Favorite Place, and Zucchini Pesto

I've been reading student applications, in preparation for their arrival on campus.  By the time they reach me, the applications are almost like ancient history, snapshots of a distant past one year ago when applicants shone their shoes, put their best foot forward, combed their hair, turned their faces at just the right angle for the camera.  Still, they bring that history with them, much as they might want to reinvent themselves, so it's useful to know.

The questions on the Common Application haven't changed much over the past two years (though I see they're different this year), and as I read the applications, sometimes I wonder how I'd answer these questions if I had to write a college application now.  I suspect I'd find the process daunting. Too many places to fall short.

Which seems particularly obvious to me when it comes to this question: "Describe a place or environment where you are perfectly content. What do you do or experience there, and why is it meaningful to you?" What seems, on the surface, to be a perfectly innocuous question about tranquility is much more devious, of course, because contentment isn't necessarily peaceful; the essay demands that you demonstrate readiness for college in your choice of content (not the description of the place, of course, but the part that's about you) and proficiency in writing.  Lots of students use this question to describe their experience in competitive athletics, or in some kind of work "flow" in a lab or as they're reading.  So what does it say about me, I wonder, that I'd chose my CSA farm?

I am content with my family, too, when my daughter wriggles into my lap and tells me she's going to cuddle, or when my son tells me about his day, interrupting his stream of consciousness every fourth word with "mom?  and mom?"  But sometimes it's hard to quiet my mind there.  When I'm home I'm often thinking about other things I need to do, lunches to pack, schedules to manage, dinners to make, grocery shopping to do, laundry to fold.  Books I ought to read.

But the CSA is different; it's the one place where time stops for me.  I may be in a rush when I get there, and in a rush when I leave, but when I'm picking up vegetables, being present is effortless. I'm always, without fail, astonished by the view, the green hills that roll away to the horizon with other farms and silos and houses with acreage.  It's one of the few places where I stand still.  Sometimes, if I'm there at just the right time of day, the air is thick and bright with butterflies above the rows of zinnias and sunflowers.  As I pluck the cherry tomatoes from their vines-which come in every imaginable hue from red to yellow to purple--sweet juice bursts their skins open in the heat.  Why is it meaningful to me?  Because being present is difficult sometimes, and I'm grateful for a place that reminds me to do so even after I've left.  Because the other CSA members who've come to pick up their shares, people I've met and people I've never met, essentially share a garden and a virtual table: we are an instant and real community, which offers its members a sense of belonging with no strings attached.  My farmer greets me by name and with a broad smile.  I know the origins of my dinner, digging my heels into the soil that nourished the plans that produced my beans.  I feel connected, and quite literally, grounded.

I'm fairly certain that's not good enough for a college essay.  I wonder what the admissions committees would make of me, the me that would write that essay now.  I wonder if they'd wonder if I ought not to be applying to an ag school, or to a Buddhist monastery, or to a culinary institute, instead of to a university.

Or maybe they'd think I'm an artist, a dreamer, a lover of people, someone who cares about sustainability and nourishing the body and the spirit and the local community.

I like the second picture better.

Zucchini with Pesto

Combine in a food processor and process to a rough paste:

2 c. loosely packed basil leaves
1⁄2 c. grated Parmesan
1⁄3 c. cashews
2 medium garlic cloves, peeled

With the machine running, slowly add:

1⁄2 c. olive oil, or as needed

If the pesto seems dry (it should be a thick paste), add a little more olive oil. Season to taste with salt and black pepper.

Use immediately, or pour a very thin film of olive oil over the top, cover, and refrigerate for up to 1 week.

When you're ready to serve the dish, julienne the zucchini (I have a brand new fancy mandoline that some friends got for me to do this). Saute briefly until just crisp-tender, and toss with the pesto to warm. Serve with fresh ripe tomatoes, a crusty bread, and whatever else yells summer.

The In Between: Kale with Chard, and Day of the Dead

Our last CSA pickup for the season was last Friday, and so this week was the first in many months that I had to plan a menu that didn't involve kale, chard, or tomatoes.  I don't tend to can or freeze our share, so there was something wistful about eating the last local-farm-sourced meal of the season, as much as it's freeing to have the entire supermarket open to me again.  Watching the fields turn brown and white is like watching a loved one die, and yet, after eating so much green for so many months, I start to crave things that are brown and white, the root vegetables of winter.

