Karma, and Ginger Chocolate Kisses

Like most people, I often use the word karma all wrong.  We tend to think of karma as some magical external justice system: people who do good things, get good things coming to them eventually.  People who do bad things, well ... you all know the saying about the bitch.
 And I confess, I've always liked the idea of karmic justice, the "you'll get yours some day" approach to people who create misery and suffering in other people's lives.  It's comforting, especially when there doesn't seem to be any hope for justice in the current situation.

But recently, I've been mulling over a terrifying thought: what if karmic justice doesn't happen?  What if, sometimes, bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to people who behave in truly morally reprehensible ways?  It's not that I haven't always known this might be possible, but maybe I chose to ignore it.  Because, you know, that just doesn't fit with my perception of the universe.

Karma, the way the Buddhists mean it, anyway, isn't about predestination.   It's about intention. Which sort of turns the common perception of karma on its head.  Instead of things happening to you, it's about the way you do things, and the way you are more likely to do things because of the way you've done them.  It's about the development of habit.

A long time ago, when the Tibetan Buddhist monks came to visit us, they talked about how people can only give what they have.  People who have no joy can't give it.  And too bad for you if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time, and have to endure these people.  The practice of karma demonstrates how this works.  You practice ill will and greed, and that's pretty much what you end up with.  You practice good will and generosity, and you will become more good-willed and generous.  We're planting behavioral seeds.  Of course this makes sense.  Not in the "fake it 'til you make it" way, but in the mindful, cognitive behavioral therapy way.

We don't experience karma; we do it.

I have been struggling with karma for a long, long time.  With the concepts of punishment and justice.  Torturing myself with the possibility that maybe, if deeds went unpunished, they were warranted.  That I could have acted differently.   But really?  Sometimes people act in really awful ways, and get away with it.  And there's not a thing we can do about their behaviors.  They will never be brought to justice ... at least, not for our charges against them.

So maybe karmic justice isn't about people getting their just desserts.  Maybe it's about choosing to live in a way that creates the kind of heart we want to live with, and the world we want to live in, even if it's not the world where we live right now.

How do you respond to/deal with the injustices you see or experience in the world, the ones that are perpetrated by human beings?

Ginger Chocolate Kisses
These are Heidi's, of course.  I tweaked few things, but she is the goddess of just desserts.  And many, many other things.

6 oz. bittersweet chocolate2 c. spelt flour
1 t. baking soda
4 t. ground ginger
1/2 t. fine grain sea salt
1/2 c. unsalted butter
1/4 c. unsulphured molasses
2/3 c. fine grain natural cane sugar
1 T. grated fresh ginger, peeled
2 t. candied ginger, minced
1 large egg, well beaten

Preheat the oven to 350F and place the racks in the top and bottom third of the oven. Prepare two baking sheets by lining them with parchment paper.

Finely chop the chocolate and set aside.

Sift the flour, baking soda, ground ginger, and salt into a large bowl.

Melt the butter in a saucepan over low heat; remove from heat and stir in the molasses, sugar, and fresh ginger.   Let this mixture cool before proceeding; you don't want to cook the egg or melt the chocolate!

When the pot is cool to the touch, whisk in the egg and add this mixture to the the flour mixture.  Stir until just combined and fold in the chocolate.

Roll dough into 1/2 tablespoon-sized balls. (Heidi suggests rolling them in sugar, but I preferred the ones I didn't roll in sugar.  Use your judgment, of course.)  Place dough a few inches apart on prepared baking sheets. Bake for 7-10 minutes or until cookies are dark brown and puffy (they will likely deflate just a bit after you remove them from the oven).  Let cool on the sheets for a minute or two before removing them to cool completely.  Store in an airtight container not more than a few days, or freeze.

In An Instant

(Warning: this post may be upsetting to readers who have had experiences with fires, or with the loss of a home in a disaster.)

I watched a house burn down today.

My daughter and I were headed to a local playground about a mile and a half from our house when we heard the sirens.  Fascinated by emergency vehicles, she asked what they were.  I speculated on where they were going, said they were going to put out a fire somewhere, help someone who needed help, and kept walking, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my shoulders and the slight breeze that finally smelled like spring.

