There Are Levels To This

I'm pretty sure John McPhee can make any topic interesting.

Which is to say, you might balk at reading a 150-page profile of two tennis players interspersed with a recap of what seems like virtually every point of their four-set match — unless John McPhee wrote it, in which case you will be completely engrossed in it.

It helps that one of the players profiled is Arthur Ashe, who you know has to have an interesting story. And it also helps that it covers an interesting point in competitive tennis history when amateurs and professionals played together in "open" tournaments (i.e., the "US Open"). And it helps that it takes place during an interesting time in U.S. history — 1968, when . . . aw, hell, you know.

All that said, you probably still wouldn't want to read Levels of the Game. And that'd be a mistake and which is why book club is a good idea when it gets you to read stuff you wouldn't normally read.

I will say that I assumed it'd probably be good but that's only because we'd read The Pine Barrens, which was another book about a topic — the "backwater" part of Southern New Jersey where squat pine trees grow — that you thought you'd never be interested in but which actually was interesting.

So while Levels is about tennis, it's not so much that it's about "more" than tennis — too many documentaries and nonfiction pieces seem to use "it's more than" as a cheap ploy to pull you in: Angle bracket literature (">"). Rather it — like all good nonfiction, I suppose — helps you appreciate the game that much more — on a, er, different level, I suppose.

There is something special about the dramatic irony of the arc of Ashe's life, but the pieces that Levels compiles were written contemporaneously, while Ashe was still a young amateur player, and obviously long before his AIDS diagnosis. But that just gives the book some historical significance; it's still interesting in an of itself.

It's interesting to read how Ashe and Clark Graebner, Ashe's opponent profiled in Levels, lived so modestly as amateur players. Both had other jobs, for one. Also interesting was how much Ashe read — you just don't see tennis stars today as that well read or intellectual — most athletes in general come off like savants or machines who work on their game to the exclusion of anything else in the world. McPhee makes a comment along the lines of that although Ashe reads a lot he's not intellectual; today, anyone who reads anything at all is probably "intellectual"; it's crazy to think that there was a time in the U.S. when people actually read.

Obviously — at least I think it's supposed to be obvious — the race part is an important part of the book. Ashe's biography is important in that respect, and McPhee certainly addresses it, first subtly and then more directly toward the end of the book. So it's also interesting how close the two competitors are if not in cultural background then at least in competitive background, and how for each of the personalities the game seems to take over. Hard to express, but in the side-by-side biographical sketch of the two players there's something less "other" seeming about the two men when they're sketched out side by side. It's an interesting take, and given what was happening across the country in 1968, it could be seen as a little provocative: The through line for both players is an intense work ethic, and although McPhee shows differences, ultimately there seems less different about the two men.

Even if you don't see it that way — and to be fair, the entire book has example after example of the two players' divergent styles and backgrounds — you can't help but read Levels and feel like the U.S. is somehow less cohesive than in the 1960s, which is both fascinating and kind of frightening.

Your Life's Work Makes Any Cocktail Party That Much More Interesting

I think everyone has at least two minutes at a cocktail party. Which is to say, there's a brief grace period when someone asks "And what do you do?" and you go on explaining how you oversee document maintenance for a department in the [insert city here] office of a multi-national firm, and then that person nods and asks some pertinent followup question, which you answer thoughtfully yet vaguely. This repeats until the other party runs out of questions, but I think everyone on the planet gets about two minutes at least. It doesn't have to be a full-on cocktail party, either. It could be a kegger. Or even some sort of opening event with free cheese and white-or-red wine.

Those of us fortunate enough to have a really interesting resume or life experience can hold court much longer than two minutes: Maybe seven, eight, even 14 minutes, until a drink is empty and one's palm has long since cut waterlogged napkins into pulpy cookies, or given up entirely and bunched them up between the ring and pinky finger. Pulpy masses of napkin sticking to palms is a terrible image. Suffice it to say, which is to say, no one stands around forever just soaking up war stories, anecdotes or off-the-record tales.

Which is also to say, there's a genre of book where academics make a case for how whatever it is he or she studies applies in ways large and small to most of our lives — hopefully large, but even small will do. It's not Team of Rivals or The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, because that comes much, much later. It's more like a paperback supervised parole in, or back in, the real world.