I've always loved this time of year, though, this in-between when it feels like the door to another world is open, when death and life collide.  We more or less suck at dealing with death in this country, in my experience; death is something we don't like to talk about, something we distance from our own lives, something to be feared.  These silences make grieving more difficult, not to mention significantly limiting our experience of being human.  Other cultures cope with death and dying much more effectively by making it part of life, particularly during this season of the year: the Celtic holiday of Samhain both celebrates the end of the harvest season and welcomes the souls of the dead, who were beckoned to attend feasts where a place was set at the table for them. The three-day long celebration of El Día de los Muertos, likewise, sets aside a specific day at the end of the traditional harvest period to remember lost friends and loved ones.  The only thing we have that comes even close to honoring this liminality is Halloween, and we're too busy gorging ourselves on candy to really appreciate it.

My daughter asked me what I was going to be for Halloween this year, and--not wanting to do one of the usual ghost/zombie/vampire affairs--after giving it a lot of thought (not to mention spending a lot of time admiring the creative costume ideas at Take Back Halloween), I decided that if I needed to dress up, I would be Frida Kahlo, the feminist Mexican artist famous for her self-portraits.

Kahlo lived on the boundaries.  A victim of childhood polio that left her with legs two different lengths, and a bus accident during her teenage years that resulted in life long pain, multiple operations on an injured pelvis, and multiple miscarriages, she also pushed the limits of traditional gender norms, smoking, drinking, and having bisexual extramarital affairs. After several years living in what she referred to as "Gringoland" with her husband Diego Rivera, with whom her relationship was complicated at best, she painted a self-portrait in which she stands between Mexico and the United States, herself a physical boundary (or bridge) between indigenous culture and technology, natural resources and industrialization.

While I don't identify with Kahlo as I did once long ago with Jane Eyre, I appreciate her embrace of the space between, her strength and resilience, her joie d'vivre, even given her difficult life.  A few days before her death, she wrote in her diary: "I hope the exit is joyful — and I hope never to return — Frida".   Kahlo accept and embraced her fragility, and still did her best to live a life and produce art that suggested her power and serenity as a woman in the world, living courageously into a future that is unknown. And perhaps, at this time of year, that's the most we can hope for.

Do you celebrate a holiday that remembers lost loved ones?  What's your experience of this particular kind of in-between-ness?

Spiced Squash and Chard with Walnuts
This was I did with the last of our CSA produce of the year.  Not quite salad, 

not quite side dish, not quite root vegetable or leafy green, it lives somewhere in the in-between, too.

1 medium acorn squash
1 bunch of swiss chard, ribs removed and chopped, leaves chopped separately
2 T. olive oil
1/2 t. salt
1/2 t. pepper
2 t. cardamom
3/4 c. chopped toasted walnuts

2 T. orange juice (preferably fresh squeezed)
3 T. local honey
2 T. apple cider vinegar
1/4 c. oil grapeseed oil
1/2 t. apple pie spice
1/8 t. ginger
1/4 t. salt

Preheat oven to 450 degrees

Slice, peel, and cube the acorn squash. Toss with olive oil, salt, pepper, and cardamom. Roast in a single layer for 30-35 minutes, flipping once half-way through.

While your squash is roasting, shake together the orange juice, vinegar, oil, apple pie spice, ginger, honey, and salt in a jar.

When the squash is done, move to a skillet  over medium heat and add the the chard, continuing to stir until wilted. Chop and toast the walnuts; you can toss them into the same roasting pan you've just emptied, and put them back in the oven for just a few minutes (check every two minutes or so to make sure they're not burning).

Add your walnuts after 3-4 minutes.

Toss the warm chardwith 1/4 c. of the vinaigrette. Enjoy immediately or at room temperature.

Catching More Flies: Peach Walnut Salad with Honey Mint Vinaigrette

I don't know about you, but this has been too much déjà vu for me.  Gunman with a history of mental illness enters a building to which he has legitimate access, opens fire, and mows down multiple innocent people.  An outraged public demands better gun control.  Media track down the gun purchase, only to discover that it's entirely legitimate.  A nation mourns.

My heart aches for the families of the dead.  But doesn't the fact that this continues to happen suggest that we need to consider a different approach to the problem?

