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Browsing tag archives: UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO BULLETIN

skull cuckoo clock

Going Cuckoo: time marches on

When our family achieved a state of prosperity that allowed for luxury items, my father decided to buy an object evocative of old-world charm and craftsmanship — a symbol of refinement. The actual purchase of this item was so significant and solemn an occasion that children were prohibited.

One day it just arrived — our brand new handcarved cuckoo clock. There was no doubt it was a fine thing — in the general shape of an alpine cottage with splendid wooden leaves adorning its perimeter. At the top of this masterpiece, above the face of the clock, was a veranda and set of doors supporting a man and a woman in traditional native European costume. Hanging straight down from this ornate creation were two heavy cast metal pine cones suspended by chains. To emphasize each detail an artist had painted it in colours that stirred the heart and mind to imagine a forest bright with the season of spring. It was a work of art as vivid and joyous as the painted frieze of the Parthenon once was.

Once it had been placed in the dead centre of the living room wall we were invited to sit at a respectful distance to wonder at it. My father set the time by hands on the clock face and then wound the device by pulling on the pine cones. It sprung into life ticking and tocking like no other clock we had known. The most amazing feature, though, was yet to reveal itself. Upon the hour a gong sounded, the small double doors opened and a yellow bird popped out announcing “cuckoo.” It repeated this chime every hour.

After the show was over my father retired to his Naugahyde La-Z-Boy chair situated directly across from the clock. In the following days he smiled in amazement each time the hour was announced by the clever little bird who had also figured out how to chime every half-hour and quarter hour. It seemed after a week that the chiming never ended and the ticking never stopped. Time marched relentlessly onward — even when everything else was quiet. The air was punctuated with gongs and resounding echoes. In between these noises, in the few sullen silences, one could sense a resentment building. Ominously, each tick rang hollow. Each cuckoo was shrill. It was an Edgar Allen Poe story in the making.

And then without ceremony the clock was gone. There is no recollection of when it came down or how it suffered its final hour. We children all imagined that we had learned never to be lulled by the cuckoo’s call.

However, the hardest learned lessons are not always the loudest. Decades later when a wellwisher brought a present back from a trip to Europe I was presented with a small, charming, plastic battery-operated cuckoo clock and was delighted. What harm could it do? It was so reduced in size and complexity that it lacked a proper cuckoo bird. The only moveable part on it was a petite lady in an painted skirt and apron who swung rhythmically from two plastic threads. It gave off such a small benign tick that in the business of the day, the dinnertime rush and above the din of sports games and other noises it couldn’t be heard.

Then one afternoon the house fell silent and sitting alone whilst having a cup of tea I heard it — ticking and tocking — each note resounding off the plaster walls. The relentless presence of this noise amplified well beyond the chest cavity of the tiny timepiece. Suddenly I remembered my father’s predicament.

Obsessed by the pounding I refused to have it decommissioned, preferring to sit and wait — to endure. Why no one else noticed it I couldn’t say, but one day the battery died. That was years ago.

After a good spring cleaning this past March the little clock was released from a veil of cobwebs and its long silent battery replaced. Gone in an instant were all the fond memories of these clocks.

It is unlikely today’s young will experience time as we once measured it — with the tintinnabulation of repeated mechanical hammerings. The clever changeable digital devices of today offer such a selection of distracting noises that one is neither forced to endure or notice the passage of time as marked by a singular noise. We can now defy the relentless advance of time by moving deftly between past and present with an array of songs and sound mixes. Perhaps that more accurately reflects the bendable nature of time but it doesn’t provide the intense, certain, solitary, and sometimes unnerving experience of being aroused by the call of the cuckoo.

 

This article originally appeared in the UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO BULLETIN • WEDNESDAY, MAY 25, 2011
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Leonardis Algirdas Zyvatkauskas

A Portrait of Contrasts

You may not know this: Lithuania was at one time known for its international cuisine. That was back in the early 1960s when my father, as head chef of the Francis Room — the dinner theatre experiment of Fran’s Restaurant was being publicized as a cosmopolitan culinary expert. Since our family name was considered awkward he was reinvented as Mr. Leonard. It was the sort of fabrication a small brochure might make about its staff back in the day when most people, unfamiliar with any of the Baltic nations, knew little about those countries’ culinary culture or subjugation to the Soviet Union.

 

Leonardis

Left: “Mr. Leonard” with his lobster creation. Top: Leonardis Zyvatkauskas (2nd left) with friends in post- war Berlin.

