New Year, New(ish) Project: Food Food Food

Back in the day, when I was working on my first blog, What We Covet (RIP), I decided to branch out into food blogging with a venture called Food We Covet (double RIP). This endeavor was short-lived, due to several factors, including an unfortunate phobia of mine (triple RIP), but it came in handy when I took a course about food writing in grad school. One friend in particular--I'm not naming names, BUT YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE--has made it known that she desires the return of Food We Covet.

While I can't (read: won't) make that happen, I am able to start a new feature here, starting today with a story about a disaster that occurred in October.

Like many mothers, mine has a stockpile of old cookbooks, though some of hers are hidden away in the basement. So while I was waiting for my laundry to finish up one day, I started perusing the titles when I found a slim little volume of pumpkin recipes; I later learned that she didn't even realize she had it, which is why it had been tucked away so long (the receipt inside indicated she purchased it circa 1993). 

As it was Halloween month, I was pretty pumped (no pun intended, or maybe a little), and I decided to dive right in. Obviously I chose the toughest thing possible: a pumpkin soufflé. Soon enough, though, I asked myself the relevant question: WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING.

Up until I got to the butter, things actually went pretty well. Canned pumpkin wasn't ideal, perhaps, but it was a nice way to save time. The ground ginger and nutmeg scents burst through my nose and immediately put me in the holiday mood. Even grating orange zest without a grater proved possible, if annoying (I used the ever-so-delicately serrated part of a table knife for this step, and my upper arms got a nice workout). 

But then the butter wasn't as soft as I thought it was, so it wouldn't blend with the other ingredients, and I wound up with tiny shards of butter in the batter, visible even without my glasses. This is the part where I almost cried, but I hadn't gotten to the eggs yet, so I had to pull myself together in order to separate the eggs in precisely the manner you're told not to separate them, which is to say by pouring the albumen and yolk back and forth from one half of the shell to the other. This is, naturally, the way I wound up with yolks in the white and vice versa. But hey--nobody's perfect.

It turns out, though, that the separation itself wasn't the problem. Rather, it was the fact that no one has ever shown me how to "stiffly beat" egg whites, or more precisely the fact that it is difficult to do this by hand. The short version of this story is that they were not stiffly beaten, although I think it's fair to say they were vigorously swirled around. I'm 99 percent certain this is what went wrong with the recipe.

I say that because the soufflé was well on the way to rising. When I cut into it, the texture was too dense, too wet, and I knew it hadn't gone my way, but it was also spongy, and I could see that the outside walls of it had started to fluff up.

Because the batter hadn't fully set, the whole thing fell apart as I tried to serve it up to my parents. Mom, understandably, abstained after her first bite, and I agreed that it was wrong--the flavors were off because the texture was bad, and it felt more like eating mangled pumpkin stew than anything. Dad happened to enjoy it, so I bequeathed the rest of the entire dish to him.

At any rate, it was nice to be back in the kitchen after not really setting foot in one for awhile, at least with any intention behind it. And while I soufflailed--as I told my friends--it was worth the effort to learn a lesson about how not to do a thing. Maybe I'll never attempt another soufflé, though.

-Cate-

PS For copyright purposes, I won't be sharing the exact recipe here, but if you're interested, e-mail me at CateIsMilesAway@gmail.com for more information.

From Whence You Came

My father recently asked me a question that I have sometimes mulled over privately, but which I never expected to have to answer for realsies, given my level of absolute non-fame: do you consider yourself a Southern writer?

First, some background. Some of you know that while I was born in North Carolina, I was raised in Michigan, yet I have also spent the bulk of my adult life living and working primarily in the South (specifically, North Carolina and Louisiana). As a result, I've often--sometimes inadvertently--been immersed in the world of Southern literature or Southern writers. However, I've also spent a great deal of time around New England (particularly Boston) writers because of my grad school experiences.

