It Makes Me Cry

Coal generates more than half of all the electricity in the US. And, as the coal industry’s dirtiest secrets are exposed, coal also generates increased public opposition and a growing number of activists every day.

Many of coal’s biggest opponents are residents of southern West Virginia, where coal companies engage in the particularly nasty form of mining known as “mountaintop removal.” The practice’s name is hardly representative of the activity. It’s much less “removal” than it is total destruction; and it’s not just the “mountaintop” that is obliterated, it’s the entire mountain.

Traditional coal-mining methods meant going underground to extract the mineral — an expensive and tedious process. During the past decade, however, coal companies have found it to be much less costly to simply dynamite the mountain away and get at the coal from above ground. Every day in West Virginia, three million pounds of dynamite are used to clear away mountains that have stood for centuries. The devastation extends beyond simply destroying a mountain that can never be replaced. The rocks that once hid the coal are dumped into valleys, covering streams and forests. And the blackwater that is the by-product of washing the coal “clean” is left behind dams: Billions of gallons of coal slurry wait behind flimsy walls. Eventually, the sludge either bursts through and floods away communities, as happened in 1972 in Buffalo Creek, killing 124 people, or leaches a poisonous soup of lead and arsenic into wells and drinking supplies, taking people’s lives slowly.

The recently released film Burning the Future: Coal in America does a wonderful job of illustrating the effects of the coal industry on the lives of ordinary people in West Virginia. Among the people featured in the documentary are Maria Gunnoe, Donetta Blankenship, and Larry Gibson — uncomplicated people whose families have lived in West Virginia for generations. All have taken on roles they never saw themselves fulfilling as the community works to save their way of life and the culture that is being threatened. Suddenly their lives have become very complicated because of the greed of coal companies and the lack of vision of this country’s political leadership, which has yet to decrease our reliance on a dirty source of cheap energy and create a cleaner path.

As the activists take on their new roles of community organizers, they face not only opposition from the coal companies, but also from some members of their own communities. Strangely enough, seeing copper-colored water, contaminated by coal slurry, pour out of their taps isn’t enough to convince some people that there is a problem. Some would rather accept the coal industry’s PR spin that environmentalists and activists are determined to do little more than take away people’s livelihoods. In impoverished communities in West Virginia, this divisive argument effectively turns neighbor upon neighbor, preventing them from having a greater voice, and allowing the companies to continue their filthy business. Ironically, as coal-mining operations rely more heavily on technology, the number of miners in the US has decreased. According to statistics published by the National Mining Association, there were 704,793 miners in the US in 1923; in 1973, just 50 years later, that figure was 148,121. In 2007, it was down to 81,278. As technology increases coal production, the number of miners required to do the job doesn’t keep pace.

Burning the Future cleverly and humorously uses the juxtaposition of words and images to get its message across. For example, scenes of bulldozers dumping tons of rock into valleys once abundant with life roll as Roger Lilly, a spokesman from Walker Machinery, talks about the coal industry’s “small and gentle footprint on the scenic beauty of West Virginia.” Lilly makes it sound like the coal companies’ use of his firm’s machinery during mountaintop removal actually improves the landscape: “As they run the ‘dozers to put the land back, it’s almost an artistic activity, to watch as they sculpt the mountains in really a great manner.”

With the coal-friendly Bush administration gone, now is the time for a much-needed debate about this country’s clean energy needs. If public outrage about the horrific environmental destruction now taking place in coal country doesn’t fuel the discussion, the future for West Virginia, and indeed for all the US, will be as black as the coal the country currently runs on.

It Makes Me Laugh

I love to laugh. While you might think everyone does, I’ve actually met people who have told me they don’t like to laugh, because they don’t like that feeling of losing control. To me, that’s the best part. The feeling that you might never breathe again, or might even yark. Eddie Izzard took me to that dangerous brink when I saw him in San Francisco two years ago. Rent his video Dress to Kill if you’re in need of a good larf.

I try not to analyze what tickles my funny bone, but sometimes I can’t help it. I went to see some improvisers the other night, and I barely cracked a smile at their efforts, never mind double over with tears streaming down my face, which is really what I wanted for my $8. Cheap laughs are so hard to find.

