the ark story as mythic, though IP insists that it is as firmly grounded in historical truth as the fact that the earth is just six thousand years old. Because quinoa originated in the Andes, IH automatically associates it with Peru’s Nazca lines, which, as everyone who believes that crystals possess magic powers knows, were actually built as landing fields for flying saucers. Further, Kamut originally came from Egypt, and as anyone who believes that they can recite spells that will allow them to call down mystical energy from the moon will be happy to inform you, E.T. built the pyramids. The Chariots of the Gods, man – it’s all true!

Given its multiple satisfactions, I am tempted to adore Nature’s Path Organic Heritage O’s, but I do not, since IP is always reminding me that adoration is merely one more form of idolatry.

BARBARA’S BAKERY SHREDDED WHEAT. The box this cereal comes in advertises “Same Great Taste,” but though I have enjoyed it for many years, this shredded wheat is nearly lacking in anything that could meaningfully be called flavor, which impresses IP; he is also secretly pleased that, after cracking his bicuspids on Heritage O’s, Barbara’s Shredded Wheat turns pleasantly soggy at the first touch of milk. IH especially admires the fact that this cereal is uncommonly nutritious and is low in sodium and sugar, since he, like so many seekers in the spiritual marketplace, is almost morbidly obsessed with his health.

I eat many bowls of Barbara’s Shredded Wheat every month, and I would call it my favorite cereal, if I had not learned so painfully that choosing favorites can lead to some of life’s greatest disasters, including, but hardly limited to, partisan politics, fantasy football leagues, and marriage.

KASHI 7 WHOLE GRAIN NUGGESTS. In some ways, this cereal is best described as Post Grape Nuts on steroids. IP is delighted by the fact that it has the texture of driveway gravel; IH loves its flavor and is pleased that one bowl provides him with a day’s worth of whole grains. However, it is the number of grains in these delectable nuggets that intrigues both sides of my inner nature. For IP, seven is a reminder of the Seven Deadly Sins, and so he girds his loins with righteousness while munching his morning repast. For IH, seven is reminiscent of the seven chakras, which are part of Hindu and Buddhist spiritual practice, and so he imaginatively visits the Mystic East at breakfast. Further, IP likes to recall that the Seven Deadly Sins are a sure and certain path to Hell, while IH regards them as either a summary of an attractive executive-level job description or, in his baser moments, as a list of interesting hobbies. This fundamental disagreement over the meaning of a number explains why IP and IH rarely converse during breakfast.

I close with two confessions, which for IP are necessary to cleanse myself of the burden of guilt that attends my being an inherently sinful creature, but which for IH are simply an additional means to broadcast his narcissism, as he does when discussing vitamins or aromatherapy with his New Age acquaintances or as is the case of many of the insecure whiners who appear on Dr. Phil’s silly show to revel in their nonexistent “issues” and thereby make pathetic spectacles of themselves. First, I do sometimes give in to temptation and permit myself to wander down the cereal aisle of my local, inorganic grocery store. I will linger for a moment, allowing myself to cast a few salacious glances Frosted Fripperies, Concupiscent Corn Flakes, and Honey Nut Harlotries, all of them laden with sugar, salt, and artificial ingredients, but after a brief ogle I recover my virtue and pass them by. Naturally, I never make eye contact with the degenerate individuals who place these slatternly cereals in their shopping carts.

Second and finally, I admit that sometimes I succumb to worldly folly and put yoghurt on my Heritage O’s, but only the plain, fat-free variety. However, when I lack sufficent moral restraint, I will place some sliced banana on my Barbara’s Shredded Wheat, and when no longer constrained by decency, I will add some walnuts. In fact, when I am completely in thrall to gastronomic lust, I will set a strawberry atop my Kashi Nuggets, or, on those occasions when my gluttony is boundless, two strawberries. However, on such wanton occasions, in order to prevent people walking past my house from seeing me in the throes of illicit pleasures and thereby be tempted by my example to surrender themselves to unbridled self-indugence, I quite naturally close the curtains of my dining room window, curtains which are, of course, tie-dyed.

Incense and Sons: A Family Tragedy

For sons – and the parents who both love and endure them

Today is Lunar New Year’s Eve, and throughout the world people are celebrating the arrival of the Year of Ox in the company of family and friends. I, too, am filled with joy during this happy season, though my festive mood on this day is always complicated by the memory of an event that happened long ago on a Lunar New Year’s Eve in China.

It was my immense good fortune to be able to teach for a year at Chung-Hsing University in Taichung, Taiwan, Republic of China. I have always had excellent students, but those whom it was my pleasure and honor to teach at Chung-Hsing were simply extraordinary in every meaningful way. However, they play only an incidental role in what proved to be my New Year’s Eve calamity.