Also, there is some debate about what constitutes Southern literature, because there is much debate about what actually constitutes the South. The Line isn't always the most effective way of answering this, because there are many out there who will swear to you that Kentucky, Virginia, and even North Carolina aren't really Southern states. Then there is the issue of Maryland, which is tricky because it is now Northern in character but historically was considered Southern.

So how do we categorize someone like Edgar Allan Poe? Personally, I don't consider him to be a Southern writer, but I suspect that he would categorize himself that way, given the opportunity. Meanwhile, I absolutely consider Mark Twain to be a Southern writer, although he spent most of his life in Missouri, Connecticut, and various Northern cities (with stops in California).

As far as that goes, who do we consider to be American writers? Sylvia Plath provides a good example for this question: undeniably American (born, raised, and partly educated in Massachusetts) and influenced in part by other Boston Writers (such as Robert Lowell and Anne Sexton), yet entrenched in British life (studying and living out the most prolific part of her career in England) and surrounded by English and Irish writers (Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney) while still communing with other expatriates (like WS Merwin). Most people would probably categorize her as American, although there is also a case to be made for her as an English writer.

A similar debate can be had about Gertrude Stein, another famous expat. She was American by birth but dwelled in France for much of her life. If anything, I would think the best designation for her is international, as she spent her time moving in artistic circles populated by people from many countries, including America (Ernest Hemingway), France (Henri Matisse), and Spain (Pablo Picasso), among others.

My basic response about my own situation was, "I don't think anyone has ever accused me of being a Southern writer, and I hope they never do." This has nothing to do with my opinion of Southern literature, which I appreciate and sometimes even love (here's looking at you, Faulkner). Rather, it has to do with my perception of myself as well as my priorities and my style. I would categorize myself as a Michigan writer, and a proud one.

What other people call me is, ultimately, their business, I suppose, but I feel like I would be vocal about this one thing, were I in a position to do so, because I do have strong feelings about it. But on the other hand, it's nice just to be called a writer at all, even if I sometimes have trouble giving myself that designation (in spite of my enormous ego and repeated declarations on this blog). 

-Cate-

Homebodies

Awhile back, Dad and I went to hear a panel discussion/reading by authors from the anthology And Here: 100 Years of Upper Peninsula Writing, 1917-2017. It was a good time, and if any of the authors happen to come through your town, I recommend hearing what they have to say if you are at all interested in the UP or Michigan writing in general.

During the event, one of the authors mentioned that he is always eager to get back to Detroit; he appears to have arrived at a point in his life where he wants to be back in HIS PLACE, which I absolutely understand. Later that night, Dad asked me about this, and I realized something I've never really considered before: homebodiness can take two distinct forms.

The first, of course, is homebodiness of the house, or what we think of as the classic homebody--in other words, someone who enjoys being in their home, would rather stay in than go out, and enjoys solitude. I am this type of homebody at least 80 percent of the time.

The other variety is homebodiness of place--in other words, someone who wants to spend their time in their neighborhood or city (or, I suppose, even specific other places, like a theater or library). The author mentioned above is of the second type.

When I consider it, I'm surprised by the number of people I know who could be categorized as homebodies. But the more I think, the more I realize it's probably a lasting effect of our tribal past: staying in the same location because we know it's familiar and safe.

This isn't a criticism at all; I think it's very beneficial to have a connection to your surroundings, as you can be an effective guide to visitors or transplants, are more likely to keep your dollars in your area and thereby support its economic development, and build a stronger personal community for yourself.

So yes: I am all for homebodiness of place!

-Cate-

The Book (Buying) Ban

On 16 July, I declared to the world that I was going on a book-buying ban, and I asked everyone to wish me luck. Book-buying bans are, of course, unnatural to anyone with a preference for reading over anything else. But there came a point when I desperately needed to do something. 

This crisis was triggered by the state of the bookshelves I maintain at my parents' house. The bulk of my reading material resides there, far from my actual residence in Louisiana. It, of course, pains me to be separated from my books, but needs must. During my summer visit to Michigan, I became overwhelmed by the disarray and the fact that so many of my tomes remained boxed up in the basement, victims of both multiple moves and a lack of shelf space.

