Thoughts on Agency

 I'm slowly resuscitating my very comatose blog to share some thoughts I pieced together in response to a writing prompt for a writing group to which I belong.

In one of those magical confluence of events that stop me in my tracks whenever I'm lucky enough to experience them, I stumbled on a quotation from Ryan Holiday and Pericles  while searching through my journals for my notes on a completely different subject. In Now Is the Time to Have a Civic Backbone (January 20, 2021), Holiday writes:

I urge you to consider the statesman Pericles’ warning: “One person’s disengagement is untenable unless bolstered by someone else’s commitment.” If you decide to ignore your human obligation, to ignore what’s happening in the world because it doesn’t seem to affect you directly, it might make your life a little more peaceful, but the result is an incremental increase in the suffering of others—whether that is the additional burden placed on others to carry your part of the load or an elongation of the injustice they are trying to ameliorate.

You will see the connection between Holiday's words and my take on the prompt,  "If I Were In Charge of the World."  Thank you in advance for reading.

having / taking / being in Charge

I have charge of the world already.

 

Not the earth, 

that miraculous, resilient creation 

that sustains life through integral symbiosis;

Nor the globe, 

that artificial construct that,

daring to represent the unfathomable,

veils the earth in human perception;

 

But the world,

the amalgam of disparate communities

striving at once to come together 

and remain separate

in a new alchemy of transformation.

 

Not, of course, the weather manifestations of a changing climate,

but a personal commitment to 

redefine convenience,

reassess habits from a different century;

 

Nor the plague of deliberate disinformation,

but a personal pledge 

to uncover in diverse sources 

the dots that connect to truth,

to confront falsehood and spin 

even at close quarters,

prepared to sacrifice the requisite pound of flesh,

to crack open my own mindset 

so questions and reflection can enter.

 

Not hardened tribal affiliations,

but listening no matter how difficult,

with questions to explore meaning, 

and 
soft language couched in maybes and what ifs,

a compassionate search for understanding;

 

Nor cavernous inequity tolerated 

as the way of the world,

but the eviction of the brittle and worn isms 

that still live in mental constructs,

so as to craft radical paradigms 

of fairness and justice.

 

I do have charge of the world already,

my own small corner of it, 

family, neighbors, community,

whom my own decisions

awaken or anesthetize,

bless or curse, in your face or incognito.

 

As I take charge of that world 

of which I already have charge,

As every person takes charge of the world 

of which they already have charge,

No one individual would ever be 

in charge of the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reads 2021 Fiction

 As it turns out, the shallow end of the pool is, well, shallow.  In number of novels I read in 2021, in total, and, as you might deduce from that observation, in the even smaller number that I would highlight.

 

The prize goes to Linwood Barclay for Find You First (2021), a mystery novel that enthralled me from the very first page.   It considers the question, How might donations to a sperm bank to earn quick cash as a struggling student come back to haunt you as a millionaire victim of Huntingdon’s disease?  Enough said.

 

The Guersney Literary and Potato Peel Society, by Annie Barrows and Mary Ann Schaffer (2008) is a historical novel centered around the German occupation of the British island of Guernsey during World War II, the struggles of the residents and the role of books in their survival.  The book is in letter form.  Enjoy the film as well; you will recognize many Downtown Abbey alumni.  View or read first, it doesn’t matter.   Both versions navigate several complex themes with sensitivity and delicacy.

 

The Paris Library by Janet Skeslien Charles (2021)

I found this novel quite by accident while scrolling through Hoopla.   Set at the beginning of World War II, with a generational parallel narrative in 1983, the novel takes up the tangle of unexpected events that impact our lives, both in the present and in the future.  Great read.

 

Where the Crawdads Sing, by Delia Owens (2018)

The months I waited for my turn in the library’s wait list for this book were so worth it!  It’s a compelling narrative of a child coping with abuse and neglect, raising herself, essentially, making the most of each day in whatever way she can.  

 

Thanks for sharing my reading experience during 2021.  

Reads 2021 The Deep End of the Pool

Already, Reset 2021 has segued into 2022.  Phase 1 of this reset begins with the resurgence of my comatose blog.  What better way to plunge back into the pool than with the highlights of my reading life during the past year, in two parts.  Let’s jump into the deep end!  Non-fiction to start!

 

I read non-fiction to make some sense of complex subjects or mystifying trends around me.  This year, my selections seem to coalesce around four of those ideas:  

1.     the plight of Indigenous peoples in Canada, specifically, and around the world; 

2.     the word “deficit” as applied to the economy, especially around proposed funding for programs to support ordinary people; 

3.     the rise of individualism versus the common good; 

4.     appropriate action in that context.  

