domingo, noviembre 23, 2014

Pork is nothing to be trifled with, tacos and Thanksgiving thoughts

"¡Con el puerco no se juega!" (or, "pork is not to be trifled with") I wittily proclaimed to an audience of friends and congress-goers, and "Not just another orgy" (as a collaborative tagline to a conference, any conference).  I'm at my wittiest, I'm told, when the world is spinning crazily out of my control, and pain is searing at my pleural interstices, pain in my chest, either physical or metaphorical. Or as Cabrera Infante infamously claimed, "puns hide pain." I think I agree. Thus, weeks back, stiff from sitting in conference chairs, I made quite a few snarky proclamations, aphorisms, or snotty retorts, if you prefer.

One of my sharply cruel punchlines was, "Lady, I didn't sleep with your husband, but I know who did." And another, in response to a colleague chiding some of us for hitting the wine a little hard, "Aquí los alcólicos anónimos" to which I replied, "Qué anónimos, somos alcólicos bien balcónicos" (roughly translated in rhyme as, "what do you mean anonymous? we're alchoholics eponymous" or, more literally, "nope, we're openly alchoholic."

You'd think I would remember that pork is not to be tolerated, at least not by my enzyme-lacking self (divine justice?! genetic engineering?! You choose). But no... yesterday I found myself sicker than I have been in... well... since the last time I chose to eat pork pupusas... or perhaps since I had tacos al pastor in  Tijuana... maybe both. I don't know, I just know that the day after I make the terrible choice to eat delicious tacos de cochinita pibil, I am doubled over in the worst kind of body-rending pain and cursing myself for not remembering my easy jingle. Next, time, dear GI tract, next time I will not forget. Never Again. (About as useful as that phrase has been, I admit, when referring to atrocities of human carnage. Never again, actually never really means Never Again... it just means... next time it won't be me! But, I digress).

So, this morning, once again feeling myself, and after a long sunny walk with the child and our porcine puppy (one need only look at his speckled pink belly, or hear his snore-grunts as he flops in my arms at night to draw such a conclusion!), I set to a more vegetarian-friendly set of activities, swearing to myself to recall that meat is not so kind to anyone involved, and setting about my mostly vegetarian thanksgiving prep.

Between grading papers, and washing dishes (how do the piles keep on piling?) and laundry (ni hablar), I set about making gluten-free cornbread so that it will have time to be dried in cubes for a few days and integrated into the basis for the stuffing (or "dressing" as my Mimi used to call it) for Thursday next.

It was a simple recipe, and while I don't necessarily recommend it for eating as-is (it can be doctored with more honey and butter while still warm, of course), it makes for a great stuffing:
2 cups corn meal
2 cups buttermilk (I knew there was a reason my sub-conscious made me buy it the other day! Yes!)
2 eggs
2 Tbs. butter
1 tsp salt
1 tsp soda
1 Tbs raw organic honey (well, that's what I had)

I actually 1.5'd the recipe, but it worked perfectly. I mixed the wets and dries separately, melting the butter and honey apart, and beating the eggs and buttermilk thoroughly before mixing into the dry ingredients. I added wet to dry, stirred, allowed the soda and the acid from the buttermilk to interact in fabulous bubbles, and then added the honey-butter melted into the center and stirred for a few minutes. The oven was set to 400 degrees, and I baked for about 20 minutes in the pre-buttered pan (makes for a lovely crisp brown edge to the crust).

The stuffing, for those interested, when trifling with pork, will use roasted brats, or chorizo, but... since I'm being good to myself and my vegetarian guests this Thanksgiving, I will make it with the following modifications:

My makeshift stuffing recipe:

1 large 9x12 in pan of cornbread, cubed and dried for a few days (see above recipe, 1.5x)
1-2 cups vegetable (or chicken stock)
two bulbs roasted fennel (oh, yes...)
sauteed large onion
3-4 garlic cloves
8oz. sauteed quartered crimini or other delicious mushrooms
1 cup roasted chestnuts, roughly chopped
3-4 stalks celery, sauteed with onion, garlic and mushrooms
1/2 cup organic unsulphered apricots (or dried cranberries, or fresh apple, or all)
vegetarian chorizo, about 1/2 the package
fresh thyme and/or sage

Sautee herbs, chorizo, onion, garlic, celery, pre-roasted fennel, chopped, celery, and mushrooms. Add chopped apricots (or dried cranberries, and/or apple), pre-roasted chestnuts, chopped, and finish the sauteeing. Salt and pepper to taste. Toss the sautée with cubed bread, add broth until the entire mass is tender but not mushy and bake for 20 minutes or so. Can be reheated by adding a bit more liquid and reheating in the oven.