And then I went on a rampage.

Every single book I had access to came out and was stacked, sorted, and rearranged in the living room. Little Dog was so freaked out that she went and hid in my bedroom to avoid the chaos. I toiled for the better part of a week, until I had weeded out volumes I no longer wanted or needed, things I realized I would never read, or duplicates I'd collected over the years.

The bulk of those discarded books were either donated to the local library for their thrice-yearly fundraising book sale or shipped out to three of my friends who were fascinated by my stash and not averse to their own piles growing larger. This worked out in everyone's favor, which relieved me.

At that point I reorganized, reshelved, and reboxed as necessary. Things I had yet to read were all put out on the bookshelves so I would have easy access to them. The problem with this strategy was that I then came to the realization that I had a huge "to be read" stack. Big enough that I might possibly have enough to keep me going for the rest of my life. (As if that's even possible. Please.)

I blame my mother, who taught me to read when I came home disgruntled that I hadn't learned in school. I blame my father, who has never not bought me a book when I asked for one. I blame Visa, which company should have cut me off long ago when they saw how many transactions I was making at bookstores. And I blame myself, for not having the self-control to say, "No, I do not need to buy these seven books at once."

Hahahahaha, no. That last part isn't true at all. Vive les livres!

And yet. I was--and remain--absolutely serious about this. But I admit that I have broken twice so far. Still, two books in three and a half months is not bad. I am trying my best to focus on the books that are already at hand, and I hope I can stay strong.

-Cate-

Dear Joanne

I have very clear memories of the night Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released. It was July 2007, and I was home for the summer. My mother had pre-ordered a copy from Border's (RIP), and she sent me and my father to pick it up. Being a big-box store, there was a ton of floor space. Yet no more of it was available, and bodies spilled out into the lamp-lit parking lot.

Dad stared at the crowd, confused by the spectacle before him. "What is going on here?" he asked me.

I swept my hand around, indicating the throng engulfing us. "This is pop culture."

The moment was an important one, I think, both for me and Dad. As far as I was concerned, it was unspeakably exciting to be present for a historical literary moment. Meanwhile, Dad finally had some insight into what I had been doing with my life (both as a creative writing major and a pop culture semi-scholar). It was tinged with sadness, though, as THE TIME had come: that instant where every devoted fan realized that this was the last time we would tear through the pages of a Harry Potter book in unbridled anticipation of how his story would turn out.

Or was it?

Since that night, the series' author, J.K. Rowling, has been expanding the Hogwarts universe at a regular clip. We've witnessed the arrival of Pottermore, her interactive online community; although the book itself was released in 2001, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them is coming to a theater near you this November; The Tales of Beedle the Bard, an important piece of the Deathly Hallows puzzle, was given its own standalone book in 2008; Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, not written by Rowling but based on a story she wrote, lands on the West End stage this week to be followed the next day by a published version of the script; and revelations about Ilvermorny, Hogwarts' North American sister school, have come to light via Pottermore in the past month. 

I understand that Ms. Rowling has spent a great deal of her life immersed in the world of Harry Potter. (She is hardly alone in that, as her rabid fan base has proven.) But I also understand that she is in danger of failing to move on to other artistic endeavors, which we know she is capable of doing--witness The Casual Vacancy, as well as the Robert Galbraith/Cormoran Strike novels. And this is one of the deadliest activities in which an artist of any variety can engage.

Leaving aside the appropriative issues surrounding Ilvermorny and North American wizardry (I am looking in your direction, stereotypical assumptions about "mystical" Native Americans), which are distinct from the ongoing additions to the Potterverse, I think it would behoove Rowling to take a break from Harry James and his friends. There are so many other stories to tell, and I for one am interested to see what else she can give us.

-Cate-

The Way to Treat Your Books

Any person who is a relatively serious reader knows that there is only one way to treat a book. But a problem arises when no one can agree on what that way is.