Until I realized we were walking directly towards a pillar of thick, brown, billowing smoke.

I don't understand the human fascination with disaster, but I know that it has sway over me, too.  "Oh," I said, "that's where the fire trucks are going.  Do you want to see them working?"

My daughter bounced in her stroller.  Yes, yes, she said, excited.

And so was I, sort of, until I saw the house.

I'd run by here countless times, looked at the jogging stroller on the porch.  Small children lived in this house.  The flames engulfed one entire side of the facade, roared between the roof and the chimneys, taunted the firefighters from under the roof.  There seemed to be no stopping the burning.  I watched in horror, unable to swallow, hoping that they had gotten the kids out. 

A female firefighter walked by with a sooty-faced infant on her hip.  The baby couldn't have been more than a year old, if that.  She regarded the open-mouthed crowds silently, seemingly content with her current place of safety.

In Spanish, I asked some of the women next to me, who were talking rapidly into their cell phones, if they knew the people who lived there.  Yes, they said.  The pregnant lady, over there.  She lives here.  With her son.  And the baby.

The mother had gone into labor.  As the ambulance pulled away, I felt sick, knowing that it had been too soon for that pregnancy to end, wishing desperately that I could do something, feeling awful about witnessing this disaster, and yet not knowing how to pull myself away.

I asked two other women, standing next to their store across the street from the blaze, if they knew anything.  They told me that they'd heard a bang, that they came out and the entire lower floor was on fire.  That the mother said she had been putting her baby down for a nap, and that she'd left the four year old downstairs.  That they'd found her standing right outside the house in shock, watching everything they owned burn.  That the mother had asked the little boy if he'd done anything, that he'd denied again and again, and finally, tearfully, confessed to playing with a lighter.  "Mommy," he'd asked, "am I going to jail?"

Oh, god, I thought.  The four year old.  A little four year old kid, responsible for a horrible mistake, a mistake that led to the burning of the rental where his family lived.  What would the landlord do to these people, who had already lost everything?

I asked N. if she had seen enough of the firefighters working, and she shook her head.  But I couldn't stand still any longer.  I started to ask people if they knew how we could help the family.  Could we get them clothes.  Food.  Things for the baby.  Anything.  God, anything.  And it would never be enough.

The smoke continued to billow into the air, and as the firefighters sprayed the house from the inside and the outside, the roof began to cave in.  Pieces of it were flying off from the sheer force of the water stream.  I could see through the walls now.

No one knew the family, no one knew how to reach them.  No one knew who was in charge.  People suggested I contact United Way, or the Red Cross, but didn't know if the family would be in touch with those agencies.  It was clearly too chaotic, with the fire still burning out of control, for us to make any logical plans.  But it was hard for me to walk away, feeling like I'd witnessed disaster and done nothing about it.

When I was growing up, my biggest, deepest, darkest fear was not nuclear war, or even the dark.  My greatest fear was that our house would burn down.  I woke up screaming in the night, flames licking the corners of my imagination, smoke choking me in my sleep.  I saw the stairs burning, the curtains, taking away my escape routes, leaving me stranded.  I saw everything we owned, everything that brought me comfort, turn to ashes.

Now, thirty years later, I watched the nightmare come to life before my eyes, and I felt powerless to stop it.  I could only imagine the nightmares of those children.  My heart hurt so much it was hard to breathe.

It's astounding how much your whole life can change in an instant.

Finally, N. pulled me away, ever the pragmatist, telling me she'd seen enough of the firefighters at work.  We walked the rest of the way to the playground, where I felt like we were living in some strange parallel universe, Muzak drifting from the outdoor mall nearby while children squealed with laughter, climbing and sliding and running around.  Shoppers walked by laden with bags of clothes from the outlets, completely oblivious to the devastation happening not even two blocks away.

It shook me, the parallel universe, perhaps even more so than the fire.  "Don't you know?" I wanted to scream.  "Don't you all know what just happened?  That two little children and their mother have no place to live?  That she may be giving birth to a baby that might not live?"