Not that that's a bad thing — people in academia and those in the outside world should know what each other does for a living. It can't ever hurt to be better able to explain a theoretical concept, even if it gives you a headache. Your poor mother deserves to know what your weird postdoctoral advisor has you cooped up for all winter break. I think all academics should be required to write one piece of popular history, or a Nova special, or blow up balloons or make bubbles at a children's birthday party. Society would be the richer for it.

Hal Herzog's Some We Love, Some We Hate, Some We Eat: Why It's So Hard to Think Straight About Animals is like blowing bubbles a children's birthday party. Large, luxurious, freeflowing, earnest bubbles made from a wand unlike any you've seen. Which is to say, Herzog is really trying to captivate you with anthrozoological issues. "Anthrozoology," simply put, is the study of how animals and humans interact.

Some We Love, Some We Hate, Some We Eat has a higher bar to overcome in part because no one has really heard of anthrozoology. There are no real departments of anthrozoology; an anthrozoologist seems sort of like a cross between a psychologist and an anthropologist, though Herzog notes that some veterinarians, historians and sociologists count themselves as anthrozoologists.

Some was one of our book club choices because the person who suggested it noted, in part, how children seem hardwired to love animals. That's part of Some, for sure, but only a tiny part (maybe because no one can really explain it?). The book brings up lots of issues in anthrozoology, and is a great primer for the field itself, but in the end it seems that so many of the issues that are brought up are simply noted, and then you move on to another one. Yes, there's something really interesting about a mouse research lab with a rodent problem, and it does seem to be a perfect symbol of humanity's schizophrenic relationship with other species, but I'm not sure where it goes from there. I'm thinking about the next drink I want to get, but I haven't walked away just yet. And that part of the book does get into the issues of using mice in research, and there are some good things to know — a lab mouse is not considered an animal for the purposes of the federal Animal Welfare Act; the research animals rights activists use to show that animals feel pain was performed in experiments where animals felt pain; weird! But this, and a lot of the book are just issues and topics brought up. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but it does make it difficult to remember a lot of the anecdotes and topics.

Something I did remember was the part about vegetarians who own cats: If you oppose killing animals for moral reasons (i.e., you're not a Bill Clinton vegan) then you shouldn't own a cat on the grounds that cat food is all animal based — not to mention that the quality of animal in pet food is probably some of the worst industrially farmed shit around. I never put that together. (PETA argues you can have a vegan pet; it seems better not to have one at all, or maybe a manatee or elephant instead.)

All told, Some We Eat is a good book. That said, when unraveling the conundrum of why we love some, hate some and eat some the conclusion seems a little wanting: "What the new science of anthrozoology reveals is that our attitudes, behaviors, and relationships with the animals in our lives — the ones we love, the ones we hate, and the ones we eat — are, likewise, more complicated than we thought."

Complicated? That's it? What is this, Avril Lavigne? I need closure! Simple answers! Grand unifying theories! HuffPo pieces! Cable news stories! Instant Indices! Or at least another scotch and soda — can I get you something at the bar?

Cakes Of Glop, Gruel, Gruel!

Sometime before Mr. Kiddo's second birthday passed I meant to note a few things and never got around to it, not because they weren't important but because there's not ever really a lot of time to note such things.

That's all too bad, because there's been a lot of fun stuff to note — not all of which interesting only to just a small circle of people, either. A slice's crust being a "pizza bone," for example — that will stick with us forever.

But really, the days meld together in this astonishing exponential rate of development that outpaces anyone's ability to reliably recall, let alone catalog. Most of the time it's like, "Dude, fuckin' A." We're super-fortunate. Mr. Kiddo is awesome. I'm not quite sure what we're doing to encourage it, but I'm pretty confident we're not doing anything to discourage it, either, which is probably not a bad place to begin.

Over the last year it's sort of like a fog has been lifting, and this miraculous monkey has come into focus. He's joyful, playful, willful, manipulative, talkative, energetic and impulsive; even the "bad" qualities are good signs for us. He's gentle, focused, inquisitive, bright and empathetic. Oh, and he's really fucking cute. Like I said, I have no idea how any of this happened.

