Darling Listeners

Thought Id try an experiment and read something that was obviously designed to be read on the page and not delivered aloud bedtimestorily. But after that bit in Bookforum I’m just so v. curious how all these things sound you see, goodness how sad, and you’ll just have to indulge me.

For years, the only time I’ve ever been the slightest bit jealous of my carnivorous confreres has been in those moments after a Thanksgiving feast, watching them settle into the tryptofanatical haze of blissful near-slumber. The rest of the year I laud my healthful eating habits, but in those moments while sitting sprightly and alert at attention after the traditional Overindulgence In Side Dishes that defines the plight of non-flesheaters at such feasts,

If Miette’s Bedtime Story Podcast was a CD**, today’s would be the secret bonus track hidden at the very end. If this was called Miette’s Bedtime Story TV Miniseries, today’s would be the Exciting Second Half that you’d be Staying Tuned for, except without the special effects. If it was Miette’s Bedtime Story Green Salad, this would be the succulent bite of endive to Friday’s sweet pear.

Okay, someone was a little smartasinine requesting this one, for reasons that most of you will never know, given that this is not one of those soundbiting autobiographic shows and hence most of you don’t know that my real name is, in fact, Jemima, and I, too, paid my way through school with whiskey. Curious, that.

I dreamt last night that I made a big squash soup for an even bigger party, a party full of people from the past– people I hadn’t seen in years and didn’t care about when I did see them. I was nervous; it was a recipe I hadn’t tried before and I’d decided after a torturous dreamlike decisionmaking process to add a dash of some sort of smuggled mutant super-habanero sauce to the stuff.

If I could read your mind (and how do you know I can’t???), after the first few seconds listening to this podcast I’ll bet your mind would say something like this: “I know she said she was sick, but a strepped throat doesn’t do that to a voice!”

Well, I didn’t think I’d pull this off. A particularly invidious houseguest in the form of streptococcal has left my coccyx surprisingly unscatched, but the pharynx, well, I don’t recall gargling with rusted staples after my razorblade dinner, but gosh it hurts in there. And so here I sit, throatily challenged to forego my Saturday podcast, but, compulsive as I am, couldn’t stand the thought.

A confession: I’ve been loath to podcast Kafka, only because I wouldn’t know which one would be podcastable, which is to say Kafkaesque enough to be delivered storyhour-style, but not so Kafkaesque as to leave listeners beating themselves with the oars used to row the macabre waters of their own tears. You know, that sort of thing. Don’t get me wrong, I love that sort of thing.