As I've been following coverage of the event, I've been thinking a lot about Antoinette Tuff.  Remember her?  The Atlanta elementary school bookkeeper who averted the school shooting at McNair Discovery Learning Academy back in August?  If you haven't listened to the full 911 recording, you owe it to yourself to do so.  It's a remarkable example of our potential to humanize others, even in the moments in which they seem most inhuman:

http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_slatest/2013/08/22/antoinette_tuff_911_call_listen_to_the_full_tape_of_ga_school_clerks_call.html

Tuff begins the encounter by relaying the gunman's demands to the 911 operator.  But soon she begins to interject her own responses to his comments, and that, in the end, is what changes the situation.  In the moment when she chooses to validate him as a human being, to see him as something more than a gun-toting maniac, the monologue becomes dialogue: "He said he should've just went to the mental hospital instead of doing this because he's not on his medication. But do you want me to try - I can help you. Let's see if we can work it out so that you don't have to go away with them for a long time." As the conversation continues, Tuff connects with the shooter through her own vulnerabilities.  She talks with him about her own suicidal thoughts, her separation from her husband, her multiply disabled son.  And then, the part of the conversation that blows me away every time I hear it: "It's going to be all right, sweetie.  I just want you to know I love you, though, OK? And I'm proud of you. That's a good thing that you're just giving up and don't worry about it. We all go through something in life."

Love him? Remember, she is talking to a stranger who was, not minutes before, armed.

When, I wondered, was the last time someone said that to him?

What I don't understand is if Aaron Alexis was hearing voices six weeks ago, and actually told people about it, actually asked for help, why wasn't there someone to help him?  Where was the Antoinette Tuff of the Navy Yard?

There have been more "mass shootings" since Newtown than you've probably realized, since the FBI's definition of mass murder involves the killing of four people. Most of the shooters were unrelated to either most or all of their victims.  Most of them expressed some kind of desperation, some kind of estrangement, some kind of mental disturbance.  There was an insightful article in the NYTimes today about schizophrenia patients and the voices in our heads, suggesting that local culture plays a significant role in the manifestation of mental illness, and that if we--I would argue, patients and communities--treat unsettling voices with dignity and respect, then we can change them.

I'm not suggesting that we don't need to talk about gun control.  I have two small children, and I don't understand why civilians need to own semi-automatic weapons intended for military use.  But I also know that if someone wants a gun badly enough, he--or she--is going to get it, regardless of what the law says.  And I think that there's a lot of truth to the old adage about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar. 

We don't need all need to become social workers, or experts in dealing with mental illness.  But we can learn the equivalent of mental CPR.  And we need to see the mentally ill, instead of pretending that they don't exist, or that they're not our problem.  Because when someone decides to purchase a gun and kill twelve innocent people, it is our problem.

Isn't it about time we employed the ethics of care?

Peach Walnut Salad with
Honey Mint Vinaigrette
Here's a vinaigrette in which the tang is tempered by local honey.  Invest in a good one, because you will be able to taste it.

12 mint leaves, julienned
1/4 c. honey
2 T. rice vinegar
6 T. vegetable oil
pinch salt
4 or 5 ripe peaches, peeled and cubed
1/3 c. walnuts, toasted
8 oz. mixed greens

Whisk mint leaves, honey, rice vinegar, and salt in a bowl.  Continue to whisk while pouring in vegetable oil; mix until emulsified.  Add peaches and toss to coat.

Empty mixed greens into a large bowl.  Top with peaches and walnuts, and toss gently.  Serve.

The Quantification of the Self, and Eggplant Curry

I was given a FitBit, courtesy of Best Buy, for running the BlogHer 5K this year.  Lest you call me a hypocrite, let me be clear: I would have run the 5K even without the promise of swag. I was going to get out for some exercise that morning anyway, and put my re-sprained ankle to its first test.  But the FitBit did make getting out of bed at 5:30 a little easier.  And I've been wearing it ever since.  Somewhere, the leadership team of FitBit (which, by the way, has only one woman on it) is rubbing their hands together, cackling, "EXcellent."

True confessions: this isn't the first time I've owned one.  My first FitBit is probably buried somewhere in the Technology Drawer (which is a fancy name for the tangled mess of thumb drives, chargers, and connective wires necessary for all of our electronic devices -- the futuristic version of my mother's Junk Drawer).  My husband and I each had one, gifts from his company, which we wore religiously; he and I competed to climb the most stairs, to walk the most steps, and to grow the tallest flower on the tiny FitBit screen.  Come to think of it, I don't think he was competing with me.  But at the time, that was irrelevant.