In the past months, I've learned some interesting things about the various approaches my friends and family members take to the act of reading. Take, for example, my mother. When she gave me my birthday presents, she discovered that she had accidentally left a price tag on a book. She hastened to remove it, though I told her the price didn't matter because I love a good book deal. But she responded in a way I didn't expect: "I hate when there's a sticker on a book."

I've known my mother quite awhile now--all of my life and half of hers, to be precise. And yet, I never could have told you that she has this quirk. Only a few days earlier, a similar situation had arisen with my father, who took pains to explain that the crease on the cover of a book he'd borrowed from me was not his fault--a charge I hadn't made against him in the first place, as it happens. That's when he informed me that he strives to treat my books with care because they are mine and not his.

While I appreciate the consideration, I was a little surprised by this information. I'm not overly gentle with my books in general. If a spine cracks, I don't get upset. Although I use bookmarks much more frequently now, I used to dog-ear pages all the time, particularly in college and grad school, when I wanted to leave myself visual clues as to the amount of reading I had left to do. I don't know how many books I've highlighted over the years, and not always for class; sometimes I do it to revel in the brilliant turns of phrase I've found.

My friend Sharon, on the other hand, is one of those people who can't stand the plight of "mistreated" books. She made a Facebook post awhile back about a particular moment on Gilmore Girls, writing, "This episode is why I hate Jess. He steals Rory's book and THEN WRITES IN IT. WHO DOES THAT CRAP? THAT'S NOT HOW YOU TREAT BOOKS, YOU HEATHEN! ESPECIALLY SOMEONE ELSE'S BOOK."

This rant of hers led to over twenty comments from various people. While I concede that it's rude to write in a book that isn't yours without permission from the owner, I disagree that the act of writing itself is unacceptable. As I pointed out to Sharon, making notes, underlining, and highlighting passages is normal behavior among scholars and (certain) book people.

I suppose the adage, "Different strokes for different folks" applies here. In my case, I'm less inclined to mark up a book that is rare or vintage, and for reasons unknown, I am averse to highlighting hardcovers. Meanwhile, you will never catch Sharon doing any perceived harm to a volume. And these are simply two different ways of showing appreciation for the words you're consuming.

-Cate-

PS The images intersperse throughout the text are photos of my own copy of Fahrenheit 451, which I have had for approximately 15 years. With each re-reading, the spine weakens a little more and I fall in love with a new line or paragraph. Someday, it will succumb to the ravages of time and use, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

What Was Lost

Okay, so. Y'all are going to judge me for this post, and that's understandable, but try to stick with me, okay? Because there are some life lessons here, I think.

Sometime in the next year (I decline to say when, exactly), I'm going to reach a milestone birthday: 30. I am in no way prepared for this eventuality, in spite of having had three decades to brace myself for it.

There are many reasons why I'm overwhelmingly trepidatious about turning 30. Most of them have to do with not being where I thought I would be by that age: career, relationship, and so on. But there is one more, decidedly superficial explanation. I will not be getting my spectacular "Happy 30th Birthday!" gift to myself.

Once upon a time, I decided that I would start saving money with the intention of purchasing a (secondhand) Hermés Kelly at 30. It's the pinnacle of luxury--classier than its more popular sister the Birkin and lovingly hand-crafted from the finest materials in the world by master artisans. This was meant to be my way of congratulating myself for making it so far when I had strong suspicions that I wouldn't. Was the price sure to be steep? Yes. Let's not even talk about how outrageous it would be for me to spend all of my money on such an item or how even just five years ago when I hatched this plan, it would have cost MUCH less to accomplish the task.

But I had made other things happen: I wanted to take a trip outside of North America before I hit a quarter-century, and I managed it through an unexpected stroke of good luck as well as some generosity on the part of others; I wanted to have my second chapbook published before I was 30, and I persevered until I signed not one but two publication contracts. So in a way, I failed myself by not getting enough money together for that Kelly.

