A Tremendous Thing in a Small Package

I'll begin this saga with the eponymous package:

The black bars over my last name and address were not part of the original, obviously, but the black and white grid pattern was.

To the unsuspecting eye, this may seem like a pretty uninteresting piece of mail. I, however, squealed when I saw it and felt my heart beat a little faster. I carefully snipped it open, hands practically shaking with anticipation, because I knew that it was going to contain this:

"To Beth, With thanks and best regards, David Mitchell, Clonakilty, 2012"

!!!!!!

I must confess that even now, about a week after I receive the book, I'm still sort of at a loss for words.

Here's how it happened: Some of you may remember reading a post I wrote in October about a Selected Shorts program hosted by David Mitchell. I gushed about how wonderful he is and how much I enjoyed hearing him speak, but also how disappointed I was that he was unable to do a book signing because of his flight plans. But I resolved to move on. I read the book I'd intended to have him sign - usually I hardly touch these after they're autographed to keep them in pristine condition - and figured I'd just try to go see him again some day. Ed's mother, who is more proactive, had other ideas.

Ed's mom often reads my blog, and when she stumbled upon this particular post she decided to take action (for which I will always be grateful). Somehow she tracked down David Mitchell's publicist and sent him the link to the post I had written. The publicist wrote back to her and said that she would forward the link to Mr. Mitchell and see that I got a signed book in the mail! Ed, who was (I think) privy to this plan before his mother heard back from the publicist, did not tell me about it until she had received confirmation. As you can probably imagine, elated does not begin to describe how I felt. I eagerly watched the mailbox for the next week, and then the week after that. The package did not arrive.

When it finally arrived, I'd almost forgotten about it. I was expecting a sterile-looking envelope with a typed label and a copy of the book with an impersonal signature - the sort of thing a publicist might pull from a stack of signed copies and tell an intern stick in the mail. So I was taken a bit aback at the hand addressed (and decorated!) envelope shipped straight from Clonakilty, Mitchell's home in Ireland! Honestly, I'd probably have been pretty satisfied with just that. But the hits kept on coming. As you can see, Mr. Mitchell must have spent a good few minutes adding curlicues and other artistic touches to the cover page of my book, even taking the time to spell my last name correctly. 

I was still processing all this when I turned to the note he'd written:

Dear Beth, This is just to thank you for your generous and tremendously encouraging words about my appearance at Symphony Space. Sorry I had to dash off to the airport afterwards - 747s wait for no-one - but I hope our paths can cross the next time I'm in New York. Warm Regards, David Mitchell

Practically delirious with delight, I handed the note to Ed, who promptly stopped grinning at me. He informed me curtly that my "path would not be crossing" Mr. Mitchell's without his strict supervision. My observation that Mr. Mitchell is both a husband and father did not lessen his resolve to personally oversee the preservation of my honor. Good grief.

It's truly wonderful to discover that a famous person one admires is kind, humble, and generous. I, too, hope our paths cross again (under Ed's watchful eye, of course) so that I can thank him for this, and I'm incredibly grateful to Ed's mother as well. My next book signing, scheduled for February, will likely feel a bit disappointing after this. But it's worth it.

Star-Studded Selected Shorts

I am a huge fan of Symphony Space's Selected Shorts program. The brainchild of brilliant Isaiah Scheffer, Selected Shorts is a live program in which three short stories are read to audiences by local talent. Sounds good, but consider these two facts that make it even better: a) the stories are selected and introduced by some of the most talented authors writing today, and b) in New York, the local talent runs pretty deep. In the past, authors have included Stephen King, Jennifer Egan, T.C. Boyle, David Mitchell, Julia Alvarez, and many more (I have not seen all of these, alas), and readers have included Alec Baldwin (I did see him!), Parker Posey, Cynthia Nixon, and Mike Birbiglia. I have never seen a reading by a disappointing actor. Many of the readers are not big names outside of the theater world, but in New York they often have celebrity status because of past performances in hot Broadway musicals and plays.

B.D. Wong

The much beloved Isaiah Scheffer used to be the host of Selected Shorts, but most unfortunately he passed away just a few weeks ago. B.D. Wong, actor and fellow board member, has stepped up to take his place for the rest of the season. Wong has done a number of well-known TV shows (like Law and Order), movies (like Jurassic Park), and Broadway productions (like M. Butterfly). He seemed nervous on his first night taking over for Scheffer, but last night was better; he was more relaxed and pretty funny. There's still something intrinsically awkward about him, but somehow the overall impression is charming. Wong kicked the evening off by introducing the guest hosts of the night, Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich. These were the guys I'd come to see. Abumrad and Krulwich host RadioLab, a podcast I really enjoy. Technically, it's about science, but the format is creative and accessible, and they do a brilliant job of teasing out the impact that science has on everyday people.