The following authors expanded my thinking in all of these areas.

 

Indigenous Peoples

Tanya Talaga in Seven Fallen Feathers, (2017)

No matter how much I read around Indigenous issues, I am always horrified at what was done and continues to occur.  Talaga’s book details the fates of seven Indigenous young people in Thunder Bay, Ontario.  In a sense, it provides the backdrop for the 2018 Massey Lectures, where Talaga focuses on the effects of intergenerational trauma and cultural genocide.  Her final reverberating question is, “Can the settlers and the Indigenous people come together as one and move forward in harmony?” (p. 315).  My response:  How can I contribute, as a settler?

The Jesuit Forum for Social Faith and Justice in Listening to Indigenous Voices:  A Dialogue Guide on Justice and Right Relationships (2021) provides not only a succinct and powerful history of Indigenous peoples in Canada, but focused suggestions on action to move past that legacy.  Apology is not enough, is the message.  This guide, available in French as well, invites the readers or participants to reflect on individual and collective pathways to decolonization and the meaning of re:indigenization.  

Dr. Blair Stonechild in Loss of Indigenous Eden and the Fall of Spirituality (2020), a history of Indigenous peoples from their perspective.  Full disclosure:  I have not yet completed this detailed, sensitive, frank and compelling account.  Even so, this volume has already connected so many dots for me from other reading, and deepened my understanding of Indigenous spirituality and my respect for it.

 

Deficits

Stephanie Kelton in The Deficit Myth: Modern Monetary Theory and the Birth of the People's Economy (2020)

This fascinating explanation in layperson’s terms of how the monetary system works helped me understand why the books of a country with monetary sovereignty, like Canada, that is, a country that is a currency issuer, are not managed like the books of household.  I learned the difference between resourcing a program and paying for it.  I was challenged to consider that inflation, not deficit, is the critical factor, both in its management and monitoring.  What surprised me most is that preoccupation with deficits, unwarranted, according to the author, in countries that issue their own currency, dissuades governments from spending enough to provide the necessities of life for all their citizens.  Now, with this additional perspective, I am much more able to assess the messages politicians and pundits diffuse.  In short, I am more autonomous, less likely to be manipulated by messaging.

 

The Common Good

Michael J. Sandel in The Tyranny of Merit:  What’s Become of the Common Good? (2020).  

Sandel offers an explanation for the polarization that manifests in so many areas of society.  He sees this polarization as an unforeseen and largely unacknowledged outcome of meritocracy, of people getting ahead based on whether or not they have “earned” their success, and of the system and criteria set up to define “earn” and “deserve”.  If even this brief description unsettles you, then this book is for you!  In clear, meticulous, and reasoned detail, Sandel lays out his argument.  The salient piece for me, in the end, is the need for not only distributive justice (equitable access to resources), but also contributive justice (“an opportunity to win the social recognition and esteem that go with producing what others need and value” p. 206).  When people don’t feel their work is perceived as an important contribution to society, they disconnect.

 

How Can I Help?

Joan Chittister in The Time Is Now:  A Call to Uncommon Courage (2019).

You can see, I’m sure, the controversy inherent in the areas of my reading.  Some of the perspectives the authors grapple with are not dinner conversation, or even any conversation, with just anyone.  They challenge existing paradigms, and challenged paradigms aren’t good for blood pressure.  So, what to do?  Having lived an activist life, Joan Chittister is well qualified to speak on the subject.  We need courage, she says, and not the plain ordinary variety, as tough as that is.  We need uncommon courage, the kind that marks key moments in one’s life.  What to do, for example, if we’re in a group where unfounded ideas are shared as certainty?  How do we navigate those waters fraught with the potential for hurt feelings and broken relationships?  She acknowledges that challenge, and offers a path forward:  “It is finding the courage to utter the first word of truth in public that takes all the strength we can muster.  It is learning to say, quietly, unequivocally, ‘I think differently about that,’ and then explain why.” (p. 54).  The reflections at the end of each chapter helped me to clarify my thinking on her ideas and lived experiences.

Douglas Rushkoff in Team Human by (2019)

Intriguing perspectives on the society in which we live.  In short, if we want change and justice, Rushkoff’s message is: “Find the others.”  Check out excerpts of this book in Medium.

