by Dwight Furrow

Much philosophical writing about food has included discussions of whether and why food can be a serious aesthetic object, in some cases aspiring to the level of art. These questions often turn on whether we create mental representations of flavors and textures that are as orderly and precise as the representations we form of visual objects.

The claim that we do not form such ordered, mental  representations is central to the view that food and drink cannot be serious aesthetic objects or works of art. The reason is that genuine aesthetic experience requires the apprehension of form or structure. In the absence of structured representations there is no form to apprehend. (See Part 1 of this essay for a more detailed account of mental representations of aroma.)

I want to argue that the skeptics have a point although they draw the wrong inference from it. Our flavor experiences do, in fact, rest on weak representations. They lack the stable, detailed, clearly identifiable objects that vision typically yields. However, these weak representations allow for the apprehension of a different kind of structure, what I shall call a nomadic distribution (or continuously changing structure), and it is in fact this nomadic distribution of flavor that enables the aesthetic experiences characteristic of our engagement with food. The main point to draw from this is that cuisine is about transformation, one thing becoming another, and it is ill served by theoretical perspectives that rely on mental representations with firm identity conditions.

The explanations for why flavor and aroma are weakly representational fall into three categories—flavors are ephemeral, ambiguous, and difficult to remember with precision. Read more »

Damocles

In perilous times we join the otherworld,
the one that’s outside
our bubble

who’s driving this bus?
who’s at the helm?
who jiggles the joystick?

we man our posts
we soothe ourselves
but one day must come to terms:

I saw a cormorant, wings spread
drying herself in the wind after lunch
oblivious to the dilemma of our recklessness
but snared nevertheless in its reach

but time itself is oblivious,
and space

so, who?

Jim Culleny
7/10/19

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by Mike Bendzela

I lie on a futon in a little room tucked in a turret of an old funeral home-turned-apartment building in Binghamton, New York, listening to election returns coming in over my clock radio. It is a Tuesday night in 1984, the year of Orwell’s never-ending fever dream. Madonna and Prince and Michael and Bruce play incessantly on the radio between election reports. The unfolding AIDS epidemic is a thing no one wants to talk about: A friend, a PhD candidate in poetry, is sick in faraway Florida, but none of us in the department even knows about it yet. He will be dead in six months.

I am a year into my stint in graduate school. (Two years will be more than enough for me.) The path to my master’s degree in English has been a circuitous one, even tortuous: As an undergraduate, I started out in geology with a little climatology, detoured into art and design for two years, then ended up studying American literature. But I have never lost my love of the Earth sciences.

Ronald Reagan, at 73, is the oldest candidate ever to run for election — or, in this case, re-election — as President of the United States, against . . . What’s his name again? This election marks (I firmly believe) our last chance as a civilization to change course and sail towards a Green Future, an inkling of which we saw with President Jimmy Carter. I do not know if What’s-his-name is the answer, but we all know Reagan ain’t. One term could be a fluke. A second, collective suicide.

Several months hence, the great science communicator, Carl Sagan, will say to the United States Senate, “If you don’t worry about it now, it will be too late later on.”* His talk is a plea to those in power to start controlling carbon dioxide emissions from burning fossil fuels. The concentration of atmospheric CO2 in 1984 is 344 parts per million and the global temperature anomaly a barely noticeable +0.40° Celsius.* Carbon dioxide concentration MUST be kept below 350 ppm, or the planet will heat up, creating havoc. And there are other pollutants to worry about. And also oil depletion, deforestation, ocean acidification, wildlife habitat loss, over-population. A collapsing civilization does not seem far-fetched.

False alarm! It is Morning in America.* Read more »

by Adele A. Wilby

Recently I stepped into the underworld of fungi in Merlin Sheldrake’s Entangled Life: How Fungi Make our Worlds, Change our Minds and Shape our Futures. His book took me to an ancient world, tirelessly and inconspicuously working away and doing its vital job of literally interlacing the planet and holding it together to make life sustainable. The entry into this curious world was through the rather unassuming life form that most of us are more accustomed to eating than we are to learning about its existence: the mushroom.

Mushrooms are, for most of us,  just another source of food, or indeed choose the wrong kind to consume and the adverse effects are likely to be more dangerous than delicious. They are though, fruiting bodies of fungi whose appearance on the surface is aimed at the reproductive role of dispersing millions of spores into the atmosphere to secure their existence.

