October snow

What it looks like here this morning

the valley not so uncanny

New research shows that Macaque monkeys also display “uncanny valley” reactions.

The “uncanny valley,” for those of you who don’t know, is a robotics term that refers to a revulsion reaction many people experience when they study faces that are realistic, but not quite realistic enough. The evidence from this study strongly supports a biological interpretation for this phenomenon.

Besides the obvious implications for the development of human-like robots, and the interesting research paths for understanding human biology and behavior, the study makes me wonder what it means for people like me who *don’t* experience this phenomenon. I can look at animations with no more reaction than, “Wow, that’s really well done.”

I am wondering whether there are certain very subtle indicators of emotion that are missing in the unreal faces. Most people detect those markers and are disturbed by the lack. I’m very poor at reading emotion in real faces. I wonder whether I just don’t see those markers in real faces, and the lack of emotion in the artificial faces doesn’t bother me because I’m simply not perceiving the problem area?

The research is very much up in the air, so that’s pure speculation at this point. But I’m going to be following the research with considerable personal interest.

Obama walks, Obama chews gum! At the same time!

This about covers it

I’m amazed by the pettiness and hysteria some people have been able to work up over the most simple events, like the trip to the Olympics to lobby for the U.S. I’m even more amazed by the way the media has been reporting on these nincompoops, as if they had something worth saying, instead of on the issues themselves.

Sigh.

from the editor chair

When we as writers are working on a story, we tend to focus intensely on only that story. We read it over and over, we post it for crit or send it to a few trusted readers, we dissect every word and phrase to make sure they say exactly what we want them to say. We seldom see it in any other context.

Editors aren’t reading that way. Most of us would like to be able to sit down with one story at a time, read it slowly two or three times, ponder what the writer was trying to say, and offer really insightful critique to make a perfect story. But the reality doesn’t happen that way. The reality is that life, family, work, and our own writing take up most of our time. We let the slush pile up, knowing every day that we should get busy. Finally we set a block of time to tackle it, and we sit down and do it.

That means we’re reading in a bunch. One story after another. Unlike many other editors, I’m not dealing with the really crappy stuff; our slush wrangler has already screened out the stupid, the incompetent, and the hapless. So I’m reading mostly pretty good stories.

One right after the other. In a bunch.

By the time I get done reading through that pile, they all start to sound this same. “Oh, dear God, not another amoral female sellsword who left her home under suspicion and…” For example. Even stories that are quite different in story and character wind up sounding like all the others. Daikaijuzine always gives personalized comments. When I go to write them, it’s extremely difficult to find something to say. Because really there’s nothing wrong with the story. If I had read it by itself in a crit group, I probably would have said it was excellent.

But one right after the other, in a bunch? It’s just like all the rest.

This, I think, is what most editors mean when they say, “It just didn’t grab me.” There’s just not enough right about it. Not enough special, not enough strong and insightful, not enough deep and moving, not enough wild and crazy, not enough warm and inspiring. I turn it over, go on to the next one, and when I try to write the rejection, I feel bad but have nothing more to say than a wordy version of, “it just didn’t grab me.”

turn on the heat!

One of many strange things about New Englanders: they won’t turn on the heat when it starts to get cold in the fall.

Where I’m from, you tell when to turn on the heat by rubbing your arms, looking at the goose bumps, and saying, “Damn, it’s cold this evening. I’m going to turn on the heat.” It doesn’t matter if it’s the Fourth of July or the middle of February. But not here. Here, most people set some arbitrary date for turning on the heat — mid-October, Halloween, Thanksgiving. It doesn’t matter how cold it gets before that, the heat doesn’t go on.

Usually the date is later the farther north you go. I remember having lunch with a New Hampshire friend on Veteran’s day. With six inches of snow already on the ground and a midday high of 34F, he deigned to light a fire in the woodstove because he had company, but he had not even lit furnace’s pilot light yet.

It’s partly cheapness and partly necessity. Most people use heating oil, which has to be delivered in bulk a couple of times a year. Many budget plans have arbitrary start dates — 15 October is common. Before that, you might not have any oil unless there was some left over from last year, or not want to use what you have because it costs more. There’s also the “I’m tougher than you are” mentality.

But mainly, I think it’s denial. If the heat isn’t on, it can’t be winter yet. Even if it’s a howling blizzard outside and you’re huddled under three quilts trying to keep warm.

Now excuse me while I go turn the heat up.

the Polanski thing

I’m old enough to remember when Polanski skipped the country. How disgusted I was that if you were rich and famous, you could get away with something like this. That the nobody he raped was going to have to live with this for the rest of her life while he was off living the high life in Europe. That he kept winning awards and honors as if nothing had happened. Yeah, the man’s a genius, but geez. What part of “he raped a 13-year-old girl” don’t they understand?

Campbell Brown says it better than I could.

mailbox tale

One of the joys of living in New England is that mailboxes die unnatural deaths.

Such things happened occasionally in Montana. They’d fall victim to a drunken spree of target practice, or break under the force of an out-of-control pickup skidding toward the next bridge abutment. Here, though, the life expectancy of the average mailbox and post is probably about two winters if you live on a street or road that is plowed regularly. Even if the snowplow doesn’t score a direct hit — frequent — it receives the full force of waves of snow moving at 30 mph or more. That’s a lot of force.