This hurts me a little. Not just because I'm materialistic and acquisitive--which I definitely am--but also because it's another reminder of the things I've lost along the way. Before you judge me too harshly, I would like to make it clear that I appreciate everything I DO have: a roof over my head (thanks, Mom and Dad), a job (thanks, Nancy and Becky), a modicum of good health (THANKS, OBAMA!), and more. So this is a sort of lament for what could have been in general, rather than a petulant complaint about an item I don't have in my closet.

Obviously I can--and will--live without yet another handbag, and a costly one, at that. But this knowledge doesn't negate the creeping notion that I may, in fact, be some kind of a failure. After more than a year out of my beloved office, I haven't been able to regain a foothold in my previous career track, which hurts enough in and of itself. More than that, though, I'm the girl who had to move back in with her parents (again, thank you, Mom and Dad) and can't even pay her own cell phone bill or feed herself (seriously, thank you). 

So, you see, it isn't really about the bag.

On the plus side, Little Dog is always at my side, my friends stuck around, my current job mostly doesn't suck, and I haven't run out of books to read. Plus, I get to see Niece and Nephew more often. When I start to get gloomy about the state of my life, I have to list these things off so I don't lose sight of this: not everything was lost.

-Cate-

Things I've Considered Studying Instead of Creative Writing

Although it was, ultimately, a foregone conclusion that I would study creative writing when I went to college, I had my doubts. If we're being completely honest, I still do. But here, presented with commentary, is the list of stuff that flitted through my mind in between frantic story-crafting sessions and which continues to keep me up at night.

1) History

Last year, my father was shocked to learn that I am a "closet historian." That's his phrase, not mine; I thought my interest in history was well-documented, but it would appear not. I have a particular interest in Am Rev and the European theater of World War II, which may seem pedestrian, but considering that I'm solidly an American lit and pop culture girl, it's not at all surprising. Besides, how cool would it be to hang around Colonial Williamsburg all day or watch Disney's wartime cartoon propaganda shorts and write about them?

2) Public Relations

Nowadays, I realize that I don't enjoy being around people. Even ordering pizza over the phone makes me so nervous that I refuse to do it. Ergo, studying public relations would have been a terrible career move. Yet the idea of shaping the perceptions of the masses continues to fascinate me. This is probably an offshoot of the storytelling impulse. 

3) Sociology

After taking a soc course in high school, I thought, "This is some interesting stuff." More broad than psychology, less demanding than social work. To this day, I wonder if I should have pursued this path. My mother has assured me that I would have been unhappy, but I think I could have done something along the lines of the sociology of popular culture and been satisfied.

4) Filmmaking

Technically, what I considered studying was screenwriting, but I was interested in the entire process. There are still days when I see something so wonderful in a movie that I almost cry over having skipped film school, but the more I learn about the industry, the more confident I am that I would have been blacklisted from the outset. This is due in large part to my attitude problem. Having a producer or studio executive hovering over me would set me off something fierce, I'm sure, and--as the saying goes--I would never work in that town again.

5) Art

I can't draw for shit, in spite of the fact that my parents paid for years of art lessons. I'm not entirely convinced my lack of talent would have mattered--hell, I can't write, yet I managed to graduate twice--but still, having a degree in art is even less useful than having a degree in creative writing. (Apologies to my art major friends, but they know it's true.)

Who knows? Maybe I'll still go down one of these avenues, albeit in a non-academic sense (the idea of going back to school literally gives me anxiety attacks). After all, the saying that you learn something new every day is both true and vital to good intellectual health. 

-Cate-

Making Mistakes?

By this point, I've had quite a bit of time to think about my life and what I've done with it--the kind of soul-searching that comes with losing your job, apartment, and insurance all at once, or maybe just the kind that comes with living in your childhood bedroom against your will. (But thanks, Mom and Dad, for not turning it into a gym or some such nonsense. I appreciate having a place to crash.)

There's good news and there's bad news. First, the bad. Because I have an anxiety disorder, it's very easy for me to fall into a spiral of shame and despair: what if the things I've done in the past have completely negated my chances for future success why am I such a horrible human who is ever going to accept me now, et cetera and so on.