So, here's to a productive Sunday, in which work will happen, on many fronts, and I will give thanks that I have a mantra meant not to forget, until the next time tacos wink at me, and I think, "it wasn't so bad last time, was it?"

domingo, noviembre 16, 2014

Pilfered lemons and other adventures in self-care on a sunny Sunday

Never is one more keenly aware of their singleness in the world than when one is in the grips of the grippe... too sick to care for oneself, too sick to even care... and yet, still managing to... somehow...

This illness, if I may cheer victoriously, perhaps prematurely, was as intense as it was short-lived, and required mostly sleeping, ingesting liquids, and consuming copious amounts of BBC television shows, including Call the midwife! Because. Midwifery.

But I digress. This keenly felt singledom is most trying at these times, when there is no medicine left in the house, and there is a delicate child who still needs her needs met, and one's brain is in a fog, and there are midnight emergencies, and it just feels too hard.

So, obviously, my response to mildly encroaching self-pity is to cook. It doesn't make me less single, or more lovable, but it does make me feel soothed, for a moment... and when one suddenly remembers that they have body parts heretofore unnoticed, such as a throat that feels like it has been grated with a cheese-grater, or sinuses that are akin to a pressure cooker (ah! note to self! must procure a new pressure cooker as the old one may have seen its last pressurized days), and bones that ache, not with sadness, but with actually metallic blue-lightning pain of activation of armies of white blood cells, or whatever it is that our bodies, mostly healthy, not as perfect as we are told they must be, but our bodies nonetheless, do in such circumstances, feeling soothed, is, perhaps, all that we may hope for.

In any case.

There were lemons, not the pilfered ones, which will come in later, but ones gifted kindly to me by my erstwhile gardener who sometimes comes, and often shows up at odd hours with flowers for me, and waters what I forget, when I forget it. Upon dragging my sorry self home from Friday morning school run, with less-than-typical agitation because my ability to give-a-fuck was impaired by my cotton-filled headache, I promptly juiced all the lemons in the house into a half-gallon's worth of homemade lemonade. These lemons were from various friends' gardens, truth be told, my ability to utilize such gifts surpassed by their sheer abundance and shelf-life. But, agua de limón, it was, and a pot of chicken soup that is the cure-all to ailments of both the physical self and the psychic fallout that abounds when our bodies fail us.

Boiled in a pot:
chicken (with bones is better, but I only had frozen breasts)
bay laurel leaves (they're old, so I just throw in a bunch and hope for the best)
onion (it was left out and dehydrated, so, what better recycling than a pot of stock!)
4-5 garlic cloves, halved
many organic carrots (I no longer bother to peel carrots, it feels liberating)
salvaged celery (the slightly discolored and wilted outer stalks that would be inedible if they weren't boiled to all hell)
brown rice thrown in for sustenance

While the soup made itself I pretended to be healthy and met with students via Skype, sipped mint tea with honey and cursed my work ethic. When 2:30 hit, and child was fetched, medicine procured ("mom, I have a run in my leggins... but oh well..." "Yeah, whatever, it's just a body" "mom!you aren't wearing a bra, you can tell!" "Meh. Fuck it." "Yeah, why care what anyone else thinks?!" "(unintelligible snuffle-grunt of agreement") I stumble back to bed, and sleep from 3 to noon the next day. 

But noon brings with it a child who wants to see friends and a kitchen that once again calls... I must be feeling better, dizzy-self muses, and shuffles pantsless to the kitchen, remembering to close the shades before parading across the dining room window-stage. Lentils, she thinks... because, lentils... and a tortilla española.

