Kindle

Out of the gray mist of my fogyish mind emerges something I once read. These things influence you and cumulatively make you the person you become, but when they pop into consciousness, only the point – the part that made the difference in your development – remains.  It was about some explorers – anthropologists maybe –taking up residence in a primitive culture. I can remember neither the name of the visitors nor that of the people they studied.

 The natives had become used to marvels.  These foreigners bounced about in Jeeps and even landed in small planes.  It all became as humdrum to the villagers as it is to us today.  Then the wizards installed a pipe to bring water from a distant spring into the middle of the village, and the locals gaped in awe.  Carrying water had been hard and necessary work, and presto, water was made to appear right where it was needed. 

The mysterious strangers had at last accomplished a miracle that meant something.  Up to that time it was as though they’d been sawing ladies in half and putting them back together again – amusing, but not exactly important.  Now that the backbreaking labor of hauling water had been made to vanish through the magic of plumbing, there was new respect for the visitors.

Naturally I got this information from a printed page.  The reason that I thought of it was I have acquired a Kindle.  I was going to tell you I’m the proud owner of a Kindle, but clichés don’t always say what you want them to.  I’m not proud.  I've been resisting Kindle ownership on ethical grounds. 

I’m a lover of used books.  I sell them every summer at the Plymouth Antiquarian Fair.  I love the fact that books have lives that extend from owner to owner and I’m proud to be part of the system of passing them on.  This year we didn’t get as many donations as we have in the past.  There are many possible reasons, but it was suggested that people are buying their books on Kindle and don’t have to clear their shelves. 

I have a nightmare fantasy of some Orwellian dictatorship in which the Ministry of Truth gains control of the providers of e-books.  There can’t be that many of them.  There doesn’t need to be an orgy of book burning like there was in Nazi Germany.  Some night a signal reaches out and books are altered or disappear.  I saw my new Kindle quietly turn itself on and upgrade.  It was eerie.   

Where are the original copies of the Gospels?  The answer is they no longer exist.  For centuries when the old editions were gnawed by rats or riddled with worms, monks laboriously copied them by hand and protected them in libraries.  Our oldest versions are in Greek, which was not the language of Jesus and his friends. The work of translation went on and on.  Parchment and paper carried the Word.  Now it is possible to fear that form of the preservation of literature is about to end.  Our heritage may dwell in the cloud.

I have to admit my Kindle is a nifty little thing.  It’s portable and can hold a lot of books.  I used to have a recurring dream that I was walking through my house and discovered a door I hadn’t noticed before.  I opened it and found myself in a  library crammed with books.  Now I can hold such a library on my Kindle, and if they are old books and out of copyright, I can download them for free. My Kindle is like the trickle of water in the primitive village, and I’m impressed in spite of myself.

The Kindle has a clear screen with crisp print that’s easy to read.  If my eyes begin to fail I can increase the size of the type.  The device has a nice feel to it.  It’s solid but not too heavy, and the back has a satiny finish that’s pleasant to touch.  It almost makes up for the tactile feeling of real books that I’ve learned to love.  I don’t want to fall in love with my Kindle, but I may.

Fogies are the natural enemies of the newfangled. It is for us to treasure the old ways and preserve them if we can.  It is also for us to move into smaller quarters and let our possessions, including our books pass into the care of others.  I see myself in a room in a nursing home rereading Moby Dick on my Kindle.  Then I will fade into the Great Elsewhere and leave the world to the young.  Maybe it will be all right.

Port Bistro

I was excited about the opening of Port Bistro when I learned it is the sister restaurant to Sintra in Braintree. The hospitality and the food were worth the trip, but now I have only to drive to Kingston where Jenkins has taken over the space that housed La Paloma at 14 Main Street near KFC and the Purple Building. http://www.portbistrokingston.com/

I was first impressed by the wine list, and when I remarked upon it, I was introduced to Melani St. Pierre, who put in great deal of work selecting wines for the restaurant and is proud of the result.  Her title is Wine Director; she says sommelier is a masculine term. No matter your wine expertise or lack of same, your experience at Port Bistro will be enhanced if you place wine selection in her hands.

Served with a square of polenta, the long island duckling was tender, juicy, and unctuous without being greasy. The spiced orange glaze was a little sweet for my taste, but not so much as to spoil the total experience. To go with it, Ms St. Pierre recommended Bedell Merlot from North Fork, Long Island, NY. That‘s certainly a terroir I’m not familiar with, and the wine reached heights to which I didn’t think the variety capable. I decided then and there this Wine Director has a great deal to teach. I see the bar at Port Bistro is convivial with winebibbers, and I suspect that the place is becoming a destination for those who appreciate wine.

When visiting Port Bistro on a weeknight, I often choose a half portion of pasta.  I like the baked rigatoni served with chorizo sauce, roasted peppers, melted fresh mozzarella and topped with crisp basil-scented crumbs. It’s a treat for $11, and I spend the savings on wine. On a recent visit I selected a half order of braised beef short rib cannelloni. The meat was removed from the bone and served with a béchamel sauce enhanced with porcini mushrooms, tomato confit, and a demi-glace with truffles. With it I enjoyed a 2012 Castello Di Nieve pino nero. This is a Spanish pinot noir and an outstanding example of the variety, which can sometimes be a little thin.  It was graced with velvety tannin that elegantly balanced the sprightliness of the grape. 

Annette had baked haddock, which was perfectly fresh and moist from vigilant cooking. “This is good fish,” she exclaimed, “This is as good as I would make!”  (Having learned the art from her mother, Annette is famous in our family for her baked haddock.)

On that evening she and I split a salad of arugula elegantly dressed with lemon and extra-virgin olive oil and garnished with shavings of parmesan cheese.  The greens were fresh with the characteristic hint of bitterness.  I get so many bad salads in restaurants, it was a delight to have one so thoughtfully conceived and carefully made.  

We finished up with crème brulee, and I had a piece of chocolate cake with a rich molten center and a scoop of coffee ice cream.  It was more food then we require on a Wednesday night, and next time we hope to manage a little restraint.

Port Bistro is a rising star upon the area’s restaurant scene. I look forward to further exploration of the menu, and just contemplating the wine list makes my future seem bright.

Casablanca

Much blood has been spilt,

but I have the letters of transit.

They are in perfect order

and actually quite beautiful –

fine paper, crisp print, legible handwriting.

Neither high officials nor brutish border guards

dare question them.

Possessed of incredible privilege,

I trudge the desert alone.