A Fine Dish

Is There Anybody Home?

2008-04-22T16:55:00.002-05:00

Hello? Hello? Is there anybody in there? I have moved. You are welcome to stay here and look around. I will be at my new place, A Fine Kettle of Fish at wordpress. Want to take a short cut? Go through here.

Since I'm Already Here--For What It's Worth

2007-05-03T21:18:00.000-05:00

There has been some discussion locally about the idea of state governments apologizing for the institution of slavery. Some local blogs have chimed in (sorry, you'll have to google it yourself) and our local paper has printed some letters for and against. I did take the time today to offer this on our local paper's interactive editorial page.

As a caucasian woman whose ancestry can be traced to the more recent hejira from Sicily to the deeper lines of Iroquois and 17th century English adventurers, I offer this.

I acknowledge that slavery in all forms is wrong and reprehensible. I acknowledge that great suffering occured to individuals who were forcibly removed from their homes, transported in abhorrent conditions and sold as product. I affirm that the institution of slavery as it occured in the United States of America and as it continues to occur on this earth is an embarrassment and an abomination.

I acknowledge that there have been systemic and multigenerational effects stemming from this morally unjustifiable practice. I recognize that there have been changes and some progress made to rid our society of practices that were legally and/or socially acceptable but were unjust. I also recognize that this process is not complete.

I regret that the history of the human race is marked by instances of human beings mistreating other human beings. As a citizen of a country that purports to recognize equality among inhabitants, the fact that this dehumanization was raised to the level of a legal institution is incredible.

I cannot change the past nor can I offer hope for the future. I affirm at this time, that in this, the present moment I will treat all beings with respect and kindness.

A Brave White Chick

2007-05-03T20:55:00.000-05:00

Last week I 'performed' in the talent show at my place of business. Incredibly, I've been asked to post the text. The format is not meant to make you think that I in any way consider myself a poet--I left space so I would remember to breathe, thereby avoiding a messy collapse on stage.

We have some extraordinary talent here at A&T. This makes it really incredible that I am on this stage because I am anything but extraordinary. I am stunningly ordinary. So you can imagine my surprise a couple of weeks ago when Mabel Scott stopped by my desk and encouraged me to sign up. The short answer was 'no' but as we were talking I had a vivid image arise, a deep remembrance. Later that night I wrote it down and put it in a safe place.

My grandparents had a neighbor,
Edna Schmalzl,
who let me toddle behind her
as she kneaded the earth
around her tulips and daffodils.
Mrs. Schmalzl was an impressive lady,
tall, white haired.
She had lost one husband each
to the World Wars
then went and outlived her third.
To me,
this bone thin woman
was the height of strength and elegance and mystery.
One day as she worked the soil
in yellow gloves with a tiny shovel
it began to rain.
I waited, a little worried.
We were in the back of her yard,
so far from her house!
She was imposing
yet I worked up the courage to pull at her skirt.
"Mrs. Schmalzl," I said. "Don't we have to go inside when it rains?"

Mrs. Schmalzl sat back on her heels.
Looked at the ground.
Looked at me.
Looked at the fallen wreck of a carriage house at the edge of the adjoining pasture.
She scanned the sky.

"And miss that?" she asked, pointing with her spade at a rainbow arcing across the heavens.

"A rainbow! Where did that come from?"

"It's in your eyes, Miss Muffet," she said.
"You can weather any storm
if there's a rainbow in you eyes."

I had to wonder why such a vivid image and a deep memory chose to arise at that time, with Mabel Scott speaking to me across from my desk. And I realised. Mabel Scott is our Aggie meterologist. She knows when it is going to rain and when it is nice enough for us to stay outdoors. She knows when we really need to close all the windows. But always, no matter what the weather, she is looking for that good news. Mabel Scott has rainbows in her eyes.

(There was actually some applause before I got to say)

Thank you.

Neuroscience and the Adolescent 101

2007-01-26T15:44:00.000-05:00

"What you need to understand is that the part of your brain that is active when you want something is different then the part of your brain that is active when you get it."

Chris may have been listening but he didn't want to hear what I had to say--just as no one standing in the line that snaked out of the DMV and into December's late afternoon gloom cared. For his fourteenth birthday, Chris endured two rites of passage--first trip to DMV and a visit to a tattoo parlor. To celebrate the anniversary of my giving birth to him, I got to watch.

"It's like this, bud. When you want something there's an area in the depth of your brain that starts to pulse with electric activity. It's like a strobe light going 'want, want, want, want.' Now it doesn't really matter what your head applies to that want. It's not saying 'want a million dollars,' or 'want world peace,' or like you, 'want my ears pierced.' All its doing is saying 'urg. want. now.'

Now you've wanted your ears pierced since, um, when?"

"Like, five, six."

"Right. You've had this habitual pulsing activity deep in your brain all day every day since, well, since you were a baby going 'want' 'want' 'want' 'want' and when you were 5 or 6 another part of your brain started saying - 'look, earrings, shiny.' Your brain found an 'it' to go with the want. So now you have this back beat going wannit, and the harmony going 'earrings' Get it? 'Wannit, earrings. Wannit, earrings. Wannit, wannit, wannit, earrings.' That's been going on in your head for 8 years."

Chris is kind of smiling now.

"So this is part of you. You've lived with this song in your head for years and you think once you get your ears done it'll be over. You'll be satisfied. All of your patience and rational arguments and persuading and more waiting is finally coming to bear and you will be happy for the rest of your days. Satiation time."

"Yeah, I'll be happy when it's all done."

"But you won't be satisfied."

"I swear, mom, this is all that I want. This is it. I'm really happy about this."

"I know, darling, and that's why we're standing out here in the cold. But what you need to understand is like this. You've got the 'I wants' going in the deep ancient reptile part of your brain. OK. And you have the 'it' part somewhere in your lobes. Now when you actually get what you want, the acquisition part, what do you think happens in your brain?"

"I stop wanting it because I've got it."

"Nyet. That's not how it works. When you get something your brain shoots off fireworks that fill your skull with feel good happy chemicals and you feel like you just ate a whole pan of Girardelli chocolate brownies. But still, you're not satisfied. See acquisition, acquiring stuff has nothing to do with the 'I want' part. The 'want, want, want' may get drowned out for awhile but it keeps sending out that back beat. A week from now, a day from now your lobes will latch on to something else, your 'wannit' will say 'yeah, something new, pay attention to me' and you'll be right back where you started. Acquisition never satisfies desire."

His smile indicates that a part of him knows that this is true, but he can't admit it and risk not getting what he has been reaching for so long.

"I don't think you're right, mom. Once I get this I won't ever want anything again," he tries to say but can't keep a straight face.

"Word, dude," a voice interrupts from the bundle of coats and scarves in front of us. A dark bald head emerges, the lobes decorated with 1/2 inch cubic zirconian. "What she say, 'acquisition never satisfies desire?' Your mom's got the real Truth, little man."

And as he turns away with a smile I see mothers in line nodding their heads, college students grinning and teenagers rolling their eyes.

Word. It's the truth.

The Groaning Board

2006-11-25T14:06:00.000-05:00

Not going to do it, not this year. No darn turkey, no pulling out the heirloom china, no baking, no stirring, No SIRREE BOBBO! It's too much work for one person. My schedule doesn't allow it. And who cares? It's just another meal. My mother used to say "food should never take longer to prepare than it takes to eat." Now, being a food-ie, I don't necessarily take it to that length. But come on. The Thanksgiving meal is serious work. The breads, the pies, the endless side dishes that take the hands of a Hindu goddess to make them come out at the same time. And an oven stuffed full of turkey for 6-7 hours? Standing around basting? Please.

And that's what they said, my husband and kids. Please.

Ha. Not good enough. I am not budging.

OK. Please, and we'll help.

Uh, run that by me again?

We will help.

You think? OK. Who wants pie! WE DO, WE DO.

And on Wednesday each of the kids made a pie.

Who wants stuffing? Oh absolutely, so on Sunday I had extra hands for kneading and shaping the bread.

And side dishes of course. Everyone pick a side dish. Spinach puffs! Asparagus tips with hollandaise! Scalloped potatoes au gratin!

Remember, you have to help make your side dish.

Uh, boiled carrots! Green beans with mushrooms! Baked spinach with feta cheese!

Much more manageable. OK. I budged.

So you see we had a simplified version of Thanksgiving this year. From left to right, Cranberry Orange Nut Bread (mom), Ceasar Salad (Sam), carrots (Chris), stuffing (mom and kids), spinach quiche (Helen), Turkey (mom), squash stew (mom), mashed potatoes with bechamel and cheddar cheese (Sam and Chris), sesame green beans and mushrooms (mom), and scalloped potatoes (mom). Later we had pumpkin pie (Helen), cherry pie (Chris), and peach blueberry pie (Sam).

I am thankful for the cooking gene and three kids who are willing to put all of those lessons in the kitchen together. Sadhu, sadhu.

Growth and Intention

2006-11-10T12:50:00.000-05:00

My family is plastic. No, that sounds like they are cheap and artificial. Made up. that is so far from the truth. I mean that my family members have plasticity, they change, they grow, they heal and progress. Many people know about my mother and her wonderful artwork. They do not know that she set aside her artistic ambitions for the twenty or so years that it took for her to raise us. She put down her paintbrush after my brother was born and didn't pick it up again until I was seventeen. She started her watercolor career in her 40s and in three decades has reached national prominence.

This openness to growth and change well after the brain pan has set a course toward pudding is not genetic. My brother-in-law has shown us all how it can be done and in a pretty dramatic way. Charles, who has been married to my sister for 22 years, recently created a possibility for his life. At this time, it is at the level of intention. I am hopeful that this intention manifests as a reality before the opportunity falls away.

Charles is the youngest of five boys whose mother is dying of cancer. While the process of a parent passing on is a normal part of life, his case is unusual. He and his four older brothers have not been in the same room with their mother since Charles was just one year old. The brothers ranged in age between one and six when their parents divorced and their mom left. While their dad tried to hold the family together he found it impossible to keep a job and manage a succession of inconsistent childcare providers. Foster care became their only recourse. It was not possible to keep the brothers together; the boys were separated and bounced around from one abusive foster home to another. It is my understanding that only the oldest brother, Robert, was fortunate to be in a single, stable, loving foster home. Charles and his other brothers had a very different experience. During these very difficult years the support that kept him intact was the occasional contact he had with his natural family. As often as he could, Charles’ father would make a more than 100 mile loop to gather all of the boys from their various placements and spend the day with them. Charles developed an acute understanding of what it means to be part of a family. Appreciation through scarcity; the snub nose pressed against the bakery window.

Charles grew into adulthood having had no contact with his mom. He had grown to believe that he didn't need her after all. He knew that at some point he would hear of her passing but this thought had no emotional impact for him. In fact, he had used the fact of his mother’s abandonment as an excuse for his troubles throughout his difficult teenage years and early adult life. He carried this baggage with him throughout his adulthood and early middle age. Then one he unpacked his bags. Charles made a phone call that changed his life.

Charles decided to leave the past in the past and talk to the woman who birthed him. He did this with faith and positive intention; he couldn’t have known how she had dreamed for almost 50 years of hearing her baby boy's voice. He displayed incredible courage and was alone in this effort because, remarkably, society supports his estrangement from his mother. After all, she had left the family. No one took into consideration that she may have had some valid reasons to do so. Even the most well meaning friends as well as some of our extended family couldn't understand why he would reach out to his mom because after all, she was the cause of much heartache in his life. I hope that they are realizing that since that first contact so much healing has begun. Charles realized that blame defined many of his actions and is now learning to release blame. The weight he carried from his past has lifted and he has a powerfully loving outlook.

The possibility that my brother-in-law is putting out to the universe is that somehow he and his brothers, who are all over the country, can all come together and be with their mother for the first time since they were all very young children and to do so before she passes. All these men are in their 50's now. This intention, while powerful on a spiritual and emotional level, is a logistical nightmare. The practical aspects of bringing five men and their mother, all of whom have limited means and are scattered from west to east and from north to south seems impossible. From a practical standpoint, how can five men, all of whom are at different points in the living and healing process and their mother, who is now at the end of her days, come together in one place at one time?

Charles’ dream is powerful and to our family it has been a teaching of love, forgiveness, gratitude and the benefit of truly leaving the past in the past. Charles and my sister have the shining standard of a beautiful, loving, committed marriage and their love for each other grows daily. He's come so far in his personal healing and longs for the next level to begin when all the Wellcome boys can come together with their mom.

School's Out

2006-11-02T11:37:00.000-05:00

Click anywhere in white area for slightly clearer view.

Nearest Book Meme

2006-10-29T09:52:00.000-05:00

This comes from the incomparable Laurie of slowly she turned fame.

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don’t you dare dig for that “cool” or “intellectual” book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.

The nearest book to me is The Anapanasti Sutta by Ven. U Vimalaramsi. It doesn't have 123 pages so I am taking this from page 93, the last page in the book.

May suffering ones be suffering free
And the fear struck be fearless be
May the grieving shed all grief
And may all beings find relief.

May all beings share in this merit
That we have thus acquired
For the acquisition of happiness.

May beings inhabiting space and earth
Devas and Nagas of mighty power
Share in this merit of ours.

May they long protect the
Buddha's Dispensation.

Saddhu! Saddhu! Saddhu!

Going to a Hot Place

2006-10-27T15:15:00.000-05:00

So some people hint at it, some people just raise a righteous eyebrow, sometimes I get the echo from behind my back but a couple of weeks ago I heard it straight to my face.

"You are going to H - E - double hockey sticks."

Now she was laughing at the time but her point was well taken. According to her tradition my choices, my activities may be firmly planted on that well-polished wide clear path of good intentions that leads to you know where. I am unapologetic. My lifestyle may be influenced by genetics, by upbringing, by society, by socioeconomic factors, by a long drop from the top bunk. But ultimately, my behavior is my choice and I not only accept that, I embrace it.

Ok, so what heinous activity prompted this, what malconted mischief? Could it be, debauchery? Not much time for that these days. Umm, parents still living and well respected--I think that's one of the rules. Lying's a bad job--just not good at it. Actually, it's not even a commandment at all; must be something from the commentaries, an add on in the last century or so. OK. I can own up. Ready.

I shop and cook on Sunday. Yup. That's it. Now 'round here, there's quite the swanky after church crowd picking up pickles and cold cuts on their way home from church. These are the liberal folk. They will use money in a pinch on a Sunday. Then there are those you don't even see in the store (such as my condemning friend). No touching money, no work including housework.

"You should save your Sunday for those things that are spiritually edifying," I have been told.

Well, here's the news, crew. For me, cooking is edifying. It's uplifting. It feeds my soul. And preparing a week's worth of food is the choice that I make so that for the rest of the week my family can enjoy some physical improvement. And so they don't gnaw on my ankles as soon as I get home from work.

I have been promising some people that I would put up a typical Sunday afternoon schedule for awhile so here it goes. Consider this a cookbook case of insanity.