Sautee in olive oil;
a few potatoes, sliced thin so as to lose their rawness more evenly and quickly (I stopped peeling potatoes a while back too...)
half an onion chopped and sauteed, along with the potatoes
garlic cloves (crushed and added after onion is translucent)
add a bit of salt to potatoes as they cook... makes for a much better tasting tortilla

In a separate bowl:
crack 6-7 eggs, add a half tsp or so of salt, scramble with a fork

Add fully translucent potato mixture to eggs and let sit for a while.  Clean pan and add more olive oil.

On low heat setting pour egg mixture back into pan, let cook until it is almost fully dry on top, then, using a skilled, burn-resistant hand, place a plate over the top, flip the omelet, and slide the wet side, face down back into the pan and cook for a few more minutes.

A cup of green lentils
A half potato, cubed
(You see the pattern)
A large, juicy chipotle in adobo sauce
1/4 cup tomato sauce (non-seasoned, or homemade tomato puree)
boil the above in 2 cups of water, with salt to taste, and a bay leaf or 7 (remember, old spices lose their potency, but I hate throwing anything away)

So, I had the energy to cook, but not really to eat very much... and so, we ended up caving, ordering an amazing thin-crust pizza margerita with mushrooms (because... mushrooms are one of life's basic staples, obviously), crawled back into bed, snuggled with sympathetic child and sleepy-protective-dog by my side.

But? The pilfered lemons, you ask... ah, the pilfered lemons.

After another mostly-bed-ridden day (I always think of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when I spend too much time in bed) I slept another long night... awoke still dizzy, but determined to feel better. What is this? I can no longer feel my throat-grated... I am healed!

The windows are flung wide, though a momentary flash of fear crosses us, as the dog goes wild and there is a man with a machete climbing our back wall and then tip-toeing his way across our neighbor's roof.

I think, what better time to take the dog out for a walk to explore such madness, and maybe warn the neighbors. But, lo! the machete wielding white dude is still on the roof of the neighbor's house, my body relaxes just a bit and I call the kid to tell her of my discovery.  All is well in the enchanted barrio. So I wander with the dog, through a neighborhood built in the late 40s and early 50s, and muse at the wholesomeness of it all. There are still people everywhere, couples doing yard-work, a woman cradling a baby as her husband gets into a car with a Grateful Dead sticker (I think it is a black BMW, and by association, my twisted mind plays a Don Henley retrospective, much to my chagrin). There is an old man sitting with his eyes closed and his upturned face to the sun, and I think... well, this is glorious, and my dog doesn't poo, because I forgot the bags. Things are going my way! No room for self-pity here!! And I calculate the ways in which I might improve my house, making mental notes of the others, much like my own, and the creative solutions that neighbors have come up with to enhance vegetable growing, or car-storage, or mother-in-law accommodations (not that I have one, but maybe one day... my sappy hopefulness embarrasses even me. Full stop.)

Lemons! there are lemons rolling about, lolling listlessly on the opposite side of a cement blocked contention wall. They are technically on the sidewalk, and so, I help myself to one. Just one. I don't know if I need it, but I think, I am fresh out of lemons. And one can always use lemons. And then there is the secret thrill of taking something of the earth but not entirely one's own...

And then, as if by magic, the lemon serves to complete my previously unplanned emergency hummus:
 I prefer to cook my own garbanzos from dry, but, as previously noted, my pressure cooker is semi-out-of-commission, and I only have canned organic garbanzos, so they will do.

1 can, rinsed and then heated back up in water on the stove.
A quarter cup sesame tahini (just ground sesame, nothing else added)
A few cloves of garlic
A pinch or two of salt added to the garbanzo water and a few more added after the fact to the food processor
The juice of one pilfered lemon (or slightly less)
A quarter cup water added to all of the above
A tablespoon or so of olive oil

All of these should be processed in a hand-held wand food processor or a larger one (if one has one handy, which I, shockingly, do not!)

This can be savored with a swirl of harissa, or topped with pine nuts...