In order for this tale to have any sort of cautionary value, which I certainly hope that it does, readers need to know that when I went to teach in Taiwan it was in the company of my pregnant wife and our two-year-old son, and this boy is at least partly responsible for the tragic mistake that I made in a temple on the advent of the Year of the Rooster. I know that engaging in stereotyping is always risky, but this child has aggressively red hair, and in his temperamental character and wayward behavior he confirmed everything that my wife and I had been told to expect; he is also left-handed, and so many intelligent individuals reading these words are already asking, “Why did you keep him?” I do not mean to avoid responsibility in this matter, but for some reason his mother is fond of this boy, and so, despite the evidence of her senses and my constant pleas for her to allow me to set him adrift on the Arctic ice floes, she insisted on feeding him and letting him sleep indoors. My Asian readers will understand when I state that this child was misfortunate enough to have been born in the Year of the Horse. He even has a Chinese name – “Heavenly Mountain” – and he has certainly continued to dominate the horizon of our family life.

Our first semester in China did little to disabuse this capricious brute of the notion that he was the most important being on the planet. Every time we would push him in his pram through the market or down the street, people would come up to him, rub his hair, and give him treats. He soon began accepting these tributes as his due, and his carrot-topped arrogance reached a pinnacle of insufferability when, as a courtesy, several students insisted on taking the Little King for a walk each day, so that my wife could rest in the late afternoon. This might sound immensely considerate on their part, and it was, but it also had unforeseen consequences. One day the boy returned home from his walk, demanded a piece of candy, and when my wife said “No,” he got a puzzled look on his face and asked, “What is ‘no’?” It turned out that the students were buying him any confection that he pointed to, and he simply could not imagaine anyone contesting his imperial whims.

At any rate, the point of this digression is that we already had a son, a profoundly problematical son, and so we very much wanted our second child to be a daughter, not the least because we feared that a second son would push our family life beyond disaster and into outright calamity. I will now move forward to New Year’s Eve, but readers must keep in mind the stupendous hardships that my wife and I had endured in trying to raise a red-headed, left-handed, Horse child.

One of my students courteously invited us to spend part of our holiday vacation with her family in Taipei, and on New Year’s Eve, one of her uncles took me to the city’s magnificent Lung Shan – Dragon Mountain – Temple to witness the evening’s festivities. As we entered the temple, we each purchased a huge bundle of incense, and as we proceeded down its many corridors, we would place an appropriate number of incense sticks in the urns standing before the icons of deities and important historical figures. The urns in front of the City God, Lao-tzu, Buddha, and Confucius were enormous, but I made certain to pay my respects to all the Worthies, including and especially the God of Literature. My guide, a very successful businessman, urged me to place a large number of sticks in the urn reserved for the God of Wealth, and I did, though to no discernable effect. We had been in the temple for more than three hours, it was very early in morning of the first day of the Year of the Rooster, and I was tired, and so my fatigue contributed to my making the disastrous error which would forever change the course of my life.

We were approaching one of the temple’s many exits, and I was placing one or two incense sticks in the urns of some minor deities, when I noticed that the next urn was actually a full-fledged conflagration, since it was filled with so much burning incense that people actually had to stand back and toss their sticks into the fire from a considerable distance. My guide urged me to throw my remaining sticks into this urn, and since I had so many left, it seemed like a good idea. I looked at the figure of the deity above the urn, but I did not recognize him, and I had grown too sleepy to bother asking who he was. I therefore tossed about twenty incense sticks into the inferno, more than I had offered to Lao-tzu, Buddha, and Confucius, and then turned to ask my student’s uncle who it was that I had just so deeply honored. “Oh,” he casually replied, “this is the god who assures that you will have only male children.”

I immediatly jumped into the urn, in a desperate and futile attempt to retrieve my incense, and in the process singed my eyebrows, scorched my shirt, and torched my hopes for a daughter. Two months later our second son was born, we named him “Heavenly Ocean,” and we began our slow but inevitable family journey beyond disaster and into calamity. My students tried to console me after my disappointment by telling me that I was probably too virile to father female children – a claim which my wife inconsiderately disputed – and while I have no doubt that these wise young scholars were in some measure correct, in subsequent years this suggestion proved to be but a small crumb of comfort. However, I can at least claim that one of my sons is Chinese, and if you doubt his ethnicity, he will be more than happy to show you his tattoo, which reads “Made in Taiwan,”
though skeptics should also be warned that its location on his body is somewhat unorthodox.