-direct children in unpacking groceries
-toss last weeks bread ends and an onion in food processor
- drop grapes in salad spinner and spray with veggie wash. Set aside
- dump ground beef, veal and pork in bowl and add eggs, bread crumbs and onion, some buttermilk and get a kid to mix it up
- put chickens in sink
- cut big nasty hunk of cheap beef into parts, put chunks in ziploc bag with red wine--hand to kid to put in freezer, then put strips in bag with soy sauce, a little sugar, rice wine, grated ginger--hand to kid to put in freezer
- trim center portion and put in dutch oven on stove with some oil
- chunk mixed meat in loaf pan and put in oven (hose off kid)
- grab bag of walnuts before someone eats them
- wash, peel and chop carrots, celery, potatoes, onions, garlic, shallotsm mushrooms
- turn meat
- cut up a couple chickens, put back, etc in big pot for stock with celery leaves, onion excess, carrot stubs, egg shells (you get the idea), wrap breasts in plastic and hand to kid to put in freezer then brown the rest in heavy pot
- take out beef, add oil, put in some chopped carrots, celery, garlic
- grab kid by collar and ask nicely to chop nuts in food processor, mush up last weeks leftover banana and dump in a bowl with some buttermilk and eggs; hand said kid sifter and sift flour, sugar, baking powder over banana mixture
- think about rinsing grapes
- take cereal, crackers, pasta, etc and seal in plastic boxes (so as not to encourage mouses)
- show youngest how to line loaf pans with waxed paper
- divide banana batter in two pans and put in oven
-hand over sifter and put in dry milk, cocoa poweder sugar to sift into large bowl then transfer to quart containers
- turn chicken pieces
- skim scum from stock, add some whole cloves, peppercorns, celery seed or whatever you feel like smelling
- put beef in pot with vegs, add beef paste and water, potatoes, cover
- put rest of vegs in with chicken, add last of last week's stock
- pull out meatloaf -- put beef pot in oven
- grab two kids to wash, dry, and put away dishes
- heat stainless steel frying pan, chop up two one pound tubes of sausage and add to pan
- take banana bread out of oven
- cover chicken and put in oven
- heat two tablespoons butter in frying pan
- stir sausage
- add two tablespoons of flour into melted butter
- wish you had already washed the grapes
- add two cups of milk to butter and flour and stir with whisk
- ask kid nicely to shred pound of cheddar cheese
- stir a handful of flour into sausage, pour over half-and-half (try not to gag) and stir until thick
- remove from heat and put large pot of water on
- dump two cups of shredded cheese into white sauce and stir until melted, set aside
- stir elbow macaroni into boiling water
- rinse grapes, take off stems, spin to dry, eat a handful and put rest in bag in refrigerator
- strain macaroni, reserving hot water to transfer water back into pot and add potatoes
- stir half cheese sauce into macaroni, stir in grated cheese, top with grated parmesan and bread crumbs then put in oven
- make some juice for dinner
- wash broccoli, fit steaming tray over potatoes and layer cut up broccoli to steam
- ask kid to set table for dinner
- tell complaining kid to forget table, wash pots and get other kids to set table
- check beef , chicken stew
- ladel out a cup or so of beef broth into small saucepan and put on stove
- remove broccoli, cover, keep on top of warm stove
- strain potatoes, mash then stir in rest of cheese sauce
- add some corn starch to hot beef broth to thicken
- serve meatloaf and gravy, mashed potatoes and broccoli for dinner
- put some olive oil in large stainless steel pot, chop variety of peppers (red, yellow, green, orange) and add to pot
- slice banana bread, wrap, put in plastic bin
- add cumin, cinnamon, whatever to peppers, peel butternut squash and cut into chunks
- remind kids to wash their dinner dishes
- add corn, squash, quart of plum tomatoes and vegetable broth to pot and set to simmer
- put cooled sausage gravy in plastic bin in refrigerator
- take chicken stew out of oven, strip meat from bones, add bones to stock
- poke beef to see if tender (it isn't--very cheap cut of beef)
- add black beans and handful of rice to squash stew
- put sausage gravy in plastic bin in refrigerator
- divide veg stew into plastic containers
-check beef again, take out and put in garage to cool
- at some point, take the chicken stock off and stash in the garage to cool

Okay, so what does all this add up to?

The kids can dip into the sausage gravy with biscuits from the freezer for breakfast. This time of year they have hot cocoa as well. They make their own lunches with juice, banana bread, a sandwich and fruit. I eat the squash and pepper stew for the week. And any of these dinners takes about fifteen minutes to put together--

1-Chicken Stew with dumplings
2-Pot Roast
3-Chicken Tenders with macaroni and cheese and whatever vegetable
4-Beef Hash from the leftovers of the pot roast
5-Chicken Pot Pie with the leftovers from the chicken
6-Stir fried Beef with broccoli and rice
7-Grilled beef chunks and cut up raw vegetables

So, am I going to hell? In the Buddhist tradition, one of the many 'hells' is the land of the hungry ghosts. Everyone there has a big appetite and a really, really small mouth. I suppose if I must go somewhere, I will take a rest and go cook up very, very tiny portions.

Astral Projecting?

2006-10-27T13:34:00.000-05:00

Steven has been restless of late, tossing in his sleep. We are in a change of seasons and the heater kicks on, the room is hot and dry. I have not been sleeping deeply although I do rest.

Last night between the clock tolling two and three I heard footsteps in the kitchen. This is not unusual. Chris has reverted to his infancy with feedings every 2 to 4 hours. Better he sneak into the refrigerator for some milk, a sausage, a leftover dumpling then wrap himself around an empty belly. This has become a comforting noise, these footsteps in the dark. Besides growing he is growing more independent.

After the shuffling, the scarfing I heard footsteps crossover from linoleum to hard wood. He was coming in my room which is unusual. I can't remember the last time one of the children actually came for me in the night. I turned over and propped myself on my elbows.

"What is it Chris? What do you need?" I asked the silent shadow.

He didn't say a word but my eyes, accustomed to the dim, could make out that he was facing me. As I watched him the light changed until it seemed he was in a column of light, actually a different timbre of darkness, like a beam from a black light. He raised his arms at an angle from his body with his palms cupped upward as he made three quarters of a turn. The light began to shimmer like dust motes in a sunbeam only larger. His chin was tilted up and the sparkles distinct and rectangular, like metallic confetti.

"Chris?" I asked and he turned his head slowly toward me and just as slowly a wide grin spread across his face, his eyes and mine locked. He lowered his arms and dissipated.

Credit is Due

2006-08-24T18:20:00.000-05:00

What you are looking at here is Chicken Curry with Fruit. Since I credited Sam with his marvelous lasagne I felt that equal time was owed to Chris who made this lovely dish for dinner tonight.

The clay baker belonged to his great grandmother Helen, my mother's mother. I have the original cookbook with her notes, but made up this recipe to suit the season. This morning while I was on a break at work I sent Chris the basics on using a clay baker and suggested ingredients for him. He called me a little later for some clarification and then got busy.

Chris soaked the baker for 20 minutes and preheated the oven to 325. Then he gathered chicken thighs, 6 cloves garlic, 10 sliced dried apricots, and dried curry powder. He decided to forego the diced onion because he couldn't find any. When the baker was ready he arranged the chicken on the bottom then layered the rest of the ingredients. He put in a cup or so of homemade chicken stock and orange juice to cover. Then he lifted everything slightly so that the liguid would seep under the chicken preventing sticking. He covered the baker and put it in the oven. After a couple of hours he added a handful each of golden and regular raisins and a cup of jasmine rice. He put it back into the oven for another half an hour.

The apricots and raisins were plumped with orange juice and broth; the rice absorbed the excess liguid. Actually quite a simpe dish and it makes the kitchen smell really good.

Just a note, he could have put in coconut milk instead of the broth. I didn't suggest that to him because I like to use coconut milk for my vegetarian curries and I think that the minerals in the broth are good for the family.

No Need for Reservations

2006-08-20T18:35:00.000-05:00

This time when the phone rings it is not a client or a student or a colleague but the anxious voice of my youngest, "but what does bacon look like when it's done?" One of the great accomplishments this summer was getting the boys in the kitchen to rattle the pots and pans. Now that I am working later it's very difficult to provide nourishing dishes every night from whole foods. Pre-processed foods provide convenience but at what cost? Nutritional deficits, empty calories, unnecessary chemicals. Besides, I don't know how to use them. I wouldn't know what to do with a lean cuisine.

Luckily the boys have stepped up to the platter and either start dinner or with some on the phone coaching complete whole meals. This has been a blessing. On Sunday, one of the boys will go shopping with me and suggest menus. Then when we get home, we put up the weekly 'specials'--
As you can see, I don't put specific days up. Although some meals are based on ingredients from other meals (for example following roast chicken with chicken salad plates and soup), I like for the boys to have some flexibility in what days they get to cook.

Today was very exciting. Last week Sam made a double batch of tomato sauce with sweet Italian sausage and meatballs which he served on thin spaghetti. Now this is one of his standards, nothing big about that. What made it exciting was that the leftovers were to go into his first attempt at lasagne. We decided to do it today since this didn't seem like a good dish to coach over the phone. While lasagne isn't difficult, it is intensive and he felt that he could use a back up right in the kitchen in case anything went wrong.

Now what you see here, besides my sweet handsome boy, are several bowls holding the prepared ingredients. The large stainless steel bowl has tomato sauce to which he added some chopped tomatoes to thin it a tad. Behind that is another bowl with the left over meatballs and sausage which he used a potato masher to squash. You can just see the food processer in the back which he used to shred mozarella cheese to which he added a handful of grated parmesan. There is also a bowl with ricotta cheese with shredded mozarella and one huge double yolk egg, well blended. Oh, and right in front that is not Irish Cream Liqueur. In order to discourage mice, I put all of our pastas, grains, rice, and cereal in metal containers. In it are (yes, it is premade) lasagne sheets because we didn't have time to zip up some pasta this morning.

One of the reasons that Sam added chopped tomatoes to the sauce is that rather than parboiling the pasta, he used it from the box. This works as long as there is enough liguid in the dish. He put two ladlesful of sauce in the bottom of a rectangular casserole dish than fit in three sheets of pasta and 1/2 ladleful of sauce. He than alternately dabbed meat and the ricotta cheese mixtures and tamped them down lightly. Then, because it's summer and its fresh, he put on a layer of spinach leaves. He repeated this then on the top layer put sauce and the mozzarella/parm cheese mixture. The whole thing was covered with aluminum foil to keep the moisture in then popped into a 350 oven for an hour. Sound good? Looks good, too.

Rain Forest

2006-06-28T20:25:00.000-05:00

Memorial Day weekend in Atlanta featured the first heat wave of the season. Not to be deterred; there are just too many wonderful things to do and see there. One adventure my lovely sister-in-law Beth treated Helen and me to was an afternoon at the Atlanta Botanical Garden.

The gardens are both indoor and outdoor. Even the path from the parking lot gave a preview of multi-sensual delights. Among the shapes and colors of many common local flora were these gardenias. It seems to me that some of the most unassuming looking white flowers packed the biggest olfactory impact.

The outdoor gardens feature sculpture worked into the benches and landscape--lots of hands-on artwork. While this was fun, the real treasure was the rainforest exhibit. The entrance of the building features large terrariums housing a variety of jewellike and highly toxic South American tree frogs. The colors are phenomenal, slick greens, bold shiny blacks, reverberating reds, boundless blues.

The next step brings you into the exhibit itself. While the lobby features creatures behind glass, the next room is walking behind the glass itself. The rainforst floras are specific to their local conditions and the building replicates a variety of environments--high country, low country, valley, mountain, upper canopy, mid-canopy. Each room is temperature and humidity regulated and at intervals a hisss of mist is released over all.

(Clearly, for some people it was a bad hair day.)

Helen and I shared the camera and here is a small selection of what we walked among.

The most striking plant was in a room of its very own. This room was very thick with mist, the floor slick and the air full. I was actually concerned about bringing my camera in but when you take a peek, you'll understand why I did.

Looks carnivorous, don't you think?

One last impression that I got had to do with the thougtfulness of the professionals that put together these gardens. On the way to another building we saw a fountain that my skills just could not give justice to. The crown of this fountain is blown glass that caught and reflected the brilliance of the sun as the waterdrops did below. It is the centerpiece of a formal garden and retains the basic shape of a traditional fountain and yet also mirrors the wildness and exotic shapes of that alien plant that we just saw.

American Idolaughtry

2006-06-03T13:32:00.000-05:00

So if you come from 'round these parts, you know that this morning was the McClansVille homecoming party for local favorite....

Chris Daughtry.

The AI (American Idol, not Artificial Intellingence) Buzz has it that this guy is pretty nice. He's family oriented, he has lunch with school kids, he helps out with the PTA. Well let me tell you, well, it's true. And the community has really come out for him. What struck me the most walking around the field next to the near abandoned Mcleansville shopping plaza was how excited families were. How parents and young children had gathered together to wish Chris well. There were fathers pushing strollers and boosting children up on their shoulders. There was a contest to see who oldest fan was (it was a Fryar, not a Clapp). Parents and children, like those to your left, had planned on this get together, made a project of it.

The event balanced backwoods tacky and small town endearing. The Harley babes and the stretch suvs--a bit over the top. Chris made it to the stage as the Eastern High School band (in full uniform--Cassandra, you are a real sport!) played 'We Will Rock You.' For their trouble, Chris and his family 'walked the gauntlet' patting the young musicians backs and smiling into the wicket of camera phones in teeny boppers sweaty hands. (Oh my Gawd, Oh my Gawd! Tiffany, I got his picture!) Chris gave a short talk to the elementary age school children cordoned off in a tent on the far side of the field.

Back on stage Chris was allowed by contract to sing one song. He asked the crowd who had the Absent Element CD then sang a cut by request from a young fan. Incidentally, someone is doing really fun artwork with that band. A little edgy for the school kids, but very attractive to teens.

The hosts had solicited questions from the crowd. Chris shared such points of interest as he has two pets, a guinea pig and a bunny. They'll probably leave Mcleansville but will stay in Guilford County (Irving Park maybe?) He really liked meeting Billy Bob Thornton ("who?" asked a teen next to me. "Angelina Joli's ex-husband." "Who's that?" If she was a boy she would have known). Perhaps of greater interest to rock and Chris fans is it's an uh-uh on these guys but he intimated that there may be something brewing here.

(Now don't get me wrong. I'm all for an up and comer's success, but EDDIE! What are you doing?)

If things don't go so well in the music industry, apparently Chris does have some other expertise. In exchange for two tickets to the Greensboro Americal Idol concert tour performance, a lovely woman donated her hair to locks of love. I must say that Chris and his wife Deanna did a credible job of shearing.

HoggFest

2006-05-21T11:23:00.000-05:00

Yesterday Helen and I dropped by Hoggfest , a community gathering to benefit a local gentleman struggling with the complications of single parenthood and cancer. There was food, a band and the crew from Neal's Hair Salon donating their services in exchange for a love offering. I sat in the chair first, then coaxed Helen into having her hair done.

I watched her, features muted in the softened light of a shade tree while her long locks were trimmed, the excess hair blowing down the road. We didn’t speak, no point to it as the rocking band across the way entertained with speakers at jet decibel. A gray headed lady capered in the street, intricate dance steps ending in a jaunty kick.

We did forego the barbecue (vegetarian, moi) but I treated her to chocolate cheesecake with this season’s sweet strawberries.

Neither she, my darling girl, nor I spend time or money in hair salons; we are a woodsy, we are wooly, we tend not to invest in our vanities. But this event, a communal gathering, a community grooming no less, was a lightening not only of the excesses of harried hair gone wild but an excuse to practice generosity, nurturance, and support.

Sadhu, sadhu. I honor those who transformed community into opportunity.

The Harp

2006-05-11T12:43:00.000-05:00

The following is another of Helen's writing assignments. The class was shown one of those very sentimental pictures of a boy and a dog running along a stream toward a harp. The caption was 'It's true, it's really true."

This time I did do some tweaking with her, just a couple of suggestions to help her get from where she was in the rough draft to what she had accomplished in her mind. For the conception, the inception, the production, all Helen.