But of course, they didn't.  And it was only by coincidence that I did.

What was your deepest, darkest fear as a child?  Have you ever seen a house burn down?  What do you do to help people when you feel completely powerless?

*A group of people in my town have been trying to track down the family and offer support.  This story is not over yet.  At least, I hope it's not.

The Other Mothers

On Friday night, when I was driving home from the grocery store, I noticed that the gas station on the corner had set up two tents, which were filled with flowers and balloons.  At first I was confused, but then I realized, of course: Mother's Day.

We know how tricky this holiday is, for motherless children, for childless mothers, for the bereaved.  And honestly, though I love the homemade cards from my children, I don't like the pressure to buy balloons and flowers and candy.  I am uncomfortable with the iconography of motherhood that Hallmark offers up, even for those among us who had perfect pregnancies and exactly the number of children we wanted and managed to strike a perfect work/life balance and have fabulous relationships with our own--still living--mothers.

Like I've done in most years past, I'm choosing to celebrate Mother's Day (misplaced apostrophe and all) by celebrating my own Other Mothers, some of whom have no biological children of their own, but who have been mothers to me when I've needed them most.  And I've needed a lot of mothering lately.

Here are the Other Mothers I'm honoring in my heart today:

J., who came when it felt like the walls were finally closing in; helped me to find a door; and may--though I haven't yet asked her--even let me and my daughter adopt her.  Whose arms and heart are so open.

The other J., who invited me to be part of a group of amazing and inspiring women, who checks in on me periodically, despite the shitstorm in her own life.  Who has given me the gift of her own vulnerability as a parent.  Who is really an astonishingly strong and powerful mother.

Mel, who has been my patient blogging and writing mother, though I am a recalcitrant blogging child.

Lori, my wise mother-across-the-country, the one who reminds me to listen to myself, who always knows exactly the right thoughtful, thought-provoking, reassuring but also daring thing to say.

AmarJyothi, who teaches me, each time I am on the mat in her class, how to mother myself.

C., who reminds me how to be the mother I want to be.

N., who brought me tea and chocolate and made me rest during the worst of my pregnancy losses, who can no longer look across the driveway into my window, but still mothers me from the West Coast, and pokes me to go to bed, via Facebook.

E., who was my first professional mother, who taught me, by example, that the most important thing about working was protecting your integrity.  Whose voice I still hear when I doubt my decision to leave my last position.

There have been others along the way.  But today, I wanted to say thank you, for giving so generously of yourself, for mothering someone who shares no biology with you.  Because really, in the end, that's not what motherhood is about at its core, is it.  It's about the unselfish gift, of life, of love, even when the giving is not easy.

And to those of you who do this for other people, whether you are mothers to your own children or not, consider yourself hugged today.

Who are your Other Mothers?

On Vulnerability, and Blueberry-Mango Lavender Shortbread Bars

The visiting minister who gave the sermon at our church this past Sunday said that every minister has one sermon that they keep preaching over and over again, with different scaffolding, different illustrations, different stories to drive the point home.  I think that the same thing goes for many writers: that is, that we're trying to exorcise our demons, to write our way out of a problem that we, too, are stuck inside, in one way or another.

This minister's one sermon, she said, was about the spirituality of imperfection: the profound connection that can result in willingness to be vulnerable with others, and with ourselves, about who we really are, instead of who we think we ought to be.  We've heard this before from people like Brené Brown, whose Ted talks and books and appearances on Oprah have catapulted her into the public eye.

One of the things that came up in the discussion after the sermon (because for those of you who aren't UU, that's how we roll: we talk back after the minister talks, even if we do let said minister have the last word) was when it was useful to be vulnerable, given the tendency to overshare in social media.  Though the question was really more about Facebook, the question applies equally to bloggers, and about whether the kind of vulnerability Brown describes is really what we're doing here.

When Brown talks about being vulnerable, with sharing our stories of shame, she says that we can't just be vulnerable with everyone.  In fact, there are several kinds of people we want to actively avoid:

"1. The friend who hears the story and actually feels shame for you. She gasps and confirms how horrified you should be. Then there is awkward silence. Then you have to make her feel better.