 

Full disclosure #2:  I didn’t tread water in the deep end like this the entire year.  My mental health just couldn’t sustain that heavy reading.  So, at strategic moments, every now and then, I would take breaks from the continuous treading water by resting.  Fiction provided that space.  The second Reads post highlights my experiences in the areas of the pool where I could touch bottom.  

Thanks for sharing your precious time with me.

My Life in Chairs

“Don’t even go there!” my back admonishes me.  

It must have seen me eyeing my cozy nestle chair by the garden doors, novel in hand, and is having none of it.  Better heed its warning.  Looks like a chair isn’t an option for me just yet.  The price to pay in back agony and leg pain is just too high.  More yoga, more stretches, more massage, more exercise.  Then, maybe?  Until that moment, the floor awaits. How ironic, that my life, traced in an astonishing variety of chairs, is now defined by a lack of one. 
 Cushioned against the couch on the floor, a bolster under my knees, cup of tea in hand, I am engrossed in a slide show of the chairs that have defined my life. 

 

My first official chair, a kitchen stool with a seat and back in soft grey and white swirls and retractable steps, found its higher purpose as a high chair.  My father added a tray, and, later, a hook, so that I couldn’t push it over my head and dump the contents, either by accident or on purpose.   Next came the wooden toddler chairs with matching table, a gift from parents on my first birthday.   My paternal grandparents added a matching rocking chair,  the blue cat decal scratched and faded with the years, an ID label under the seat in my mother’s characteristic hand. Now, my grandsons rock out in it when they visit.

 

The chairs of my youth were developmental chairs.  On the grey kitchen chairs, I learned to play cribbage.  On the desk chair in my Grade 5 classroom, I heard that John F. Kennedy had been assassinated. Glued to the den desk chair with the fluorescent green seat and dark brown half-back at age twelve, I taught myself to type using the QWERTY keyboard on a small blue typewriter my father obtained as a premium from an encyclopedia purchase.  On the fluorescent blue wooden chair in my room, I puzzled through algebra and trigonometry, and recited French verbs conjugations.  On the piano bench, I practiced scales and pieces and prepared for exams, building a skill whose impact on my life I could never have imagined when I was thirteen.

 

The adult chairs marked milestones.  The blue swivel rocker and the Bentwood rocker where I nursed my babies; the blue vinyl kitchen chairs where the children did crafts and my parents played bridge; the formal dining room chairs around a long, oval cherry table, witness to three generations of birthdays, anniversaries, holiday gatherings, graduations, and, yes, bereavements. 

 

For challenge and growth, the professional chairs led the way.  The black swivel business chair of my home office took care of the hidden, ubiquitous work of teaching,  the  late-night lesson preparation and feedback on student work.  Its twin in various classrooms and offices throughout the decades handled the conferences, the record keeping, and lots of planning.   From the professional chairs, the chairpersons  of meetings and professional development sessions over the years,  I learned the art of facilitation:  how to interact with participants, create a buzz in a room, effect smooth transitions from one activity to another, involve participants in active learning and conversation irrespective of the number of attendees.  The relative skill of chairpersons allowed me to maximize my tool kit, or conversely, imagine what could be done differently.

 

Mrs. Macquarie's Chair in a torrential
downpour, Sydney, AU Jan 2020

Ah, memories from the vacation chairs:  the deck chairs on cruise ships where I read and made new friends; two prized resort beach chairs scavenged from a wasteland of lounge chairs bereft of people but boasting a towel as the mark of proprietorship; an oversized bright pink easy chair on the streets of Mesa, Arizona, begging for a photo op; the giant Adirondack chairs on the crest of the Cypress Hills inviting visitors to stop, take a break, bask in the breathtaking barrenness; Mrs. Macquarie's

chair carved into the peninsula in Sydney Harbour, risky in a torrential downpour.

 

Those vacation chairs belong to a past that’s paradoxically recent yet distant, real but tinged with mirage.  Now, we think of COVID chairs, physically distanced,  two metres apart.

 

Lost in contemplation, my thoughts turn dark, to the chairs that might lurk in my future.    The walker/chair (rollator) or wheelchair or geri-chair.  Yikes!  These I hope to avoid.  Right now,  I count on progress to a dining room chair or even my desk chair.  No rush.  Better to heal well than risk further injury.  After all, that’s why, having heard my back loud and clear, I’m on the floor.

 

 

 

First shared with a writing group to which I belong on November 18, 2020.  

And yes, I'm off the floor and back in hard chairs, Working toward sofas and nestle chairs.