One day, I guess I forgot to put it back on.  Or maybe I got frustrated and fired it.  So did my husband.  And you know how it goes.  Miss a day, miss two days, and your FitBit dies a quiet death in the Technology Drawer.

This time, I'm the only one with the device, and I thought perhaps it wouldn't hold such power over me.  But I check it, tap it, intentionally take the stairs even when I'm wearing less sensible shoes, partly because I know it's counting.  And I know that I am not alone in this behavior.

We quantify ourselves in countless ways.  If you don't have a FitBit, you have an iPhone app that tracks exercise and nutrition.  Or you look at your blog stats.  Or your grades in school.  Or the number of Twitter followers you have.  Or the number of Facebook friends you've accumulated.  Or shares of your social media posts.  If you're feeling lazy, you let Klout do it for you, and though you complain about how irrelevant Klout is, you check it anyway when it sends you email about your declining score.  There is, I discovered, even a Quantified Self movement and global conference: people out there dedicated to the cause of defining ourselves by the numbers (the Measured Me site is a notable example, in which the subject is quantifying even his happiness).  Assessment is the watchword of educational institutions.  We are all counting, and accounted for, especially in a competitive environment.

I was a qualitative researcher in grad school.  I did my time in quantitative fields: an English major, I still managed to get through Calc II and Linear Algebra; I aced programming and discrete structures; I passed my quantitative methods courses with flying colors.  But I always felt like there was more to the issues than numbers, and I was relieved to discover that I could still write a respectable (in fact, award-winning!) dissertation without statistics.

It's like achieving balance in the kitchen.  Baking is a quantitative pursuit.  You can fool around with amounts of fat and flour and sugar and leavening agent, but if you fool around too much, you will guarantee yourself some flat, or mushy, or otherwise undesirable cupcakes.  So, provided you like cupcakes, quantitative work in the kitchen is important.  But if you eat only cupcakes, you're going to get sick.  Cooking things like curry or soup or stir fry, on the other hand, is qualitative.  You add some of this, and some of that, and sub in something else that you prefer, you taste it off, and voila! you have dinner.  Which is, in the end, probably better for you than cupcakes.  Unless you're Julia Child, and you're making a roux or a souffle, in which case, you're counting, but you might as well add more butter and call it a day.

The bottom line is: we need both qualitative and quantitative measures of the self.  While some measurement is important, we are not merely the sum of numbers on a FitBit, or our social media reach, or grades, or the salary we make.  It's easy to forget that, given the emphasis we place on quantifying success (see Arianna Huffington's conference on the Third Metric).  But every once in a while, it might do us good to fire the FitBit.  Even if it means that occasionally, we end up taking the elevator.

Do you quantify yourself?  What are your reactions to the Quantified Self movement?

Eggplant Curry
Play around with this.  The second time I made it, I tossed in two handfuls of green beans instead of one of the peppers.  Add a few more tomatoes.  Vary the salt.  Whatever you do, enjoy it.

3 Japanese eggplants cut into rounds or 1 medium eggplant, chopped
1 green bell pepper, chopped
1 red bell pepper, chopped
1 large onion, diced
4-5 medium Roma tomatoes, diced
2 T. coconut oil
1 t. cumin seeds
2 T, ginger, grated
1/8 t. turmeric powder
3/4 t. garam masala
salt to taste
1 c. coconut milk

Heat oil in a heavy stock pot. Add cumin seeds; when the seeds begin to crackle, add onion and saute until it is transparent.  Add ginger, turmeric powder and garam masala and stir for a few seconds.

Add tomatoes and stir and allow to cook until soft and mushy.

Add peppers, eggplant, and salt to taste and mix well.  Cover and allow the bell pepper and eggplant to cook on medium low heat, checking regularly to stir, making sure that there is enough liquid in the bottom of the pan, and adding a splash of water if it's too dry.

When the vegetables are soft, add coconut milk, a little at a time, and stir gently over low heat (do not boil).

Serve with rice. Or whatever strikes your fancy.

Supposed Tos, and Roasted Potatoes and Green Beans

I don't generally sign up for inspirational email.  In fact, I don't generally opt in to anything that will come regularly to my inbox which doesn't have direct relevance for me professionally.  But a while ago, a friend introduced me to TUT's Note from the Universe.  They were different enough, quirky enough that my interest was piqued.  And I subscribed.  Now, I'm often surprised at how apropos the messages are.  This was my message the other day:

No more "supposed tos," OK, Justine?

