Everything I Need to Know, I Learned From Dark Shadows

I’ve been keeping an eye on the approach of Tim Burton’s Dark Shadows movie.  Things have been heating up over the last month or so: “sneak peek” photos showing up online, followed closely by trailers; then the TV commercials and a steady trickle of buzzy web pieces; and yesterday, the true harbinger of imminence, the subway poster.  I always look forward to Burton’s work, but this one’s had me giddy with anticipation.  Understandable in view of my having grown up glued to the show. Then today came the sad announcement of the death of actor Jonathan Frid, the original (dare I say the real?) Barnabas Collins. Coming, as it did, the day after Dick Clark’s passing, it was a cold reminder that my childhood is ancient history. But as I read through the press releases, I realized there was more meaning for me here than nostalgia or general middle-aged angst.

I said before that I grew up on Dark Shadows. It might be more accurate to say that Dark  Shadows helped to raise me.  Chronically terrified, introspective and eccentric (I was past 30 before I grasped exactly how eccentric), I was not a happy child. We didn’t have Goth or Emo kids in those days. It might have been easier for me if we had but, as I hit adolescence, everyone around me seemed fearfully confident and optimistic.  Everywhere I looked, it was all bounce and shiny hair—except for people in 19th century novels (which, yes, I was reading at that age) and on Dark Shadows. The family at Collinwood were a mess, and that mess was bred deep down in their DNA.  The plot stretched across centuries and involved a melancholy vampire and (later on) a Byronic werewolf, a brittle female doctor and a sultry witch, ingenues in jeopardy and a Golden Age Hollywood matriarch, a Renfield-like caretaker and children with a creepy touch of Turn of the Screw. The black and white setting for all of this was a gothic mansion on the rockiest coast of Maine, all fog and crashing waves, the one place on TV that wasn’t drenched in California sunshine. Even the music was haunting; I can still whistle the theme.

It was a soap, of course, but oddly educational. There were plotlines that derived from some pretty classic literary sources. Fan magazine pieces on the actors led to additional, wider reading (Frid was a Shakespearean actor, Grayson Hall had been in Night of the Iguana). And of course there was a lot of information on the paranormal and other intriguing areas of exploration. Astrology was all the rage back then, but it was Dark Shadows that gave me the courage to buy my first Tarot deck, and it was through Dark Shadows that I heard of the I Ching. The world Dan Curtis created had all the thrills of a ripping yarn, and I could feel pleasantly smart at the same time. But more than all of this, Collinwood was home.

When I was introduced to Dark Shadows, one long dull summer between childhood and teens, I was invited into a world where I somehow seemed to belong—and I was pretty desperate to belong to something, to not feel so very much alone. Thanks to those weekday afternoon half hours, following some often-miserable school days, I learned that it was okay to be different; maybe not easy, but okay. And that nothing is ridiculous if you care enough about it. A lot of what I learned in adolescence still lingers, but the best of what I learned I learned from Dark Shadows. 

Reader, I never forgot her.

Earlier this week I caught a feed on Flavorpill that I’ve been waiting all week to talk about. I know; the whole point of blogging is to be in the now, not running a week behind, but I just can’t get it done.  And I don’t understand how other people who work 9-6 find time for all that blogging [note to Dolly Parton: nobody works 9-5 any more. To get paid for an 8 hour work day, you have to work 8 hours; lunch is on you]. They must squeeze it in during lunch. I can’t. I write Help for a living and, for my own sanity, I really need that daily break to clear my brain and rest my eyes.

Anyway.  Emily Temple’s piece, in honor of Women’s History Month, presented 10 of the Most Powerful Female Characters in Literature.  It was a good list. Of course everyone who reads it is going to have their own ideas of how it ought to be changed, but I think Temple covers this by calling it “10 of the Most…” and not “The 10 Most….” I’m hoping and I’m hoping you all read it and start to have your own ideas.  Me, I was very pleased with Temple because #1 on her list was the guiding light of my own childhood, Jane Eyre.

My first copy of Jane Eyre

My first copy of "Jane Eyre". Notice the price.