The Harp

Elliot no longer flinched when he heard the slamming of the broken shutters as the warm summer breeze rocked them back and forth. He was visiting his grandfather and was currently sitting in an old house on the plantation allowing the old mans words to pass by him.

"That melody," his grandfather gasped. "Every eleven years I hear it, again, and again. And every eleven years a young child disappears from the village! There has to be a connection!"

Elliot frowned. This was why he was here. Someone needed to take care of grandfather and somehow he had gotten "volunteered."

"Grandfather is just getting old," he had told his mother at the beginning of summer.

"Even better a reason for you to go and take care of him," his mother stated simply.

Now Elliot was stuck in an old house with an old man away from his home, his friends, and his plans for the summer. Instead of swimming, lazing in the hammock, or watching the clouds, he was listening to his grandfather's crazy mumblings, warnings, and random stories. Elliot was jarred from these musings by a shout.

"The stream! A harp!" Grandfather screamed. "I remember! I--" He stopped and closed his eyes. Soon he opened them again and walked into his study.

"Tch," Elliot sighed. "The old fool is trying to scare me."

He left his grandfather to his crazy studies. He had chores to do and it was getting dark. He walked outside. He paused to look at the landscape. The country seemed to stretch for miles. To the south was the village where his grandfather used to sell his crops when he was younger. Southwest was the forest where the "evil stream" supposedly ran. As the sun kissed the horizon sending out the last of its dying rays, the forest seemed to glow. Elliot inwardly shuddered. His grandfather's stories were getting to him. A dog ran out from under the porch as Elliot walked down the rickety steps.

"Hey Scotty," Elliot said to the raggedy terrier. He smiled. The dog was his only friend in this deserted part of the country. He accompanied Elliot everywhere. Elliot walked out and began his chores. He had to feed all the animals and clean the horses' stalls.

"Wonderful," he said sarcastically. He quickly finished his chores and walked into the house just as the stars peeked out from their dark blanket.

"Finished your chores?" Grandfather asked from behind the newspaper.

"Yeah," Elliot replied. Tired, he sat upon the sagging couch. A soft but sweet note broke the silence. Elliot stared and Grandfather went livid.

"I-I'm going to bed now," Grandfather choked out. "See you in the morning."

Elliot nodded.

"What could that have been?" he wondered aloud.

* * * *

Elliot woke with a start; sweat trickled from his brow. Light from the moon made pools on his floor. He had heard something; he still heard it. A soft, wonderful yet haunting melody sent shivers up and down his spine.

"Damn it!" he swore. This time his grandfather had gone to far. Obviously the old man had sprung a screw and was playing music to convince him that his stories were true. Elliot planned to confront the old geezer first thing in the morning.

"This has to stop! I'll never fall for this foolishness!"

* * * *

Morning arrived slowly. The soft music hadn't stopped until dawn and Elliot had not gotten much sleep. The music was embedded in his mind, driving him insane. He trudged into the kitchen. His grandfather was innocently sipping coffee and reading the paper. Something snapped in Elliot's mind. He stopped and glared. This did not go unnoticed.

"Elliot, are you all right?" Grandfather asked.

"Funny that you'd be concerned," Elliot snapped. "After you played that stupid music all night."

Grandfather paled.

"I didn't play any music. I-"

"Of course you did," Elliot interrupted. "You're trying to scare me! Don't you know that it won't work!? Your lies are as foolish as your crackpot stories!"

The two stared at each other from across the table, Elliot defiant, Grandfather at first shaken then his eyes narrowed.

"The survivor owns the truth only so long as he has the wit to tell the tale," he hissed. Abruptly he rose and left the room.

Elliot stared at his grandfather's retreating back, dumbfounded.

The rest of the day went fairly quickly with grandfather locked in his study and Elliot pondering his grandfather's enigmatic words. Evening rolled by and Elliot and his grandfather still hadn't spoken. Elliot walked out to do his chores. That's when it happened. The music started again. Elliot looked up from frothing bucket of milk he had been clumsily filling. He looked to the darkened house. The study light was off; Grandfather had fallen asleep an hour earlier. There was no way the music could have been his doing. It wasn't even coming from the house. It was coming from another direction.

"I think it's coming from the forest," he said aloud. Although his mind willed him to go back inside, curiosity got the best of him. He had to go look.

"It's no big deal. Scotty is with me. Nothing bad will happen," he tried to convince himself.

As Elliot walked through the forest, the tune got louder. The sun was setting quickly; it would be dark before Elliot got back. He pushed through the heavy brush until he found the remnants of a deer trail. Scotty trailed slowly behind him; ears perked for anything that would hurt his beloved master. The path Elliot followed began to slope downwards. The trees were bigger, knots of old vines slowed Elliot's progress in the growing dim. At last, Elliot got to the stream. Something splashed up ahead making ripples in the water. Elliot's head snapped in the direction of the new sound. His jaw dropped. There, bathed in the moon's silver light breaking through the dense canopy was a harp.

"So it's true, it's really true."

The strings shimmered. Elliot frowned. There were only eleven strings. If he remembered correctly, a harp is similar to a piano. It should have dozens of strings. He jumped from rock to rock until he was on the other side of the bank. He walked up and grabbed the harp. It was surprisingly light.

"Maybe if I take this back to Grandfather he'll remember the rest of his story."

Elliot carried the harp carefully to the other side of the stream where Scotty crouched shivering and whining.

"What's wrong, boy," Elliot asked, concerned.

Scotty replied by whimpering, putting his tail between his legs, and running off.

"Strange," Elliot thought.

Despite his burden, it was easier to get back to the house than to the stream. The vines seemed to have receded or perhaps Elliot had hit upon the true path. As soon as he got to the house, he put the harp in the corner of his room and covered it with a sheet. Then he went up to his grandfather's study. If he was awake, Elliot wanted to apologize for his behavior. Grandfather was nowhere to be found. The small black journal on the armchair caught Elliot's eye. He picked it up and flipped it to a page, which seemed to be covered with scrawling random musings--

"He died for me. Grandfather died for me. The witch. She would have taken me. She was, He did this, I can't believe it. He died for me."

Elliot tried to make sense of this rambling when the dulcet sounds of a softly strummed harp filled the air.

"Grandfather must have found it. He's playing the harp," he assured himself. "I'd better go and apologize."

What he saw when he walked into the room left him in shock and disbelief. The sheet was shredded and the harp had moved into the middle of the room by itself. There was an empty stool beside it. The harp strings glistened and shivered in the moonlight.

"Hello Elliot," a voice hissed from the stool. A thin woman with long silver hair appeared on the stool strumming the harp. "I've come for you," she said, laughter evident in her eyes.

"N-no," Elliot stammered.

What happened next changed Elliot's life forever. The witch lunged and tried to grab Elliot's throat. He ducked and attempted to kick her but missed. The second time she was successful and she pinned him against the wall. As the lights dimmed in Elliot's eyes, Grandfather appeared and knocked her away. Grandfather had a hatchet clutched in his gnarled hand, which he used to back the witch into a corner. Before he could strike, she disappeared. Elliot croaked a cheer from his bruised neck. It was all over.

Grandfather walked up to Elliot.

"Are you ok, son?" he asked.

Elliot wanted to thank, apologize, and hug him all at the same time, but he never got the chance. The witch reappeared behind Grandfather and stabbed her taloned hand through his back. Grandfather arced and screamed as the witch rooted around his spine with her poisoned fingers. Triumphant, she pulled back her hand and retreated to the corner.

"Oh Grandfather. I'm so sorry I didn't believe you. I didn't know," Elliot whispered to his grandfather's bent and crumpled form. His grandfather painfully turned his head to face his grandson. He smiled, closed his eyes, and passed into the unknown.

Elliot slowly raised his eyes toward the witch in the corner who stroked her harp lovingly. She tightened and tuned a brand new string.

"Perfect," the witch said, engrossed in her task. Without looking at the astounded child she continued while running her finger up and down the new line, "I was supposed to harvest you years ago, 66 years ago. You would have been so high and sweet and yet now," she plucked the bass note approvingly. "Now you are deep and resonant, a little sad. Sweet and sad."

She tilted her head to listen some more and noticed the crying boy. Her lips curled into small malevolent smile.

"He died for you as his grandfather died for him. I was looking once again for a high note, and listen to what the fates gave me." She plucked the string. A deep resonant note echoed through the room.

Elliot felt a snap in his traumatized mind. He felt something rising in him and come loose. The witch noted this approvingly, seeing the strands of sense leave him.

"The survivor owns the truth only so long as he has the wit to tell the tale," she said then waving her hand in front of his face she said, "Forget."

* * * *

Elliot never could remember what happened that night. A neighbor contacted his mother days later after he was found still hovering over his grandfather's lifeless body. For a while he mumbled like his grandfather once had, but he got over it. One thing he could not understand was the haunting melody of the harp that he heard every so often and how it seemed to change every time he heard it.

Bird Flu

2006-04-07T13:21:00.000-05:00

While there are many reasons to have a safety net, some food in the house, a full tank of gas if you can, the bird flu may not be the big bad that it sounds like. In fact, it seems to me a bit of smoke coming from the White House being magnified in the mirrors of the media.

First, take a look at this article published last month from an investigation by ABC news somewhat hysterically subtitled--

Bird Flu Has a Potential to Devastate the Human Population, but So Far Has Not Spun Out of Control

Don't bother to read any further than--

Here are two key facts to help put the virus in context:

Right now, this is a virus that primarily affects birds. More than 200 million birds have died or been killed, while 97 humans have died worldwide. Each year in just the United States alone, 36,000 people die from seasonal flu.

In China, the disease is widespread among birds. The World Health Organization has confirmed just 15 infections and 10 deaths among humans in a population of 1.3 billion people — a rate of one case per 86 million people and one death per 130 million.

Now, switch over to this article from the February edition of Grain--

Fowl play: The poultry industry's central role in the bird flu crisis

The whole article is thorough and essentially reassuring but you can get the drift from the introduction--

The deadly H5N1 strain of bird flu is essentially a problem of industrial poultry practices. Its epicentre is the factory farms of China and Southeast Asia and -- while wild birds can carry the disease, at least for short distances -- its main vector is the highly self-regulated transnational poultry industry, which sends the products and waste of its farms around the world through a multitude of channels.

So how about the the latest brouhaha about Asian birds bringing the nasties to Alaska (maybe we should forget about immigration and outlaw migration). The migratory birds that are carrying the virus are unlikely to survive the trip and if they do, who are they going to spread it to? It's not going to make it into our food supply from that corridor and I don't know when the last time a Peking duck sneezed in your face but it's unlikely that you'd catch it that way either.

You know who is really at risk with the bird flu? Other birds.

Now what is a pandemic? Let's ask Wikipedia.

According to the World Health Organization, a pandemic can start when three conditions have been met:

* the emergence of a disease new to the population
* the agent infects humans, causing serious illness
* the agent spreads easily and sustainably among humans

A disease or condition is not a pandemic merely because it is widespread or kills a large number of people; it must also be infectious. For example cancer is responsible for a large number of deaths but is not considered a pandemic because the disease is not infectious.

So what do we have? Less than 100 people worldwide seem to have succumbed to a flu that was previously found only in birds and these people are all in some way exposed to or associated with very unhealthy domestic poultry raising practices.

The crux is this and you'll find it over and over in the literature and in fact this quote from our fearless leader

"Pandemic flu is another matter. Pandemic flu occurs when a new strain of influenza emerges that can be transmitted easily from person to person"

What no one seems to be paying a lot of attention to is this repeated statement, and this is from the National Strategy for Pandemic Influenza

"...the virus has not yet shown an ability to transmit efficiently between humans..."

Now this is what a pandemic actually looks like--

The 1918 Influenza Pandemic

You'll note that the flu travelled where people came in contact with one another and at this time the rate of transoceanic travel had skyrocketed because of WWI. Like the British handing out blankets infected with small pox to the Colonists (the first recorded act of biological warfare on this continent, followed quickly by the same measure in an attempt to wipe out the eastern Indian tribes by the newly emerged American victors) it was just a matter of people with no immunity coming in contact with something rather nasty.

This is just not the case with this strain of bird flu. Although I do know some people who believe that the government, (that is, the shadow government, not the official one) is preparing to infect our population with the bird flu virus (possibly through the food supply or even through a random selection of those receiving the vaccine) in order to increase control over our population while decreasing frivolous energy consumption, I'm not in that camp. Just threw that one in for fun.

Keep yourself and your family reasonably healthy. That is actually the best defense against any virus. Your body is very clever. It's being bombarded with viroids, random strings of wannabe RNA just waiting to attach to some juicy nucleotides, ripping through the jelly of your cytoplasmic sea, swapping atoms in its desire to recreate itself. It happens constantly and we endure it. That's how we're made.

And the reports? Turn the tv off.

Helen's Etiological Myth

2006-03-23T20:00:00.000-05:00

"Mom? Can you help me with my homework? I have to write an etiological myth."

"Uh, sure Helen. But you have to do something for me first."

"The dishes?"

"No. You have to tell me what an etiological myth is."

And thus it began.

Helen explained and ran her idea by me. I was floored. I made one or two suggestions and she disappeared in the back for an hour. This is what she wrote--

Why the Willow Reaches Towards the Water
Ms. Vickory 2nd block

Willow and her husband, Laius lived in very hard times. In the Distant land there was little water and vegetation and great famine. Despite this, the couple was very happy with each other and even happier when Willow bore a healthy baby boy.

"We shall call you Nicholas and someday you will be as strong as your old man!" cried Laius. Nicholas gurgled happily with his new name.

Although the family was very poor, they were rich in happiness. Times were hard, but they always managed to get by. They never thought about what the things they didn't have; only how lucky they were to have what they did. One of the favorite things for the family to do was to go outside to watch the sun set and the moon rise, then count the glittering stars.

"How beautiful the stars are tonight," Willow whispered. Laius only nodded.

One evening while Willow watched the sun set, Laius called forth the moon, and Nicholas rolled and gurgled happily at their feet a new creature approached. Malevolent, lithe, and hungry the black snake fixed its onyx eyes on Nicholas. While Willow and Laius were focused on the sky, it slithered its way to Nicholas and laid a venomous kiss on the child's thin neck. Once dead the snaked dragged Nicholas back to its dark hole. Missing the happy gurgling Laius looked down.

"Where is Nicholas!?" He cried. Willow also looked down.

"Nicholas!" Shrieks of the hapless child's name filled the desolate land. The couple searched and searched for their missing son, but couldn't find him. Still searching they began to weep. Their tears flowed and flowed until it formed a river. Still they searched.

The Sun and Moon looked down with pity on the couple. It was partially their fault that Nicholas was gone. Willow and Laius had stood engrossed with the beauty of the sky as the creature stole their son.

"Poor humans," the Moon sighed. When Willow and Laius walked in front of the river, the Sun and Moon cast a spell on them. Their feet took root and their skin turned dull brown and hard. They turned into trees with branches outstretched towards the river, grasping for the child that had been taken from them.

Fever

2006-02-24T09:56:00.000-05:00

It's one of those nights when I notice the howl of freight trains, the chug and vibration that happens every night just far enough away to be unobtrusive, to be romantic, to be ignored. I hear it tonight because my mother ears are on. I'm attending. My son has a fever.

I hear rustling, moans as his temperature rises. My slippered feet make no noise but the clack of the switch, the sudden light in the hall registers behind his clenched eyes. His first words--

"Mom, do you have an important meeting today?"

It's been less than an hour since I tucked him into bed. He has no sense of clock time, no understanding beyond internal validity, his personal perspective, this moment his truth is absolute, a singular reality. He's rolling with fever.

"Dearest, I have nowhere to be other than with you."

