A Chocoholic’s Guide to a Yummy Library In-Service

Our library closed one day last week for a Staff In-Service, where we learned to better serve you, our patrons, and also had a chocolate-tasting,* because happy librarians are far more willing to share that happy—if not the actual chocolate.

My brilliant friend Cha Cha, who does All The Fun Things, was in charge and offered eight anonymous samples for us to smell and taste and decipher, before revealing the type and telling us a little about the companies.

Informative and yummy—what’s not to like?

We started out with a Peach & Pecan in Milk Chocolate from Chocolove, which was okay.  Apparently, the founder and owner, Timothy Moley, is something of a Willy Wonka, and has consumed two chocolate bars a day for the last eighteen years.  After hearing that, the love poem printed on inside each wrapper is put into almost disturbing perspective—not that I don’t appreciate the sweet (ahem) touch!**

The second one was Green & Black’s Maya Gold, which I’ve gobbled like an addicted lunatic tried before—dark chocolate with orange and ‘spices,’ which aren’t listed but must include cloves.  So, so good, as is every Green & Black’s bar I’ve ever had, even the white, which Cha Cha insists isn’t actually chocolate.  I don’t see how that matters, but okay.

The third was a Ghirardelli Intense Dark Cabernet Matinee, which was fruity and smooth and lovely, but again, I liked the story better.  Apparently, Mr. Ghirardelli made his chocolate fortune in California, selling his products to the gold rushers, but not because these newly rich men were desperate for chocolate, oh, no.  They were desperate for women, but Mr. Ghirardelli’s theory, which he shared with his customers, was that women love chocolate . . . and I probably don’t have to spell out the rest.***

The fourth was my favorite, a dark chocolate with sea salt in it—thank heavens salt is okay to eat now, because it’s amazing with chocolate and caramel.  I’ve been a member of the Godiva Chocolate of the Month Club for years, so I wasn’t surprised when I learned this one was theirs.  Neither was a shocked when my kids inhaled the leftover pieces I brought home, because genetics. To be honest, I was a little weirded out that up until five years ago, Godiva was owned by Campbell Soup . . . it was kind of like learning that the Solo plastic cup company has owned Tiffany’s for the past forty years.^

The fifth hurt—seriously, I tasted it and my tongue lit up like I’d set it on fire.  Theo Chocolate’s Congo Pili Pili Chili bar is infused with a pepper that registers just under a habanero on the heat scale; a habenero is 10, a jalapeno is a five, and a pili pili is an eight.  I brought some home for my SIL, Watson, who snarfed it up like I’d brought her the Godiva, so I’m planning on buying a bar for my mother, who has the same Teflon tastebuds—proving that sometimes genetics ain’t all that.

I can’t tell you about the sixth because my own tastebuds were still ticked off at me, but it was a sugarless one from Guylian and apparently not bad.  Good to know there’s a decent choice out there now for people who watch their sugar intake—I remember my grandpa, who was diabetic, making a No Chocolate for Me face that could damn near break your heart.

The seventh was a Lindt Passion Fruit bar, which was awesome, as Lindt usually is—my German teacher in high school used to reward us with Lindt chocolate.  I did very well in that class.

Which brings us to the final sample.  You know how I always say that if coffee tasted like it smelled, I wouldn’t treat it like medicine for a chronic caffeine deficiency?  Ritter Sports espresso has me covered.  Or maybe I had it covered.  Regardless, I grabbed most of the leftovers and hightailed it before my co-workers noticed.  What’s better for a librarian than coffee chocolate?  It’s a match made in the kind of heaven you don’t tell your kids about.

So, if you ever have a chance to go to a chocolate tasting, go.  It’s a great time.

And afterwards, if you have a choice of meditation or self-defense, go for the second.  Naptime Meditation might sound good, but remember, after the in-service, you’ll have to walk all those chocolate leftovers through the parking lot to your car . . . And your co-workers know it.

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*We had a choice between the yoga and the chocolate, but since I’m shacking up with a yoga instructor, I opted for the latter.  Not, as my husband pointed out, I would have chosen differently under any circumstances, but he was happy to provide the excuse, bless him.

** I’m thinking of doing a chocolate poem post one of these Wednesdays—reporting on which poems are paired with which flavored bar.  It would mean tasting a lot of chocolate, but I’d manage somehow . . . for you.

***Apparently, the spelling and pronunciation of his name was a sore spot for Mr. Ghirardelli, who spent a lot of his advertising space reminding people about the second ‘ar’ sound.  Oddly, my spell check doesn’t have a problem with it—then again, it’s my spell check . . .

^ I’m almost positive it hasn’t.  If you know better, please leave the remains of my naivety alone.