BUT! There are hours, and sometimes entire days, when I think, "Fuck it. I know what I did, I know why I did it, and I stand by (almost) all of it."

I'm not trying to get all self-righteous here and claim that I'm infallible. Clearly that's a crap notion. Should I have slacked off the way I did sometimes? Absolutely not. Should I have yelled at that table full of undergrads about their racial insensitivity? No; I should have taken a more rational approach.

On the other hand, should I have committed myself to publishing an anthology with my own money when my bosses refused to discuss the project with me? Shit yeah. Four very deserving young women saw their work in print as a result, and I couldn't be happier. And should I have written that letter telling administrators that what they were doing was detrimental to the well-being of our institution? You bet your ass. 

This is the ultimate thing I've concluded: it's okay. I won't say that I'm happy about the way things turned out, because being underemployed sucks. But I can't spend my time thinking that I made mistakes any bigger than anyone else in their 20s. I certainly didn't do anything I regret so much that I want to die or alter my memory Eternal Sunshine-style.

Besides, sometimes boxes of Pop-Tarts magically appear in the kitchen now, and that NEVER happened when I lived alone.

-Cate-

All Booked Up

Living with my parents again is, occasionally, a hilarious thing. For example, several months ago, Mom wanted to rearrange their bedroom furniture so she could have easier access to the large window in the room. In the course of this turnaround, she got a little frustrated by stuff (you know--the objects you accumulate over the years). I happened to be present when she delivered a stern warning to Dad: "From this point on, you are only allowed to have one book in the bedroom at a time."

Well, this is more or less the most shocking thing you can say to a person in this house.

Given my current circumstances, two bookcases are in my bedroom, with the majority of my books packed away in cardboard boxes in the basement, which pains me greatly. In an ideal world, I would have a separate room to use as a library; alas. And because I have no night stand, books are just piled up next to the bed. As I write, there are no fewer than four volumes and two magazines that have been partly read.

Surrounding myself with books is one of the things that makes me feel better. Just being near them--their spines declaring titles proudly, their covers all colors imaginable--brings a sense of order to my life. I figure that as long as I don't veer into hoarder territory and make a book maze through which I must struggle in order to sleep, I'm in decent shape.

When I asked Mom about the one book edict before I wrote this post, she sighed and said that neither she nor Dad could stick to it. Apparently I'm not the only one in this house who enjoys the proximity.

-Cate-

The Impossible Imposter

My parents and I are going to Las Vegas in March. This will be my first visit to Sin City (and Nevada in general). When Mom asked me what I wanted to do while we were there, I came up with one of my typical batshit ideas: I decided I wanted to visit the campus of UNLV and find out more about their MFA and Ph.D. programs in creative writing.

"Wait," you're saying to yourself, "doesn't she already have an MFA?"

Yes. She does.

Once every three or four months or so, I decide that I should go back for a second MFA. This is not because I enjoy being in school. In fact, there are few things I hate more than being in school. And it's certainly not because I feel like getting tossed around in workshops again. (Not to brag, but I only cried once during a workshop in all my years of education-getting. Those of you who know me know that I cry over everything, so this is a pretty big deal.) No, it's because I feel like what I have done is not enough. It's never enough.

As I said to my parents, "I don't think I went to the wrong school. [Lesley is the best, for real.] I just think maybe I should have studied poetry instead." Earlier this year, I mentioned that I've won a competition to have a chapbook published, and on my way to that point, I was also a semi-finalist for one prize and a finalist for another. But I'm terrified that someone is going to take these things away from me because they'll figure out what a horrible writer I am or--worse yet--everyone who ever reads it will think that I'm useless and don't deserve to be published.

This stems from something called imposter syndrome. And I have a severe case. Women, in particular, are susceptible to it. This is speculation on my part, but I assume artistic types have the most trouble with imposter syndrome, because our work is already undervalued and (some of us) feel like jerks whenever we manage to pull ahead of the pack. I mean, just read this list of actors/actresses/assorted others (including Don Cheadle, Meryl Streep, and Maya Angelou, of all people) who seem to suffer from imposter syndrome!