And so, I credit the copious amounts of sleep, and the neti pot with hot salt-water, and the mildly good work news, and the cooking for my speedy recuperation. And though there is no abiding wisdom in a day spent cooking, and talking on the phone with my darling friends, and pacing in my socks on the sidewalk in front of my house while conversing, (with pants!) there is something about the lemons that makes the rest of life a little bit less sour, a little bit more sweet, even.

lunes, noviembre 10, 2014

It is strange. I just came "home" to my house, a house I bought, a house that exhausts me, a house that feels like it is not enough and is too much all at once. I came home from Santa Barbara, from a conference that was at once both nourishing (for the intellect, for the spirit) and exhausting (for the body, for the soul). We are at once humans, fully in our bodies, incapable of allaying psychic and physical exhaustion, to be pure mind, unable to inhabit our bodies, however, without the razor sharp critical view from the panopticon of our own structural apparatuses of failure.

I had few tasks that HAD to be completed today, and yet, I failed to complete them. (The chiding voice claims that the night is not over yet, and the other voice, the one that whimpers meekly, but stands its ground firmly nonetheless says, just... rest... tomorrow... tomorrow it will all hurt less). I don't know why some days are better than others, some days, that open door to the world's sorrows is less open, or is partially obstructed by the bellowing laughter that we have stuffed, like feathers in a cotton-clothed pillow, into the threshold, pushing back gently, solidity made from the stuff of nothing, to keep the pain at bay. Some days, though, like today... the news makes me weep. Makes me despair. Makes me want to die.

I won't, of course. I mean, I will, of course, but not today, not of this pain, which is so unfathomably remote, and yet it permeates the seemingly sealed spaces that I have caulked myself into. I come home to a reconstructed bathroom. The walls are painted the color I had asked for. A panic-inducing emergency, that has become an opportunity for change, for peace, and for personalization... and all I can see is the slightly off-kilter angle at which the medicine cabinet was hung.  This is my problem, I think... I always see the cracks. They scream at me. I see the good things too, (that small meek voice offers, in my defense) but they are noted, and duly dismissed. The cracks... Oh, the cracks come out, and they glare at me. They taunt me. They remind me of why it is never good enough. I am never good enough. Why I don't deserve to be loved.  But you are loved, my wonderful loving friends will say, and I will concede this, briefly... but it isn't enough. The voracious hunger tells me isn't enough because I am 36 years old, and the only noise I hear, the deafening noise, the white noise that is like the ocean crashing around my head, is that I have failed. Ignore, for a moment, that I have raised an amazing child to almost adulthood, alone for the last 10 years, ignore the graduate degrees, the job-seeking success, the consumption of goods... (I am such a good consumer-citizen, except I'm not even... I am reminded several times recently, because men see my poor, sweet, functional, but ugly car and offer to buy her... they see my slovenly vehicle, and I see my failure to live up to some standard of... who knows fuck all what). I only see the ways in which I have failed.

Leaving Santa Barbara, I congratulate myself for my progress, my emotional successes, my standing up for my own self-worth in the face of those who would unwittingly wrest it from my clenching fingers. I have finally grown up, I think, for a brief, shining moment, floating in the Pacific ocean... but then, the waves of loss come rolling in. And then, the pain of the others bursts through the door, and I can't fight the tears, of loss, as if it were mine. Loss of life, loss of limb, loss of love... and what I feel isn't so much emptiness, but an endless pit of despair. The laughter cannot fill this hole with feather-cement, I cannot push the anxiety away. So, I only manage to cook soup, and pierogies, remembering how my once-upon-a-time partner, used to like this meal, and how that didn't stop the belittling, the anger, the rage. It is strange to think that one could be nostalgic for that, but sometimes, one still is. Not for those things, of course, but for the sense of belonging to someone, to something, somewhere. I don't know if I know how to belong anymore or if I ever did, but I do know that my edges are worn thin, and my emotional reserves, that sometimes appear endless, are running low.

And I think. Maybe this is it, maybe this is the reason that adults grow more conservative and less idealistic. Sheer exhaustion. Pragmatism. Such an ugly idea, and yet... so practical.