 

 

Reads 2020

Each year since I began this blog (except 2019 when both personal reading and writing played second fiddle to full-time teaching and a trip), I’ve posted a list of my reading highlights.  Covid did and does offer lots of time for reading.  Here are the highlights, fiction first, as it insulated me somewhat from what sometimes seemed like my masochistic consumption of news and news analysis in all its forms.

Fiction

 

To my surprise, perusing the highlights roster, these books share a theme.  The characters manage trauma that manifests differently both in its nature and in its consequences.  How fascinating, that, in a year replete with crises, random novels would ask how human beings deal with unexpected challenges or, even more aptly, insidious life events that infiltrate bit by bit, and manifest suddenly to threaten the very soul of these proverbial frogs in boiling water.

 

Il pleuvait des oiseaux (And the Birds Rained Down) de Joceylne Saucier.  

Top fiction read, and it’s not even close.  Strange, maybe, because I first came across this work as a film.  Each managing his own unique trauma, three men have chosen to live a hermit life deep in the forest of northern Québec.  Their idyllic life is upended when two women, each with her own reality, interrupt their routine.  This film / book provides a unique insight into the impact of trauma in its different forms.  Even more significant for me, as I age, it shows that, whether or not they ever existed at all for people in their youth and maturity, joy, love, and fulfillment can not only exist for the first time in old age, they can surpass anything life might have offered before.  Check out the trailer in French here and in English here.  I saw the film, and just had to buy the book.

 

In the same vein, the next books are inspirational stories of survival in diverse situations, none of which the main character could anticipate.

·      A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute, a perennial favorite since I stumbled on it in high school, and which I purchased in Alice Springs itself during a visit to Australia just before Covid a year ago.  Jean, a young typist working in Malaya in the late 1930’s, emerges as a leader when the Japanese army takes a group of British women prisoner and sends them on a forced march across the country.  Patience—the story begins after the war, and flashes back as it moves forward.  Heads-up—the narrator’s life mirrors that of a few of the characters in Il pleuvait des oiseaux.

·      The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah and

·      My Abandonment by Peter Rock (check out the film version, Leave No Trace; trailer here), two stories of the effects of lifestyle choice on people in one’s bubble and the decisions those people are forced to make in the wake of those choices.  Very compelling both, if disturbing in parts.

·      A Heart in the Body in the World, by Deb Caletti, one of the best novels I’ve read.  This story tells a difficult and timely story within a sophisticated and effective structure. Best not to include any details at all, for fear of giving away anything that might detract from the reading experience.  I couldn’t put the book down.  I also read a few more of Caletti’s books:  Wild Roses and The Secrets She Keeps, both good reads but not in the same league as A Heart in the Body in the World.

 

For light(er) fare, you might enjoy

·      The Gown by Jennifer Robson, a story of one of the seamstresses who crafted Princess Elizabeth’s wedding gown (available on Hoopla);

·      The Woman in the Window by A.J. Finn, a psychological thriller that will keep you turning the page.  Check out the trailer for the recently released film. 

·      La bonne de Chagall by Karen Olsen.  Based on the decisions of a woman who worked for the artist Chagall, this novel is written by a former French consultant for Regina Public Schools.

 

Non-Fiction

 

For those of you, like me, who have absorbed the distressing political reports along with the Covid bulletins, these reads might entice you.  They illuminated my understanding of issues in our world.  Ah-ha moments on every page.

·      Caste: The Origins of Our Discontent (2020), by Isabel Wilkerson, whose thesis is that racism is at the core of the polarization in the United States.  She explores this idea by comparing and contrasting race in India, Nazi Germany, and the United States, with astounding conclusions.  A startling statement at the end of her book presages the January 6 assault on the US Capitol.  She quotes Taylor Branch, a historian of the civil rights movement: “‘If people were given the choice between democracy and whiteness, how many would choose whiteness?’” (p. 352).  For me, this book was a page-turner.

·      The Jakarta Method: Washington’s Anticommunist Crusade & the Mass Murder Program that Shaped Our World (2020), by Vincent Bevins.  I stumbled on an essay version of this book quite by accident while preparing a unit on the Cold War.  I ordered the book immediately.  If you’ve ever wondered about the extent of American involvement in the politics of other nations, this book will strip any illusions you may ever have had.  It left me horrified.  Bevins says that the story is for “people who want to know how violence and the war against communism intimately shaped our lives today.” (p. 3)

·      Shrewed:  A Wry and Closely Observed Look at the Lives of Women and Girls (2018) by Elizabeth Renzetti.  Funny and insightful, this is a book I could have used forty years ago.  It spoke to me in its irreverence and unsparing honesty.  “It’s in the chaos that we find ourselves,” Renzetti says (p. 143), and my senior head nods in agreement.