You're not supposed to work harder, look better, sleep less, sell more, run faster, talk slower, be happier, stay longer, leave earlier, cook, clean, negotiate, settle, start, stop, move, try, win, shake, rattle or roll.

Other people made all that up.

    The Universe 

How many times do I make this my mantra?  I should blog more.  I should be happier.  I should be posting beautiful new photographs of food every day.  But how realistic is that, given that I now commute for almost two hours, that I do laundry every night, that I sometimes bring work home, that I'm trying to comment often on friends' blogs, that I have two children that need my attention?

It's not.

I'm not another blogger.  I'm not another working parent.  I'm not another runner or yogini.  And right now I'm not capable of coming up with new photogenic recipes.  Publishing fabulously deep blog posts every day, or even several times a week.  Leaving earlier.

Other people made that all up.

So what am I doing listening to other people?  To popular media, to Sheryl Sandberg, to other bloggers, to the more critical voices from my past?  Who don't have any basis for their claims on my behavior, my appearance, my anything?

I ran into someone we know from town today at the car show, and she was talking about her artwork winning an award at an art show.  Immediately, I caught myself.  Well, she's an artist.  She actually works at her craft.  You don't work at yours.  So how do you ever expect to win an award or get published?

Those voices get internalized pretty deeply, so that at some level, we forget that they are other people's voices, and start to think that they're our own.  Maybe, eventually, they become our own.

Realism.  This is my life the way it is right now.  All I can do is trust that I'm doing things the best way I can do them ... which is the way I've done them--at least in my own opinion--my whole life.  And remind myself when I can that there's nothing else I'm supposed to be doing, and nohow else I'm supposed to be.  Except who, and what, and where I am.

Do you have "supposed tos"?  Where did they come from?  How do you tune them out?

Roasted Potatoes and Green Beans
This is what I did with the beans and potatoes from last weeks' CSA share.  It wasn't fancy, but it was dinner.  And if you put enough garlic and salt on pretty much anything, you'll be OK.

1.5 lb. baby potatoes
1 T. olive oil
salt and pepper to taste
2 cloves garlic, minced (optional)
1 quart green beans, trimmed and halved

Preheat the oven to 450F.  Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil and place it in the oven to preheat.

Toss potatoes with 1 T. olive oil, then season with salt and pepper; transfer potatoes to preheated baking sheet and roast for 15 minutes.

Toss the green beans with garlic, season with more salt and pepper. Add to the baking sheet with the potatoes.

Roast for 10 more minutes.

Protected

When I was little, there were umbrellas.  Mostly I remember my father's black umbrella, the black one with the faux leather handle that smelled like his car.  My mother must have had one, maybe light blue. And there were extras, of course, in case your assigned umbrella couldn't be found.

I must have had a rain jacket, too, though I also remember my mother saying something about how plastic rain jackets just make you sweaty, so perhaps not.  I know I pined away for a shiny purple jacket and matching boots, like the ones that Robyn Kelleher wore.  Still, even if I had said boots and jacket, I was taught that you carried an umbrella when the forecast called for rain; we weren't like those people we saw running or even walking down the street, their white Keds oozing water at every step.  Rain smelled like fear: you could get sick, being out in the elements, getting your head wet.  So, like our parents, we protected ourselves, joined the ranks of umbrella-wielding adults.  My brother, conformist that he is, even asked for a new one last Christmas.

I don't know when it started, but some time ago I began to bend this rule, little by little, letting myself be rained on.  For a while, I carried the umbrella, but I resisted opening it in a light drizzle, as long as I was wearing something I didn't care much about.  Soon, I was throwing caution to the wind when the forecast was uncertain: sometimes I'd carry the umbrella, sometimes not.  Sometimes, I'd leave it behind on purpose, as long as it wasn't currently raining when I left the house or my car.  And finally, I began to walk--and later, even run--in the rain, knowing full well that I was going to get wet.  It was an act of resistance, or perhaps even defiance, this refusing the protection of my umbrella.

***

On Friday, at around noon, the skies began to darken, and from my window, I could see spots where the raindrops had started to pattern the pavement.  I shoved the umbrella into my bag before I locked the door to leave for my meeting; I was wearing the newly-tailored suit and a pair of heels, and I didn't want to take chances, especially given that I knew it was supposed to pour.