Tonight I am tired, and instead of being held, or holding someone, I will be enveloped by the blank page, a page that once offered so much relief, and still, from time to time, resurfaces as a reflecting pool that can assuage one's ego, allay one's pain. My pain. My ego. The nasty, vicious voice reminds me that I have no right to compare my insignificant discomfort with the real, tortured, suffering of millions, and yet... their pain is real to me, it wakes me in the form of a crying child that isn't there. It bores into my bones, it reaches into my chest and teases me with choking, wavering on the edge of life and death, knowing that death will not come so easily, knowing that I will soldier on, shouldering the boulder, climbing back up the hill to be pushed back down again tomorrow.

Must we push back against impunity? I wonder. Aloud and inside my head. What difference does it make? But it does make a difference, the tiny, shuddering, whispering voice urges from her corner, shackled to the walls of a prison of my own making. I suppose it does. Push back we shall. Even when our elected officials fail us, even when our compatriots vote for bigotry, even when our governments use their power to kill other people's children. To destroy them, beat them, maim them, burn their bodies in prisons, ditches, ravines, deserts, with drones, bullets, bombs, poisoning their food and water supply. It hurts. Too much. There are no words, but the words become the balm, they stand in for the love that I need to smooth over those cracks, to fill them in, to make their harsh, angry, ugly, gaping maws shut. Once and for all. Until the next time.

domingo, octubre 26, 2014

Respuesta a un amigo poeta y los muertos de Ayotzinapa

El dolor es profundo y la culpa de nuestra banalidad, nuestra comodidad, nuestra ceguera, o nuestra mirada abismalmente limitada, es casi infinita. 

No. Es infinita, honda y redonda la culpa que nos abarca, que nos abraza, por ser humanos, y a la vez inhumanos. 

Por nuestras prisas y pequeñeces. 
Por desear más de lo que merecemos, consumir más de lo que necesitamos. 
Por querer sólo a nuestros seres queridos, y sumar en una fosa común todo lo olvidado, lo inalcanzable, lo que nos agota, nos agobia, nos destroza pensar, todos los cuerpos que se vuelven desechables por distar de nuestra realidad inmediata, de nuestra óptica, de nuestro entorno, clase, raza, etnia...

Y por eso no pensamos. 
Y por eso, pensamos.

lunes, octubre 20, 2014

Nostalgia kitchen

I inhale deeply. The smell of curcumin, curry, cumin, toasted caraway. These smells take me back to the small co-op in Media, PA that imprinted on my 5 year-old olfactory memory, three decades ago. The creaky wooden floor, the hemp-woven grocery bags, the tight aisles of teetering metal shelving, and the glass storefront...all this before it was hip. All gone with trickle-down economics... I can definitively say that if I never see carob chips again it will be too soon... but today, perusing an article posted by a friend from this same era of life, a friend whose family was delightfully large, and hippier than mine, and from which my longings of a farmhouse with scads of children scattered about me are most likely a product, I consider the health benefits of turmeric for cerebral antioxidation and I am struck that dinner can proceed.

Last week, driving home from California, world-weary, tense, a bit melancholic (the Eucalyptus in the fall always reeks of a broken heart, what can I say?), but also hopeful despite the throes of adolescent depression in my sweet girl child, we decided, the girl and I, that she needed to learn to cook. She has always left the kitchen to me, perhaps afraid of my imposing command of the small spaces that we've called home, perhaps just afraid of me, for my sharp tongue and biting exigencies, of her, of myself... But, after a particularly difficult bout of accusations, and my injured silence, somewhere between Chiriaco Summit and Blythe, with a blinking empty fuel tank light, we decided it was time for her to learn how to cook. We proceeded to enumerate dishes and types of food that I would teach her, me promising patience, and she promising follow-through. We have yet to cook together, but I am sure it will happen. In the mean time, I will write these thoughts for her, too. In case I'm not always around. In case this is all the family that I can ever muster around us for good. (That fear seeps out, the words push it back in).