 

Rant of the Wild Librarian: Just Plain Filthy

This is the Thirtieth Anniversary of Banned Books Week and I’m not sure whether to be pleased that people have been officially fighting censorship for at least this long or completely frustrated that we still have to remind people that, as the Supreme Court told the School Board of Island Trees, New York, in 1982, it isn’t particularly legal to keep the public from accessing books like Slaughterhouse Five “simply because they dislike the ideas contained in those books.”

Not even if they’re “‘anti-American, anti-Christian, anti-Semitic and just plain filthy.”

The American Library Association, as you might suspect, is all over Banned Books Week, and has provided a terrific timeline of Banned Books, highlighting one challenged title for each of the thirty years.

Even after all these years in a public library setting, I wasn’t expecting The Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak, though the reasons are about as facepalm-inducing as one might imagine.

But it’s difficult to predict every little thing that might enrage other people’s sensibilities—though there are certain subjects that are practically guaranteed to do so.

About twenty years ago, when I was working for the summer at my hometown public library, a patron came up to the desk with a biography, meant for adult readers, of a movie actor who shall remain nameless because I honestly can’t remember who it was.  The patron said he wanted me to “be aware” of something in the book and opened it, not to a torn page or the impression of a bacon bookmark or even commentary rendered in magic marker,* but to three very specific publisher ads in the back.

Two of these ads were for annotated filmographies of gay cinema and one was for a book about a male character struggling with his sexual orientation in Hollywood.   The wording and images in these ads were not, as I recall, explicit.

He also told me that he was sure the person who had ordered the book for the library had no idea that sort of thing was in this otherwise fine biography of a fine actor, but he wanted me to be aware that it was “just in case someone else saw them.”

I gave him a complaint form, which was standard procedure, and took the book away, even though he said he would put it back.  This was also standard procedure— we had been told how creative people could get when it came to sparing other people from items they didn’t like.**  Or didn’t want other people to like.

What I did not say to him—because I didn’t know how to express it and had no authority to do so—was that no one was forcing him or anyone else to buy the books in those ads or to approve of them.  The library could not control what publishers advertised in their own publications and was not going to remove pages from a book out of fear that someone might know that certain books exist or are available for purchase.

It is not the place of a public library to support or disapprove of any particular concept.***  It is the place of a library to make a variety of fiction and non-fiction materials available to the public, who are then free to choose what they wish to read, view, and believe.

One’s responsibility to protect others from ideas and concepts ends at the boundaries of one’s own immediate family.

But I didn’t have to say any of this, because the library board said it all when the patron attended the next open meeting and asked what the library was planning to do about the “filthy things” in the book.

“So you want people to know that the library supports this kind of perverted lifestyle?” asked the patron.

“We want the public to know that we do not support censorship,” said the Board president.

It’s as simple as that.

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*Librarians have all seen worse, believe me.  If you’re reading to take your mind off a heavy cold, please use a tissue and turn your head when you sneeze, okay?  Snot is intended to be nature’s superglue.

**And from typos, too.  If you ever feel compelled to physically correct the grammar and punctuation in a library book, please don’t.  I do sympathize, but it’s still considered vandalism—and to be honest, you aren’t always right.

*** Except possibly for the arguments against tax levies for public libraries, because c’mon people, seriously?

 

 

Short Reading Lessons in Writing: An Introduction to Stephen King

A morning short story reading group meets at one of our library branches on the second Monday of each month.  The library provides the short stories, snacks, and a staff member to make coffee and keep things moving along. 

That staff member is me.

And this is what I learned today about how readers see writers.

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When I told the group that we would be reading a Stephen King story, I saw more than a few noses wrinkle.  One of our regulars said, “I hope it isn’t too gory, because I don’t like those at all,” and there were many nods around the room.

I promised it wouldn’t be—and it was easier than a non-King fan might think to find stories without a drop of blood or the hint of a monster, human or otherwise.

In fact, that was the point of choosing a Stephen King story in the first place—I wanted to show the group, most of whom had only seen movies based on his books, that there was more to him than his (well-earned) reputation as a Blood-Soaked Monster Wrangler might imply.

Part of this is because it’s my job to broaden their horizons a little, but also because it’s my personal opinion that Mr. King wouldn’t have the longevity he’s had as an international best-selling author if the man couldn’t actually write. 

I’d originally chosen “Stationary Bike,”* because it’s about a subconscious fantasy gone just a little too far and how moderation in all things is a good idea, even in this age of All or Nothing perfection.

But while I was wrestling with the admin photocopier, a passing supervisor—and fellow Stephen King fan—mentioned that there was a lot of strong language in the story.  I reviewed, and there is.

While I’m not a proponent of censorship and in my opinion, Mr. King’s language choices are never gratuitous, several of the members of my group have mentioned that four-letter words tend to kick them out of a story.

That was the last thing I wanted to happen, especially since Mr. King’s reputation wasn’t winning him any points with most of this crowd anyway.