What makes me laugh is hardest is people’s reaction to the unexpected and seeing ordinary people do extraordinary things that I probably wouldn’t think of doing in my daily life. And the improviser’s job is to show me those things, to take those risks that just don’t present themselves. These improvisers were just trying too hard, relying more on their perceived wit than they were on humor that came out of interesting situations. They sat on chairs and talked endless talk, words they thought were funny, instead of getting on their feet and playing with energy, giving their fellow comedians an opportunity to react to action. Take us away from the everyday, and give us a clear vision of life outside our own. Show us activity, give us details, and you’ll make us laugh.

With this in mind, I’d like to share two videos that both gave me aching ribs this week. The first is of a wedding reception (watch it now before reading any further if you don’t want me to spoil the ending) in which one little activity starts a chain reaction, one that actually started before the ceremony even began, when the bride and groom chose to say their vows high atop a swimming pool. (I told you to watch it before reading ahead.) I love slapstick, admittedly, but the humor also lies in the details: the bridesmaid who giggles while she asks “Are you okay?” and the look on the minister’s face as he holds a soggy Bible.

The second is of an unemployed man who has decided to fill his day with an extraordinary activity. His reactions to what happens totally destroy me. Listen to him say “Ohhh, I hate this!” and tell me that’s not classic comedy. And it’s the details, such him mentioning that the balloon comes from South America that makes this bit so brilliant. Insanely funny stuff!

Enjoy! And if you don't laugh at either of these, you're thinking too hard.

Killing Them With Kindness

One of the toughest things I face while living outside of my home and native land is explaining to curious Americans what exactly goes on "up there." Why don't you play your Super Bowl in February too? What state is Ontario in? Is there both a zed and a zee in the Canadian alphabet? I answer all questions cheerfully (okay, most questions...having to explain what a "zed" is has made me lose my cool on more than one occasion), hoping to educate North Americans south of the border about everything Canadian. I haven't invented these questions, by the way. They are all verbatim from the mouths of Americans, and they should be horribly embarrassed by their ignorance.

But there's one thing that makes no sense and can't be explained no matter how hard I try, and one of which makes me horribly embarrassed to be a Canadian. As early as March, Canada will once again begin its unsightly practice of hunting seals, the world’s largest marine mammal hunt. More than 6,000 sealers, hakapiks in hand, will take to the ice to kill roughly 270,000 to 335,000 seals. Nobody understands this practice, and it's completely indefensible. This year, however, there's hope! Canada has made a few small changes to the rules of the hunt now that the country’s $13 million industry faces the possibility of a ban of seal furs from the European market.

The changes are based on an announcement made by the European Union’s Commissioner for the Environment Stavros Dimas last July: “Seal products coming from countries which practice cruel hunting methods must not be allowed to enter the EU. The EU is committed to upholding high standards of animal welfare.” This policy brought with it news that surely stunned Canadians like a smack on the head with a frozen club: “Seals are sentient mammals which can experience pain.”

So, in an effort to comply with Europe’s newly heightened awareness, the Canadian government has proposed new “humane” standards. Firstly, according to an official government publication, “No person shall use a club or a hakapik to strike a seal older than one year unless the seal has been shot with a firearm.” What? Shoot first, club later? Why would you need to club an animal that has already been shot? But for those frugal sealers who don’t want to waste a bullet, however, they can still conduct their business within acceptable standards by simply clubbing a baby seal, which usually happens anyhow. Win-win! Problem solved!

In previous hunts, sealers were required to ensure the animal was truly dead had before taking off its pelt by watching to see if it still was blinking, a test that was unreliable and more than occasionally resulted in seals being skinned alive. But faster than you can bat an eye, the Canadian government has instituted a humane solution to this problem, too! Now sealers must ensure that the seal’s skull is broken and that the animal has been bleeding for 60 seconds before they start to remove its skin. New! Improved!

Of course, all these displays of humanity will slow down the rampage. It will now take sealers much longer to bash their way through a club of baby seals, and consequently there might not be quite so many seal skins on the market this year. Not prepared to skip a beat, the Canadian government is now promoting the sale of harp seal heart valves in addition to the pelts. The Department of Fisheries and Oceans recently announced on its Web site that “promising research” has shown that the seal parts “are superior to those currently used in human heart valve transplants. It is thought that demand could be as high as 300,000 valves per year, at a cost of roughly C$5,000 (€3,400) each.” It is yet to be determined whether humane standards would be enforced for the collection of the seal’s heart valves, but it seems safe to presume that the valves would be not be required for use on a Canadian politicians, clearly a heartless bunch.