But this piece is not about the old country or even the old restaurant; it is about impressions left by a father that extend beyond the Hallmark Card Day soon approaching.

My father, Leonardis Algirdas Zyvatkauskas, was a person of sharp contrasts. Of his halcyon days as a chef I remember a thoughtful picture of him with a food display of lively looking musicians that he crafted from lobster shells and another of him in cavalier fashion enjoying cigarettes and booze with his buddies in a post-war displaced persons camp. On one day he taught us how to create roses from pink icing sugar — on another he told us how to escape from capture by using the grate of an iron stove top. In the late 1950s we terrified onlookers by roaring around the Lake District in a sidecar pulled by his speedy Vincent motorcycle, and yet he would stop the chase to save a small animal crossing the road. One such creature, a small hedgehog, we kept as a pet.

The tales he told of life before England were not printable by “Toronto’s Home of Fine Family Dining.” Fran’s may have publicized his Lithuanian heritage as one of European culinary excellence but we knew otherwise. Through my father’s fantastic stories we knew the old country had a heritage of devils that lived in ditches at the side of raggedy country roads; that our family history included a Cossack uncle who rode in the guard of Tsar Nicholas II; and that there was an army of Bolsheviks who tried to shoot him. We knew that the countryside was populated with mysterious giants who slept in massive earthen burial mounds. We knew that the world was in a state of flux, largely on account of the Second World War.

My father was so expert at mimicking the sounds of bombs dropping and shrapnel exploding that we were in a constant state of concern about air invasion. To excite our imaginations he had three maxims for living — don’t sign any papers, don’t join any clubs and don’t let anybody into the house.

Eventually we learned that the devil at the side of the road was a man dressed in a cow’s skin with nails tied to his fingers. Also that the older brother whom my father admired for his heroics in the Battle of Leningrad had all signs of his Red Army military insignia removed by a photographer’s airbrush so strangers would not confuse our family with communists. And the mysterious giants? They were merely tall medieval warriors, probably the forerunners of today’s Lithuanian basketball team.

Of the future my father would say “this is the age of telephones” and so we were discouraged from using these devices for flippant teenage talk. Of the past he said he would never go back to the old country — not even if he was paid.

At his funeral the priest insisted that as Brother Leonard was mounting the hill to heaven the saints were preparing to shake his hand. We knew this was just a story told by the church, much like the one told by Fran’s. Mr. Leonard had no time for saints; rather than shaking their hands, he would have turned to the other prickly characters who weren’t allowed beyond the pearly gates.

 

This article originally appeared in the UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO BULLETIN • WEDNESDAY, MAY 26, 2010

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Maple Leaf Gardens

At the good old history game

British Army officer James Fitzgibbon (1780-1863) improved my childhood considerably. His old house located at the corner of Midland and Eglinton avenues was the source of many a ghost story. The intriguing and mysterious wooden building nestled in a tiny forest of overgrowth provided endless musing and outrageous imaginings—and that was before I learned that Fitzgibbon had been a hero in the War of 1812 and was the man responsible for actually listening to the appeals of a woman—Laura Secord—consequently helping to mobilize 400 Mohawk and Odawa allies in defeating the Americans. His ramshackle cabin was an appealing counterpoint to the rows of modern suburban brick structures.

The quaint old historic home is gone—replaced by a couple of cheap monster houses with no particular architectural attraction. The Fitzgibbon house remains only as a name on the City of Toronto’s list of lost historic sites. Soon, I fear, to be added to this sadly very long list will be the shrine to this nation’s favorite sport—Maple Leaf Gardens.

For about 10 years the Gardens has sat quietly waiting for reoccupation like a huge concrete castle whose occupants have left to do battle on some foreign territory. At one time the University of Toronto hosted a display of architectural concepts of possible uses for the building. The most inspiring was a giant community centre that maintained the skating surface and incorporated layers of multi-use space where former corporations once hosted the wealthiest fans. Since then the controlling interests have vacillated between how much needs to be done to transform the building into a grocery store or whether it should come down completely. I have nothing against eggplants, tinned soup or bread wrapped in plastic, I just question whether destroying another historically significant structure to provide said items is worth the trade-off. Of course, sentiment cannot be the guiding rule in every case of historical preservation or we would all be sleeping on wooden pallets and straw stuffed mattresses. However, for a city and nation so proud of its hockey heritage and lore, the loss of the Gardens seems a travesty.

