The concert season has begun again. I missed the first symphony concert; it was too close to my last chemo and I was still feeling too vulnerable to sit in a concert hall filled with people, even masked vaccinated people. My immune system was still too fragile. It still is fragile, but growing stronger and I have been venturing out more. It is necessary. Isolation is a deadly as disease. Even for a basically introverted person like myself, there can come a point when life becomes too small, too isolated, when one becomes disconnected. I've been wanting to sell everything and flee, become nomadic, and I realize this is not about anything really but my own need to begin regaining a life outside the small confines of health issues and pandemics and various whatnots that have making me feel constrained, and that running never solves anything because the frustrations we are trying to escape are always the ones that are glued most deeply to our psyches.
There were two chamber music concerts within a few days of each other actually. The first, my first concert of this season, was the Knoxville Chamber Classics and it featured two works that had been transcribed for a chamber orchestra. The first was Jessie Montgomery's Strum, a work I heard performed by the Providence String Quartet in its original, cello quintet, version. I have also heard it in quartet form but failed to record the specifics of when, where, or by whom. But that was many years ago, and I understood from the program that not only has the quartet been revised, but that Montgomery had also arranged a string-orchestra version, which is what we heard on October 3rd. The piece was still charmingly familiar and delightfully performed, the pizzicato strumming providing texture to musical themes reminiscent of sparkling flashes of light washing through the room. Quite a joyous way to return to concert listening.
The second familiar piece made new was Tchaikovsky's String Quartet No. 1, which had been arranged by Christopher Theofanidis for chamber orchestra. The quartet itself is a beloved piece that I know quite well, and although I may have been a tad cautious, there was no need. The transcription itself was beautifully done, and Theofandis deft use of the woodwind section to add texture and melodic richness to the strings was brilliant. The second movement, which is particularly poignant when well performed was particularly well written, and brilliantly performed, leaving me on the verge of tears.
Three nights later a smaller ensemble performed in the concertmaster series at the Knoxville Museum of Art. The first half of the program was brilliant, with William Shaub on violin and Kevin Class on piano. Although I loved every piece and sat on the edge of my seat, lost in the music, I was particularly taken by the two works by Fritz Kreisler, and yes, not that long ago I would have thought I would never write such words. Kreisler is not my favorite composer. Heretofore I would said he leans too heavily toward schmaltz, but now I also wonder how much of that is expectation in interpretation. Shaub revealed crisp melodies warmth and an emotional depth I did not anticipate, without any of the dreaded schmaltz. The second half of the evening was filled with the Mendelssohn String Quintet No. 2 in B-flat. I felt the third movement, where the first violin takes a strong melodic lead and the ensemble played with a responsiveness that felt like it was leaning more toward a symphonic temperament than traditional chamber form, was particularly effective and beautifully played.
What a relief and joy these concerts were to my soul, and they have at least temporarily stalled my dreams of flight behavior, but as I said that is not a statement of anything definite or permanent, just a reactionary phase to the intense changes of the last year.
Also, slowly but surely, because I needed to get beyond just functioning, I have started playing in the kitchen again. Oh I needed to eat, and I cooked in a functional sense, in that I put food on my plate. But starting in September I also felt the urge to start trying new things again. I rejoined a cookbook club on Facebook, one I had participated in a couple of years back, and started trying a few new recipes from their September book, which I got from the local library Cook With Me by Alex Guarnaschelli, and trying a few things that had been languishing in my own files, or in other cookbooks that have been collecting dust on the shelves. Scattered throughout this post are photos from my experiments. Most were not a full dinner -- I did not often have that much energy. But the energy spent in cooking filled a creative vacuum, one that was particularly sharp as there was a period where my hands were not up to knitting or needlework.
Shown are the following:
- Daikon Curry; recipe from Saveur Magazine.
- Chilled Carrot Soup from Cook with Me.
- Chili-Mint Sautéed Cucumbers from The Broad Fork by Hugh Acheson.
- Grilled Zucchini and Charred Pepper Salad from Cook with Me.
- Spice Ruby Red Cabbage Steak from Cook With Me.
- Chicken Parmesan from Cook with Me.
- Halibut Braised in Ginger Lemongrass Broth from In the Hands of a Chef by Jody Adams.
My most recent musical outing was to attend the Met Live broadcast of Boris Godunov last Saturday. On a screen, not a stage in front of me, but fabulously well done. It is one of my favorite operas, and at least a part of that is the way that the opera is both intimate and epic, the way it takes on grand themes of Russian history in a really rather complex, and complexly moving narrative with great music too boot. Seeing that performance had me dreaming of opera again, although I realize I am not an opera lover per se. I love opera, but don't love opera for its own sake, and the music has to be as good as the performance. I am fortunate to live in a town with three opera companies, although I only attend the performances of two of those organizations: the smaller one and the university based one. I do not attend the performances of the third because I find their performances bore me to tears. In short, I am still, perhaps always, coming to terms with my own bias and expectations; I am spoiled, and my inner critic tends to get the last word. I actually don't seek perfection, it is not all its cracked up to be, better a spectacular failure in a daring attempt than boring blandness any day. But this is true not just of music, or art, or anything really, including my own successes and failures, or perceived successes and failures, and finding some balance between head and heart is a complex and never ending struggle. Sometimes I think the reality is exactly the opposite of whatever we perceive it to be, blinded as we are by our own history.
I haven't yet started cooking from this month's book, Dishoom by Shamil and Kavi Thakrar and Navid Nasir, although I have been happily reading the extensive text and dreaming. Primarily I have been too tired to take on the recipes, although I hope to make something before the month ends. I am slow-roasting the spices for their version of Garam Masala, which is different than the version I have made for years, as I write this, so there is hope for Indian food exploration soon. I still need to make a trip to the Indian grocery. Why have these simple tasks taken on such weight? No, no, please don't tell me.
More cooking? Or is some other stone waiting to be unturned?