One Sweet Day

This morning, I watched on television as Barack Obama stumbled his way through the presidential oath. But better a stumbling oath coming in than the bumbling oaf going out, I thought, as I marveled at the grand spectacle that only Americans can make out of themselves and such an occasion. Mind you, Americans can make a spectacle out of pretty much anything – I’ve seen football games with marching bands and cheerleaders and so much pomp and circumstance that you’d think the entire world was watching. And as I watched Obama take the reins, I realized I’ve never watched the swearing-in of any Canadian prime minister. Nor can I imagine two million Canadians turning out to line the streets of Ottawa to witness such an event. Besides, what would there be to watch? The only tradition attached to the transition of power from one Canadian leader to the next is that the outgoing prime minister has to ensure he leaves behind a box of fresh Tim Horton’s doughnuts. (Fresh, mind you!) But if that was the American tradition, each of the 12 doughnuts would be flown in on separate helicopters, each doughnut with its own gold tasseled pillow, and a booming baritone would announce the arrival of each tasty circle of dough: “Ladies and gentleman, Maple-Dipped Cruller!” And the crowd would cheer, albeit politely, because the maple-dipped cruller isn't their favorite of the dozen.

I say “he leaves a box,” even though Canada did have a female prime minister. Once. But Canada’s only female prime minister, Avril Phaedra Douglas "Kim" Campbell, never lived at 24 Sussex Drive, the official prime minister’s residence, so she wasn’t responsible for stocking the pantry of the incoming prime minister, so my statement still holds. And although Campbell’s term as prime minister lasted all of 132 days – barely enough time for a doughnut to become stale – she was still the country’s leader. Okay, okay, so she wasn't elected by the people. She became prime minister only because Brian Mulroney retired. But still – she was the prime minister.

And now that the world has seen the first African-American president of the United States – an event truly worth celebrating – I live in hope that soon the American people will elect a woman to be their president. I make no secret about my wish that it could have been Hillary with her hand on the Bible today instead of Barack, but I do wish him well. I hope he can fulfill the promise that most Americans have seen in him, and that the dreams he inspires in the people who have supported him will all come true. As a minority of citizens in the United States takes pride in having one of their own stand strong as the leader of all Americans, I hope that one day, the majority of Americans – women, women of all races, the women who outnumber men in the US by 153.6 million to 149.4 million – will take the same degree of pride in seeing a woman take the oath. And on that sweet day, I will go to Washington, I will join the millions of Americans I hope will be there to cheer her on, and I will raise a honey glazed high in her honor.

As Dog is My Witness

You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but can a new dog teach its human an old trick? I think mine did just last week.

Since Katy, our gorgeous little pit bull mix, came to live with us last June, she has spent her nights in a spacious crate. She gets the security of being tucked away in her personal space at bedtime, and we get the security of knowing she’s not wandering around the house at night doing gawd-knows-what to the carpet.

But last week, Katy made a decision to not sleep in her crate any more. She’s almost 18 months old now, and apparently has determined she can be trusted to sleep on a doggy pillow on the floor. There was no warning for her decision; she didn’t discuss it with any family member. But four nights ago, when the crate door was opened for her to get to bed, she simply refused to go in, exhibiting the stubbornness for which pit bulls are known. Now, before you jump on the pit bull hysteria wagon, please don’t get me wrong. She didn’t go all Cujo on us…everyone in the house still has 10 fingers and toes. She didn’t put up a fight about her decision. It’s just that no amount of coaxing could get her to change her mind. She just gave us her best pleading face until we relented. If you love pit bulls like I do, you know how adorable they can be when they set their minds to it. So that night, Katy slept on her pillow all night long without any accidents at all, and has been doing so every night since. She seems so proud to be a grown-up dog and to have outgrown her puppy-ish ways.

And what did I learn from all this? Well, sometimes you have to trust yourself to try something new. Occasionally you have to convince someone that you’re ready for such a change, and that when you do, you’d better not give anyone any reason to doubt your decision or their willingness to put faith in you. Take a risk every once in a while. Try something you’ve always dreamed about. And be prepared to fight for your right to grow a little.