Perhaps greater minds need to be consulted for possible solutions to the empty Gardens dilemma. Could not the university step in somehow? Could we not hold the biggest lectures ever in the stadium that once hosted the Beatles, Elvis and the famous home-grown wrestling hero Whipper Billy Watson? Could we not at the very least contribute some of our intellect to devise ways to utilize this notable space?

I am not suggesting for a minute that we redirect scarce resources towards saving a building that has no direct bearing on the life of our institution. Although my guess is that if you asked many of the local faculty and staff, many stories would emerge of memories and moments that would be considerably altered if the Gardens disappeared.

The grand old lady is still standing and her future is still alterable. I was inside her when she was alive with fans and heroes. I took my daughter to her first-ever hockey game there and the ticket collector asked her, “Is this your first game?” She nodded and the gentleman gave her the ticket intact and said, “Save this as a keepsake.” It isn’t just the paper ticket that is memorable but also the moment. I never had the pleasure of going inside the Fitzgibbon house but I wish I had. And as much as I loathe seeing those monster homes where the historic building once stood I am more loath to think of a rubble pile or a grocery aisle where the Maple Leaf Gardens once stood.

This article originally appeared in UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO BULLETIN • TUESDAY, JANUARY 27, 2009

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Of ancient foods and small kitchens

In response to well-intentioned inquiries about what I might serve when hosting my very first family Christmas dinner, I was somewhat flummoxed. My abode is well placed but not spectacularly large and the European galley-style kitchen is not equipped with more cutlery than could serve my modest immediate family of three. Yet at this time of the year my family’s expectations for tradition are very strong. They like cooked birds with French-style stuffing or roast beasts accompanied with Yorkshire pudding. Side dishes are expected to have some important connotation and context — I come from a family of chefs and writers of historical cookbooks.

Then one morning while sitting in Professor Ruth Harvey’s medieval English literature class it struck me, as it did many a character in ancient texts, to ask the question, What would Jesus do? Indeed, for Christmas dinner I only needed to determine what would Jesus eat? Surely the prophet didn’t worry about cutlery and table settings. I was certain that even with my limited historical knowledge of ancient Middle Eastern cooking I could concoct a simple good old-fashioned biblical meal.

Loaves and fishes were the obvious menu items that came to mind but without enough forks it seemed that the filleting might be troublesome. Of course Jesus was a well rounded sort who would not have limited his palate to modest fare. He dined with tax collectors and hobnobbed with Roman centurions.

The menu selections began to broaden, and so did the historical context. It struck me that diners in the Middle Ages were also adept at serving up meals without fancy place settings. It was not much of a leap, even counting for the several centuries, to concoct a menu evocative of biblical times and western holiday traditions. I called my sister Sonia, who was to help me in preparing the meal, and she was similarly enthused, although she did point out that the recipe I suggested from Seven Hundred Years of English Cooking for a saffron colored potato soup served in stale bread bowls was not authentic to the 13th century — the potato is a new world addition to the English menu.

The two of us envisioned medieval knights making their way through the Holy Land, mixing their western tastes with the bounty of the East. Soon we had devised a menu that consisted of: “Grete,” but modestly sized, “Pyes” for both the carnivores and vegetarians, distinguished with red and green crosses to indicate the contents; stuffed vine leaves; roast brussel sprouts and chestnuts; and plates filled with dates, olives and figs scattered about the table. But what about  dessert?

Apparently intricate sculptures made from sugar and paste, sometimes gilded, were the crowning glory of the medieval banquet. If I start soon I am sure I can construct a simple Cistercian church in the Romanesque style before Christmas. My sister will work on making Turkish delights. After we wandered quickly from the first century to the 13th, I finally had a moment for reflection and I began to question the original intent of this family dinner. Perhaps, Christmas, perhaps… means just a little bit more than impressing your relatives with fancy foods, either for their historical significance or their complex design.

Sonia and I will most certainly attempt to make the pies, less the cathedral. My sister Betty, the elder and the sage, has agreed to make the traditional pudding and my brother, the real chef, has agreed, as is also the tradition, to light the pudding on fire. Alas, sister Stephenie, taking care of forests in Banff, will miss the affair. Yet I am tempted, in spite of all the good intentions, to seek inspiration from another favourite historical time period of mine — the early 1700s, known as the Golden Age of Piracy. After all, if captured on a ship, surely first century prophets, medieval knights or even  18th-century merchants would have consumed that staple of all galley-sized kitchen meals — Salmagundi — which in essence is nothing more than whatever is in the larder thrown into a big pot. Some meals never go out of style.