I've listened to RadioLab for a long time, and it was very surreal to see two unknown faces spouting out voices that have become very familiar to me. Both men are pretty goofy looking, to be honest. But I love their voices-Abumrad's in particular-and they've got the rhythm to their give-and-take down pat so that they work seamlessly together. I really enjoy their sense of humor on the show, and their introductions to the stories did not disappoint. They delved into neuroscience and explanations about how the moon's path has changed over the millennia, then hurried off the stage to make room for the impressive line-up of readers.

Kyra Sedgwick

The first story, the shortest of the three called "The History of Everything Including You" by Jenny Hollowell, was read by a very trim Kyra Sedgwick. I was a fan of her fitted coral-colored pants, but not so much of her shaggy hair that seemed to get in her eyes a lot. She did a nice job of reading the story, which was one of those pieces that becomes more beautiful the more you think about it. It had a haunting ending and I felt rather morose when it was over. Luckily, Abumrad and Krulwich came back onto the stage and said they thought that the author might be in the audience, and moments later, Hollowell had popped up and was waving cheerfully to thunderous applause. My somber mood shifted to incredulity: Surely such a wise, soulful story was written by an old woman, and not this perky 30-something with a short, black bob?

Jane Curtain

Krulwich introduced the next reader as a woman with a long and varied career. He said that the two of them had actually collaborated on a radio comedy show ages ago that no one remembered, but that we knew her best as "Jane, you ignorant slut." Fans of vintage-era Saturday Night Live roared with laughter and clapped as Jane Curtain took the stage and did a masterful reading of "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)" by Paul Broks. It's a true story, apparently, written by an eminent scholar of neuroscience about both a case he researched and a lecture he gave and the impact of both on his life. It was reflective and poignant and, thanks to Jane, funny. I was sorry to see her turn the last page. There's something almost magical about her stage presence, though I don't think I can explain exactly what it is that makes her so delightful to listen to and to watch.

Liev Schreiber

As the crowd settled back down after the intermission, Abumrad announced that the reader of the next story, Liev Schreiber, is Robert's "boy crush." Krulwich actually giggled and looked rather coquettishly into the wings where Schreiber was waiting, then stammering a bit, launched into an explanation of how he'd once seen a play in which Schreiber, before a word was uttered, simply sat in a chair onstage and turned a single page of a newspaper and Krulwich became aware that he was looking not at a character but at a real three-dimensional person, indeed, a universe laden with meaning and a purpose informed by a complex past. He added, rather breathlessly, that he thinks Schreiber is our best living actor. Goodness. I'm not sure I'd jump to such a dramatic conclusion, but I will say that Schreiber has a rich, resonant voice and that I loved the way he performed his story. Called "The Distance of the Moon" by Italo Calvino, it was a bit strange, but very entertaining, particularly given what Abumrad and Krulwich had taught us about the changing path of Earth's moon. The author had made up a fantastically imaginative account of the ways those changes affected an invented tribe of ancient people who were accustomed to being able to climb up onto the moon using ladders propped in the bottom of boats. Schreiber brought out the humor hidden in the lines that a hasty reader (like myself) may well have missed.

Selected Shorts always delivers, but this evening was particularly enjoyable. I don't know whether it because of Wong's relaxed manner, the stellar guest hosts, the talent of the readers, or the two margaritas I had before the show began, but whatever the reason I found this to be a particularly exemplary evening. Next up: Lorrie Moore and Sherman Alexie in February!

Still a Sucker for Peter Rabbit

It was the kind of drizzly Sunday afternoon that makes you want to stay home all day. Ed and I tried that on for size for the whole morning and some of the afternoon, but soon cabin fever drove us out and to the Morgan Library. Regular readers will recall that the Morgan is one of my favorite buildings in the world. It houses the jaw-dropping manuscript collection of J.P. Morgan and rotates its exhibits frequently. I first went to see a collection of handwritten manuscripts by Charles Dickens. This time, I giddily viewed Beatrix Potter's famous picture letters.

A letter about Peter. The rabbits at the bottom are throwing snowballs.