So I switched to my close-second choice, “Ayana,”**  a story about death, miracles, and motivations:

Charlie, the narrator, is waiting with his family at the deathbed of his father.  A woman walks into the hospital room with a blind child and, despite the protests of the dying man’s family, guides her to the patient.  The girl, Ayana, kisses Charlie’s father, and, upon leaving, touches Charlie on the hand.  Charlie’s father immediately goes into complete remission—and though his relatives refuse to call it a miracle, Charlie does.

Especially when, months, later, a stranger appears to take him to visit a dying child in a hospital.  He is called on several more times over the next decade or so, and though he doesn’t know for certain what happens to the people he kisses and has no idea how or why he or they were chosen, he answers the call until his time of miracles ends as quietly as it began, leaving nothing but his belief that they did actually happen.

“Ayana” is so completely open to interpretation that it’s difficult to describe without using one’s own values.   There are many loose ends here—the reader doesn’t know any more than Charlie does about what might be happening.  We all believed that Charlie was telling the truth and we all believed that he was the kind of responsible man whom we would want distributing miracles .  . but who was in charge of all this?  Who chose the guides?  The miracle-carriers?  The recipients?  And why?

There were fourteen of us and we all had our own takes, filtered by our own experiences and belief systems.

It was a riotous meeting, let me tell you—we ran over by ten minutes and the industrial-sized percolator was dry.

Everyone loved this story with the single exception of a reader who fully admitted that she didn’t like mysteries without solutions—and even she thought that it had been very well-written.

And everyone barring myself and one other reader was surprised that Stephen King wrote stories like this.  Descriptions that made them see, details that made them believe, and characters that made them feel.  That’s a direct quote, by the way.

During our discussion, I saw their concept of Stephen King morph from Gorefest Broker to Excellent Writer.

I asked if anyone was interested in reading more King, and everyone thought they might give him a try, though they asked me to find other stories this “complex,” by which they meant “no paranormal monsters or demons” and, if possible,  “no blatant nightmare fodder.”

I said I’d do my best, and mentioned that I’d brought along those copies of “Stationary Bike” just in case.

Every single reader took one.  They thought that, having seen what Stephen King could do, strong language wouldn’t be a problem.   And after the meeting, two of them asked me to take them to the horror section so they could look through his novels.

We got ‘em, Mr. King—we got ‘em.

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*From Just After Sunset, which I highly recommend.  It’s a nice mix of what Mr. King does best.

**Also from Just After Sunset.

Random Thursday: Musical Interludes, Libraries, and Various Smells

It all sort of jelled in a weird and wonderful way . . .

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Manly Muppets

You can’t possibly have a music-themed Thursday post without Muppets.  Or I can’t, and I’m taking you all with me.

You’re welcome.*

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Always Have Your Nose in a Book?  Try it the Other Way ‘Round!

Via the lovely Erika Marks,  I learned that Geza Schoen has a new scent called Paper Passion, which supposedly smells like new books.

But CB I Hate Perfume has a scent I think I’d find even more attractive:

In The Library is described as a warm blend of English Novel—an original note created to replicate the scent of a first edition 1927 novel—Russian & Moroccan Leather Bindings, Worn Cloth and a hint of Wood Polish.

Clearly, this blend is not In a Public Library—which would be the scent-note equivalent of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans—but I’m not complaining.

And it’s far better than dabbing wood polish behind one’s ears—or an English novel.

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Hold the Penne

I’m not sure how many of you saw this on Murderati’s  Tuesday post but it’s funny enough to watch again.   Lisa Donahey has pipes and a truly baconesque sense of humor.

For those of you who wonder if I’ve embedded a PETA PSA by mistake, stack around until about 1:28—though my favorite line is around 2:22. Your patience will be rewarded:

See?

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Quote from this morning’s departmental meeting:

“I keep getting asked about Urban Fiction—isn’t that just in fiction?”

“Unless it’s paranormal—that’s in science fiction.  Or sometimes horror, right?”

“Or mystery or romance—you don’t want to know the number of e-mails we have over who gets to buy what and where it goes.  If anyone starts up a Werewolf Detectives  in Love craze, we’re going to have to get a new bookcase and a separate budget line.”

“Sorry—we don’t have enough room to put everything in its own little section.”

“We’d could get circular Venn diagram shelving . . . The vampire romance mystery erotica?   It’s right over here—in YA.”

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Sheer Vocal Awesome

I was trying to find a specific UC On The Rocks video . . . but I clicked the wrong link and my search took a weird turn.

But that’s when the magic happens:

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Space Stinks

Another nerd alert, sorry, but this stuff is so cool.

According to anyone who’s taken a space walk—and to the co-workers who let them back in through the airlock—space has a smell.