I address the base elements of his illness, the heat, the dehydration all the while his words haunt me. His basic assumption, that I am so important in my work life, that I have importance to people other than him, that what I do for a living outweighs his needs terrifies me. Can I have possibly demonstrated to him that in the balance of work and family, in the continuum of a harmonious lifestyle I would leave him solitary, shivering in the chills of an indiscriminate virus? Have I been so pumped up on self-importance that I have neglected to tell him he is the absolute core of my heart?

And though I suspect it's not true but I wish it to be so I tell him--

"I'm here for you, my love. I'm with you. I hear you, always."

A Daughter's Help

2006-02-20T14:16:00.000-05:00

The horrors of teenage egomania and insensitivity, wisecracking cyncicism, a rewriting of Ptolemiac Theory where the base assumption is not that the earth is the center of the universe, but that I am. Wait, that's my adolescence.

I am blessed with a child, a girl child fourteen years old who brings to me her memories of her earlier years like choice grape clusters fresh from the vine, still dusky and sweet and cool from the overlapping broad leaves' shade. She says, "I remember" and it's 'we did this' or 'the tea party under the tree,' or 'we pretended and you fed us berries' and every effort I made to amuse or teach or nurture or love when I asumed they were too young to remember comes to fruition. Stocks split--we're wealthy beyond compare.

But now, now that she is fourteen we don't play those little games anymore. She doesn't lead her brothers to me in a crooked row saying, 'mama, mama, we're leaf eating dinosaurs, we're hungry' and I don't pass out leaves of lettuce to keep them until dinner. We don't dress up in broad newspaper hats and velour towel capes and picnic on the sundappled lawn keeping a wary eye out for the giant who could squash all of our cream puffs with one blunt fingered poke. We don't crouch on knees and elbows to count how many times an inch worm scrunches and stretches to make it to the end of a grass stalk.

We have replaced these with other activities and these are interesting and charming times on a different level. We swap the picnic tea for a trip to the Secret Tea Garden on State St. or just the two of us, we go out for sushi on Tate. We talk about history (which I know all about since I lived through it all) or the quality of the monsters in the LOTR vs that of the mythical creatures in Narnia. We walk together or snuggle and watch anime cartoons on TV. Her higher order thinking skills are kicking in--she's a flexible thinker and clever. And she is always helpful even if it's an activity like doing dishes that she doesn't particularly like.

Yesterday when we went clothes shopping she helped me go through racks. She pointed out the colors she thought would suit me and carried the clothes I pulled down. She is so used to me putting things back, changing my mind and ending up with nothing, she really wanted me to have something new. After trying on one outfit I realized that I must have lost some weight since starting working, which I of course announced through the dressing room door to Helen, and whoever else in the world might or might not care. Smug, well, maybe. We went back to the rack to see if there was a smaller one but no luck.

Ever helpful, Helen held on to the outfit. Her mind and her heart in tandem worked on convincing me to let the moths out of my wallet and buy something for myself. She held the suit a little out of my reach.

"I really think you should buy this size." she said with unusual graveness in her blue eyes. "Don't worry, you'll grow into it."

Tagged, I'm It?

2006-02-12T19:03:00.000-05:00

I've been 'tagged' twice this week. Being a blogging neonate, I wasn't sure what that meant so I had to ask. Apparently this is kind of a game where I'm supposed to copy the questions or categories from the blog that tagged me, delete the other blogger's answers and put in my own. So OK, I can be a sport. In the spirit of self-disclosure....

The first one comes from ...slowly she turned, a terrific blog by my blogging mentor.

4 jobs I've had:
Group Home - everything from cook to supervisor
One hour photo lab technician
Substitute teacher for inner city juvenile delinquents
Exotic Dancer -- just kidding, mom. I turned that one down.

4 movies I could watch over and over:
Fantasia
Home movies--if I had any
Anything on IMAX
Ahh, how about LOTR on IMAX?

4 places I've lived:
Moores Mills, New York
Albany, New York
The Snow Belt in New York (brrrr)
Whew, North Carolina

4 TV shows I love:
I only watch TV when I'm passing through or someone else is watching it....

how about The Daily Show?
Teen Titans
Avatar, the Last Airbender
(yes, I have kids.)

4 places I've vacationed:
Atlantic Ocean beaches-Martha's Vineyard, Long Beach, the Outerbanks
Farms--in Pennsylvania and New York
Cities--NYC and Atlanta
My parents' house

4 of my favorite dishes:
Spicy stuff made with what's left in the vegetable bin
Laurie's soup with my complementary herb bread
The ones I have over coffee with women friends
My mother's white on white china

4 sites I visit daily:
Yahoo Mail
A&T University
search.com
(lately) Guilford County Schools

4 places I'd rather be:
A peace kuti in Thailand
An ancient olive grove
The canopy in the Costa Rican rain forest
The shimmer of a rainbow

4 bloggers I'm tagging:
Here's a tough part. I'm not really up on this but--
(Since I got to see his smiling face behind a huge arrangement of roses and delphineum the other day)
Billy the Blogging Poet
(and Billy, I did have to explain to my co-workers that I won't be hugging all of the men doing deliveries to the office)
Mary at Trinity Knot

Now from Trinity Knot, we roll a 'five.'

What were you doing 10 years ago?
Discovering the world through the eyes of toddlers/babies when my own eyes were heavy with lack of sleep

What were you doing 1 year ago?
Recovering my soul after working five years at a private Christian College

Five snacks you enjoy (in no particular order, as all snacks are created equal):
Almonds
Chocolate
Chocolate Almonds
Strawberries and bananas
Strawberries and bananas covered with chocolate. And almonds.

Five songs to which you KNOW all the lyrics:
Twisted (via Joni Mitchell)
All I Need is Food and Creative Love (Rusted Root)
Summertime (from Porgy and Bess)
O Holy Night
All the Pretty Horses
(The last three were the lullabyes I sang to Helen, Chris, and Sam when they were babies)

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
If I told you, you might tell my husband

Five bad habits:
There's no such thing as a bad habit, just a tendency that's misunderstood

Five things you like doing:
feeding people
writing
reading
meditating
hugging

Five things you would never wear, buy, or get again:
turquoise spandex unitard
for the rest, see here

Five favorite toys:
computer
the rag doll my grandmother knitted me
yoyo
kaleidescope
dirt in all it's various forms

Since she was so kind to tag me,

Laurie

Being Mom

2006-02-07T19:31:00.000-05:00

Some mothers dive into waters that are home to crocodiles in order to snatch their children to safety. Mothers face armed combatants without revealing their treasured babies tucked beneath the floorboards. Closer to home, there are mothers who sacrifice their health by making sure that the children have adequate food even if it means going hungry themselves.

All I have had to do lately to protect my child is try to reason with the cold stonefaced bureaucracy of a local school.

Last night I had my final (ever hopeful) meeting with the principal of Chris' school and his algebra teacher. While outwardly it was another predictably fruitless affair, I found interest in the intangibles. And I had a revelation that helps me to better understand the complexity of this whole situation. It was not in what anyone said or was trying to do. It's the subtext that gets me every time.

An interesting aspect of the meeting was in observing the principal. For the first time, she was not in her territory. The meeting was held at one of the district offices, where the school support team is centered. The School Support Officer hosted and the Middle School Chief Instructional Improvement Officer attended. What this means in base terms is that the principal wasn't the highest level of authority.

Purposeful illusion. That was what came to mind when I watched the principal's body language. In previous meetings this woman had done a bang up job of manipulating the heck out of me. She condescends, she patronizes, she sighs and puts on a show of patience while taking yet more time out of her busy day to deal with yet another uninformed parent. She is long suffering for the cause of the children. She makes an art of controlling people. But in last night's meeting, she almost seemed humble. Not humbled by any means, but carefully respectful. And so carefully, so artfully, she lied. In her oh so subtle way, she tried to push my buttons, just waiting for me to lose it and discredit myself.

It didn't work. But I must admit, she gave it a great shot.

What was most revealing, though, was Chris' teacher. This to my discredit, I think I made her cry.

Having finally steered this months' long debate to the core issue of inappropriate instructional practice, I was face-to-face with the instructor and the highest authority in instructional practice in the middle school system. Now the woman who holds the role of chief authority happens to be not only well educated but an experienced teacher and former principal. She has years of expertise not only in teaching but in people. She has discerning wisdom. She's empathic. She supports individual teachers actively yet has objectivity when dealing with parents. This meeting may have been an annoyance to the principal and last ditch for me but it had to be excruciating for the teacher. And I finally figured out why.

She's trying. She is really trying her best to be a good teacher. She is studying the literature. She is adopting theory and putting it into practice. She is following the rules. She is withstanding my criticism. Dang it, this should be working. Why isn't it working?

And without intending it, without empathic consideration, I broke through.

"Instead of making the classroom and tutoring experience so punishing, why can't you just reach out to him?" I asked. "Why can't you say 'hey, Chris, I have an idea that might help. Why don't you come to tutoring today, we can work on it together'"?

The Chief Officer picked up on it so fast I didn't notice and took the teacher out into the hall. The teacher didn't come back. I'm pretty sure that what I said made her cry.

Because she just can't do what I suggested. They don't teach that in college. It's not a measureable quantity. It's a way of being.

And with middle school kids, you can't fake it. They know somehow. They know who has it, who doesn't. And they are merciless. I mean, thirteen, they're just flat out cruel to the ones they like, imagine how awful they can be to the teachers they don't like. OK, don't imagine, remember. Remember then?

So Chris has been removed from her class and I am petitioning to have him and his brother removed from the school. It will work out until the next crisis.

At least I haven't had to swim with the crocodiles, but I hope that next time I will have a little more sensitivity and not BE a carnivorous amphibian.

Lunacy

2006-02-01T07:53:00.000-05:00

One time, before I am officially a crone, I want to dance with my sisters in the red tent. Hah!

Clear Channels

2006-01-29T15:20:00.000-05:00

On Friday I had a meeting with one of Guilford County Schools Support Officers regarding an ongoing difficulty that one of my boys has been having in school. What a shock to me when she chastised me for not communicating with the principal of the school. Apparently the principal had told her that I was not in contact with them--despite the 96 e-mails that I have in hard copies as well as electronic backups. In the interest of doing everything that I can to make this situation better for my child, I decided to sit down once again, e-mail the principal and reclarify the issue. In preparing to do so, I re-read all of the emails I had previously sent. That's when I found the following that I wrote on December 12. Except for taking out direct quotes from the principal and explaining in brackets what she said and deleting names, I present the following for constructive criticism. Please, friends, tell me--have I lost my objectivity? How can I be more clear?

Dear Ms [prinicpal's name],

In the interest both of clarity and for Chris' sake, let's try again.

In our phone conversation I expressed that I felt that after working for nearly a half an academic year with Chris' math teacher, I felt that a move to a different classroom may be appropriate for both his personal and academic well being. This was after Chris and I met with his team, we made commitments to a plan but that plan was not followed through. This was not an isolated incident but the latest in a series of inconsistencies in planning and execution stemming from the very first weeks of school. You said that a move was not possible since placement in classes was based on aptitude and EOG scores but invited me and Chris to meet with you and his teacher to discuss flexibility within the currently placed teaching strategy. You also asked if Chris was 'EC' and mentioned that in middle school sometimes adjustments for 'EC' children were necessary. I told you that Chris is in the AL program--I didn't know anything about 'EC.'

When we met you asked me to state teaching strategies that had worked in the past. I expressed some confusion since I am not an educational professional. I can speak for Chris as a parent but my knowledge of the latest teaching practices is limited. I had recently spoken with a math teacher who had explained to me a theory currently used in math instruction where a teacher gives a short mini-lesson, allows students to work in small groups to explain concepts to each other then the teacher once again goes over the lesson. I believed that this is the strategy that is in place in Chris' classroom.

I explained that it is my understanding that this strategy takes a great deal of coordination and monitoring on the part of the teacher and co-operation on the part of the students. I gave examples when this was not working for Chris as he was not getting enough direct explanation on the concepts from the teacher and that his peers were not always cooperative. I cited at least one instance when Chris had asked a peer partner for assistance only to be told "I know how to do it and I am not telling you."

In regards to your statement in yesterday's email--

[the principal claims that during the latest conference I had identified a series of teaching practices that happen to be what they claim to use in Chris' classroom and that even though they used these very best strategies, Chris was not making the grade]

First--I could not quite say what you claimed I expressed because (again) I am not an educational professional so I don't know what some of these things are. I do know that (again) it takes more cooperation, coordination, and monitoring for this model to work. This is just not happening. As well, as stated in the team conference, Chris has been isolated from peer learning groups and peer partners so he has missed out on these opportunities to implement important portions of this strategy.

Second--Chris has been ready and willing to go to tutoring for reteaching and has been denied the opportunity or he has gone to tutoring and has not been offered assistance. He has brought in his work but offered no instruction. In the last two weeks of attempting to access reteaching he has recieved instruction only one time. His experience of tutoring more closely resembles a study hall where he is given time and space to try to work out algebra by himself.

Third--when you asked what strategy might better this situation, I said 'direct instruction.' Because (again) I am not a teaching professional, I would like to clarify what I mean as 'direct instruction' rather than what might or might not be known as 'direct intruction' in any educational strategy literature. I mean that Chris needs someone who knows how to do algebra to explain to Chris how to do algebra.

In regard to Chris asking for help--

[the principal notes that during the conference I had asked what Chris needs to do to get help and the teacher said he needed to raise his hand and ask a question]

I explained to you that Chris has been asking for help since the beginning of school. His method of asking for help is to say to the teacher "I don't understand." I did not ask [teacher's name] what the etiquette in the classroom was (raising hand during class) but what her expectation was for questions. She said that the student needed to have a very specific question, for example--

"I do not understand whether to use the associative or distributive property in this function equation."

I explained that Chris has so many gaps in his understanding of algebra that it is not possible for him to form questions with this specificity. By gaps in his understanding I mean the concepts that he did not understand previously which were not explained clearly or were not retaught and that are necessary to perform the next set of operations in the sequence of Algebra I.

I have found evidence of these gaps in his quizzes. I don't understand why his teacher cannot look at his quizzes and realize where Chris is having difficulty and explain to him the correct procedures.

I explained that "Chris doesn't know what he doesn't know." This means that he thinks he is doing operations correctly because he doesn't know that he isn't doing them correctly until he gets his test or quiz back and the answer is marked incorrect.

Before we met last week you said that we were meeting to discuss flexibility within the parameters of the current teaching practice in order to better assist Chris in accessing Algebra I concepts. During the meeting you once again asked about 'EC' and explained that this refers to 'exceptional children' which I understand to mean children whose capacity to reach their potential is hampered to a degree outside of normal parameters. You said that you wanted to consult a program administrator for exceptional children. I did not then and I do not now consider this a necessary step and stated that at the time. There is nothing in Chris' performance during elementary school or his first year in middle school to suggest that Chris is 'EC.'

Chris is frustrated because his needs are not being met in the classroom. I was under the impression that last week's meeting was part of a process to develop flexibility in the classroom to meet his needs now. Chris needed his needs met two months ago. He has been damaged by the classroom practices. He has been humiliated and demoralized. Chris does not need for a team of people to observe him and pore through paperwork and spend more time talking. This will only extend his suffering and further erode his confidence and sense of self as a learner.

So. Now that we understand that a prolonged study by the SSST* is not necessary, please let me know what flexibility will be worked into the current teaching strategy in order to better meet Chris' needs and when will this begin to be implemented?