2. The friend who responds with sympathy ("I feel so sorry for you") rather than empathy ("I get it, I feel with you, and I've been there"). If you want to see a shame cyclone turn deadly, throw one of these at it: "Oh, you poor thing." Or, the incredibly passive-aggressive Southern version of sympathy, "Bless your heart."

3. The friend who needs you to be the pillar of worthiness and authenticity. She can't help because she's too disappointed in your imperfections. You've let her down.

4. The friend who is so uncomfortable with vulnerability that she scolds you: "How did you let this happen? What were you thinking?" Or she looks for someone to blame: "Who was that guy? We'll kick his ass."

5. The friend who is all about making it better and, out of her own discomfort, refuses to acknowledge that you can actually be crazy and make terrible choices: "You're exaggerating. It wasn't that bad. You rock. You're perfect. Everyone loves you."

6. The friend who confuses connection with the opportunity to one-up you: 'That's nothing. Listen to what happened to me one time!'  "

--Excerpted from http://www.oprah.com/spirit/Brene-Brown-How-to-Conquer-Shame-Friends-Who-Matter#ixzz2SZs1J32F

Basically, Brown says, we need to honor our struggle by sharing it with someone who has earned the right to hear it.
 In real life, I can attest to the fact that Brown's assessment feels pretty accurate.  Even as an adult, even in the past year, I've had my share of being vulnerable with the wrong people--not people who tore me down, but people who didn't value the gift of my vulnerability.   People who came back with "oh, yeah, that happened to me" ... except it didn't, because I'm not you, I thought.  I walked away from those conversations feeling hurt, strangely violated, strangely tossed aside, wishing that they'd told me instead, from the very beginning, that they didn't really want to hear my story.  But of course, that's for me to judge, not them.

Of course, we don't all share everything online.  There's a lot I don't tell you, or that I tell you only in veiled ways.  I am not my blog.  But our blogs are the places where some of us do feel we can be vulnerable.  Why is that, given what Brown says about the privilege of being empathetic?  And does it matter to us whether our audience has earned the right to hear our story, if that story is difficult or painful in any way?  It certainly matters to us when people tear us down; so how do we walk the line between productive (for ourselves and for our readers) vulnerability, and self-preservation?

***

Then there are others of us who blog (and, for that matter, live) like we have our shit together.  These are the people whose DIY projects and food dominate Pinterest and Foodgawker.  They're the people who win all blogging awards, who have gazillions of followers.  They're the people whose statuses you hate to read on Facebook.

Mel wrote this week about the tricky business of admitting that we don't have our shit together,  and I think this has a lot to do with vulnerability.  She talks about the fact that we are drawn to confidence, to people who seem to know things.  Smart doctors.  Well-recommended dentists.  Bakers (oh, yes, for me this hits home ... I rarely eat a mediocre cupcake on purpose).  And she suggests that perhaps we look to others who "have it all figured out" because we don't.

I don't know.  I think I actually feel better about people who openly don't have their shit together.  Do I like to read a well-written novel?  Hell, yes.  For as much as Barbara Kingsolver's most recent novel has its flaws, I found myself practically weeping over the beauty and cleverness of her prose, telling myself I could never be that good.  But on the other hand, as a writer, I like reading other writers that struggle, that help me to do it better.  If I'm seeing a doctor, I like to know that she has gotten good medical training, and that she's had some success with patients.  But I also know that I'm not every other patient, and I appreciate when a doctor is honest with me about a course of treatment.  Maybe we'll try this, and if it doesn't work, we'll try that.  A chocolatier recently opened a little shop in a town not far from me, and I've already made friends with him.  He was making truffles a few weeks ago, and posted to Facebook something along the lines of "I have these truffles that are not very good yet; come taste them and help me figure out how to make them better."  So I did, of course.  I had a great conversation with him about taste and texture and mouth feel of a truffle.  I learned a lot.  And I was glad he was willing to stumble out there in public.  And yet, you don't do that with everyone, do you?