 

Happy reading.  I would enjoy any comments on any of these books, at any time, as well as suggestions to enhance my own 2021 reading life.

My Covid Christmas

  

“That’s when my life will start,” the waiter says to me, in response to my query about his current projects besides working in a restaurant. He’s going to apprentice next year, he says, and then his life will begin.  

“Your life is happening right now,” I can’t help but interject.  The mother and the teacher in me are engrained, always there.  “You know what they say about life—it’s what happens when you’re making other plans.  Your life is your experience in the restaurant when you’re here, right now, and outside with your friends and family.  It’s what happens later, when you apprentice, as well.”   Chalk it up to age, experience, inspiration from people I know, all of the above.  I have learned to cherish every moment of my life, even in the darkness.  Rejoice on a Monday, celebrate Wednesday, be as happy on a Tuesday as on a Saturday.  Be happy when we must wear a mask and when we can go without.   Find the jewels in the rough. 

 

That might be why I’m astonished when I hear people say about this Covid Christmas that they’ll celebrate next year.   Next year is uncertain at the best of times, and, in the elongated days and months of the pandemic, when circumstances change from minute to minute, it has never been more important to live in the moment.  We can’t afford to write off Christmas 2020, despite the sacrifices, and bank on gathering with family and friends next year.  What has that looked like for me?

 

It didn’t mean flouting the public health protocols and getting together across provinces, eleven of us under one roof.  Christmas was a quiet affair at our house, just my husband and me.  No massive food preparation, no choir practices, no high chairs or toy boxes or eleven chairs around a dining room table in maximum extension.  No conversations around social issues late into the night, no board games, no taking the grandkids tobogganing or pulling the sleigh to the park.  This year, the in-law year for Christmas, any Christmas hubbub would occur now, in the laconic, surreal days between Christmas and New Year.  But not this year.  

 

Yet Christmas 2020 has presented a myriad of precious occasions to broaden the holiday experience.   In a “normal” year, would our grandson and our niece have texted to discuss the optimal placement of a figure on the Advent calendar they both have, about which you might have read in an earlier post.  That calendar also focused December for our grandchildren, and might even have liberated their parents to direct energy into adding to their own holiday traditions rather than in answering repetitive questions about when Christmas was coming.  

 

In a “normal” year, our neighbour would have headed south, and we would have missed Happy Hours and meals with her, and celebrations of milestones in both our lives.  

 

In a “normal” year, would my husband and I have had time to prepare harp-accordion duets for the Christmas liturgies?  Would there even have been time for those duets during the liturgy, given the critical role of congregational singing in liturgical celebrations?   

 

In a “normal” year, obsessed with a clean house and a packed freezer, would I have recorded The Velveteen Rabbit in eight short chapter videos for the grandkids?  Would I have taken the time to post a few Christmas carols on the harp?  My musicianship developed so much as a result of the recording experience.

 

In a “normal” year, we would have celebrated réveillon after the last Christmas Eve mass, as well as Christmas Day supper, with others.  This year, we connected with any available children on Zoom on both occasions. Although we were in different locations and enjoying different delicacies, our conversation and the immediacy of togetherness transferred online.

 

In a “normal” year, we would have celebrated our daughter’s Christmas birthday a few days later, with singing in the birthday trifle at home.  Instead, we were invited into their home through FaceTime to sing in the birthday trifle our daughter and her family had made and assembled together.

 

In the end, we did celebrate both the essence and the reality of Christmas.   The phone calls, emails, texts, video connections and restricted church gatherings manifested the caring spirit of the holidays.  So too the hand cut-outs of our grandson and his sister that hang on the doorframe, and the first-annual(?) Zoom family games night.   We just can’t afford to sacrifice celebrations because they must diverge from habit and tradition.  Even when things are “normal”, we can’t count on next year, on next month, not even on tomorrow.  Life happens every minute, not at a particular moment that matches a preconceived idea or dream.  As our son has reminded us in a shared article, we don’t know when we are doing something for the last time. Best, then, for the young waiter and for us, to maximize every single moment.  Even when it doesn’t seem logical or possible or even desirable.