Peace,

Chris' mom

*SSST is the School Student Support Team which examines students and when appropriate refers them to Psychological Services for labeling (mentally retardation, learning disability, emotional/behavioral disturbance) and special services

What Not to Wear

2006-01-15T20:07:00.000-05:00

Perhaps on these pages I have gloated a bit. Yes, I am a master of the kitchen, a carrier of the cooking gene and practitioner of culinary expertise. I have tented my fingers and poked fun at those poor mortals who sieve stock down the sink or can't measure a tablespoon by eye. There is a downside to my genetic makeup. While in the kitchen, I am queen, in the wardrobe I am the family jester.

The fact is--my fashion sense, that is lack of fashion sense-- is legendary.

Jeans. Sweat pants. Ripped t-shirts. Knee length sweaters. Black, because I fell under the misconception that black goes with everyone and everything. And of course being the youngest, Second Hand Rose had nothing on me. As a child of straightforward country folk, my clothes were functionary. Form was secondary, my one and only consideration was that it covered the places that needed to be covered. And pockets. That's all I cared about. Pockets. And what did I put in my pockets? My jack knife. Twine (the kind from hay bales, of course). Acorn caps because I couldn't manage to whistle between my teeth. Worms. Yes, worms. I liked to fish.

Was this a problem? Not for me because as a child, I didn't do the laundry and I didn't do a lot of shopping. May I offer my mother, here on this page my deepest gratification. Thank you, mom, for allowing me to live past the age of twelve.

I have terrible taste in clothes and I really hate to shop. I hate changing my clothes in a little room with flourescent lighting. I hate full length mirrors. I hate price tags. I hate spending money on something when I would really like to be barefoot and draped in a poncho if it happens to be chilly. So after forty years on this earth, what has been the result? Brace yourself, I am inserting a picture here--

For the last year or so my mother has been gently suggesting that I might get a kick out of a show she enjoys called 'What not to Wear.' I only pretend to be thick, I knew why she repeatedly mentioned it. It's self improvement time!

A couple of weeks ago while getting ready to start a new job, I turned on the TV for background noise and guess what was on. Uh-huh. And guess what kind of a woman they were helping out. Yes again. A middle-aged woman who happened to be about my height and weight and wore the same clothes as she did in high school. Because she was in her comfort zone. Because then she didn't have to make any decisions. Because it worked once. Because her clothes were functional. And you know what else? Even I could see that she didn't look that hot. She looked frumpy. She looked like an old, old woman.

Oh, boo. I hated that show. I came up with every one of her excuses a beat before she came up with them. I held hope with her to have that hope squashed every time. And I took notes. And I took action.

First I pulled out all the clothes tucked around my room and examined why I have boxes and bags of outfits that even in their era were hideous. And I didn't even buy them. And I never even wore them. People gave them to me. It's like this. Someone, say she's a size 12 buys an outfit that's a size 6. "I'll diet until that fits me," she thinks. A year goes by. She's a size 12. Two years go by. She's still a size 12. Ten years go by--and she says--"Ahh. ZhaK. She looks to be about the right size. I'll give it to her!" And because I love the person (and have absolutely no taste) I take it! It's never about the style or the color or the material. It's all about the size. And what do I end up with? Take a breath again. Another picture.

Yes, this lovely TURQUOISE LEATHER outfit is a delightful floor length slim cut skirt (to make it impossible to walk) and knee length oversized puffy jacket has padded shoulders and false pocket fronts. This, this outfit is, it's the family fruitcake of the fashion world. It has been handed around from person to person year after year after year because no one really wants it but no one wants to throw it away.

Last week I took all of the clothes that I don't wear, that don't match anything, that don't fit, or how about this? are just flat out hideous and stuffed them in a Planet Aid receptacle. They're gone. Maybe they can be buried and recycled as fossil fuel or fertilizer some day. Don't know. Don't care.

So this is what I'm left with.

It is very far from perfect but it will get me through the first couple of weeks of work. In most cases, the necklines are too high and the skirts are too long. The blouses are too plain, the skirts way too conservative. But they will do as I pick up real clothes, appropriate clothes, fun clothes and for the first time in my life, clothes that actually look good on me because it's OK to consider form as well as function.

Homework

2005-12-01T14:29:00.000-05:00

The other night Sam gave me homework. He needed to ask someone older than 21 what was the most significant political, scientific, or social change that occurred in their lifetime and how this change made an impact in the personal, local or global arena. Hmm, one to ponder.

I told him that I believe that there has been a shifting consciousness over the last 40 years that has been nurtured and supported by the technology that helps human being to communicate and share information amazingly quickly. I told him that people are growing past 'tolerating' individual differences, past 'accepting' individual differences, currrently passing 'celebrating' individual differences and moving toward difference as a non-issue.

I told him that in the past 40+ years people have started on a small scale to take care of themselves, the people next to them, and recognizing that others be they in the house, next door or around the globe are connected and that small action is effective action.

I told him that in the past 40 years people have banded together for their day-to-day living and by doing so, built their own networks. That because of this, as tyrannical governments fell or collapsed or exploded or imploded, there was an infrastructure available so that they could shoulder on and continue. That bloodless revolution and non-military solutions are becoming more common.

I told him that when his grandmother was a girl, women were considered inferior to men, African-Americans (then called coloreds) were considered inferior to whites, that Asians were called Orientals and considered weird and exotic and that Native Americans weren't considered at all. I told him that people who had physical, mental, and emotional challenges were sent away from their families and hidden. That western society had only one model family that was idealized through various media and that anyone that didn't aspire to perpetuate this nuclear cluster of heterosexual couple with children was either not acknowledged or stigmatized.

He asked me if people who wore glasses (a physical flaw) were stigmatized and I told him only if they were women! My mother stumbled through high school half blind because she wouldn't wear her glasses. She got the reputation of a snob because she wouldn't respond when others waved at her or smiled in the hall. It didn't occur to them that to her, they were colors and blurs.

I told him that his generation is the most wonderful generation because they are born in the cusp of this universal change to loving kindness. That he and his brother and sister bless me with the company of other children of widely different religious and racial and social and economic and political and physical attributes and not one of these differences ever enters their radars.

I have shared these questions with others and have gotten a variety of responses. If anyone wishes to help Sam and his classmates expand their awareness of how they have gotten here, please leave your perspective in a comment. I will give them to his teacher as well as compile them for a future blog.

Cuz'n John and the One Legged Turkey

2005-11-24T12:00:00.000-05:00

The first glimmer of stars could be seen from the kitchen window before Cuz'n John arrived that Thanksgiving Day. Dawn way upstate in New York comes late in November, dusk creeps in early, winter is at hand. There is a carpet of snow, the air is crisp but the kitchen is warm and inviting.

It's all right that John's not on time. There had been a number of timing mishaps that day, not the least of which was an incompletely thawed turkey and a temperamental oven. Although we put the bird in around noon, it was still stiff in the joints four hours later. Steven had made the suggestion that we cut the drumstick and thigh off one side and cook them separately in order to speed things along.

When John came in the back door, breath swirling around in misty clouds and cheeks bright red I was just pulling the turkey out of the oven. He and Steven were exchanging greetings when he caught sight of the mangled bird. Steven caught him looking twice.

"Yup," Steven said. "That was some one legged turkey."

John and Steven had met only once at our wedding two years before but they got along very well. For some reason they connected, seemed to understand each other or perhaps recognized some underlying commonality. For whatever reason there was none of the discomfort or formality that I see when my husband is with others in my family.

"You had a one-legged turkey?" asked John.

"Yup," answered Steven. "It was last summer, Helen was just beginning to walk. She was out in the backyard a little away from the pasture. Well, she wandered a little too far, was headed for the dairy barn. We could see her but she was just out of hearing range, not that she'd come on call. Well Walter comes swinging around on his John Deere round the barn. He didn't see her and he couldn't hear us over the sound of the tractor. We went running but it was too far. Good thing there was that turkey."

"What turkey?" asked John.

"Well there was this turkey in the barn. It had hopped up on the sill and saw Helen standing there right in the way of that tractor. It spread out it's wings and jumped in front of the tractor, wings flapping and making a horrible noise. The farmer swerved and stopped and didn't hit Helen."

"Wow. Your daughter was saved by a turkey?"

"That's right. The turkey, though, it got hit on its side, broke one of its wings and crushed its leg. The farmer was going to put it down but he gave it to us instead. After all, it was kind of a hero. We kept it in the backyard as a pet until it got too cold for it to be outside."

As Steven spoke he turned and picked up a long sharp carving fork.

"So where do you keep it now?" John started to ask when Steven speared the turkey in the pan and hefted it over to the platter, its one leg dangling, bone sticking out of the side toward John.

"Oh my God you're going to eat the hero turkey!" said John. "How can you do that? It saved your daughter."

John looked at us, incredulous, his nervous eyes reflecting concern and not a little disgust until he realized we were both leaning back and smiling.

"John, I love that you can believe things that are so impossibly stupid" I said and gave him a welcome hug.

Happy Thanksgiving Day.

Daddy

2005-11-18T21:33:00.000-05:00

The car veers slightly as the driver's head pokes out of the window.

"Look at that. Is it a hawk or a buzzard?"

You have a relentless interest in the earth, the sky and appreciation for all the beings that populate the space in between. The best meteorologists are those who live close to the earth who feel the wind and notice the sky. It doesn't take a super Doppler and a degree to know when to open the windows or batten down the hatches. It comes from noticing, caring, making connections. I learned this from you.

All being are worthy of notice. A man whose body rebels against insect attack dons a safari hat, veil, and ridiculous white coveralls and pokes into the home of a trillion bees. It's not for the reward of stolen honey. It's the process-providing a home for these productive creatures, a hive as a whole organism and each part is infinite perfection. Not one of these creatures is expendable. You pull a single drowning bee from the pool. Convince us that it can be resuscitated and if it doesn't make it, tell us gullible children to 'take its number.' Every tiny being is kept track of and cared for.

Meandering is not aimless. A walk in a centuries old orchard yields evidence of the cycles of life-rabbit and deer spoor, ants and ant lions, footprints, barely audible rustlings. A bird dives from a tree and drags its wing along the ground. You point out a nearby nest with tiny beaks thrust in the air and put distance between it and us, we are human interlopers. You watch, you teach, and we learn to observe but not disturb.

When a mangy fox shows up under the porch or a spitting raccoon inhabits a nearby tree you know what to do. We learn strength and mercy.

Even without the Internet or Library of Congress, you can answer our questions. "Get the book," you say. Small hardcover missives on birds or trees or insects are always accessible on the shelf behind the library door. We feel free to consult them, our little hands wearing the pages in replication of your example. We learn to verify, to study, to draw accurate conclusions.
Children absorb what is around them. They notice everything, especially the minute. It takes patience and a willingness to set aside daily distractions to join with them in their discovery of this incredible world that we inhabit. The car veers to the side of the road and all the heads pop out the window.

"See, it's a hawk, see the tail? My father taught me that," I tell them.

Fast Food

2005-11-17T15:51:00.000-05:00

"Chris's project took a long time," I told Sam as we skimmed the shelves at the grocery store. "We need to do the shopping chop-chop."

"Chop-chop shop. My favorite," answers Sam with his usual Eeyore-like delivery.

"We'll need to make something easy for dinner tonight or we won't eat until breakfast."

As we walk through the produce section Sam helps me brainstorm ideas for good dinners. He is very helpful in the grocery store and it primes my pump to have someone bounce around ideas. As well, we talk about balanced meals, what's on sale, and how base ingredients can be combined in different ways. All of my kids understand that today's meatballs and sauce may go into tomorrows lasagne and the tail end may show up stuffed in peppers on Saturday.

"Look, they have chicken roasters on sale."

"Can we have chicken cacciatore tonight?" Sam looks hopeful.

"Well, not tonight. First we roast the chicken. Then we use the bones to make stock and the next day strain and reduce it and then the next day..."

"We have chicken cacciatore! Yea!" Sam finishes. "I'll pick out the mushrooms"

The meat department almost defeats me. Even though I cook meat dishes for the family every day, it is still difficult to get the creative juices flowing while poring over shrink wrapped slabs of beef and factory stained hunks of pig. And the prices are outrageous. Steven and I have struggled over the last five years as each week the grocery bills have increased. It's not just the kids are getting older or that they have more guests more often. Food prices have been rising and the sales are not as generous. I heard this morning that nationwide there will be up to a 5% jump again because of energy costs.

"How many dinners do you have?" Sam asks when he catches up with me.

"Let's see. Roast chicken, Chicken Cacciatore, I guess we can get those smoked pork shoulders--they're on sale and that will be a real quick and easy dinner."

Sam doesn't look thrilled anymore.

"I guess we can have beef stew," he ventures.

Sam is so sweet. He does not like beef stew--something about the texture and the thickness of the gravy. But he knows that Helen and her best friend Kelsey really like it. It's a concession for him to suggest it.

"How about marinated beef chunks on the grill with pasta salad?"

"Yea" he says once again.

Stocked up with produce and meat, we head down the first aisle.

"So what are we going to have tonight?" he asks again. (Poor boy must be hungry)

"Well we need something really fast. We could have that pork."

He at least tries to hide his disappointment. We stop in the aisle and I think.

"I know. This will be really quick. The shrimp was on sale for $3.99. If you peel them for me I'll make shrimp in a marinara sauce on angel hair pasta and we can buy some croutons and I'll make you a Ceasar's Salad."

For a second, I get the weird feeling that I'm standing naked in a spotlight at the First Baptist Church. A wave of disapproval crashes around me. It's not from Sam. He's jumping up and down.

"Angel hair pasta! Shrimp marinara! Yea! Ceasar salad, with anchovies too Mom?"

"Of course," I say, slightly distracted by the aura of negativity I feel building around me--and I look up. A woman in a nurse's smock and sensible shoes glares at me between the Hamburger Helper Cheesy Favorites and the Stroganoff-in-a-Bag. She drops some boxed dinner into her basket and hurries down the aisle.

In that little moment I felt her dissatisfaction flung in my direction but not directed at me. I recognized her as a person who felt she had not had a break in far too long. Who was carrying too many responsibilities, working too many hours for too few rewards. I looked at Sam skipping down the aisle in search of croutons and realize how fortunate I am. It's not that I don't have responsibilities or time issues or personal difficulties--we all do. I feel so fortunate that despite the pace and pressure of my life those external forces can't blindside me. Within the cycles and pulling tides I am mindful of the meaningfulness in my life, the wonderful people and even, fast food.

Change of Seasons

2005-11-13T20:37:00.000-05:00

While putting away fall and pulling out warm woolens I find a scarf tucked away in the attic. I sit back on my heels and remember...

Long fingers of sunshine reach through the gaps in the morning glories that have overgrown our secret place; they stroke your cheek. We are face to face, you with your short fleshy legs spread straight out, my legs encircling you, your hips just in reach of my bare toes. You are searching for the hidden pictures in your puzzle book with complete concentration, your lips pressed together, glistening, like the crumpled and still damp wings of a blue bottle neck butterfly that has just ventured into a new world. As you find each hidden treasure your lips part, and you whisper "fin' it."

I reach past you for a battered green wicker basket that is loaded with mismatched balls of lamb's wool. Rooting through it I find a crimson hank and attach it to the motley shawl I am making for your sister. It is warm enough now but fall is stealing in like the friend who no longer knocks, she just shows up on the couch while you're not looking. In just a few more days I will be wrapping your sister like a gypsy, sheathing her like the iris and day lily bulbs we've snuggled away under mounds of sycamore and sumac leaves against the morning chill.