It’s odd to think that vacuum has an actual odor, but space isn’t the Big Empty that people assume.  Lack of air and pressure doesn’t mean lack of everything else, and all that everything else is moving at a relatively (physics humor alert!) fast clip, causing high energy vibrations that leave behind traces detectable by human noses—the summer smell of subatomic gym socks, as it were.

Steve Pearce, a chemist who gives good  interview, is trying to recreate this odor for NASA, who I’m assuming have a purpose other than making perfume and cologne, even though that would totally solve their budgetary problems.**

Each astronaut seems to associate the odor with different earthly equivalents: seared steak, hot metal, ozone, gunpowder, burnt match, and welding fumes.   This isn’t surprising, really—space is, after all, the furnace in which universes are forged (ugh, sorry).

But for those of you who don’t find those notes particularly attractive,*** there’s a space cloud out there that might be chemically reminiscent of raspberries and rum.

Add Nebula #3 to English Novel, and you’ve got yourself a customer.

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*Don’t you just want to give Jim Parsons a huge hug, even though you know it would make him terribly uncomfortable, which is exactly the opposite reason why you want to hug him in the first place?

**They better hurry—I expect the team over at ThinkGeek is already on it.

***Is it TMI or just weird to admit that I do?

(gorgeous SpaceScape art courtesy of the talented Janie Wesson and a bribe of a round of Polar Golf, at which she trounced me again.)

Short Reading Lessons in Writing: Zane Grey’s Rube

A morning short story reading group meets at one of our library branches on the second Monday of each month. The library provides the short stories, snacks, and a staff member to make coffee and keep things moving along.

That staff member is me.

I’m learning a lot about how readers read—and that chocolate chip cookies are the true favorite American pastime.
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The first story I ever moderated for this group was a Louis L’Amour western tale, and it went over like a lead balloon that hadn’t been rigged by Adam Savage or Jamie Hyneman.

It’s not easy for a first-timer to lead a discussion about a story no one much liked* in a genre no one cared to read. So when I was compiling stories for this year, I almost passed over Zane Grey—until I discovered that aside from myriad western novels and scripts, he also wrote baseball stories.

I took a chance.

This month’s story, “The Rube,” is narrated by the manager of a 1920s baseball team which has fallen to pieces. The manager goes scouting around in the barn leagues for a miracle and finds a lulu of a pitcher—he’s so good, he starts him in the next game.   Unfortunately, the fans’ heckling makes the new fellow so nervous he can barely hit the ground, much less the catcher’s mitt.

The manager is tempted to pull him, but he remembers something he was told about the pitcher’s temper, so he enlists the team to get him good and mad with various insults, including calling him a Rube and a useless coward. The pitcher tells each of them that he’ll defend himself after he finishes the game—and proceeds to strike out every player he faces. The relieved manager goes into the dugout where, instead of a celebration, he finds that the Rube has kept his promise and decked every one of his teammates.

Turns out, the majority of the readers don’t care for baseball stories, either.

Those that did like this story thought it read like the old games they used to listen to on the radio, with every play described. But they admitted it was the baseball that held them, not the characters.

Those who weren’t baseball fans had a difficult time wading through the heavy vernacular—there was a discussion over whether or not the Rube was supposed to steal second and if he actually did, which ended with a chorus of, “Well, why didn’t he just say that?” Without the baseball draw, those readers simply weren’t invested enough in the characters to care about the outcome—which, it was pointed out, was not in question, except for the punching, which no one found particularly funny.

They decided that either the story was too short for character development or too long for such a dense lump of baseball game—even our baseball fans agreed that it went on for two innings too long—though a few thought it was unrealistic to have the turn-around of Rube during his first game—one short paragraph about a bad game or two might have been better, “Even if it would make the story longer.”

All this might have reflected the style at the time it was written—we weren’t sure about that—but it didn’t work for us.

No one denied that Zane Grey was a good writer—most of us had read or watched his westerns—but they had expected better of this story.  “His writing is different in this story,” said a reader who claimed to have read all his westerns.  “Not bad, but . . .  is he trying too hard to be different?”

And no one denied that Zane Grey knew the game—he’d won a baseball scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania and went on to play for a while with a minor-league team in West Virginia, while his brother played for the Pittsburgh Pirates—and it was obvious that he loved it, too, but it was the general consensus that he didn’t write baseball very well.

“Maybe he wrote it for his brother, and it was published because he was famous,” someone said.

I winced and mentioned that he’d written two books of Rube baseball stories, and that the characters and Mr. Grey’s skills at writing baseball  might have developed through the series. But no one seemed interesting in finding out.

“He wrote such good westerns,” someone said. “He should have stuck to those.”

“He did,” said her friend.

“Good.”

The morals of this month’s discussion, then, seem to be that Writing What You Know and Love may not always work and brilliance may not cross genre lines.

What do you think?

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*I hadn’t learned yet that this can make for a much better discussion.