In an homage to my mama and our typical Friday night fare, a few days of the week early, and eaten half-standing in the kitchen as is my custom (nasty habit? the child asks me to sit with her and I oblige), rather than with blessings and challah, and peanuts and shredded coconut and basmati rice.

Honey curry chicken with roast broccoli (my twist, of course)

A chicken breast (all I had) or two (if you actually plan meals, rather than rescue from your fridge), split.
A few pats of Irish butter... because grassfed milk is yellow and delightfully flavorful and worth it
A quarter cup of local honey (for immunity and to combat local allergens)
3 large tablespoons of madras curry powder (which was, admittedly a bit old and less potent than I would have liked).

Spread the thick honey curry paste over the chicken with pats of butter above and below. 350 degrees. 25 minutes, turned over, basted with sauce, and another 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, roasting broccoli that has been laid on a lightly oiled cookie sheet and sprinkled with lemon pepper and Himalayan pink salt.

She didn't want to eat, but after I enticed her with my own three strips, she was the one that beckoned me to the table of our little house. I don't know if I will feel like a grown up, you know, the way that you are supposed to be, like I imagine my parents were when I was small, together, a united front. I failed to make that a reality for my girl-child, but, I do what I can. Patching things together with friend-glue where a family ought to have been.

viernes, octubre 17, 2014


My mind, unsullied and limpid from a relatively good night’s sleep, I open my portal to the vast pulsing universe to find myself confronted with more pain, fear, death. There is wild and irresponsible fear about the spread of Ebola, fear that lumps the hundreds (thousands?) of black African victims into nameless, faceless statistics, aggregating their lives out of meaning, and the blaming of other victims, female victims, who are caretakers, for their purported recklesness. There are Nobel peace-prizes for children that are survivors and champions of their own and other’s right, while these same children might be collateral damages in drone strikes that feed a gaping maw of greed, oil hunger, machines of industry, power and money that erase the individual histories of thousands, their broken bodies unaccounted for. There are other broken, burned, bruised and beaten. The 43 missing students in Mexico, the deathly collusion of government (or its absence) police and narco-war lords to punish those who speak for themselves and for others, the other mass graves, the unknown bodies, missing but unclaimed.

How to make sense of it all? My heart hurts, and I cannot will myself to do the detail-oriented tasks that call to me, the last minute details to make sure that my probationary review file is absolutely complete, with no inconsistencies or false claims. Crossing t’s, dotting i’s, tears streaming down my face for the injustice of it all. I tell my students, weekly, that there will never be a utopian happy ending, there is no perfect system. We are, after all, humans, and because of this, we are inherently flawed, sometimes evil, often selfish. Momentarily kind. There is not a love big enough, I know, to shelter me, to shelter my girl from all this pain. I wonder if I should allow her to go out to a fair. What if something happens to her? What if one of her friends is an addict? What if a boy, or a man, decides to hurt her? It is terrifying, but I tell myself that I can’t hide her from this world, cruel as it may be. I can’t wrap my arms around the universe and hold it tight. It is unbounded. It expands and slips past our reach. It becomes something else. Every. Single. Time. But I try, nevertheless, to push back. That’s what I tell my desperately disheartened students who week after week discuss the failings of a Western optic and supposed human rights frameworks. We push back because the evil will encroach, we push back because love is a powerful force, and even if human kindness may never do more than reach stasis in the face of human evil, maybe, just maybe, we can hold the evil at bay.

So, I debate how to approach my day. Friday. I arrived. This week, unlike the weeks before I was neither addressing a plumbing disaster, nor running an event, though I am preparing my home for another visitor. I was neither feeling my heart ache for the distance imposed by another person that I love, and whose needs at this time are simply in opposition to my own, nor the panic of work piling up (though that is more a function of sleep than of said work, trivial though it is in the grand scheme, being complete or diminishing). I will go to a café to work, I think. And I start to plan this, but the wind and rain are enticing in this desert city, and instead I take the dog, desperate for action, out for a constitutional. I allay thoughts of self-loathing, of an imperfect self, pushing back against my own overinflated ego. I come back, and I think, “I will work now” but then I discover that though I am trying hard to not waste, to not consume more than I need, there are vegetables and cheese that came from the farm, homemade, that if ignored will go to waste.