***

Recently, I joined what our church calls a covenant group.  These are basically once-a-month small group meetings outside of the regular church service where the members choose a topic, or series of topics, to discuss over a period of several months.  The members of the group covenant with each other to show up, to be respectful and supportive, to listen, to contribute, to value the contributions of others.  It's a lot like a vow of empathy, the way Brown might describe it.  And because of that covenant, the group becomes a safe place to be vulnerable.  I will admit, I have not become completely vulnerable with my covenant group.  But I do feel like I can trust more of them with my authentic self now, and I'm grateful for that.  I am drawn to those relationships.  I need them.  I need them even more than I need beautiful DIY crafts and perfect pictures and stunning prose.  I need to feel like it's OK to be imperfect.

I intended to make these bars from Flourishing Foodie for my covenant group when I hosted last week, but I got a little sidetracked, because I couldn't find fresh apricots in the store, then (after I'd bought the canned ones) realized I didn't have enough apricots.  It's also the wrong season for fresh lavender, and we didn't have any Grand Marnier.  And the powdered sugar went everywhere when I turned on the mixer because someone who lives in this house and who is under three feet tall likes to turn things on and walk away, so I had to add more powdered sugar after the fact.  And when I cooked the mango, there were little fibers in the bars that looked like hair, which was sort of embarrassing.  I disclosed all of this information before I let anyone eat one.  But everyone thought they were good anyway.  And maybe sometimes good enough is exactly what we need.

Where do you feel like you can be vulnerable?  If you blog, do you feel like you can be vulnerable on your blog?  Or do you feel like you need to have your shit together?  Are you drawn to people who are imperfect, or who make living look easy?

Blueberry-Mango Lavender Shortbread Bars
makes 16 squares
adapted from Flourishing Foodie, who adapted it from Baked Explorationsby Matt Lewis and Renato Poliafito


12 T. unsalted butter, room temperature, cut into 1" cubes
1/2 c. powdered sugar
1 t. vanilla extract
3/4 t. finely chopped dried lavender
1 3/4 c. flour


1 c. canned apricots, chopped
1 c. fresh mango, chopped
1 c. fresh blueberries
1 c. white wine
1/2 c. of water
1/3 c. sugar
2 T. honey
1 T. Triple Sec
1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1/2 c. brown sugar
1/4 c. chopped almonds
3 T. unsalted butter, chilled, cubed
2 T. oats

Leaving a 1" overhang, line a 9 inch square baking pan with parchment paper. You can also coat it with cooking spray if that makes you feel better, but it's not necessary.

Place the powdered sugar in your electric mixing bowl, and drop the butter in.  Stir gently a few times to coat the butter so that the sugar won't fly everywhere when you turn the mixer on.  Using an electric mixer, starting on a very low speed and pulsing gently, gradually working up to a full-on high mixing level, cream the butter and sugar until fluffy.  Add the vanilla and chopped lavender.  Beat again until combined.  Add the flour and mix on low speed, until everything is combined.  Place the dough into the pan and press flat. Chill in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.

While the dough is chilling, prepare the filling.  In a medium saucepan simmer the apricots, blueberries, mango, wine, water, sugar, honey, and Triple Sec on low to medium heat.  Stir occasionally, and cook until the liquid has absorbed (45 - 60 minutes).  You may have to vary the heat as liquid begins to evaporate.  Set aside to cool.

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Place the crust into the oven and bake for 30 minutes until golden brown. Remove from the oven and let cool to room temperature.

In a bowl, using your fingers, rub together, the flour, brown sugar, and butter. You want the mixture to lightly clump together.  Add chopped almonds and oats.  Set aside.  Once the shortbread has cooled, spread the filling over it, and top with the crumble. Bake for 25 minutes or until the top has just lightly browned.

Let the bars completely cool on a wire rack, in the pan, before serving. Once they have cooled, pull them out with the parchment paper and slice into bars.

Thinning the Canes

It was obvious, when I walked out to the garden today, that it needed to be done.