Colourful mushrooms of all sizes and shapes poking their heads up from the leafy undergrowth of a woodland or forming colonies of various architectural designs on dead trees, have never failed to draw my attention during my wanderings through wooded areas. Fascinated by these humble looking elegant protuberances that decorate the forests, on some occasions I have taken the time to count the varieties I have seen and found several different types on any one day. But as I learned from Sheldrake, my enthusiasm for the diversity of the mushrooms I observed was quite trivial in comparison with the numbers of fungi on the planet: there are, literally, millions of species throughout the world. Read more »

by  Steve Szilagyi

My favorite place on Earth is Niagara Falls. I refresh my spirit there. Standing on the very brink, my chest pummeled by the roar of millions of gallons of fresh water plunging into the abyss, I feel at one with figures like Margaret Fuller, Charles Dickens, and Mark Twain, each of whom recorded their humbled awe at the spectacle. I throw my mind into the past and imagine countless generations of Native Americans standing on the brink of the Falls and wondering, as many do today: where is all this water going?

Well, I’ll tell you where it goes: down the Niagara Gorge, into Lake Ontario, into the St. Lawrence Seaway, and finally to the Atlantic Ocean, where it mixes with the saltwater and is, for all practical purposes, wasted.

Now I’ll tell you where it isn’t going: it isn’t going to the showerhead in my luxury Niagara Falls hotel room. Even though I can look through my window and see 44,500 gallons of fresh water tumbling over the brink every minute, when I step into my marbled bathroom and turn on the shower, I stand under the same strangled trickle I’d get in a cheap motel outside Salinas, California, or another city with severe water use restrictions.

Primal pleasure denied. I don’t need to sell anyone on the satisfaction of a good, strong shower—hot, but not too hot, slightly stinging, and thoroughly cleansing of both body and soul. Yet this primal pleasure has not been widely available since 1992, when the U.S. Energy Policy Act mandated that new showerheads sold in the country not exceed 2.5 gallons per minute.

The Energy Policy Act makes sense for places like the American West, where the combination of climate change, cattle farming, and almond growing has created a dire water situation. But Niagara Falls? Read more »

by Paul Braterman

This book is a delight. Drawing on a deep love of her subject matter, the author interweaves descriptions of a sequence of rock types with the story of her own personal and professional life. An extremely difficult feat to bring off, but Marcia Bjornerud (M) manages to do this without artificiality or mawkishness, drawing on historical and philosophical insights whose origins are hinted at throughout the text, and explaining complex concepts in lucid and enjoyable language.  The only thing I did not like about the book is its appearance, which for me fails to suggest the hard-won insights that it is so successful in conveying.

M began her training in the early 1980s, at an interesting time, when the community of geologists was still absorbing the implications of plate tectonics, and geology was changing from a descriptive to an explanatory science. This was also when, despite the best efforts of the fossil fuel companies, predictions of global warming were beginning to seep into public awareness. A difficult situation for a socially aware geologist, since these same companies are going to be the main employers of her students.

She was established in what most people would regard as a successful academic career, having earned tenure at an unnamed but easily identified major Midwestern research university. But she was not happy, either with the location (in the middle of a vast expanse of one of the few kinds of rock that she really seems to find boring) or with the atmosphere of the place. And so, despite having got away with such subversive activities as smuggling a mention of Gaia into a lab manual chapter on biogeochemistry, and devising undergraduate classes that actually taught students something, she decided that she needed to move. Easier said than done. She was too far along in her career for ordinary entry-level positions, but not yet advanced enough for senior appointments. So she made the extraordinary decision to apply for a teaching job at Lawrence University, a tiny private liberal arts college in Wisconsin, and we must be glad that she did so.

Lawrence is clearly a very special kind of place. It educates not only its students (all 1500 of them), but its faculty, by involving all of them in its “great books” programme. And there, released from the treadmill of writing papers to gain grants to fund students to collect data to write papers, she has been able to explore at will and meditate on her findings, in the occasional specialist publication but also other outlets such as newspaper articles, and in a series of books including Timefulness, which I reviewed here earlier, and the present volume. (All this despite an unusually demanding family situation, and the responsibilities of rebuilding her department.) Read more »

by Richard Farr

The tree was immense even by local standards: a western red cedar that might have been a thousand years old. A botanist would want to measure it; I only wanted to touch its wrinkled face, or kneel among the roots and capture a dramatic snapshot looking up along the trunk. But it was fifty paces away and I couldn’t get there.

We were 300 miles northwest of Vancouver, as the raven flies, on one of the countless islands of the Great Bear Rainforest. The Great Bear covers 25,000 square miles of British Columbia’s Central Coast, which makes it about the size of Sri Lanka. You can get into it by road, sort of, if you take a long, long detour around the back of the coastal mountains to the Bella Coola valley. But water has always been the real road in this maze of islands and inlets, so instead we drove our kayaks to Port Hardy, on the northern tip of Vancouver Island, rolled them onto the ferry, and rolled them off five hours later at the geographical and spiritual heart of British Columbia’s Central Coast, the Heiltsuk community of Bella Bella. 