My first literary role model was Jo March of Little Women. She was strong, intelligent, funny and had an enormous heart. I loved Jo most when she was writing blood-&-thunder yarns to pay the family bills; she inspired me to think I could write. Then she married Professor Bhaer and stopped being the star of her own story. I soon moved on to Jo’s creator and prototype, Louise May Alcott, and then to another strong fictional woman, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. Young Jane was small and helpless, much more like the young me than Jo March. Like the stories of many (male) heroes, hers begins in obscurity and has her pass through a series of trials until she reaches her full powers. With her moral strength and treasured autonomy, Jane gave me strength. For a good quarter century starting from when I was ten, I read Jane Eyre annually. I think its time to start reading her again.

Who else would I add to Temple’s list? I think all little girls should run around with Madeleine and Eloise. As they grow, they need to spend time in the woods and prairies with Laura Ingalls and her undervalued courageous sister Mary, and in The Secret Garden with Mary Lennox. When they’re ready to meet Hermione Granger (who does make Temple’s list), they shouldn’t neglect Harriet the Spy and Meg Murry (btw, Happy Golden Anniversary to A Wrinkle in Time!).

Grown up girls have a wide range of options, reflecting different interpretations of what a powerful woman should be. Listen to the fierce debate between the Carrie and Samantha camps and you’ll know what I mean (disclosure:  I find everyone in Sex and the City equally irritating and think they’ve ruined the shoe industry for those of us who actually have to walk in our shoes). I’m particularly fond of those seriously beleaguered fighters on the side of justice, Kim Harrison’s Rachel Morgan and Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone.  And then, there is one of my all-time favorites, Marie Goesler Finn, aka “Madame Max”, the best supporting player in Anthony Trollope’s “Palliser” books and a woman I would have been proud to be.

A couple of years before she died, Anne Bancroft was interviewed in conjunction with a TV movie.  This brilliant actress hadn’t been working much and, in trying to get to the crux of this, the interview asked why there weren’t better roles for women.  Bancroft said (to my best recollection) “there can’t be better roles for women in film until there are better roles for women in life.”

And yet, there have always been an abundance of good female characters in novels.  Another good reason to try and keep written fiction alive.

Happy Women’s History Month!

Fourth of July

Maybe it’s the effect of coming off a holiday weekend, but I decided this month’s 4 F post would, after all, be about food.  And maybe because it was specifically July 4th weekend, my most satisfying moments were with some very simple American foods.  No, not hot dogs, potato salad and the berries + whipped cream flag cake.  I live in an urban neighborhood and three blocks from the firehouse, so outdoor grilling is out of the question.  And to my mind, the only excuse for the flag cake is that it follows a pile of barbecue or a sandpit clambake, so it’s a decoration and not a dessert.  Come to think of it, the dishes that seemed so right to me this weekend were almost equivalents for that barbecue and clambake, and the dessert might not have been wearing bunting but it had an American soul.

Usually it’s all I can do to get to the end of a Friday at work. By the time I get on the subway, all I want is to have a glass of wine, eat some dinner and throw myself in front of the most escapist offering I can hunt up with the remote (making a decision about watching a specific video would be too much effort!).  This weekend, just knowing that there were three days ahead of me gave me a sudden surge of Friday energy.  I called The Mom and suggested she run out and pick up some soft shell crabs for dinner.  Then at lunchtime, I ran out to Chelsea Market (where I spend far too many lunch hours), to hit the Manhattan Fruit Exchange.  That shop itself is a source of much simple satisfaction.  It boasts a dazzling variety of produce (the mushroom section alone sets me dreaming) as well as most of what you need to round out your dish after the unexpected item has called out “buy me NOW!”  Because it was the start of a holiday weekend, there were more than the usual number of foodie safaris in the market, and I had to do some nimble navigation to get to my rhubarb.  It was crazy enough there that I actually forgot to get a tomato, which I later wished I had.

The recipe I was focused on was the Lemon Buttermilk Rhubarb Bundt Cake from Rustic Fruit Desserts, by Corey Schreiber and Julie Richardson of Portland OR’s Baker & Spice (book is available all over, but I like to promote Jessica’s Biscuit whenever I can; they “simply” specialize in cookbooks and always have — even before we started doing all our shopping on The Internets).  Like all the recipes in the book, this cake is about showcasing the fresh, honest flavors of seasonal fruit.  There was nothing remotely complicated about it, other than the usual challenge of prep work in a kitchen that has no counter space (remember that kitchen in Julie & Julia?  consider it typical).