The wintered-over raspberry canes were already bending and leaning, tangling into the dead grasses and new weeds, providing a good host for Creeping Charlie and poison ivy.  I have a mortal dread of poison ivy, and I don't like experiencing mortal dread when all I want is berries to make pie.  Besides, the dead canes are like unnecessary dragons to fight when I'm trying to get to the branches that bear fruit.

I both love and hate thinning the canes.  On the one hand, it's a task that makes me feel like I've accomplished something significant.  It's productive.  At the end, I've got something very concrete to show for my time.  On the other hand, it's a painful activity.  Some of the canes have visible, obvious thorns, especially towards the roots.  You can be careful with those.  But some of them look deceptively innocent, and it's only later, long after you've gone in and washed up and had your glass of cold water that you realize your fingers are full of tiny needle-like prickers that bury themselves deeper and deeper, poking at you when you're typing, or washing dishes, or doing other things that shouldn't hurt.

Mike Pennington [CC-BY-SA-2.0
(http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons

I know what you're thinking.  I could do it with gloves, but I don't have good gardening gloves right now anyway, and I kind of like doing it with my bare hands.  It helps me to be more sensitive to the possibility of life inside the canes.  I'm more gentle with my bare hands than I'd be with a pair of gloves.

It's a tricky business to know which canes are still alive, and which are the standing dead.   Our raspberry bushes have a two year cycle, kind of like Monarch butterflies: some bloom in the spring, and bear fruit in June along the entire branch.  These dry out over the winter, die, become hollow, and are less fierce by the following spring.  Others only sprout in the spring, sending up long stalks into the stratosphere seemingly overnight; if we're lucky, they bloom and bear smaller, less voluptuous, but still sweet fruit in August and September, winter over, and become the early bloomers and bigger producers the next year.  Though sometimes the older canes appear lighter in color and more brittle to the touch, you can only really tell which canes are alive in late spring, after the leaves start to unfold, and even then it's not always a given that the barren canes are dead.  Sometimes, you tug at the ones that seem dead, and they tug back from the root, green, unwilling to give up their earth.

I am arm-deep in the tangle of branches, the sun is warm above me, not quite beating down yet like it will just a month from now, and my daughter orbits me in the grass, singing, picking dandelions, and sometimes screaming "aaaaah!  beeee!  BEEEEE!  gnaaaaaaaaat!! AAAA!  GNAAAAT!" which I am ignoring probably more than I should.  I toss the canes into a neat pile, stacking them in parallel so that they're easier to transfer to the garbage bin later: another opportunity for them to scratch me and lodge their prickers in my skin one last time before they go to the curb.  Minutes--an hour--pass without my notice.  I am absorbed in this work, this important work that will give me better fruit, and better access to the fruit, when it comes in just a month.

Have I told you?  Lately, I've been thinning my own canes, too.  The ones that I can't touch.  The stalks of my past lives.  It's long overdue, this thinning.  And it's a more long-term project, not something I can finish in a day, not something I can stack neatly in a pile and put out at the curb. It's probably something I'll have to do at the start of every growing season, or maybe to start my own growing season.

Like the raspberry branches, some of my canes are thorny.  I can see the thorns as I approach those memories, those feelings, and I'm gentle in the pulling; even though I know they're dead, I also know that they can still hurt me.  There are some, too, that are surprisingly thorny--those are the ones that leave barely perceptible prickers.  And some are still alive; I tug at them, and they don't give.  Despite their wintering over, they need time, still, to bear fruit, bitter and seedy as that fruit may be, before they die.

Unfortunately, there are no gloves for this kind of work.  You just have to do it: take a deep breath, don your courage, and dive in.

The afternoon shadows lengthen, and I decide to pack it in for the day.  I survey my work: I can see the earth again, and there's no poison ivy, or at least not yet.   The dead canes and weeds fill a garbage can.  My hands and fingernails are dirty, and my arms scratched and scarred.  I am already finding small prickers buried in my fingertips, bits too small to tweeze out.  But I'm also pleased to see just how many live canes I've found, to see the silver buds opening into silky green leaves, and am already thinking about the colanders full of ripe, red berries, and fresh raspberry pie.

