confessions of a racing reader

Like many type-A achievers, I take great pride in completing a task efficiently. My formal education allowed little time for considering texts; the goal was to read for comprehension, not contemplation. There were exceptions. During college I remember a particular English assignment that required my class to memorize Psalm 8, which we then discussed, line by line, over the course of several sessions. And in high school, I read and re-read On the Road for my senior thesis, diligently marking up the pages, my tongue between my lips.

In my reading now, I have every reason to take my time. While the time allotted for reading might be limited, I don’t have deadlines for finishing a book. This winter, I’ve purposefully chosen reading that should encourage slow consideration—novels to be read carefully and gently, with a cup of tea. Sip.

In an earlier post, I shared some favorite portions from Tinkers. What I didn’t fully confess is that I raced through Harding’s rich prose in just a few sittings. He includes “excerpts” from an old clockmaker’s manual as part of the narrative; I found the technical language too boring and sped-read many of those segments. Sigh.

I’m coming to the end of Jayber Crow, having read Hannah Coulter earlier this month. I love Wendell Berry’s fictional rural community and its rhythms of lives well-lived. But I also love the rhythm of turning the page. Swish.

It's almost as if I believe quicker reading leads to deeper immersion in the text. But when I read Scripture I often read the same chapter repeatedly, several days in a row. I know I’ll skim it the first time, read it more slowly the second, start to see its beauty the third. Perhaps I should adopt this pattern for fiction and so frustrate my page-turning ambition. Smile.

peace and pasta

For Christmas, Wes gave me the pasta maker attachments for our KitchenAid. I was so excited to tell Katie about our new project, but she warned me: “Don’t try to make pasta together … it will lead to a fight!” She gave examples from her own experience and a mutual friend’s. (You know who you are.)

But her warning came too late. We mixed, rolled, and cut homemade pasta last week – in peace. I think the difference might be having a husband content to be an attentive sous-chef. And a sous-chef who’s willing to do the frustrating tasks: painstakingly separating the drying strands, cleaning the rollers, and listening to my chatter (“Katie said it’s okay to use a lot of flour” … “Hmmm, I’m pretty sure this needs more water” … “I think we should try this with semolina flour” … “No, the instructions say …” and on and on).

There are downsides to the sous-chef model of kitchen harmony—we don’t have nearly as many interesting meals as my friends with cooking partners, and it’s lonely sometimes grocery-shopping by myself—but it works for us. The fettuccine was our first meal of 2011!