You don't even notice as I turn the shawl and spread it over our bare knees. Part of me counts, single, double, double, slip, but by now I don't have to look at the stitching. Instead I look at a strand of the sun gold hair that has slipped from your braid. You are looking at a stray oak leaf that has drifted into our little haven and has fallen on your page. You grasp the stem and run your fingers over the veins. Expressions pass over your face, absorption, curiosity, amusement, in an ever-changing stream. I cannot resist-I say--

"Hey, Sammy."

You tilt your head and I see how your face only carries a hint of baby roundness. Your eyes with their fringe of dark eyelashes have the deepness of the twilight Carolina sky. I am suddenly struck by the bare beginning of a real resemblance to your father and for a moment I can't speak.

You hold the leaf toward me in the flat palm of your extended hand, smile broadly and say "for you."

Farms in Decline

2005-11-11T09:14:00.000-05:00

The New York Times recently published an article about the difference between organic and sustainable farming practices which mentioned a dairy in upstate New York about twenty miles north of my hometown.

As a native of the Hudson Valley, where Ronnybrook Farm Dairy is located, it is shocking to visit and see the demise of the family farm. As a child in Dutchess County many of my friends were from dairy farming families. Most of these were very small affairs where one of the parents also held an outside job. Others were owned by the very wealthy who hired farm managers for the day-to-day business. Less motivating than the tax write-off was the desire for their children to grow up with the farm experience--hard work with intrinsic rewards that offset privilege. One notable gentleman farmer who always gave me a thrill when I saw him in town was James Cagney. He retired 'upstate' and personally raised Scottish Highlanders on his small farm. Another 'wanna-be' farmer was a quite elegant and esteemed actress. She bought a dairy farm near Amenia, just over the border in Connecticut, specifically to expose her children to a more healthful lifestyle. Within a month she sold all her stock. A friend from Amenia told me that in a magazine interview she explained, 'I didn't realize that cows have an odor.' (That comment didn't make her very popular at the local grocery store.) To her credit, she does support the Connecticut Farmland Trust which must decently upwind from her property.

Notably, all of these farmers used some sustainable practices. A bike ride through the county from early spring to deep into the fall showed expansive hillside pastures dotted with meandering cattle, their black and white hides contrasting sharply with lush green or bright autumnal backgrounds. Cows, by the way, are incredibly resilient creatures. On warmer days in the winter and especially during the January thaw, they slogged through mushy snow and mud to soak in fresh 'dairy- air' and sunshine. (You can imagine, the Far Side was a favorite comic strip of my peers.)

While my mother was wary of 'raw' milk, my favorite dairy beverage was a fountain drink. We would line up in the barn--kid, cat, kittens, kid, waiting for an obliging older brother or cousin to shoot us a stream straight from the udder before hooking an ever-so-patient cow to the milking machine. My mother, by the way, was a wiz with laundry.

Because of its proximity to NYC, Dutchess County is now overrun with the affluent overflow of that megalopolis. With the influx of upper middle class professionals, the value of real estate skyrocketed. This had a two-fold effect on family farms. Acres of pastureland became hugely desirable to developers who cut up plots of land into tiny checkerboards of fractional acre lots. A small home in a bedroom community can cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Secondly, the time intensive, backbreaking labor and financial costs of running a farm with a marginal profit at best became less attractive as the family farmers aged. Ronny, who took over Ronnybrook's Farms from his parents, is in a small minority. Very few children of farmers can afford to stay in the area.

I see the same thing that began in the Hudson Valley over twenty years ago happening right now in Guilford County. While I understand that financial health is very important and the availability of jobs that pay a living wage is necessary, at what cost? The old Dutch farming families from Dutchess County are gone--died off, their birthright sold, their children drifted away. I am just now appreciating how privileged I was to grow up healthy and strong from the wonderful foods and outdoor lifestyle my parents so graciously provided me. It's crucial that we pull together and support the local farmer, sustainable practices, and the agricultural lifestyle before it becomes so much dirt before the bulldozer.

November 8

2005-11-08T14:24:00.000-05:00

If they were here or I were there, we would celebrate. I would make her shrimp curry with fragrant basmati rice. I would tell her a little fib, 'no worries, it's light coconut milk--there are hardly any calories at all.' I would make him cutlets from turkey tenderloin in a marsala sauce and a creamy risotto with freshly grated locatelli. I would offer her a Tsing Tao to cool the spice and give him a spritzer made from Dr Brown's Cream Soda and a shot of dark red Italian wine--sweet and warming.

And it would not be just me, the children would insist on helping. Sam would set the table for them with french white on white china and freshly polished utensils. Chris would be busy in the kitchen whipping chocolate and cream for a melt in your mouth mousse. Helen would carry them small trays with delightful treats, crunchy puff pastries with kiwi and strawberries.

And we would sit together and smile across the table. We would talk about school and art and politics and computer games. Or we would sit together and smile and not talk at all.

Then when the children had cleared away the dishes and crumbs, we would sit a little while longer and I would exact my charge for this wonderful time because at root, I am not a selfless person. My price would be an explanation; not the when, where or why but the how. How did you do it? How do you continue to do it?

How do two people align there lives for almost fifty years and continually support each other? How did you know the moment you saw her on the steps of the girls' dormitory that autumn afternoon and how did you manage to follow through? How did you recognize him and not let him slip away with all the stresses and demands of being a smart and dedicated and ambitious and talented young woman with the limited opportunities of the 1950's? How did you maintain your sense of self and your unity as a couple through the years long process of birthing, raising a family and letting go? How do you shape and align two separate lives into parallel strands so that neither one fouls but rather strengthens the other despite external and internal obstacles and tensions?

And they would look across the table at one another and smile. And in his eyes would be not 'my children's mother' or even 'my wife,' but simply 'Patty.' And in her eyes would be, 'how do you explain a no-brainer?'

Happy Anniversary to Pat and Dan Billeci, wed November 8, 1958.

Algebra

2005-11-05T12:19:00.000-05:00

"I got another email from your math teacher."

The silence itself echoes 'uh-oh.'

Chris is like the Florida weather pattern. He can go from sunny to sullen to stormy to sunny again in moments. He gets off the bus each day shining and smiling. He has transformed his grueling hour and three-quarter commute into an opportunity for fellowship and camaraderie. He bounds off the school's 'big yellow taxi' with buoyancy in his step--it's great to be home!

Mom can be such a downer.

The smile fades, the shoulders droop. He knows what it's about.

"Get your test and your math book. She said if you correct the problems that you got wrong, she'll give you partial credit and bring your grade up."

"Can I have a snack? Can I call Corey? Can I watch TV first? Do you need some help with dinner? I'm hungry. I got an A on my vocab test...." He has a litany of defensive munitions to delay the inevitable. One look at me and they peter out--duds.

His backpack thumping down the hall, head hanging. He complies.

From 5 to 9 is the busiest part of my day. The boys arrive home at 5:10, Steven at 6, Helen at 6:45. Dinner is central; it's not only time for nourishment but decompression, communication, unity. Because of their ludicrous commutes, dinnertime has been pushed to the limit so that no one is left out. Adolescent boy appetites must be curbed but not crushed, dad needs to be met and appeased, dinner needs to be heading for the table as a famished Helen trudges down the driveway in the dark. It's an acrobatic juggling of needs and attention far removed from the solitary stretches of silence during my days.

As I check simmering pots and peer into the darkening street I see Chris lounging in the livingroom.

"Math done?"

"Yup."

"Please set the table then. I'll look at it after dinner."

Dinner is not complicated, but my mother-in-law is right, I'm prodigal with the pots and pans. There's a mountain in the sink, overflow on the counters. Helen needs to be quizzed for Ancient History. Sam wants some help with vocab. First, though, I want to check over the easy stuff and glance at Chris's grudgingly proferred torn sheet.

It's a mess. Nothing is numbered, the equations are not on line, there's no spacing, the problems aren't written out. I ask for the test to see if what he has scribbled here and there makes any kind of sense. Algebra. I feel tension arising, irritation.

"Chris, you have to do this over. Put the number of the problem, the answer and then show your work. The teacher needs to see what you're doing so she knows that either you know what you're doing or what she needs to teach you." The tension is arising again, scritch-scratching like a small rodent in a low vector of my brain. I push it away, like the limp hair over my eye.

"No."

"What?"

"NO. I don't get it, all right. She didn't teach it. I don't understand how to do it. I hate school."

"Chris, just do it. Just do it like I said, lay it out so it makes sense." The rodent is scratching behind my eye. I am more irritated then I should be but I don't have time for this. I need to do the dishes and that can be done at the same time as quizzing the others. Chris stomps off to his bedroom and I have a moment.

Why is this tension arising? Mentally, I step back and look at it. What is at it's base?

Algebra. Equations. I remember doing it, if not how. Bringing home these problems. Asking for help. It was my dad who showed me the way to format them. Laying out the problems in rows and columns, lining everything up as if it was on graph paper. Allowing space on all sides so that there would be room for each operation. How I loved the neatness of it. Like puzzles that could take off in any direction but would eventually lead to one unequivocal solution. I loved that. Where is this tension coming from?

Not the time. I thrust my hands in warm soapy water. Helen's questions are taped to one window, Sam's vocab to another. I shoot off questions and simultaneously listen to their answers. Probe my irritation like a sore tooth then just let it go. Giving hints, rinsing pans, scrubbing the sink. Done.

By eight the kids have on their pajamas. Sam is heading to his room, Helen settling on the chair.

"Mom, come watch the Daily Show with me" Helen says. It's part of our ritual. I learned about politics from reading Doonesbury, Helen is picking up on current events with Jon Stewart. Generation gap?

"Just let me talk to Chris, I'll be right there."

Chris is lounging on his bed, listening to a cd. I ask him for his homework.

He has neatly written on every line "I don't know."

The repressed tension comes bubbling to the surface, so out of proportion to this incident in a series of incidents with kids and school work.

"Get another piece of paper now. What's the first problem. Write it now." The orders are terse, direct, military-style and full of contention.

Chris's tension is tangible, his body stiff and jerky. He is beyond argument.

I direct him on what to write and where. Name, there. Number, there. I flip through Chapter 3 of his textbook trying to figure out how to separate the 'x' from the 'y' while the rodent gnaws on my optic nerve. This is nothing like the straighforward text I remember--a little red book with small print and no pictures. No, this looks more like an eclectic web page with all the links broken. Word problems, life activities, big full color pictures--where are the explanations?

I call Helen in.

"Do you know how to do this?"

"Hmmp. Yeah. It's easy. Just do the distributive property there, got a calculator? then combine like terms and subtract that from both sides and there's the answer."

And it clicked. And I remembered. And the confusion and frustration started to dissipate and I saw the little man behind the curtain, the rodent with the sharp teeth and nasty claws and it was fear.

Chris did the problem while I worked on the next one. When he was ready, I did it in front of him step by step on scrap paper then had him copy it, step by step and it started to sink in and his shoulders dropped from his ears by a tiny space. By the third problem, he got it. It made sense now, he had it forever. As he copied it onto his homework sheet I told him what I remembered.

"You know Chris, I didn't take algebra until 9th grade. We had this teacher, Bert, Mr Bertolozzi but we called him Big Bert. And he was big. He was the football coach too and the track coach. I remember how he tried to explain things sometimes and we would just not be getting it. He would start to get frustrated and explain it again but he was kind of tense and he'd glare around the room. He would go over the same thing over and over and his voice would get louder and thirty narrow ninth grade butts (yeah, we had big classrooms and little butts) would slide backwards in the seats but the seats were connected to the desks so there was no place to go."

I watched my boy as he finished the problem and started to listen. I watched his lower lip loosen. I saw a break in the tempestuous clouds.

"So one day while he's glaring around the classroom, frustrated because not one of us could give him a glimmer of hope and the bell was going to ring and he had explained this operation in absolute terms for the third time he looked up and roared like a dare 'So. Any questions?'

I looked around at my classmates pressed backwards with their heads pulled back and their eyes on the cracks in the floor and I sat forward and raised my hand.

Bert got a suspicious look. His eyes narrowed slightly and I saw a little twitch under his bushy moustache. He sighed.

'Yeah, Billeci. What's your question?'

'Why do you have maps in your classroom. This is a math classroom, not a social studies classroom and you know, we don't have maps in the social studies classroom.'"

Chris, whose eyes were finally up and level with mine giving just a hint of a smile, tropical sun breaking through the wall of cloud.

"And you know what Bert did? He took both his hands on either side of his head and grabbed his hair and started to pull. "

Chris's smile widened, the clouds streaked away and in his face was the brightness clarity of a semi- tropical afternoon.

"Don't you love to do stuff like that, Mom? Isn't it great to make everybody laugh?"

"Yeah, it is. 'Cause you know, we all loved Big Bert but he was a little scary sometimes. And for me, I always felt like I had to be the 'smart' one 'cause I wasn't the 'pretty' one and I wasn't the 'social' one. If I didn't have smart, what did I have?

And algebra was hard for me to get at first. And it was scary that maybe I wasn't so smart after all. So sometimes, I needed to laugh, and we all did. And you know what? The bell rang for the end of class and Big Bert laughed too."

Anyone Can Bake

2005-10-22T22:31:00.000-05:00

I knew her not as 'who' but as a 'what.'

What is a 'grandma' ? A grandma is old.

Math tells me that she was 57 the first time her youngest grandchild was laid in her arms but from my childlike perspective 50s, 60s, that was OLD. I know now that old doesn't mean much to a kid. Some years ago Helen presented her grandparents at her second grade show and tell. After an elegant introduction of 'this is Grandma and this is Grandpa' she opened the floor to discussion. One floor wriggling classmate immediately asked "How old are they?" Before my father could give his stock answer (old as dirt), Helen leaned to her peer and with unreserved diplomacy whispered to him "It's not polite to ask old people how old they are."

So what is my Grandma? Cheddar cheese gold fish. Crossword puzzles in ink. Undiluted and undivided attention. These are the things that made a lasting impression.

I only 'knew' my mother's mother during the last quarter of her life. She had already been formed/formed the place she would stand until the end of her life. That she had broken barriers to attain a college education, had a career, birthed and raised my mother, were peripheral. She was the person who opened the door so I could (easily) scoot under her arm on the way to the warm kitchen, to the toybox, to books, and a little engine that went huwuhooooooomph! when a thirty pound child sat on it; these were the important things.

With the confidence that only the most priveleged child can bear I once begged the gift of an old cookbook from her shelf, a household tome she had picked up decades earlier. This was a book that she had held if not dear, at least persistently from one age to another, and I remember my irritation as she actually hesitated before she passed it on to me. The fly leafs had her trained but distinctive looping handwritten recipes for 'Scotch Orange Marmalade' and 'Christmas Pudding.' Yet she granted it to me from my simplistic explanation that I wanted to practice 'how to set a table right.'

I'm picking up that cookbook, 'Anyone Can Bake' and a recipe cut from some forgotten newspaper falls out. There's no flag, no date. The recipe is for meat loaf made from pork, beef or lamb heart. It's offered with a menu rounded out with "scalloped potatoes, broccoli, and sliced tomato "from your Victory Garden." But what strikes me is the 'filler' blurb in the corner of the page. It reads--

"Save Tin Cans and You Save Lives.
Two tin cans furnish enough tin to make a syrette.' One syrette holds morphine to deaden pain 10 to 14 hours. Millions of syrettes are neeeded NOW. So keep on saving your tin cans."

I know what my Grandmother was and is to me. She made me the center of a universe. She loved me obviously, surreptitiously, brazenly, constantly. My daughter bears her name.

I am at a loss.

How can I conceive of who this grand woman was?