I want to believe diet is a key factor in all this. I happen to think Mr. Kiddo eats pretty well. I feed him, of course, so it could be a bit of circular logic, but whatever. To that end, I would like to share my recipes for glopcake and gruel — otherwise known as "breakfast" and "lunch."

Glopcake
"Glopcake" is basically an inartful term for what is basically a quasi-frittata. The difference, as I understand it, is that where frittata ingredients are folded into the raw egg mixture, the ingredients in glopcake are pulverized into a sort of slurry. Both are cooked the same way.

Glopcake started as a way to incorporate calcium-rich collard greens into eggs. It took off from there. A good glop, I found, incorporates vegetables — whatever you can cram in there — with a small amount of protein. You don't need a lot of protein, but even just a little something helps it not taste like a strange Chinese take-out dish. (I've used many proteins — beef, pork, lamb, chicken, chicken liver, shrimp, mild fish, even leftover sushi — almost anything works.) Add some milk, then pulverize into a thick slurry with an immersion blender. Add one egg per person, pulverize some more, then cook over medium heat in a skillet with olive oil until slurry is firm. Eat with sliced avocado. Milk for child, some kind of caffeinated beverage for adult.

Most who try glopcake enjoy glopcake. They dislike the name. At one point I suggested "skillet-cooked vegetable-protein slurry," but that never quite stuck. So "glopcake" it is.

Gruel
Continuing the tradition of off-putting names, gruel is what's for lunch, and it's another winner, if I do say so myself. That said, it's a good thing Mr. Kiddo has little context for language. But look, the way I see it, if you're going to spend any amount of time wiping crap out of a human's butt, you owe it to yourself to make that crap as non-offensive as possible. Most people know the blunt-force calculus inherent in consuming too much fatty, junky food: Ensuring a child's diet has sufficient fiber is a gift to everyone. The less said about that the better.

So anyway, gruel is comprised of equal parts quinoa, red lentils and bulgur wheat. Well, not totally equal — usually a little more lentils and a little less quinoa, but that's only because I'm being cheap about it. You add seasoning, then serve. It's in the category of foods we refer to as "S.L.A.K." — "shit like a king." It works. Recipe follows — adjust measurements as necessary.

2 cups water
1/4 cup quinoa
1/4 cup red lentils (replace equal amount of quinoa with red lentils, if cheap)
1/4 cup extra fine bulgur wheat (can use oats or other grain, if desired)
1 tsp garam masala powder (or some such spice) (somewhat optional)
1 1/2 tbsp soy sauce
1 1/2 tbsp cider or rice vinegar
Several pinches garlic powder
Several pinches dried herbs such as basil, oregano or thyme
Pinch ginger powder
Several dashes Sriracha or other hot sauce
2 tbsp cheese such as cheddar or ricotta (optional)
Meat and/or bone (optional)

When gruel is finished, spoon into bowls, mix, let cool and serve.

Some notes: Don't get distracted by the subordinate ingredients — the main thing here are the three grains. The rest of it just adds salt, sweet, sour and protein flavors; use whatever you want. Bulgur is supposed to have a low glycemic index (for a grain). The garam masala powder happened because we amassed a ton of it for some reason; before I was using up a big thing of curry powder; neither is necessary; that said, garam masala powder lends a sweet flavor, almost like brown sugar and it's good. I don't know that I can even discern the ginger powder but I began using it in gruels back when Jen was pregnant because ginger is supposed to be good for morning sickness, or something. Ricotta cheese began because it's really high in calcium; it also mixes easily. Adding something like a chicken bone with meat on it adds flavor. Mr. Kiddo likes meat in his gruel, too.

Oh, and for Pete's sake, if you're able to do so, eat with your kid. One, it's awesome. Two, it makes it easier when everyone eats the same thing. Three, you eat healthier if you eat the same stuff as a toddler.

Now that Mr. Kiddo is firmly in the realm of "toddler," it all becomes a little different. And once you feel comfortable with things, it's time to change them up again. This time, I feel confident enough to admit that I'm scared about what happens next. And so it all begins again.