I'm working hard to internalize the notion that there is a difference between being realistic and giving in to imposter syndrome. For example, I want to stay grounded and remind myself that--at least at this point in my life--I'm not the kind of writer whose work is going to show up in The Paris Review or Poetry or even Passages North (thanks for rejecting me twice so far, and an extra shout-out to Northern for dismissing my grad school application back in '09). And there's a good chance I wouldn't be happy in a poetry program, anyway, partly because I'm not happy in school. Yet I also have to remember that Laura LeHew, Carlos Reyes, and Ted Enslin (!) have said some nice things about my poetry. 

Striking that balance is difficult, as are so many other things in life. Any time it gets too difficult, I have to remind myself that, to this day, Richard Blanco telling me he didn't like my outfit is still the worst thing a poet has ever said to me (to my face, anyway). But that's another story for another time. Meanwhile, I'll be over here trying to talk myself out of a second MFA. Who has that kind of time, anyway? I should be out in the world writing, instead.

-Cate-

Let's Go to the Movies, Part 3: "Amok, Amok, Amok"

Unfortunately, I’m unable to attend my beloved Popular Culture Association in the South conference this year; being laid off has had the paradoxical effect of giving me plenty of time to think up paper/presentation topics but no income to share that work, but such is life. Since there have been a few ideas bouncing around in my head--midnight breakthroughs, all--I’m going to share them with you. I’ve written with the assumption that my audience is familiar with the films I’ll be discussing, so consider this a pre-emptive spoiler alert. Read on!

For Part 1, click here. For Part 2, click here.

*** 

Halloween is two days away, so I thought I would take the opportunity to talk about my all-time favorite Halloween movie: Hocus Pocus.

As my father put it to me a couple of weeks back, "Bette Middler had a good career. But then she made Hocus Pocus and had a LEGACY." This is perhaps the most accurate thing my father has ever said. Because everyone who was raised on this film now has a shared cultural touchstone on October 31st, no matter how costume, candy, or decorating trends have changed throughout the years. (If you've never seen it, you've clearly been living at the bottom of the ocean since 1993, and I feel bad for you.) It's the Halloween equivalent of A Charlie Brown Christmas. And I, for one, could not be more grateful.

Hocus Pocus was probably the movie that sparked my love of Halloween. Well, that, and the fact that people hand out bags of Better Made chips when you go trick-or-treating in southeastern Michigan. It's extraordinarily perfect: extravagant costumes, jokes that speak to children as well as adults, Sarah Jessica Parker's spot-on ditzy display, and a show-stopping musical number in the middle of the action. You know the one I'm talking about:

Sure, it's a far cry from Screamin' Jay Hawkins' "I Put a Spell on You," but hey--this is a family film. (One in which Disney decided it would be okay to show Garry Marshall and his sister Penny as spouses, but that's a minor detail.)

And let's talk about Thora Birch for a minute. She was ten or eleven when Hocus Pocus was made--years before she made a splash in American Beauty. Not only does she make the perfect little sister opposite Omri Katz, but she's able to hold her own against Middler, Parker, and Kathy Najimy. Besides, her name is Thora, and that makes her awesome.

Oh, and here's a thing that will blow your mind: Kenny Ortega, the director of Hocus Pocus, is also a well-known choreographer who has spent a good deal of time working with other music legends like Madonna and Cher. Who knew someone could be responsible for such large chunks of our shared popular culture experience (he also directed Newsies and the three High School Musical movies)?

If you ever get homesick for childhood outside of the Halloween season, by the way, just go watch some NCIS; Sean Murray, who played the cat on whom so many girls had a weird, inappropriate crush, is now McGee on the long-running CBS drama (even though someone dubbed his speech in Hocus Pocus, I still give credit to Murray).

-Cate-

Thora Birch image via here.