Friends of the Movement: A Post for NIAW (Join the Movement)

Sometime in January, I got elected to the Friends of the Library board in my town.  I'm not entirely sure how it happened, except that I (still) have a hard time saying "no," and I (still) tend to collect commitments like some people collect bad boyfriends.

Except, of course, that the Friends group isn't a bad boyfriend.

I live in a small town, and we have a small town library, which--oddly enough--isn't really affiliated with the larger county system around us.  We are our own little island, with our own storytimes, our own programming, our own collection of historic Native American arrowheads in the conference room.  It's walkable from my house, too, which makes it a good destination for rainy days.  There's a children's corner full of worn, well-loved stuffed animals and puppets and puzzles.  I love our library because it's a secret: no one knows about it, and sometimes when I'm looking for a book that is out of the county library, my little library has it.  It's my secret resource.

On the other hand, it's not always a good idea to keep secrets secret.  Which is why we have a Friends group in the first place.

You see, if no one knows about my little library, no one will help it out.  No one will help to rebuild when its historic facade starts to crumble.  No one will make sure that we have some new furniture for the conversation nooks.  No one will attend its programs and become regular patrons.  And eventually, it will die, like the mom and pop stores that succumb to the economy created by big box stores on the highway.  It will cease to be a community hub, a place to hang our hats.

***

I am, by medical standards, infertile.  My two beautiful children do not negate my lost pregnancies (see my NIAW post "Bust a Myth: Infertility Isn't Bad for People with Children" in 2011), nor do they negate the diagnosis that my ob/gyn gave me when when, after those losses, we seemed unable event to concieve another child.  But my living children do make it a little bit more challenging to interact in the ALI blogging community, where most of the bloggers are undergoing treatments, or sorting out their options, or coming to terms with living a life that is very different from the one they imagined for themselves.

Which is, strangely enough, also exactly why I still feel like I belong here.  Because even if I'm not experiencing the same thing as everyone else is, the ALI community needs a Friends group.  Without Friends, people who can advocate and speak on its behalf, people who can support it in times of crisis and need and joy, people who have "made it" to the "other side" and can offer--if not a promise--hope, it will struggle.  National Infertility Awareness Week isn't just about the people who are currently childless and trying to conceive talking about infertility.  It's about creating a conversation about infertility, about making it a less taboo topic, about helping people to become more sensitive so they don't ask questions like "isn't it time you had a baby yet?" or "when are you going to have your second child?"  It's about remembering that people who experienced infertility are not done experiencing infertility just because they've been able to have a child, or because they have decided to end their quest for parenthood or for another child.  It's about cultivating a group of Friends, who aren't even necessarily members.

So here's my request for National Infertility Awareness Week: Join the Movement.  Because 1 in 8 is someone you know.

• http://www.resolve.org/infertility101  (Basic understanding of the disease of infertility.)
• http://www.resolve.org/national-infertility-awareness-week/about.html (About NIAW)

My Grandmother, Choosing Family, and Yellow Split Pea Lentil Soup

My grandma left the world this past week.  She had moved into advanced stages of dementia, and suffered from COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease) and congestive heart failure, so in many ways her passing was a blessing; I know that she is now finally at peace.  I hadn't seen her for a while; she moved to Maine when I was still in middle school, and she had been deteriorating for some time, so my aunt had been busy trying to take care of her, and, I suspect, not really wanting people to see her as the person she'd become.  Which means that my memory of her is not clouded by memories of her illness ... good for me, I guess, not-so-good for my aunt.