I listened to, and eventually read, Potter's stories again and again growing up, but I'd never thought much about their author. Ms. Potter was a bit eccentric, as are most people I like. She lived during the Victorian era, and despite the codes of propriety imposed on her by this period of history, kept a series of outlandish pets. Over the years, she played host to cats, dogs, newts, hedgehogs, bats, frogs, various birds, and, of course, mice and rabbits. The rabbits were her favorites. She wrote frequent letters to Noel, the son of her former governess, to entertain him, as he was sickly and often confined to bed. The story of Peter Rabbit came, almost word for word, from one of these letters. Potter drew illustrations around the text of the letter using her own pet rabbit, Peter, as a model. Later, in preparation for publishing, she added some content to the original story but otherwise changed little. Letters to children were the genesis of most of her stories; she believed that writing with a single child in mind was what made her work so fitting for young readers. I was delighted to read the words to the stories I knew so well in Potter's own handwriting, and to see beloved characters like Benjamin Bunny (Potter's pet was named Benjamin Bouncer), Jemima Puddleduck, Jeremy Fisher, Squirrel Nutkin (Potter's real Nutkin was so badly behaved that she took him right back to the pet store), Apply Dapply, and others. It's hard to know how long it took her to come up with the stories for these letters; it seems that she just dashed them off. Her drawings and paintings, however, were the product of decades of practice. Potter was passionate about the natural world, and grew up sketching the animals and plants around her. She had particular techniques for capturing sunlight falling on leaves or the delicate fur at the tips of rabbits' ears that makes her work stand out. Her talent for drawing animals that are at once personified and incredibly realistic is still just about unparalleled, in your humble blogger's opinion.

The inspiration for Apply Dapply

Mostly, it wasn't too hard to read Potter's handwriting. We had lots of trouble with other writers, though. In the Potter exhibit, several picture letters from other authors, like William Makepeace Thackery, were on display for comparison, and it was nearly impossible to make out their scrawls. I thought I'd seen it all as an English teacher, but at least my kids mostly printed instead of writing in cursive... Whew. It's a miracle anyone managed to communicate, what with overly sloping, sometimes tiny letters confounded further by splats and blobs from dipped pens.

Downstairs, Ed became glued to a letter written by George Washington on Christmas Day asking Congress for more supplies for his soldiers. I was similarly enchanted by an award-winning story by a sixth-grade Truman Capote. It was written in pencil on lined paper and was full of the kind of flair that characterizes his adult writing. Thoreau's diary was also opened for inspection. Thankfully, some thoughtful curator had arranged for a portion of it to be typed out and displayed in the case, too, but it was nearly impossible to read his messy scrawl, even when I knew what words I was looking for. We saw a letter from Napoleon to his new bride Josephine, handwritten sheet music by Mahler and Schubert, and a book of coats of arms and family histories from perhaps the 1400's (the uncertainty is mine, not the Morgan's) that was neater than Thoreau's diary but just as unreadable. Dickens's handwritten Christmas Carol manuscript was out again, and so were some early printings of Christmas songbooks.

I will be sorry to see Potter's letters go back into the archives, but I'll be waiting for their replacement with baited breath.

The Nut(hic!)cracker

Ed and I almost didn't make it to The Nutcracker. I was casually sorting mail at the kitchen counter after work when Ed wandered in. He asked me what time the ballet started, and I, accustomed to 7:30 start times, shrugged. Moments later, tickets in hand, he was chasing me down the stairs to change because the curtain was, in fact, at 6:00! We had six minutes to spare when we got off the subway, and sank into our seats just a few minutes before the lights dimmed. Phew.

I enjoyed the show from the first few notes of the overture. Though I've only seen The Nutcracker once (that I recall), I just about wore out a narrated audio tape of it when I was younger and so am very familiar with the music and the story. The structure reminded me of A Midsummer Night's Dream, a ballet we saw a while ago: The plot begins and ends in the first act, and the second act seems to exist only as an excuse to showcase the dancers' talents. The only traditional ballet in Act I was the dance of the snowflakes, at the very end. Bits of paper floated down on them as they danced, covering the stage with a thin, ethereal layer.

Dance of the Snowflakes

The battle

In Act II, set in the Land of Sweets, Clara and the Prince are welcomed by the Sugar Plum Fairy. They are treated to various candy- and sweet-themed dances to celebrate their arrival. Most of the numbers are very short, and, unlike in Act I, most of the dancers are adults. Ed enjoyed this act more than the first since it contained more actual ballet instead of children running around pantomiming. I wasn't sure which act I preferred, but we both agreed that the mice were the best part of the show. They were played by children, and the over-sized bellies of their costumes was a pretty funny contrast to their scrawny little arms and legs. We both enjoyed watching them scurry around the stage.


I'd never seen so many children in the audience at Lincoln Center, though I suppose one should expect that when one goes to The Nutcracker. For the most part, they were well-behaved, but one kid sitting far to our left had to be bodily lifted and removed from the theater by his exasperated-looking father. I heard lots of shushing throughout, and much more whispering than any other show I've attended in New York. This wasn't limited to the children either; the two older women to my left were pretty chatty, too.