How to make sense of it all? I wonder, from within the walls of my temperature controlled space, clean despite its clutter, free of shrapnel, or land mines, though the ominous plane formation that coasted along in the morning grey made me and my girl nervous. If I waste, I think, then all those people that are struggling for fairness, for justice, for peace… I am letting them down. If I waste, it means that the water and energy used to produce these things, the nameless, faceless farmworkers who labored under the sun for miserable wages, but wages, I hope, nonetheless, will have worked for nothing. If I waste, I am part of the problem, not part of the solution. So, I cook. And in the cooking, and in the feeding of others, I will make a moment of sense. The narrative will relent, for a moment, and I will just be, immersed in the earthy abundance, free.

My mind plays with the possibilities, using mostly things on the edge of spoilage, and I come up with a new recipe that speaks to abundance and decay.

Casserole of decadence:

Toss together:
·      Tri-color (beets, spinach and wheat pasta) rotini – boiled and set aside.
·      Large crimini mushrooms, quartered and wilted in olive oil and salt over a high flame
·      Quartered roasted Brussels sprouts
·      Roasted butter nut squash, skin on, cubed
·      Sauce

Eggplant, garlic sauce added to fresh tomatoes on the edge of expiration. Add chipotle pepper and water let cook down over medium high heat.
Add homemade chevre and salt to taste, allow piquant sauce to marry flavors.

Crumble more chevre over top. And bake.

Sometimes the only logic is to not think too hard. To let yourself be. To practice self care. Sometimes there is no meaning, but we still have to eat, and appreciate the beauty. Sometimes, it is all we can do.

miércoles, enero 01, 2014

She twitches nervously. Her thin wiry body looks frail, but strong in new ways.

The last time I saw her she was wearing a bikini on the beach. There was barely a hint of a paunch that stretched her skin taut. She looked more threadbare then. In the sun.  The pacific ocean bearing witness. I remember her hopefulness, I remember my reservation. I remember our mutual friend, beautiful in the sunshine, surrounded by children, red-gold hair framing her in sunset flames. It is hard not to reach for one's empty womb at times like these.

Her fragility, now, in the sunshine, with dust kicking up and the golden-grass hills rolling behind us. There is a rusted out truck from the 1950s, with rounded edges and the hint of its one-time utility. It stands like a monument to failed endeavors, or, at least, that is how I choose to interpret this scene.  The colors are muted, antiqued, faded like cotton-dyed cloth that is whipped about on the clothesline.

She smiles and I wonder how the pain can end. How. When a child is gone. When there is no recourse for your actions. She was so damn hopeful, I think, and it puts my own pain into perspective. Her child was born, healthy, beautiful, strong, girl. She gave her child away. To protect her. To carve out a secret safe space, beyond the limits of his threats, his anger, his unrelenting rage. It makes sense at the same time it doesn't make sense at all.

She fled to another land, for a while, I am told. She doesn't tell me these things, but I know them about her. I think back to my other time, when I walked those vast open plains, olive trees and low-hanging oaks, much like the California landscape that lays itself before us. I remember other stories of mothers who let go of their daughters, for love, jailed, for foolishness, lost, forever. I want to tell them, now that those daughters are mothers, now that the distance of years makes such a trespass less offensive.

I offer her food, a soup that I made in an attempt to soothe myself, to soothe the demons that flare up about me.  I see them. Always have.  I don't want to be happy, I think, because happiness is too much of a burden. I am drawn to sadness. You have too much energy, too much joyfulness, too much. It was just too much for me, I think. I had to step off the roller-coaster at its lowest point, dizzy and delirious. I'm sorry.

I look at her and want to reach across that ocean of pain and offer her something, more than soup, to apologize for doubting. Not that my doubts had any effect on the outcome, rather to apologize for being right.  What starts badly, invariably ends badly. Isn't that what you said to me? Badly for some, worse for others. And for others still, it simply never ends.

My womb aches for her. My heart hurts for her. And for me. And for you, though you don't know it. Can't know it. Your happiness is deafening.