Grandma was not my "real" grandma, in the sense that she wasn't blood-related.  She was my aunt's mother, someone who joined our family by marriage.  When my alcoholic uncle (my mother's brother) and my aunt divorced, my family, sadly, mostly abandoned my uncle, and kept my aunt and my cousin, and got Grandma, too.  She was the only grandmother I ever knew; both of my parents' parents died long before I was born.  And she played the role well: there were always banana breads and coconut breads and muffins and chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen, and pots of "gravy" (she was Italian) bubbling away on the stove, and presents that spoiled me.  She sent me scores of cookbooks, and was always offering, on the sly, to let me come stay with her.  I am sure that it was her intent to "fatten me up," not that I needed fattening in my formative years.  I very clearly remember my first New Year's Eve apart from my parents, when I stayed at Grandma's house and she let me watch the ball drop.  We had split pea soup for dinner, and mini hot dogs at midnight, with a tiny glass sip-full of champagne.  I thought I would die of happiness, living it up like a real "grown up," my folding TV tray perched next to hers as we sat together on the couch watching Dick Clark.

In many respects, you don't get to choose your family.  You're stuck with the people who raise you, at least for the early years.  But for me, my grandma was the first example of someone we chose to make part of our family.  My first daytime babysitter was another person we "adopted," for lack of a better term: Aunt Kitty, as we called her, was not just someone who watched me when my parents were at work, but someone who was there at my high school graduation, marveling at the young woman I'd become.

Over the years, I've done my share of this "annexing."  My best friend's parents in high school, who smothered me in hugs.  My high school English teachers, who fed me large shopping bags full of mystery novels, and who hosted me for weekends of quiet reading, good food, and cat-petting during difficult adolescent years.  My college boyfriend's parents, who often welcomed me to their Shabbat table, who fed me chicken soup when I was sick and challah when I wasn't, even if they probably did feel a little sorry that I wasn't Jewish.  My friend in California, who became a big sister, looking out for me when I wasn't looking out very well for myself.

I was talking with a friend from church recently about the giving and receiving sermon from the other day, about why we build our community and try to make sure that everyone is taken care of, and it's precisely for this reason: that most families come imperfect, incomplete, some assembly required.  Which is not to say that everyone needs the heteronormative family with four grandparents and 1.5 siblings and a dog, but that relationships are complicated, and that I feel grateful for the people who have become my chosen family over the years, who help me define what family really means.

My grandmother never would have imagined split pea soup like this.  But I know that she is with me now in the kitchen, nodding approvingly at my efforts to keep the oven hot and the pots bubbling on a regular basis.

How do you define your family?  Who have you chosen to add to your family over the years?

Yellow Split Pea Lentil Soup
adapted from 101 Cookbooks
I added a little more water and vegetables than Heidi did to this soup, and less raisins, because I don't like my soup quite as sweet.  I also tossed all of the scallions in during the cooking stage, instead of saving some for the end as she does, partly by mistake, but I liked the result.  And I added a bit of garam masala for a deeper of flavor.

1 c. yellow split peas
1 c. red lentils
8 c. water
2 carrots, cut into 1/2-inch dice
2 T. fresh peeled and minced ginger, divided
2 T. curry powder
2 T. coconut oil
8 scallions thinly sliced
1/4 c. golden raisins
1/3 c. tomato paste
1/2 t. garam masala
1 14-ounce can coconut milk
2 t. salt
one small handful cilantro, chopped

Rinse the split peas and lentils very well and place them in 3+ quart soup pot.  Cover the beans with water, bring to a boil, and reduce to a simmer.  Add the carrot and 1 1/2 t. of the ginger. Cover and simmer for about 35 minutes, or until the split peas are soft but not mushy.  You should test them every few minutes towards the end of cooking time to make sure you don't get split pea soup the way my grandma used to make it (which was great for people with no teeth).

In the meantime, in a small skillet over low heat, toast the curry powder, stirring constantly until fragrant. This should only take about a minute or two; if it starts smoking you're gone too far! Set aside.

Melt the coconut oil in a saute pan over medium heat, add the green onions, the remaining ginger, and raisins. Saute for two minutes stirring constantly, then add the tomato paste and garam masala and saute for another minute or two more.

Add the toasted curry powder to the tomato paste mixture, mix well, and then add this to the simmering soup along with the coconut milk and salt. Simmer, uncovered, for 20 minutes or so.

You can add rice or farro if you'd like a heartier soup; I preferred mine as is, sprinkled with lots of cilantro.