We paddled for twelve days. From the water we saw cormorants and sea otters beyond counting; porpoises; humpbacks. But the land seemed eerily empty, aside from a mink the color of salted chocolate that scampered past my feet one evening. Clawed prints in the sand. A few distant howls in the night. But the bears and wolves, and no doubt many other creatures, were perfectly hidden by the most dominant form of life, tens of millions of trees. 

They cover almost everything. On most of the islands, whether fifty square miles or the size of a room, the forest approaches the water like a shoulder-to-shoulder army marching over a cliff, the edge marked by a constant slow-motion falling. The only shore is a yellowish ring of hand-shredding, barnacle-encrusted boulders, fortifications so uniform that it can be hard to finding even the sketchiest place to land. Camping is possible only because some islands have pockets of white sand beach. 

Here, for me anyway, was a strange and arresting new experience of wilderness. Read more »

My favorite tree next to the river Eisack in Franzensfeste, South Tyrol.

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by Katalin Balog

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern. —William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Laments about young people’s declining mental health, their inability to read novels, contemplate art, or simply pay undivided attention to anything at all have reached a panicky intensity lately. Not being particularly young, I can distinctly remember a time when things were less dire in this regard (except for the mental health part, having grown up in Eastern Europe…). We loved the films of Antonioni, Bergman, Tarkovsky, and Tarr, whose slow pace, for the most part, would be out of the question in today’s film industry. We were able to entertain ourselves without being entertained.

I propose that there is a common thread to these problems, and of course, they don’t only afflict the kids. We are all losing our ability to engage in a way of thinking I call contemplation. Young people are in an especially difficult place: whereas older people still remember and possess that ability to some degree, younger people have not had much opportunity to pick it up in the first place. And while it always required a certain amount of leisure and cultivation, a certain amount of groundedness and prosperity, today, contemplation is widely underappreciated and is in decline.

Contemplation is more than simply having experience; not all experiencing counts as contemplation – otherwise, we would all be automatically non-stop contemplators! In contemplation, experience is “held” in attention and explored without a particular goal in mind. This is different from other forms of attention deployed in thought or perception, which are fast-moving and task-oriented. Contemplation happens in small ways every time we stop to appreciate the world as we experience it, every time we are present for what is happening in a deliberate fashion, rather than breezing through in automatic pilot (or being absorbed in thought to the exclusion of experience). This could be a momentary lingering on someone’s body language or the way they express themselves. It could be an experience of merging with the natural environment. It could be a state of reflection reading a novel or poem. It could be just sitting and mulling over some experience of the day. Thomas Nagel said that there is “something it’s like” to have an experience. Contemplation then is attention to what it’s like. Read more »

by Brooks Riley

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Julya Hajnoczky. Boletinellus Merulioides, 2021.

Archival pigment print.

More here and here.

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by Bill Murray

Maybe it’s defeat in a short, sharp war far from home. Maybe Russia captures Ukraine, or China attacks Taiwan. Maybe nothing happens yet, maybe it’s four or eight years away, but however the big change comes we’ll all agree the signs were there all along.

Our executive branch is hobbled by an exhausted leader. Our legislative branch is unable to legislate and our Supreme Court has found sudden delight in partisanship.

This election was exhausting. We just got a lesson in how riven America is, culturally and politically. Until President Biden stood down, our political parties had both put up candidates unfit for the presidency. And yet one of those candidates is now set to govern.

After months of total immersion in the campaign, and in place of recriminations and hand wringing, this might be a good time to put down our partisanship and consider America’s place in the world.

As soon as we raise our heads from our screens it’s clear: the United States is promising the world more than it is prepared to deliver. It has no business claiming it can defend Europe against Russia and Taiwan against China at the same time. You know it, every international player knows it, and if America continues to claim that it’s so it will be called out soon enough.

So we need to make some changes. This was going to be true whichever party won the election, and if America gets the coming decade wrong, time-tested elements of the US-underwritten world operating system (US OS) will struggle to endure.

I argue not from ideology but from pragmatism, and maybe a bit of dated idealism. Read more »

by Carol A Westbrook

This autumn we had to buy two cars.

If you are a typical, average, middle-class American, there are times in your life when you have to buy a car. Americans take car ownership—and car buying—very seriously. Since cars and their accessories (insurance, maintainence, repair, e.) occupy such a large part of the family budget, selecting the right one becomes one of the most important decisions that you can make as a family or an individual. And there are many sources of help, from innumerable magazines like Car and Driver, Consumers’ Report, etc.,  television review shows, friends and relatives. We were fortunate to have a guardian angel in our quest—Chris, a longtime friend who happens to be an automotive engineer who works for General Motors’ building the infotainment systems in their electric vehicles.He was a great source of information for us, and convinced us to look at electric vehicles (EV’s).