I wish that my chronicle of folly ended there, but it does not. When we returned to the United States, I decided that the influence of the god who assures that you will have only male children could not possibly extend beyond the precincts of the Middle Kingdom. My pride was, of course, appropriately punished, and in 1984 we moved beyond calamity and into catastrophe with the birth of our third son, “Heavenly Aspiration,” though as in the case of his older brothers, the term “Heavenly” in his name has come to have decidedly ironic implications. This boy at least has the Chinese-sounding nickname “Chan,” though this is small compensation for my having had to endure the vagaries involved in helping to raise Moe, Larry, and Curly.

I sometimes curse the god who assures that you will have only male children, though silently, to be sure. I try to look on what I call the bright side of things, by which I mean the less dark, of course, by thinking of how much worse it would have been if this cruel-hearted deity had decreed that our last two sons would be twins, but this is not something that I can contemplate for very long without either weeping or seeking solace in strong drink. At any rate, I concede that this is not really a very effective cautionary tale. If its point is something like “always keep your wits about you when in a Chinese temple on New Year’s Eve,” few people would find my advice worth heeding. If I were to state that its message is “don’t have sons,” I run two risks: Happy couples – by which I mean those without sons – could not possibly appreciate the depth of my sincerity and would likely regard me as a sort of Ancient Mariner who wanders the planet uselessly and annoyingly recounting his tale of woe to people who don’t want to hear it; conversely, misfortunate parents already burdened with sons have nothing to learn from my narrative, though I do hope that they give some thought to taking their boys for a “vacation” on the Arctic ice floes. Despite my disappointment in this matter, I do offer people who want to have sons (called “fools”) and parents who have sons (called “martyrs”) a last bit of advice that could someday prove useful. I once saw a wonderful Chinese painting called “Drowning the Unfilial Son,” and I have thought about it often while suffering the countless provocations of my offspring, and if I am ever able to find reproductions of this masterpiece, I will send a copy to each of my deserving sons. I urge both those who want sons and those who already have them to consider doing the same.

I wish everyone a Happy New Year, but I wish especially good things for all sons and for the parents who love them so deeply.

Television Romance

Like many boys, I developed a crush on a television star when I was about ten years old. In my case, the beauty who captured my heart was Elizabeth Montgomery, who played Samantha on “Bewitched,” and I remember how her poster decorated a wall of my room. I loved many things about Samantha – how she talked, her sense of humor, and the way her nose wrinkled when she worked her magic. To my great surprise and delight, I have recently developed a similar though less obsessive affection for a different television personality – Special Agent Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson) from “The X-Files.” I have no poster of Scully on any of my walls, but I do like her conversational style, and I find her wit and hard-nosed intelligence irresistible. I want to use my admiration for Scully to help me write this posting, in which I will describe some excellent wines.

On “The X-Files,” Scully is justifiably skeptical of irrational beliefs, but she would consider it a mark of sanity if any wine lover were to praise Dry Creek Vineyard Dry Creek Valley 2004 Merlot, and I do not think that anyone needs extrasensory abilities to appreciate how wonderful this wine would be with grilled meats or savory stews.

Not even all the detective skills that Scully learned at the FBI Academy could help her to find a bottle of Rafanelli 2005 Zinfandel in Arkansas, for this extraordinary wine is not available outside the winery.

I have already indicated how much I like to hear Scully talk, and I am equally pleased with a very eloquent wine – Dry Creek Vineyard Clarksburg 2007 Chenin Blanc. Even the technologically advanced extraterrestrials who are a regular feature on “The X-Files” would be impressed by the artistry evident in this altogether charming wine.

If I were lucky enough to cook dinner for Scully, I would serve it with a bottle of Beringer Napa Valley 2005 Private Reserve Chardonnay, and I would certainly suggest offering this exquisite wine to all the special people in our lives – and not just Special Agents.

I know that Scully is, alas, merely a television character, and this fact precludes my ever taking her to the movies, buying her flowers, writing her a poem, or having a romantically meaningful conversation with her by candlelight. On the other hand, there are certain undeniable advantages in such a relationship. Scully will never sulk because I forgot our anniversary, whine about the insufficient attention I pay to her “affective self,” or complain because I watch too much football. I am happy to accept this “trade-off,” and I will continue to adore Scully from afar. Actually, the more I watch her, the more I think that Scully does, in fact, look and act a great deal like Samantha. In any case, I am happy to admit that I am once more bewitched by a lovely woman and delighted to discover that it is still possible for an intelligent and witty lady to work some magic in my life.

This posting first appeared as a wine column in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. I have changed the names and updated the vintages of the wines. Despite the passage of many years, I continue to admire Special Agent Dana Scully, and I still sometimes wish that I could take her to dinner.