I was thankful for the umbrella later, when I found myself navigating the monsoon from my office to the parking garage.  I stepped gingerly around puddles, trying to hold my suit up out of the wet mess, knowing that it was probably fruitless.

Driving north towards the CSA pickup and home, I mentally rehearsed the week's share.  Eggplant, zucchini, potatoes, peppers, scallions, beets ... and beans.  Which, if I wanted them, I would have to pick myself, in the rain, which continued to fall steadily.

There were few places to park in the field that weren't riddled with mud holes, and by the time I turned off the car, I was having doubts about the beans.  I left my umbrella behind, on purpose.  It would be a quick trip.

But when I got to the CSA distribution center, I realized that the zucchini and eggplant were already gone (that's what I get for working and agreeing to an hour commute, I guess).  And there are only so many carrots one family can eat.

Fleetingly, I considered the umbrella.  I'll just be a minute, I thought.  And I need my hands for other things: one to pick, one to hold the bag.

Plastic bag perched atop my head, I slogged up the hill to the far field, where the bean plants sagged under the weight of the storm and the ripe beans.  As I began working my way down the row, lifting the leaves gently and tugging at the fruit, lifting and tugging again, I felt the back of my shirt start to glue itself to my skin.  Then my shorts, to my thighs.  The mud had already made its way over the top of my shoes, and was working itself into the soles of my feet.  Bent, head toward the ground, I felt the rain trickling down my hair and neck, and tasted it running into my mouth, wiped it away from my eyes.  My body began to melt away into the earth and sky; there were only the bean plants, and the rain.

In some ways, giving up the umbrella was like giving up protection.  But in other ways, it was giving up the boundary, giving up fear.  It was only water.  I'd dry off.

Have you ever tried to protect yourself, only later realizing that the very thing protecting you was preventing you from being present, or from feeling something that changed you?  And do you use umbrellas, or are you a "run between the drops" kind of person?

Advice, and Double Dark Chocolate Beet Muffins

Yesterday, my friend Kathy hosted her monthly Time Warp Tuesday blog hop.  I missed the hop, but I loved the theme for this month, which was Advice.


I tend to give a lot of advice, I suspect, not even under the guise of opinion; I probably offer it up as fact.  Though I was trained in advising, and when I'm working with students I'm careful not to give advice so much as facilitate their own inner dialogue, there are plenty of times outside of my professional duties when I offer up my own ideas about someone else's dilemmas.

I ask for advice a lot, too, but I don't take advice very well; more often than not I am--even subconsciously--looking for verification of an opinion I've already arrived at, and would like confirmation of my choice.

But the tables were turned on me a bit this week, on Sunday, when I was sitting with my son for a while before he went to sleep.

"I'm nervous about my first day," I confided.

"It's OK, Mom," he told me, "I was nervous about my first day of school, too."

"You were?" I asked, both amused and genuinely surprised.  "But you looked so confident when you waved good bye to me on the bus.  What were you most nervous about?  Meeting new people?  Having someone ask you something you didn't know the answer to?"

"Yes, not knowing the answer," he agreed. 

"Well, that's what I'm most afraid of," I said.  "That I won't know the things they want me to know."

"Well," he said, thoughtfully, "just remember, that if they ask you something you don't know, it's OK to tell them you don't know, and then ask them questions, so they can help you out."

Wow, I thought. Pretty fabulous advice for a six year old.  Better, even, than "eat your vegetables so you can grow up big and strong."

I followed his advice, and told my new boss what he'd told me that night.  "How old did you say he was?" she asked.

"Six," I said.

"He is wise beyond his years," she marveled.

Yes, I agreed.  Except when he really does act like a six year old, and thinks that poop jokes are the funniest thing ever.  And I couldn't be more grateful for both elements.
 

Double Dark Chocolate Beet Muffins

Eat your vegetables and grow up big and strong.  I made these with our CSA share to take to the Cape for the week we spent before my first day, and I told everyone right up front that they were made with beets.  That didn't seem to matter, and they were gone in less than two days.