So, given my new dog-given wisdom, I’ve signed up for a camera workshop at the local film school. I’m making concrete plans to take the leap back into freelance writing. And I’m going to be open to all of life’s lessons, no matter where they come from.

Maybe it’s a sign that I’m getting old. I'm aware of the fact that life is finite, and perhaps I'm attaching significance to each remaining moment. I'll admit, I find myself looking for messages in every little thing that happens to me each day. But I’m grateful for the opportunity to be receptive to each new moment and to listen to my heart when it tells me what I really want to do. Knowing that I’m lucky enough to have the resources to make such changes in my life helps me and Katy both sleep a lot better.

The Line That Divides

Yesterday, after a six-week visit, my mother returned to Winnipeg, a tiny frozen speck in Manitoba, Canada. I felt badly as I drove her to the airport, knowing that when the plane touched down, she’d be stepping out to breathe in air that was 99 degrees Fahrenheit colder than it was in Austin. (No joke, not funny.)

It’s not fair that Americans are languishing in the warmth while Canadians are suffering. Something must be done. President-elect Barack Obama seems like an approachable chap, so in order to assuage my guilt over sending my mother to the deepfreeze, I think I’ll have a chat with him during this time of great change in the US of A. I’ll keep it light and breezy, and maybe I’ll be able to score a coup for my friends in the Great White North by giving them easier access to warmer temperatures during the Canadian winter (which for those who don’t know is September to May). “Barack, my good man,” I’ll say, “let’s change the border between the States and Canuckville to a vertical one instead of horizontal.” Makes better sense, doesn’t it? Why shouldn’t all North Americans have year-round access to places that aren’t covered in 10 feet of snow?

In the new North America, Canada will be located in the eastern half of the land mass. This wouldn’t cause much confusion, as most of Florida is already populated with Canadians anyhow. And, by putting Canada in the east, we’ll contain all the really funny accents, both Canadian and American, in one country. (Oh, how I scheme to trick my Boston-born husband into saying “four more floorboards for the porch,” phonetically translated as foh-wah moh-wah floh-wahbohwards foh-wah the pohwach.) We'll let USA occupy the western half, thereby giving Americans easier access to Alaska. So far, so good, eh?

But wait! There are even more benefits to be derived from my simple scheme. Once the border is switched, and Canadians migrate en masse to the southern half of the continent in an attempt to thaw out their toes, what we currently call Canada will be virtually empty. That land mass can then be turned into a wilderness preserve. We can take all of the animals that are in the present-day US and ship them north, letting them romp around at will, thus delighting environmentalists. Also, with the added weight of the population on the southeastern part of the continent, the axis of the world may shift, which may reduce the ill effects of global warming. (Okay, so I haven’t worked out all the science on this one yet.)

I know there are many major problems that Obama will have to address in the coming weeks: the continuing crisis in the Middle East, the horrific state of the economy, whether or not his mother-in-law is moving into the White House. So I plan to get this border issue solved toute suite. Pack your poutine, my little Canuckleheads! By the time Monsieur Obama parks himself in the Oval Office, you’ll be parka-free at last, and ready to play hockey and drink good beer in the sunshine! Oh, and don't forget to bring some maple syrup, the healthcare system, and clean water. We’re a little short of those down here.

A Whole New Path

It’s the start of a new year, but some things haven’t changed. I continue, for example, to walk my dog Katy daily.

We take the same path every day, and every time we pass a certain corner, Katy wants to roll in one piece of crap she’s discovered. I don’t understand her attraction to this particular piece of poop…it’s tiny, dried up, and you’d really have to go out of your way to even find it. She thinks it’s very special, however, and doesn’t have the same reaction to any other piece of turd that we may find along our trail. It amuses me that she has the same reaction to it day after day, but I always prevent her from fulfilling her wish to wallow in it.

I spend a lot of time thinking as we walk, and I’ve wondered about her motivation…Why would she want to do such a disgusting thing? Why would she want to roll about in something so distasteful? Then, as I walked a bit further, I remembered a nightmarish relationship I was in five years ago. Friends had seen the truth before I did, and had tried to convince me that continuing my relationship with Bill was causing me great damage, but I’d hear nothing of it. Despite Bill’s cruelty, I still kept going back for more. No matter how many tears he caused, no matter how much pain he created, I accepted his attention, no matter how ugly it got, day after day for nine months.