This article originally appeared in the UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO BULLETIN • TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 2008

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What Ho! Humour In The Classroom?

Why we should be taking notes on comic genius

By Caz Zyvatkauskas

Don’t be surprised if you’re not your merry old self this Valentine’s Day—or any other Valentine’s Day for that matter. The truth is, most of us can’t get all that chuffed about it. And that is why I prefer to recall that it was on Feb. 14 some 33 years ago that the one man consistently able to raise the spirits without the aid of heart-shaped everythings passed away. I speak of P. G. Wodehouse.

On a day so cloyingly filled with chocolates, flowers, frills and other escapist frippery, it is worth recalling the work of an artist who portrayed a life so marvellously rife with ridiculous and profligate excesses that it rivals Valentine’s Day itself. And for all the fallings in and out of love that one does throughout one’s real-life career, an ardour that never fades is the one felt for really first-rate fiction. A fair doff of the cap to Shakespeare and Tolkien but for my escapist sojourn I inevitably return to the remarkable world of Bertie Wooster and his gentleman’s gentleman, Jeeves.

I once had a rather rotund script-writing teacher with a disturbing comb-over who told us that all humour was based on the misfortunes of others. He was right, of course. Yet while the moronic exploits of Homer Simpson manage to elicit a laugh and the cruel slapstick that Moe visits upon the hapless Curly still evokes an equally cruel guffaw, in neither situation would I want to be those characters—or any other of a host of misfortunate comic heroes who, in gaining our laughter, also encourage our scorn. The trick to a really brilliant comedy is that it elicits the desire to emulate  and become involved.

Take the bachelor bon vivant Bertie Wooster — sublimely preposterous by virtue of his ignorance and bliss but also immensely endearing in his desire to do the right thing by his chums, as it were.  Wodehouse elevates Wooster not only by placing him in a setting of absurd affluence but also by counter-balancing his silliness with a character of impeccable reasoning and resourcefulness, the erudite and sophisticated valet Jeeves. And so as the former becomes embroiled in sticky situations—some as dangerous as retrieving a stolen antique cow creamer—the latter always manages to extricate his gentleman charge from the predicament.Wooster exerts just the right amount of effort to make us care and Jeeves embodies just the right amount of feudal spirit to keep us amused.

In short, the world that they inhabit—one of moneyed boys tossing buns at each other at the Drones Club, pinching policemen’s helmets, cultivating newts and playing games at country estates—is one the reader would gladly inhabit, even if they had to do so as the wastrel Bertie Wooster. Alas, without the proper funding we’ll never be able to pass the afternoon at Aunt Agatha’s country estate or escape to a posh art deco apartment in Manhattan. But we can still run off the old-fashioned way, as Wodehouse intended—through his literature. Now this escapism stuff is like one of those soap bubbles that delights the eye but then, pftt, it bursts and it’s gone. I’m suggesting we do something more permanent and notable: something commensurate with our standing as a world-class institution.

Universities in particular tend very much towards the serious, especially when it comes to sciences and such.When we do teach the arts, it’s usually of the very severe sort. Not that there’s anything wrong with that but perhaps, just as we indulge for only a day with the silliness of Valentine’s, could we not carve out a similar niche in our academic calendar for a little study of transcendent silliness? Long overlooked due to his ignominious position as a character in a book of humour, Bertie Wooster has been mostly passed over when it comes to serious study. I think we should put aside the boxes of flowers that will accumulate at our doorsteps Feb. 14 and consider a better way to celebrate. We must ask ourselves: what would Bertie Wooster do?

This is strong stuff I’m suggesting. I know the English department has managed to slip in a little humour here and there — a Shakespearean comedy, a bit of Mark Twain and a little Stephen Leacock. However, what I am proposing is a whole course on Jeeves and Wooster and nothing but. The fundraising possibilities certainly seem more appealing than the usual courting of deep pockets (I envision a lot of shallow fun and frolicsome activity).

This year, I’m not spending any money on Valentine’s Day ephemera. Instead, I’m squirrelling my pennies away for donation to the first fund anyone has the audacity to open in support of the above-mentioned effort. If every blasted Wodehouse fan chips in, we likely won’t have to linger around until the very last call at the Drone’s club… sir.

Toodle pip!

  • This article originally appeared in the University of Toronto Bulletin • Tuesday, February 2, 2008
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