Don't Try This at Home

2005-10-19T10:38:00.000-05:00

Recently I posted a recipe for Vietnamese Dumplings that was given to me by my good friend Kim and is featured in the FaithAction cookbook, Our Mixing Bowl . After the fall of Saigon, the educated Vietnamese as well as anyone connected with the Southern Vietnamese movement for democratic self-determination faced years of re-education and assimilation to the new government. In practical terms, this meant a reduction in status for themselves and their descendants. Teachers, public servants, administrators were largely relegated to agricultural pursuits in a country whose farming practices had not changed for millenia. After all, a rice paddy is a rice paddy and a stick is as useful a tool as it ever has been.

These individuals, though, had experienced a larger portion of the movement of the world than their predecessors. They were more widely read, many were professionals, they grew up under the influence of their native Asian culture tempered by the influence of Western Europe. This is particularly reflected in their cuisine, a marvelous amalgamation of local ingredients and techniques tempered with foreign styles and spices. It's the best of east meets west.

Kim, a former French teacher, told me that she and her children pocketed dumplings before heading out to the rice fields. It was their mid-day meal. While only the size of a fist, it makes for surprisingly filling and balanced sustenance. The filling is the same as that which is used for spring rolls with the addition of a quail egg and some pieces of sweet sausage.

On Monday, my daughter Helen and I celebrated the end of her midterms by doing some shopping. One very important stop was the Mekong market, tucked behind TJ Maxx on High Point Rd. The gentleman who worked there was very helpful, showing us where the dried mushrooms were and even suggesting the substitution of green bean thread for ground pork since I don't eat meat.

Upon arriving home, Helen and I immediately started chopping, shredding, giggling, and mixing in anticipation of a wonderful and special dinner. I must caution you, if you enjoy the ease and convenience of Chinese takeout DON' TRY THIS AT HOME. Once you savor the light crunchiness of a real spring roll, you'll never be satisfied with takeout fare. Since the fillings are the same, I make a double batch of it which yields 50 spring rolls and 18 dumplings--plenty to accompany a dinner of a simple stir-fry with leftovers for a week of lunches.

Agony of De Feet

2005-10-15T11:01:00.000-05:00

I never moved out of my parents' house; rather, I just sort of drifted away. During my college years, my parents were like the moon for my tides, allowing me the freedom to go out in the world, drawing me back with their stability and security during vacations and downtimes. It was an odd time for me, not knowing whether my world was still connected with theirs, not knowing on what part of the shore I should settle, the cove, the dune, the dark, dark sea.

And like tide lines at the beach, I left evidence in flotsam and jetsam where ever I briefly alighted. I left books, old clothes, photo albums, cookbooks like driftwood strewn in my wake. My parents were very patient with me during my twenties. It had to be irritating to them to be responsible for all this 'stuff.' Even I recognized that I left 'stuff' everywhere to give me an excuse to come back. I didn't have the wherewithal to understand that I needed no excuse, no rationale. All I needed to bring them was me.

Before there was a philosophy, a movement, a lifestyle, or even a show of questionable taste on Fox TV, my parents stood at the headwaters of Simple Living. They lived within their means, they accumulated only what was necessary, valued material goods for their use. My mother gardened, canned, preserved. My father was a sparing steward of land and resources. So it had to be difficult for them to deal responsibly with the debri I left behind. What do you do with 36 posters when it's time to strip the walls and paint? What is the value of a grinning Bucky Dent, a Brother's Hildebrandt rendition of Aragorn, a black and white portrait of the Knack when the 70's have slipped into the 80's edging into the '90s. Is it junk? Is it valuable? Whose decision is it to relegate it to closet, attic, burn barrel?

And was I any help? During those years I was drifting from one apartment to another, trying to stay afloat in the waters of service work--the boat along with the economy was sinking.

It took my mother 20 years but she has been successful at thoughtfully eliminating the clutter of raising three children in a centuries old farmhouse. All the rooms now are airy and light, the walls tastefully decorated with her own wonderful art, the furniture leaves the openness of each chamber unimpeded. There is a feeling of lightness and movement in that house, unlike the drag consummate consumers draw around and to themselves. The air around my parents feels buoyant, like gravity and inertia have lessened effect.

But still, 20-something years since I drifted away, some flotsam floats to the surface. Last summer when I visited, a T-shirt with a simple hand drawn design and the words 'Agony of DeFeet' lay on the guest bed in my old room. It came from a twenty-four hour relay race I participated in as a high school sophomore in 1979, a fundraiser for some forgotten need. I showed it to my brother who shook his head and wondered how it is that certain things still existed, still drifted ashore.

I thought about that time in my life. I remember so clearly staying up for twenty-four hours , rousing runners, encouraging the exhausted athletes, huddling in a sleeping bag with a stop watch and flashlight under the flood of the Milky Way. I remembered the intensity of having a cause, the exhiliration of working toward making a positive contribution. I remembered the thrill of victory.

I don't know, I wanted to tell my brother. I don't know why this or that was valued, was saved, was preserved. Maybe these things, this stuff just keeps bobbing along, arising and receding until we're ready to acknowledge them, to understand their significance. Maybe these things pop back up to remind us where we were so that we can better get our bearings on where we are now.

Oral History

2005-10-11T14:25:00.000-05:00

My parents used to have a box, handcovered in red vinyl. They kept it in a low cabinet in their library, a spot easily accessible to the short reach of little arms. Some summer evenings as the warm breezes filled the filmy livingroom curtains, one or another of us would be permitted to fetch the box. We would sit on the soft green wool rug, three of us spilling over my mother's legs as she opened it. Inside was the past.

The box was filled with photographs, black and white snap shots from my mother's family, my father's family. There were uncles in knee pants, dark haired grandparents standing stiffly in front of impossibly clunky cars. There were saucer eyed babies in long white dresses--I could never figure out how my mother remembered which of us was which.

As we pulled out photographs, my mother told us stories. The pictures were only the springboard--her stories were our legends. They were the visible edge of a history that still informs my choices today.

At the bottom of the box was a fuzzy close up picture of a rightly colored parakeet named Yak-yak.

"Tell us about Yak-yak!" we'd clamor.

"Yak-yak was a noisy bird," Mom would tell us. "We got him from the Bird Lady."

The Bird Lady was an informal breeder. She didn't own a pet store, she didn't order up her parakeets by the peck. Rather, she raised them from the egg and hand trained them from hatching. She dispensed instruction and advice with each bird she placed. Her most important guideline--

"Make sure that the dear feels at home, and part of the family. Let him out of the cage to fly, visit with you in the evening, share the family meals."

"We let Yak-yak fly around the house even though we had really low ceilings. Yak-yak would screech and squawk. One night when we were having dinner...."

"Chicken dinner," one of us would say.

"With mashed potatoes and gravy."

"That's right. We had a chicken dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy. I had my plate and Daddy had his plate and Yak-yak had his own little plate of bird seed."

"But Yak-yak didn't want birdseed."

"That's right," Mom would say. "Yak-yak watched me and Yak-yak watched Daddy and when Daddy wasn't looking--what happened, Daddy."

My father, with a pained look on his face would say.

"That bird walked across the table, got on my plate, ate my mashed potatoes and left gravy footprints across the tablecloth."

My sister and brother and I would roar, imagining that bird playing such a trick on my father.

A couple of years ago we opened our home to a fine feathered friend named Toukie-Bob. Toukie is a cockatiel. He is part of the family, he has the wing of the house. He's a great companion, an accomplished musician, and a bit of a clown. Thanks to the lessons of our oral history, though, we take some precautions at the table. As you can see, Toukie gets his own chicken dinner.

Sultanas

2005-10-10T19:14:00.000-05:00

Sultanas are a delightful, sweet, tiny, seedless raisin-- a specialty of Tuscany. How do I know this? I read it in a book. I have never had a sultana, never seen one, never chomped this little fruit and enjoyed its bright burst of its flavor.

We are very fortuneate to live in a place where such abundance and diversity are available. Even in pre-internet days, with diligence and good luck just about any ingredient could be found. I remember my family looking for years for 'orange flower water' for a specialty bread, Pandolce, I wanted to make. My grandfather finally found some in Key West and brought it to me.

But to me, the abundance that we can access also carries discipline. Having instant access to everything under the sun and moon doesn't mean that I should grab everything I can at any whim. Like eating strawberries out of season, preciousness suffers.

Some day I may go to Tuscany. I may savor the sweetness of this rare treat. I may sit under a tree at sunrise drinking strong coffee and break open a breakfast bread to find the treasures of raisins, sultanas, and candied citron.

Panettone

Grease a 2 lb coffee tin with

1 Tbls butter

Line with waxed paper then grease with

1 Tbls butter

Proof

1 Tbls yeast
1/2 tsp sugar

in

1/4 water

Sift

4 c flour
1/2 c sugar

Make a well in the center and pour in yeast and

3/4 warm whole milk

Draw the liguids into the flour until the dough comes away from the sides of the bowl. Turn the dough onto a board and knead for 10 minutes.

Rinse, dry and grease the bowl. Shape the dough into a ball and let rise for 2 hours. Beat in

4 Tbls butter
3 lightly beaten eggs
1/2 cup candied citron
1/2 cup sultanas
1/2 cup raisins
2 tsp lemon rind

until well blended. Re-cover bowl and ler rise for 1 hour. (It will be slightly risen, not doubled)

Put dough into prepared tin. Brush top with a little

butter, melted

Let rise for 30 minutes

Preheat oven to 400. Brush dough with

butter, melted

Bake for 30 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 350 and bake for 30 minutes, brushing once more during cooking time with

melted butter.

Remove from oven and allow to cool 20 minutes. Remove from tin and transfer to wire rack to cool upright. Serve complerely cold.

Crostata

2005-10-08T15:59:00.000-05:00

Twelve tablespoons of barely thawed sweet butter cut into 1/2 inch dice glisten in a bowl. The sifter poised over a hardwood kneading board holds two cups of flour and 1/2 tsp of salt. With a gentle rocking, the contents drift down making a mound, a slight depression in its center. I drop in the butter, 4 egg yolks, some sugar, splash in dry Marsala, and some lemon rind. The tips of my fingers become wet, sticky, and richly fragrant as I lightly work the ingredients and my mind drifts to my mother's kitchen and a much younger version of these hands tentatively kneading a rich dough.

I never gave it a second thought at the time, but now I am amazed that my parents gave in to my culinary obsession. My mother's shopping day was Tuesday and each Tuesday morning I presented her with a list before careening off to school. "I need cumin and achiote." "Sultanas, Mom, not raisins." "Pick me up some whole squid, please."

The dough is smooth so I put it in the refridgerator covered with a tea towel then start pulling out the ingredients for the filling. The filling is a rich and aromatic blend. I start with 2 1/2 lbs of ricotta cheese sweetened with just a 1/2 c of sugar and smoothed with a splash of fresh vanilla. I grate an orange and two lemons then squeeze one of the lemons on top, picking out the seeds. I put in golden raisins then mix it all with my hands. The flavors blend and the aroma clings to my skin. I remember my grandmother dabbing vanilla on my wrist as a little girl. It was a trick she learned during the Depression when she couldn't afford perfume.

I pull out 3/4 quarters of the pastry and roll it into a thick circle. Gently, I ease it into a buttered springform pan. The filling follows, not quite reaching the edge of the case. I sprinkle a handful of slivered almonds on top. I roll out the remaining dough and cut it into ropes. A stickler, I weave these pieces to make a lattice, over and under. I lightly brush the top with egg white.

After 40 minutes in the oven, the kitchen takes on the odor of a holiday. I think about looking down the table this night, the kids lined up on one side, my parents here for their annual winter visit at the far end. I peek in the oven to see how the filling has begun to swell through the bars of the lattice, the top not yet brown. I think about those things that I took for granted as a child and hope that my own children are growing in an atmosphere where they can take it for granted that their parents will do everything possible to provide for them.

Tonight when I put their guilty favorite, Crostata di Ricotta, in front of them and watch them smile and breathe deep I will hope that they know that this is my way of telling them thank you, thank you. I know in my mind we are just ordinary people, we're just regular. But tonight this dish will say, you are so special, how I love you.

Satisfaction

2005-10-05T10:27:00.000-05:00

"Hmmm rhummm chrrruhmmmm."

No, you won't find that one in the dictionary. It's the closest I can get to the deep throaty sigh of satisfaction my father-in-law makes when he tastes something that he really likes. I don't know why I always pause a moment after serving a meal to my in-laws, waiting for that small seal of approval. It's not that he's a picky eater--like many people who went through the hard times of the 20th century, Richard eats what is given, cleans his plate, and after every meal levels his weary green eyes with mine and says "Hm. Thanks."

Maybe it's because the men on my husband's side of the family tend not to be demonstrative. Perhaps it's because they are not easy to please. Sometimes it's not even the presentation or the taste of a dish that prevents their full enjoyment but the suspicion that I slipped something foreign or funky onto their plate like wasabi or anchovy paste. In my kitchen I have developed a 'don't ask don't tell policy.'

This is far from the atmosphere where I grew up. My family is a strange cross of New England reserve and one-generation-off-the-boat southern European excess. Just think of the possibilities in such a connection. Henry James repression meets Mediterranean melodrama. Ah-yup meets Whaddaya, whaddaya? Synergism is Scary.

But in our case, it worked. Each side tickled and tempered the other. The quiet became more complementary, appreciation out of the closet. The gregarious became more spacious, less force increased its depth. Graciousness need not always be expressed with averted eyes and bowed heads, nor with falling plaster and ringing eardrums. Both styles demostrate that there is so much to be celebrated, so many gifts, so much good and it touches everyone as it bubbles naturally to the surface; sparkling overflow. In my family, fabulous flavors stagger conversation. One person or another saying 'ooh, try this, wonderful,' then the dialogue goes on.

It took me awhile to catch on to the nuances of appreciation in the new extension of family I gained when I married my husband. I think the 'aha' came one night almost three years into the marriage. The kids and I were staying with my husband's parents while he was out of town. I had taken over the kitchen (as I kind-of-sort-of do). As it was late in the week, I had played alchemist with leftovers.

"Hmmm rhummm chrrruhmmmm."

That wonderful sound. This time after just one bite those green eyes were leveled across the table.

"This is good," offered Richard.

"Thank you," I said, smiling.

"I've seen some of what's in this, but I've never had this before. Another one of those things you dreamed up?"

"Oh, no. Whenever my mother had leftover ham she would always made a couple," I answered.

"Hm," he answered looking down and rounding up another forkful. "So, if you didn't make it up, what's it called?"

"Qui-" I start to say when my mother-in-law interrupted.

"Ham and Cheese Pie," she announced.

Richard was already concentrating again on his plate when she leaned over and whispered in my ear--

"Real men don't eat quiche."

I can't improve on the quiche Laurie featured in ....slowly she turned. I do have a recipe for pastry that I always use for quiche. It is oven hardy, specifically for dishes that will be baked for an extenced period. It stands up well to liguid fillings, such as pumpkin pie. The two keys are the mixture of butter and shortening and the resting period in the refridgerator. Butter adds flavor but it has a lower melting point. The shortening stands up to the heat longer allowing the crust to develop air spaces, those pastry-like layers. The stand in the refridgerator keeps the crust from becoming rubbery.

For one 9" shell

Work-

1/2 c chilled butter
3 Tbls vegetable shortening (or my brother prefers lard)

into

2 c flour
1/2 tsp of salt

I do this really lightly with my fingers. As the butter and shortening begin to get smaller, scoop up a handful and roll between the palms of both hands. The idea is to get the butter/shortening in small pieces that are covered with the flour. When the crust is heated, the fat 'cooks' the flour, making it in crisp layers.