We needed two vehicles to keep up with our family and work obligations. Rick needed a new car as the cost of upkeep for his 13-year-old BMW was almost as much as the cost of the car itself. And I was recovering from a motor-vehicle accident which left my 3-year-old SUV so damaged that my insurance company declared it totaled—and provided me with a comfortable settlement that would allow me to purchase a moderately priced car. After much discussion we decided it was time to go electric. We would each purchase electric vehicles (EV’s). And I was insistent that our cars had to have color—no more white, black or gray.

We shopped carefully to get the best deals. Rick found that Hertz was selling off its fleet of Tesla Model 3 EV’s. Although Teslas were considered luxury cars, they were not popular with Hertz customers, most of whom had no experience with EV’s. As for myself, I did not see myself driving the sport-car-like Tesla with its fast acceleration; I preferred a replacement SUV that was sedate, safe and stylish. I scoured used-car sites to find a Chevy Bolt. A red Chevy Bolt. There were government incentives in the form of tax rebates for purchasing a used EV. We also learned that EV’s do not age like Internal Combustion Engine (ICE) autos, because EV’s have so many fewer moving parts than ICE autos. One hundred thousand miles on an EV is not the same as it is on a ICE auto. It is possible to get a good deal on a car with high mileage because the seller does not understand this!

Soon we had two shiny, almost-new, red cars in our driveway. There was my 2022 Chevy Bolt EUV, and Rick’s 2023 Tesla Model 3. At first glance, they look like any other cars. But look carefully—no exhaust pipes! Read more »

Rattling My Cage

by Barry Goldman

“Who is rich?” the Talmud asks. “He who is satisfied with what he has.”

By that measure, I’m richer than Musk and Bezos. I’m richer than Stephen Schwartzman, head of the Blackstone Group. Far richer than Trump. It’s a nice feeling.

Part of the explanation for this is that I am an old man. Getting and spending is a young man’s game. I have no interest in new toys. Part of the explanation has to do with my particular circumstances. I have been very lucky. But the bulk of the explanation has less to do with how much I have than with how little I want.

I like to sit in my reclining chair with my feet on the footrest and Gracie, one of our Maine Coons, on the arm rest. We are in precisely this configuration as I write. I don’t see how my condition would improve if I had a 25-room house. Or a private island in the Caribbean.

There is a wonderful story about Diogenes the Cynic and Alexander the Great. It seems Diogenes was relaxing in the sunshine one afternoon when Alexander walked over. He said, “I’m Emperor Alexander the Great, ruler of the known world. I control limitless wealth of every description. They tell me you’re Diogenes, and you’re very wise. What can I do for you? Name it and it’s yours.” Diogenes said, “Could you move over, you’re blocking my light.”

I feel like that. I don’t want Jeff Bezos’ yacht or Stephen Schwartzman’s mansion. I don’t see the point. I can only sit in one chair at a time, and I’m already sitting in one.

I am not saying this to brag about my virtue. My attitude isn’t virtuous. Bezos’ and Schwartzman’s attitude is pathological. Read more »

by Eric Schenck

Rowing is a sport that you naturally underestimate. You think of canoes, of guys with perfect hair, of leisurely strolls on a lake while the glorious sun shines down.

From my experience, that’s not even close to the truth.

In reality, it’s brutal. If you’re doing it right (going fast) rowing is torture for the body. Not canoes, but long shells that only move if you do. Not perfect hair, but blacked out vision and legs on fire. Not a glorious sun, but on the water by 6 AM and a January river that doesn’t care how freezing you are.

Rowing will chew you up and spit you out.

And it’s worth every second. Read more »

by Philip Graham

For over twenty years I have been in awe of David Jauss as a writer, as a colleague and teacher, and above all for his insight into the contradictory human heart. His short stories have been gathered together in two essential collections, Glossolalia and Nice People, and many of these stories, I believe, take their rightful place among the best short fictions in American literature. He is a master of the precise, illuminating moment, and the clarity of his prose is deepened by his parallel work as a poet.

It’s not surprising that his poetry collections, Improvising Rivers and You Are Not Here, are, in turn, informed by his work as a fiction writer. Jauss’s poems aren’t afraid of the tug of narrative. And because of his love of music, particularly jazz, he is more attuned than most writers to the importance of rhythm, unexpected harmonies, and structural invention in writing, whether prose or poetry.

Jauss is also the author of two important collections of craft essays, Alone with All that Could Happen, and, most recently, Words Made Flesh. David and I were colleagues for ten years at the Vermont College of Fine Arts, and I remember quickly learning to attend his craft lectures. David knew how to see through the common clichés of creative writing advice, whether it might be the accepted modes of characterization, the “flow” of prose rhythm, use of epiphanies in short fiction, or constricting notions of what constitutes a plot. The audiences for his lectures were always filled with both students and fellow faculty members because we knew that, when David spoke, we would all become his apprentices, and happily so. Read more »