Yes, I knew in my heart at the time that Bill was trouble, but I was drawn to him anyhow. Eventually, his horrendous behavior went too far, and I finally heard the message that this relationship was destroying me. And even though the relationship stunk, I still had to learn how to stop wanting to be with him. It took me a long time to re-evaluate my self-worth, to realize that I deserved so much better than what this emotionally and mentally abusive man heaped on me. I forced myself to examine what it was that was lacking in me that caused me not only to seek such a man but also to accept him into my life and demonstrate such willingness to take whatever he dished out.

After much soul-searching, I decided that I had a right to be happy, that I was worthy of a man who would treat me with respect, and that if I wanted a relationship to be part of my life, I would accept only someone who was kind above all, who elevated my self-worth not by the car he drove or the clothes he wore, but with his warmth and love. I looked at relationships in a whole new light, and eventually I found the man I was looking for; we’ve been happily married for nearly two years now. However, I know that if it hadn’t been for Bill, I wouldn’t have forced myself to sit down and re-think my strategies about what kind of person was worth my time.

Today, I finally allowed Katy to roll in that piece of dried-up doodoo. It left no mark on her, and I simply gave her a bath as soon as we got home. No matter how much crap we experience, we can always wash away the past and start fresh.

Christmas Past, Christmas Present

There’s no other time of the year when we decorate our homes more than Christmas. There are wreaths, garlands, trees, pillows, and ornaments. Taking them all down at the end of the festive season can be both a bother and a heartbreak. It’s the end of what we always wish for, and the beginning of a fresh start to a new year. Personally, New Year’s Eve and Day are my least favorite days of the year. It’s about as exciting to me as watching the odometer roll over to all zeros.

Our Christmas tree is largely decorated with ornaments I made when my son was five. I made dozens of Christmas ornaments that year, partly out of an artistic desire, and partly because I needed the money. I tried to sell some of my goodies at a local craft show, but didn’t have much luck. People came past my table, admired my offerings, picked them up to ooh and aah and show their friends, but would soon put them back on the table. In addition to my handcrafted ornaments, I had also prepared bags of beans, with a recipe for bean soup attached, printed on a green cardboard Christmas tree cut-out. Those, to my surprise, sold out within minutes. My next-door neighbor, however, had a great appreciation for beautiful treasures, and I sold many of my cross-stitch creations to her. Those that were left over I now get to enjoy myself.

I had an enormous amount of energy when my son was younger. As an actress, my schedule was flexible. On days when I didn’t have auditions or work (there were far too many of those days, which is why I’m no longer treading the boards!), Reilly and I would spend our days taking with trips to the library, dragging back wagonloads of books, as many as the librarian would allow, then reading and playing and dog-walking and baking. And when my son would go to bed, I’d be sewing and stitching and painting and sculpting. Today, I couldn’t even tell you where the nearest library is. And I don’t do much craftwork anymore. But I always enjoy reminiscing about that year of incredible energy, no matter how fleeting it was, and I continue to enjoy the lasting results of my efforts.

As I packed away my ornaments this year, I noticed on the back of one a distinctive red and black hair stuck in the fabric, a tiny reminder of my old dog Huxley. It’s been in there at least five years, which is how long Huxley has been gone, but has probably been in there since the ornament was first made. Huxley used to curl up beside me on the couch while I stitched, a warm companion on those many cold Toronto nights. I started to pull the hair out of the fabric, but decided instead to leave it in. Huxley will be part of the Christmas celebration again next year, as she has done so sneakily for so many now.

The Root of the Problem

There’s a box of L’Oreal Les Blondissimes dye – I mean, rich luminous conditioning colorant – sitting on the vanity beside my sink in the bathroom, left there to remind me that soon I’ll have to don the plastic gloves once more and soak my follicles in hexadimethrine chloride, ammonium thiolactate, and phenyl methyl pyrazolone until the grey gives way to golden locks. Unless…

Unless I decide to let the grey stay. I’ve been naturally grey for 17 years now. My hair turned from my natural dark brown to grey when my son was three and I was 31. As a single mum on a very limited budget, I found it absurd to spend money on coloring my hair when the money was so desperately needed for necessities. So I let it stay grey until…

Until one day when my son, then aged seven, and I were on the bus. An East Indian man started talking to us. He pronounced himself a good judge of human character, projected a mystical, exotic wisdom. He was enthralled with my son’s intelligence, remarking several times during our brief journey together on what an extraordinary boy he was. This guy’s a genius, I thought. Then, as the infinitely wise swami left the bus, he said, “It’s so nice that you’ve taken the time to spend the day with your grandson.” This guy’s an idiot, I thought.