After three winters in a row of broken posts and/or broken boxes, I decided to go with a more flexible solution and planted the mailbox and post in a half-barrel* full of bricks and gravel. It has worked quite well for several winters; the waves of snow push the whole unit back instead of snapping the post. Of course it’s wound up in the shrubbery five feet back from the road several times, but hey, every solution has its tradeoffs, and scooting it back into place is free.

But being whacked around by snow and buried in salty ice banks takes its toll, and mine was reaching the end of its lifespan, bound in place with fraying duct tape because the screws had rusted through. It was still hanging in there, though.

Until yesterday.

The crew installing new Verizon FiOS cables in our neighborhood had to remove the sidewalk and cut a three-foot wide channel through the end of our driveway. That meant moving the mailbox. Fine, no problem, they scooted it back into the edge of the shrubs. Same place the snowplow shoves it. No problem. It’s designed to move like that.

Yesterday they finished laying the channel and running the cable. They filled in the ditch. They poured in fresh sand and packed it down nicely. They made sure to replace all the mailbox holes in the sidewalk.

They took my mailbox OUT of the barrel and put it into the posthole that hasn’t been used for at least five years.

It looked like they had to use a shovel or prybar or something to dig the post out of the barrel. It wouldn’t have come easily.

I don’t know what they were thinking. I don’t think I want to know.

——————
*imitation whiskey barrel of molded plastic. the carpenter ants ate the wooden one.

making vichyssoise

At the cooking school Tuesday night, Scott showed us how to make vichyssoise, veal cordon bleu, and a peach tart. I was there for the vichyssoise, which I’ve loved since the first time I had it years ago at Scott’s restaurant (Bullfinch’s in Sudbury MA, just down the road from us). Vichyssoise, for those of you who’ve never had it, is a creamy cold potato-and-leek soup. I assumed that it had loads of butter and rich cream sauce to give it that rich taste, but it turns out I’m wrong. It’s got a bit of cream in it, but mainly it’s potatoes, and leeks.

One largish Idaho potato and one big leek make enough soup for two or three servings.

Peel the potato (unless you want flecks of brown in your soup) and dice it. Put the diced potato in a saucepan, cover with vegetable or chicken stock, and cook while you wash and dice the leek.

Add the diced leek to the pot and let everything cook until tender. Scott recommended not adding salt and pepper until just before serving, because the seasonings in the stock are often enough.

Drain the potatoes and leeks, reserving the liquid. Cool slightly before dumping into a blender. Add some of the cooking liquid. Puree, adding more liquid as necessary. Keep whipping long after it’s smooth — this is the trick to making it really creamy. Scott added about 1/3 cup of sweet cream to make it a little richer; you could also use milk, skim milk, soy milk (unflavored), etc. I was thinking a dollop of nonfat plain yogurt might work well.

Vichyssoise is traditionally served cold, but it’s good hot as well.

You can dice and cook cauliflower or celeriac with the potatoes and leeks for a slightly different taste. Add herbs or spices — I’m thinking curry powder might be a nice variation? I’m also thinking about trying it as a low-fat base for chowder.

Back from yet another vacation

Anniversary weekend in the White Moutains of New Hampshire was wonderful.

Saturday, we played golf at the surprisingly tough 9-hole course in Waterville Valley. Had dinner at the Wild Coyote Grill, which was excellent as always. Walking back the sky was so clear and bright the milky way overwhelmed the constellations.

Sunday, the weather continued gorgeous. Instead of the modest safe hike we planned, we hiked up Mt. Osceola, which has a grand view of the mountains. It was so clear we could see all of the Presidential Range — even Mt. Washington was completely out of the clouds. The trees are beginning to be touched with red, orange, and gold. Got pretty tired coming out, but not so tired I couldn’t enjoy dinner at the Common Man in Lincoln. They have the best lobster-corn chowder. Or maybe it just tastes good after hiking 6.4 miles *g*

Monday we slept in. Neil played another round of golf while I sat in the sun nursing my sore muscles. We had lunch at King’s Crossing in Lincoln (excellent for breakfast and lunch if you’re ever in the area), then drove down the Kankamagus Highway and the Bear Notch Cutoff admiring the views and the colors. Got home late, tired, and happy.

I have pictures but I can’t find the camera cord :p

discussion question

So which is the worse waste of time?

* spending a couple of hours reading articles about unsolved murders in the region
* spending a couple of hours playing Fitz and/or WordSlinger and/or Bejeweled Blitz?
* spending a couple of hours puttering around the kitchen with chicken carcasses and dry beans?

I’ve done all three today. I have a pot of chicken stock, six cups of chickpeas, seven cups of white beans, and a plot bunny to show for it. The plot bunny showed up during the video games and had nothing to do with any of the rest.

Family members will approve of the cooking more, but it was just as much avoidance activity as the others. Why is it sometimes so damned hard to just sit down and write? The words are there today. I’m just fiddling.