When this mixture is all crumbly, kind of like cornmeal, make a well in the center. Drip in

4 Tbls ice cold water

Use your index finger to draw the flour mixture into the water using a spiral motion. As you reach the edge of the bowl, put in

1Tbls ice cold water

This is the only 'tricky' part of making a pie dough. You don't want to handle it too much, you don't want it to dry, you don't want it too wet. Guess what? You want it just right. How do you know when it's just right? Practice! The dough should be soft and press into a ball, not crumbling, but also not sticking to your fingers. If necessary, add

1TBls ice cold water

Put the dough ball into the refridgerator covered with a tea towel for 2 to 36 hours. For the longer period, use a wet towel.

Roll and shape as you need.

Authenticity

2005-10-03T13:52:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid we just kind of drifted in and out of each others houses and 'cross-culture' happened naturally. Where I grew up there were a lot of people of Italian descent that still had the gestures and style of an older world. I guess these experiences were so meaningful because we weren't dropping in to gawk nor were they an intellectual exercise. We were just there, together, enjoying our similarities and differences. And the food! Pasta fagioli! Baccala! and for Easter breakfast, the unbelievably calorie and cholestorol laden Fritatta!

While I celebrate the opportunities we have to sample authentic dishes from around the world brought right to my doorstep through a wide variety of wonderful restaraunts, something in me craves a deeper connection. Luckily, diversity has hit main street and it is not difficult to find a guide. The medium is food and mentors abound.

Guilford County has some great specialty food stores, particularly for Latin and Asian cuisines. While I get most of my basic spices from Deep Roots, just up on the corner of Spring Garden and Pomona is an excellent Asian market. While I have had some language difficulties, the people who work there have been very accomodating. They have a multi-lingual staff and last weekend there was one young man who spoke English. (A hint--if you're an English only speaker like me and you're in a store where no one seems to speak it, find a customer who is between 10 and 14. I've never failed to get excellent advice from teenagers). They have a great variety and their prices are about half what you find in the major stores. One thing that I have noticed at every Asian market I've been to--they have shown my children the utmost affection. As babies they were cooed over, as toddlers they were surrounded by rich delighted laughter. Now as pre-teens/teens, they elicit a smile and a fond compliment to me. It gives me an almost embarassing satisfaction, you know, like sucking on a Ghirardelli brownie.

So you know where to go, what do you get? The ingredients marked with * are available at most Asian markets.

Vietnamese Dumplings

Combine

1 lb ground meat (usually pork)
*1 plg dried black mushrooms
1/2 lb carrots, shredded and with the moisture pressed out
5 stalks celery, sliced thin
1/2 lb shrimp, peeled, deveined and chopped
1 egg
1 tsp vegetable oil
1Tbls sugar
1 tsp salt
1 Tbls dried garlic
1 tsp freshly ground or cracked black pepper

Now here's the tricky part. At the Asian market look for a package called 'Banh Bao.' Basically, this is Jiffy or Bisquick, Asian style. So you need--

*2 pkgs Banh Bao

Mix like it says on the package. It's just a baking mix with yeast in it so you have to let it raise.

After raising, pull off a handful of dough. Roll it into a 6 inch oval. Put 2 Tbls filling in middle of oval. Press into filling

*1 quail egg

Whoa--wait a minute. A quail egg? Yup, they come in cans, they're inexpensive, and while they're really little they have a great flavor.

Arrange around filling five slices of

*Chinese-style sausage

Pinch together the edges of the dough around the filling. Seal the top.
Repeat until you've used all the dough and filling.

Steam over water with

2 Tbls vineagar added.

Don't crowd the dumplings as they will rise again as they are cooking. Steam for at least 1/2 hr to make sure pork is cooked through.

In case this recipe peaks your interest, you can find more than 150
more authentic recipes in the book 'Our Mixing Bowl' which is available at the Greensboro NC agency FaithAction. One of the nice things about this collection is all the recipes are from local people. The only continent not represented is Antarctica. The books are $12, $15 with shipping. Their website is http:www.faithaction.com or you can send them a check to FaithAction Cookbook, 705 N Greene St, Greensboro NC 27401

Spice

2005-10-01T20:29:00.000-05:00

A cast iron pan is your palette and spices your pigment. You work in earth tones--umber, ocher, raw sienna. The basic spices are a visual treat. You lay sassy paprika next to a sensuous curry just to enjoy how they complement each other. Colors link to memory, the paint scheme of your mother's kitchen or sunlight on fall leaves. You pour out some ground coriander seed for the lightness of the low tone yellows.

Spices are sensual. If their colors spark memory and association, the odors momentarily intoxicate. You reach for some oil to coat the pan. Olive oil, nice, green and exotic. Or peanut --less color but a strong worker, persistent and unremitting no matter the heat. You watch the oil carefully over the high flame then pour on a handful of cumin and coriander or maybe an earthy chili powder, stirring quickly to keep it from burning. This is alchemy--the dry powders steam and the steam carries an intense aroma bringing you into the moment, and yet stirring deep memories of lands and cultures you have never experienced. Generations, ages, traditions, the meanings lost and indescribable and yet present in your kitchen.

The aroma intensifies. It is like the brilliant pheonix swelling to bursting. Unlike the mythical bird, it needs to be fed if it is not to become a pile of sticky ash. You stir in some roasted green peppers and eggplant , the skins pulled off and the bitter seeds skimmed away. As you stir, the pallid flesh becomes suffused with earth tones, as if new blood is being pumped into it. You add the meat of plum tomatos.The mixture begins to swell and sweat and as bubbles burst the air becomes full.

You pull the pan off the flame and quickly move the contents into a hand thrown ceramic bowl. You open the oven and the smell of warmed flat bread greets you like a familiar companion. Your friends will layer the eggplant in the bread, giggle at burnt fingers, too eagar to allow any of it to cool. They look over your shoulder enjoying the colors in the dishes, the steamed redness of your cheeks. They breathe deeply and roll their eyes and sigh. They bite and, ecstasy! The flavors roll on their tongue, accented by a little bitterness of the pan, the textures delight, pillowy bread and the melting filling.

Sushi for the American Male

2005-09-28T06:58:00.000-05:00

So some of you may have noticed that Japanese cuisine is sweeping the nation. Helen particularly is interested in all things Japanese and has taken the plunge at our local favorite restaraunt Sushi 101. While she likens sashimi to eating nightcrawlers, she loves the sushi, the tempura, and of course the atmosphere.

Not so our intrepid 'I'll try anything once' boy Chris. Now this is the kid who is willing to stuff a whole lemon in his mouth, will top a nacho with seven variations of pepper sauce, and even braves himself to handle raw squid to make Calamari Ripieni. For some reason, though, he just cannot get sushi from the plate to his palate.

After much thought, Chris came up with his own variation of sushi for the American Male.

"Mom, how about this. You take a twinkie and wrap it in fruit leather. Then use a sharp knife and cut it into those little round circles. Who would know the difference?"

Like Mother. Like Son

2005-09-26T15:47:00.000-05:00

He never ceases to amaze me.

We have some guidelines in our house about education and life's lessons. My children will not officially reach adulthood until they know how to

do their own laundry (including putting it away)
clean the bathroom
cook and serve 5 balanced meals

The oldest is still working on boiling water but she makes an excellent fruit salad. The youngest can park himself behind a loaf of bread with jars of peanutbutter and jelly handy and he is always willing to stir the pots. It's Chris though, the middle child who shines in the kitchen.

It didn't take Chris very long to figure out the ins and outs of the microwave. His school has one and it gives him a real kick to bring in soups or burrito makings to wow (show off in front of) his friends. On the weekends we decide what ingredients he will need to throw together a real cafeteria lunch. But it's not this part of the meal that has captured his imagine. It's....

Dessert.

Chris makes the most amazing chocolate cake, usually using his great-grandmother's ("Grammy's Man's Cake") handwritten recipe. He is equally comfortable with cocoa powder and chocolate squares and is very particular about the vanilla. He also makes great frosting--right now he's on a lemon kick. Recently I had some friends over, immigrants from Vietnam. In their honor, Chris whipped up a colossal cake and was making the frosting when they arrived. They were fascinated! Not only were they interested in 'American style cooking,' they were delighted to see a guy in the kitchen.

"This is what we came to America for," said one. "This is equality."

Chris's latest creation comes from two recipes that he really favors. He loves chocolate pudding pie with a graham cracker crust but it's too messy for him to take to school. He also is a brownie fanatic (did I say like mother like son?) So what would be better than baking brownies in a graham cracker crust? He of course started with real butter, melted. Had a blast crunching up the graham crackers and tossing in some extra sugar when I wasn't looking. Pressed that into a pie tin and then poured in a brownie batter fortified with chocolate chips. When it was done it could be sliced like a pie, popped in a baggie and taken off to school.

There was nothing leftover.

Poughkeepsie Farm Project

2005-09-25T14:50:00.000-05:00

While my dear friend posted this for me on her blog earlier this year, I wanted to share it here also. Last summer the kids and I took our yearly sojourn up the coast and I wanted to let you know about a project in the Hudson Valley.

Poughkeepsie NY is not a pretty town. Like many urban areas, it is in a constant state of decay and renewal. While Vassar College is certainly a lovely place, the surrounding neighborhood has gone through the usual flux of affluence and poverty. A five block walk in any direction repetitively demonstrates the 'two Americas.'

The first week in July my sister drove me through some grubby streets then hooked onto a narrow dirt and gravel drive into a stand of trees. Beyond a bend there were a couple of tiny buildings--and seven acres of thriving fields. Tucked between city streets, Vassar College, and office parks is the Poughkeepsie Farm Project. On land leased from that college, a group of people devoted toward a just and sustainable food system for the Mid-Hudson Valley have reawakened farmland not only for the use of members but to provide fresh and local produce for local soup kitchens and shelters and as an experiential learning arena for students and ommunity members.

My children headed for the strawberry fields where they turned over little leaves to find tiny sparkling sweet berries--nothing like the fat fruit we see in markets (the ones that emphasize the 'straw' not the berry). A local baker set up his goodies on a plank under the spreading canopy of a maple tree just before the distribution building, a cool cave of brick with barely room to walk through the crates and shelves stuffed with greens, garlic tops, zucchini, broccoli. They were still in the late spring season--salads, young and mature greens, peas, and the beginning of cucumbers and squashes. The ten pound weekly allotment is ample for my siter's family of four.

A few steps out of the doorway brings you to the herb garden which is protected by chicken wire and a woven vine fence. Paths separate the different beds with bee balm brightening the entrance. The oregano was so pungent you could find it in the dark and the basil! In the center is a small gazebo-meditation area built by members.

It was so beautiful that I cried.

If you are in Upstate New York up until November, I encourage you to stop by. The people, of course, are wonderful and the project is inspiring.

oh--website--http://www.farmproject.org/

Food and Crisis

2005-09-22T09:23:00.000-05:00

Some people think that a food crisis is when dinner is 15 minutes away and there isn't any baking powder for the biscuits. This is not really a crisis. You just need to combine some baking soda and cream of tartar or better, substitute baking soda and buttermilk. No, the degree of crisis that has everyone talking is the natural-disaster-terrorist-attack-the-end-is-near variety.

I heard last weekend varying reports from government sources that every household should have between 3 days and 3 weeks food and water on hand in case of a crisis to tide them over before the men in white hats show up to save the day. Now I found these reports disturbing on numerous levels, most of them obvious in the light of the images and first-hand accounts that we have all seen and heard but I am going to save that rant for a cold day this winter when we need some hot air to keep us warm. What I would like to share is a really nutritious and yummy and easy and portable food that is very slow to spoil.

Ya ready?

Granola. (OK, bring on the fruit and nuts jokes. One day soon I'll have enough to write a book. )

One of the great things about granola is that the ingredients can be kept in sealed mason jars for an extended period of time without spoiling. In my house the ingredients are replenished often but if you don't have much use for rolled oats, various seeds, or dried coconut, they have a long shelf life. Also, granola can be made with or without cooking in case there's no power (although it can be toasted over an open fire). It is light weight, high in energy, fiber, and nutrition and is very filling. Would you want to live on granola for three weeks? Well, that's why they call it a crisis.

Cooked granola is roasted spread out on baking sheets in a slow oven (300 degrees) for about 15 minutes. Most have rolled oats as a base. Of course whole oat kernels would be too hard to digest and instant oats have all of the nutritional value scared out of the poor beleaguered little guys. The oats are mixed with some kind of oil (which is what makes it roast) and some kind of flavoring like maple syrup or honey. A variety of nuts and seeds and dried fruits can also be added. I put the fruit in after it's cooked because I like the texture. Here's a really yummy combination--

Mix:

A large canister of oats

A cup or so of oil (soy is good, so is peanut or canola--olive oil is not)

Enough maple syrup for the oats to stick together a little bit--not dripping

In a really big bowl mix:

1 cup soy flour

1 c dry milk

2 c wheat germ

1 c coconut

2 c sesame seeds

1 c sunflower seeds

1 c pumpkin seeds

2 c almonds

Add the oats mixture to the big bowl and mix well.

Roast on a baking tray in a thin layer for about ten minutes. Remove from oven and stir or flip mixture over then roast 5 minutes more. When you take it out of the oven, the nuts won't be super crunchy but by the time they cool, it will have that great toasty aroma and crunch. Cool in a separate bowl.

When it's cool add

raisins

dried apricots

dried bananas

This makes about 35-40 cups.

It's in the genes.

2005-09-20T12:00:00.000-05:00

I have it-got it from my father. He got it from his mother and I have passed it on to my oldest son. My sister does not have it, nor does her husband but my niece does. What is it?

The cooking gene.

This elusive and wonderful cross-gender strand of D.N.A. provides the potential for creative cookery. It is not necessary for chefs whose art is more about consistency, timing, and detail. No, genetic cooker-ers are the people who can taste from smell, who make meals from the scraps in the bottom of the refridgerator, who respond to a recipe with 'sounds good but swap the basil for rosemary and....' We wake up from an early morning dream remembering not the plot or imagery but the question 'was that roasted garlic or crushed shallots Johnny Depp was pressing into portabello mushrooms?'

We LOVE to please palates but are a nightmare to cooking technicians. While my family has both (as well as some who shun the kitchen altogether) this trait is wholly absent from my husband's gene pool. This has been the cause of some stress for my mother-in-law. She is a wonderful old-style provider whose meals start with seedlings under glass before awakening soil in the spring. Every meal year round features something that she grew, picked, canned, pickled, or froze. Her herbs are pungent, her jams gemlike. Her stews are hearty and filling. A cultural anthropologist could define mainstream Americana in her kitchen. Her handwritten cookbooks read like scientific texts--and therin lies our difficulty.

"We loved that chicken, what do you call it, catch-a-tory that you made. What's your recipe?" she asks.

Uh-oh, I know what's coming.

"Well, Carol, when I made it the other night I had some leftover broth that hadn't been frozen which is nice. I used just chicken thighs this time. The mushrooms and I used a vidalia were sauteed in equal parts butter and olive oil..."

"Wait a minute. How much broth did you use?"

"I don't know. There were, what, nine people that night? The broth mixed with white wine, about 3 to 1 and it depends on what kind of tomatoes, I think I had plums that day and since they're not as juicy I probably threw in some extra broth..."

You get the picture. I measure by a little bit, some more, a tight handful, a palm's worth. It's equivalent to a dash, a tablespoon, a quarter cup, um, well, maybe-sort-of.

Those of us with the cooking gene really do want to please, even if we haven't the same syntax or semantics of the general population. Carol has accepted my cookbook dyslexia and has not let it keep her from enjoying the meals we have together. And even better, for every meal I cook for her, she cleans the kitchen!