 

 

 

The RK Sushi Experi-ment/ence

When I heard that Rice Krispie sushi could be a thing, or was a thing, I thought of the delight in my grandkids’ eyes when they would

see it. Just three ingredients—Fruit Roll-Up, Rice Krispie cake mixture, and a gummy worm centre. This idea is not original—let’s dispel any rumours of creativity—but I can’t remember where I first saw it or who might have mentioned the possibility. I checked online for tips on the process. Okay, not exhaustively. Still, the results weren’t encouraging—the closest anyone came to my vision was a Rice Krispie cake rolled around gummy worms that stretched along one edge, like a jelly roll, then cut in bite-sized sushi pieces, only then to be wrapped in a length of Fruit By The Foot.

 Not good enough. I wanted an authentic roll-up experience, with the Fruit Roll-Up integrated into the “sushi” roll. With no process to follow, I decided to trust my ideas, and to rely on the accumulated wisdom of more than forty years of experience with food. I wasn’t discounting, either, the knowledge gleaned from Food Network. With Rice Krispies languishing on the counter in the downstairs kitchen, marshmallows leftover from summer camping propped beside them, the reminders were omnipresent, if not all the raw materials. 

It seems audacious to say that the planets aligned for Rice Krispie sushi-roll making. Given the pandemic and the political chaos south of the border, the metaphor seems too grand. Let’s say instead that the tumblers fell together at the grocery story (logical) in the transformed bulk bin aisle (unexpected). As I searched for almonds, bags of gummy worms beckoned at eye level. Well. It was a sign. Next, the Fruit Roll-Ups. They still do exist, both in sheets and by the foot. I wasn’t sure, so much time having elapsed since I used to buy the strips to teach simple, compound, and complex sentences to middle years students. Time to head to the til. 

The biggest, challenge, I imagined, was keeping the Rice Krispie batter malleable enough to spread on a sheet of fruit roll-up. What about working on my warming tray covered with parchment paper? 

I would also keep the equipment and materials at the ready: a flat spatula, a cake server, a spoon, and a knife in a tall glass of water; the gummy worms; and the sushi rolls still in the wrapper with the top snipped. Further down that kitchen counter, parchment paper on a cookie sheet would act as the receiving blanket for the newborn sushi rolls. With everything in place, I prepared the Rice Krispie cake and prepared to work as quickly as I could. 

With the Rice Krispie mixture on the stove in stasis on low, I began. Warming tray set on low too, I unwrapped a sheet of Fruit Roll-Up on the parchment paper. As I began to spread some Rice Krispie mixture on top, the Fruit Roll-up sheet disintegrated in the heat. Warming tray maybe not such a good idea. The flopped roll was good, though. Gummy worms are one of my guilty pleasures.

 Round 2. This time, I spread the fruit roll-up sheet directly on the parchment. I spread the Rice Krispie mixture on top with a wet spoon to prevent sticking, and flattened it with the wet cake server. When the sheet was mostly covered, I stretched out a gummy worm (one gummy worm, stretched a little, was perfect), and began to roll with the parchment as leverage. The result: a reasonable looking sushi roll. Still using the parchment paper, I massaged the sushi roll, and molded it to a more streamlined shape. It took its place on the incubator.

Round 3. I was on a roll now. Same procedure, but this time, I used the cake server to flatten the cake mixture as much as I could, much like one would pound a chicken breast or pork cutlet to make schnitzel. Rolling up was much easier this time, and the appearance of the final product had improved dramatically.

My takeaways from this process: 

Fun project! 

Parchment paper is the secret weapon. Nothing sticks. 

I didn’t have to work quite as fast as I had first thought. The Rice Krispie mixture did stay soft in the pan. There was some caramelization, though, of the marshmallow as a result of the prolonged heat, even on low. The cake I made with the leftover mixture had a much deeper flavor than usual. Next time, I might try a hot water bath. The sushi rolls are extremely sweet. One bite goes a very long way. Delicious, though, and soft enough to chew easily. 

I made only five rolls, counting one failed attempt. Two I sliced for the taste test and photo. Two are in the freezer. In the end, the experiment resulted in a delightful experience. Interesting, isn’t it, that both these words, experiment and experience, originate in the same Latin root: "they both come from the word experior, which means, to gain knowledge through repeated trials." To gain knowledge from trying over and over again. In fact, the French word for experiment is indeed expérience! So, in every sense of the word, my experiment did indeed culminate in a satisfying and delicious experience!

 For more information on the etymology of experience and experiment, see Kyle Kowalski and a podcast by Dr. Andrew Weil.