Mother Gingerbread and her children

I couldn't complain too much, though, as I committed my own behavioral faux-pas. Sometime during the dance of the marzipan shepherdesses, I got the hiccups. They persisted through several more dances, and I was mortified. The second they started, the music seemed to get-and stay-much softer, and I was sure that everyone in the theater could hear me. Ed, ashamed of the spectacle I was creating, hid his face. Finally, sometime during the dance of the flowers, I decided to stretch out my diaphragm by taking a huge gulp of air and holding it for as long as I could. This seemed to work, to my vast relief. Ed told me after the show that he thought he was going to have to leave, not because I was mortifying him as I'd suspected but because he wasn't sure he'd be able to contain his laughter. He was incredulous that I had not felt him shaking with his suppressed guffaws. Apparently he was not covering his face at all, but rather trying to block the ear closest to me so that he wouldn't hear my frantic "hic"s and burst out laughing. Nothing like sympathetic support from your better half.


I enjoyed The Nutcracker very much. I was impressed by the professionalism of the children dancing in it, some of whom were as young as seven, and it was fantastic to hear the score performed live. The sets, which included a massive Christmas tree that rose out of the stage in a seemingly endless column of green, and the elaborate, lacy images that adorned the the Land of Sweets, were pretty spectacular as well. I loved the costumes. I loved the scene with the sleigh at the end. I certainly recommend this show for anyone who finds themselves in New York at Christmastime, though I do not recommend the hiccups.

Clara and the Prince ride out of the Land of Sweets at the end of the show

Go (to) Fish!

At a party for my friend Katie recently, the conversation turned, as if often does when I am involved, to oysters. Kaveri and Isaac, a couple we'd met for the first time an hour earlier, had already endeared themselves to Ed by speaking about Texas Hold 'Em with great enthusiasm. They endeared themselves to me when they told us about Fish. Fish was great, they said, but what really made it stand out was their Red, White, and Blue special. At any time during opening hours, we could lay down a mere $8 in exchange for six blue point oysters and a beer or a glass of house red or white wine. I wrote a while ago about slurping down $1 oysters at Barrio 47; indeed, this is a deal lots of restaurants have. But $8 for six oysters and wine sounded almost too good to be true. On Sunday night, famished after sitting through Lincoln (which is excellent), Ed and I decided to give Fish a try and headed to the West Village.

Fish in summer

The restaurant is long and skinny and smells like vinegar, but in a good way; I was put in mind of amber waves of delicious malt vinegar dripping down a piece of crispy cod instead of puddles of vinegar left over from cleaning. We'd shown up at around 6:00, very early for dinner by New York standards, and still most of the tables were already filled. I eyed an icy case displaying different shellfish waiting to be devoured as we waited for the hostess. I liked the place already. The atmosphere managed to be both bright and cozy at the same time. As we sat down, I noticed a small, white woodstove on the opposite wall. It was not lit, but it must make Fish a particularly welcoming retreat on very chilly winter days. As is the case in most New York restaurants, we were elbow to elbow with our neighbors and did our best to ignore their conversation. We were unable, however, to ignore the huge, succulent lobsters they were served minutes after we arrived, accompanied by corn on the cob and tasty looking seasoned fries.

Ed and I began, of course, with the Red, White, and Blue deal. We'd been burned once before in pursuit of cheap oysters - they ended up being tiny, flaccid, and bland. Nothing could have been farther from the plump, tender, glittering beauties that arrived on a bed of ice at Fish. We tried to savor them, but they were too good and disappeared with the flash of a fork. I spent ages trying to decide which of the appealing entrees to order, and in the end Ed and I decided on the same thing. I love shepherd's pie but, as it's hardly a vegetarian dish I haven't eaten one in ages. I was delighted to discover a lobster shepherd's pie on the menu, and even more delighted when I took my first bite. The mashed potatoes on top were whirled into elegant patterns and nicely browned just the slightest bit. Underneath was a rich layer of generous lobster chunks, peas, carrots, corn, and some sort of reddish sauce that I was too busy scarfing down to identify. Ed's pie was gone in what seemed like moments. In an act of herculean self control, I saved half of mine so that I could enjoy it for lunch the next day as well.

I proposed that we return to Fish every day, and Ed smiled and agreed. I think he thinks I am kidding.

Still Recovering from Sandy

This morning I went to they gym. That may not seem like a blog-worthy event, but this is the first time I've visited my gym since the storm almost a month ago. The aptly named Chelsea Piers is right on the water-albeit elevated above a parking area-and while I don't know the extent of the damage to its facilities, I do know that the flooding caused major electrical problems. It's hard for me to believe it took this long to repair everything, but evidently that's the case. This morning was like any morning at the gym before the storm. The elevators were not working, but everything else seemed completely normal. Manhattan, at least the parts of it I inhabit, betrays very little evidence of Sandy, though other parts of the city were not so fortunate. My gym's closure was one of the few reminders that all is not quite back to normal. In general, though, Manhattan has had a pretty short memory.