I was 35, far too young to be viewed as a senior citizen. My anger at his thoughtless comment turned to embarrassment, which turned to me finding the money in the budget to become a fabulous redhead. My skin coloring – pale with freckles – allowed me to pass as a natural redhead, a select group consisting of a mere two percent of North Americans.

Ah, but vanity is the downfall of many a fair maiden! One day I was doing a medical improv – that’s when actors portray characters for medical students so that the budding doctors practice interacting with patients. I was not only posing as a redhead – unique enough – but now I was a redhead with TB and narcolepsy – how special is that?! I was in a room with another actress, 10 years my senior, a willowy former dancer with long, blonde hair. We were being briefed by the physician who was overseeing the improv session, herself a redhead. At one point, she asked the blonde her age, and upon hearing the news, turned to me and said, “Redheads never age very well, do they?”

I’ve been a blonde since then. And it truly has been more fun than being a fake redhead – for one thing, the grey roots don’t show as quickly. And when they do, I just use an extra glob of molding mud to mess up my tresses in a way that better hides the tell-tale roots. But these days, I find myself delaying the monthly ritual of opening that box as long as possible. Part of me wants to let my hair become the color it has wanted to be for the past 17 years, thereby making a statement that wrinkles and grey hair should be viewed as distinguished and sexy, just like they are on aging men. Then again, I could make a statement to the world that I’m worth the $7.00 to become an Extra Light Ash Blonde. Oh, what the hell…today, I’ll do it. Maybe in a few more decades, I’ll finally be willing to act my age.

Craving Silence

Last night, I attended a performance of the Austin Symphony at the Palmer Center. The auditorium was set up with round tables of ten, and audience members were encouraged to bring their own food. The table beside mine was empty until fifteen minutes before the performance was scheduled to begin, and then a family arrived, dragging behind them a picnic cooler on wheels and toting several grocery bags of snacks. As the orchestra warmed up, the family unloaded enough food onto their table to keep a family in the Philippines alive for a month. And, like stereotypical Texans, the preparations for their feast were all conducted in full voice.

Since living in the US, I’ve noticed that Americans are, generally speaking, much louder than Canadians. Many believe that it is the Canadians’ modesty and reserve that causes their quietness, but I believe the reason is due more to geography than culture. Up north, we usually huddle together for warmth ten months of the year, so there’s no need for us to shout. The other two months, we’re trying to be quiet so that we stand a better chance of swatting the 3,000 mosquitoes that have just landed on our leg. But in the US of A, loud is the norm, and nowhere more so than Texas, where everything, including personalities and voices, are bigger.

As the first violinist took the stage and most of the audience politely turned their attention to the musicians, the family beside me carried on with their chow. And as the conductor took the podium, and most members of the audience turned their chairs to face the stage, the folks beside me focused instead on their vittles. “You don’t need to see what’s going on…you can just hear it,” the mama said. But sadly, I couldn’t hear it, or at least not as much as I wanted to. I strained to catch a few bars of Smetana’s The Bartered Bride between the gourmands’ comments, all delivered with Texan accents so thick they sounded fake: Is this some kind of cheese? There’s more biscuits if y’all want some! Yeah, I’m fixing to have more cole slaw.

Clearly the combination of foods they were consuming produced a high level of endorphins, thus preventing them from feeling the pain of the holes I was burning in the backs of their skulls with my best evil eye. Nor were they able to feel the sting of my eye-rolling and sotto voce utterances of “Dear God!” and “Unbelievable!” Eventually, I could take no more. I stood up, put my hands on the shoulders of the nearest noisy nosher, and suggested that perhaps they could keep the table chatter down during the performance.

It worked; the family thereafter whispered their requests to Pass me that Dr. Pepper and Y’all gotta gimme that recipe. It wasn’t perfect silence, but it was the best I could possibly hope for from this family. Today, I couldn’t hum one bar of the music that was performed last night, but I do know the ingredients for Sally’s cornmeal muffins. I think I’ll make a batch as I listen to some classical CDs.