I popped the cake in the oven to bake, and after doing enough of the washing up to have a sink again (not only is it small, but the kitchen is also in an old apartment building that is not set up for dishwashers), I sautéed the crabs for a favorite seasonal dinner of mine — the soft-shell crab sandwich.  This is a superb dead-easy urban picnic dish.  It takes less than 10 minutes.  Dredge the crabs in a seasoned mixture of flour and cornmeal, then sauté in olive oil while you toast some hamburger buns.  If you like, after you’ve turned the crabs you can add some white wine or even water (just a few tablespoons), a squeeze of lemon, a few splats of Tabasco and a pat of butter, all of which creates a little faux sauce to keep the little critters moist.  If you’re going deluxe, use homemade rolls.  My own failsafe is a roll I’ve been baking out of Bobby Flay’s Bold American Food for as long as…well, apparently since 1994, which seems to be when that book first came out; make them plum-sized to use as dinner rolls, but make them the size of oranges and you’ve got a great sandwich bun.  They freeze beautifully. Since I had no big ones in the freezer, it was store bought burger buns for me this weekend, which was fine.  And definitely store bought mayo (you need that level of emulsification to hold up against the sautéed crabs).

Now, in a better world, I’d have remembered that tomato.  And in a perfect world I’d have planned ahead and made some potato salad and jicama slaw.  This being imperfect and somewhat improvised, i just used up the basil I had in the refrigerator and, when the crabs were out of the pan, gave a quick stir to some asparagus that was also pushing it’s luck.  And you know what?  Even without a ripe red slice of tomato, it was a very happy sandwich.  Crunchy crabs, lathered in mayo and wrapped in a nice sweet roll, and just a touch of something garden-y.  Mmmmmm!  Since a crab sandwich is a drippy thing, you get to lick your fingers and it truly feels like a picnic, no matter where you are.

By the time we’d finished eating, the cake was ready to cool in the pan.  Following directions, half an hour later I removed the pan and drizzled on the lemon-&-sugar glaze.  A perfect amount of time had passed in which to digest the meal and be ready for coffee and the cake.  The cake was a joy; buttery, lemony and delectable.  A toothsome crumb, just rich enough for the tongue, and yet amazingly light. I say amazingly because no eggs were separated to make this cake, which does use a full cup of butter plus has buttermilk as the liquid (helpful hint for any bakers who haven’t yet caught on — King Arthur sells an excellent powdered buttermilk; keep it on hand as I do and you’ll always be only 20 minutes away from warm soda bread or scones!)  It’s a cake that can easily serve 10 – 12, so it’s a good thing for me that it keeps tasting great for several days.  It may have helped matters that I suddenly remembered my old Tupperware “cake saver” (they now offer an updated model), one of many designs of simple genius from a brand that, suitably for this story, also screams “American” to me.

Saturday was, s those in the same zone will know, a gorgeous summer day.  I decided to take advantage of the weather and indulge in another of my lifestyle diversions — raiding the final markdowns.  This is a ritual that can be observed twice a year.  At the end of the seasonal sales, after the department stores have reached a certain plateau in selling down their leftover merchandise, it’s time for my favorite words: “take another 30% off” (more or less).  This is my semi-annual chance to possibly acquire clothing from designers whose labels would otherwise hang only in my fantasies.  Shopping this way is for gatherers, rather than hunters: you can’t go out with expectations; you forage for what you can find.  I had a lucky day and gathered up some wonderful buys — simple (yes, I said it again), classic and entirely satisfying garments I’ll be happily wearing for years.

After a shopping binge, my adrenalin rush insists on being fed.  Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to stop by Todd English’s Plaza Food Hall for a bite.  I could call this the “hunting” portion of the day as it was my second time there in as many weeks, and I was going there purposefully in search of one thing — the prime rib sliders.  Nothing intricate — perfect ingredients prepared with exquisite care.  Three oblong buns, slightly soft and slightly sweet.  A touch of fontina and onion. All in discreet support of moist, flavorful shavings of prime rib that melted into the mouth with every bite.  Accompanied by a pour of extremely pleasant grenache, this made for a soul-satisfying urban “barbecue”.

When I think about it, the only thing I missed this weekend was corn on the cob. On the other hand…there’s still that one last sliver of cake.