1 c. beet puree (use about 3 good-sized beets; see below)
1 c. whole wheat flour
1 c. all-purpose flour
2 t. baking powder
1 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt

1/4 c. ground flax seed
1/2 c. Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate chips
1/4 c. butter

2/3 c. Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate chips
3/4 c. packed brown sugar
2 eggs, lightly beaten
2/3 c. buttermilk
1 t. vanilla extract

1 T. espresso powder

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Wrap beets in foil. Place on a baking sheet; bake until beets are slightly soft to the touch, 45 minutes to 1 hour depending on their size. Cool beets in packets, then rub off skins under cold running water (use a paring knife for tough spots).  Puree one at a time until you get 1 c. (you can set aside the unpureed parts, if there are any, for a salad).  Cool completely.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.  Line a 12-cup muffin tin; set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flours, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and flax until well combined.  Stir in the half cup chocolate chips; set aside.

In a small saucepan, melt the other 2/3 cup chocolate chips and butter over very low heat.  Stir to combine and set aside to cool until lukewarm.

In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, brown sugar, beet puree, buttermilk, vanilla and melted chocolate.  Pour the chocolate mixture into the dry ingredients and stir with a wooden spoon until just combined. Don’t overmix. Immediately spoon batter into prepared muffin cups.  The batter will almost completely fill the cups.

Place muffin pan in a preheated 375 oven and bake for 18-20 minutes. Muffins are done when they spring back when touched lightly in the center (or when a toothpick inserted in the center of a muffin comes out clean). Cool muffins for 10 minutes in pan then remove them to a wire rack to cool completely.

NaBloPoMo: Salad Days, and Warm Roasted Squash Salad with Farro and Chick Peas

"Salad days" is an idiomatic expression, referring to a youthful time, accompanied by the inexperience, enthusiasm, idealism, innocence, or indiscretion that one associates with a young person. More modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of their abilities—not necessarily in that person's youth. (Wikipedia)

If I were my daughter, I'd be breaking into a tuneless rendition of the Dora the Explorer celebration song right about now: "We did it, we did it, we did it! Yay!  Lo hicimos!  We did it!  ... We posted to our blog, every day, we did it, we did it, we did it, hooray!"

And even though my husband and I mock Dora, she's got a point: the completion of this adventure is worth celebrating.  I won't pretend it was easy.  And I don't think that I could say I proved to myself, as I did last time I did NaBloPoMo last July (completely cheating, by the way, since I was on vacation for the beginning of that month and sick for another few days in the middle), that writing "naturally" begets writing.  It was a hard month to write, for many reasons, and there were days I didn't think I would come up with anything at all.

I *am* glad I persevered, though, because I feel (silly as this sounds) like I've "earned back" the right to attend BlogHer at the end of July.  Which, by the way, I'm looking forward to every bit as much as I'm looking forward to vacation with the family this week ... and possibly even more.  Though I don't plan to stop blogging any time soon, I'm not sure how much I will get to write once my new job starts, and this was a fitting way to end my time at home.

So here's a celebratory salad for you, perfect for holiday potluck parties.  Thanks for coming back here day after day and commenting, helping me make my "salad days" a reality.  See you on the flip side.

Warm Roasted Squash Salad with Farro and Chick Peas
If Heidi had thought this up, she would have made it first.  Only she didn't.  Here's to someone whom I consider one of my major inspirations in the kitchen.

3 zucchini or summer squash, washed, trimmed, cut into 1/2" cubes
1/2 large (preferably red) onion, chopped into 1/2" pieces
2 T. olive or coconut oil
salt and pepper to taste
1/2 c. farro, rinsed
1 1/2 c. water
1 14 oz can chick peas, rinsed/drained
2 T. mint/basil, finely minced
1/4 c. pepitas, toasted
feta or goat cheese to taste (optional)

Preheat oven to 450°. Place zucchini, squash, onion and garlic in a large bowl, drizzle with oil and stir until all the veggies are coated. Sprinkle on salt and pepper and stir.

Spread veggies in a single layer on a large rimmed baking sheet and roast for 30 minutes or until just browned, stirring about half way through.  Set aside to cool.

Bring farro and water to a boil in a medium pot.  (You may salt the water if you like.)  Cook 20 minutes or until most of the water is absorbed and the farro is soft and chewy.  Set aside.

Re-warm zucchini, farro, and chick peas if necessary.  In a large bowl, toss farro, zucchini, chick peas and pepitas with mint/basil.  Sprinkle with feta/goat cheese.  Salt and pepper to taste.

NaBloPoMo: Relating, and Kale Salad with Avocado Dressing

Imagine that your parents and sister (and her family which include your two nephews) live within 4 miles of you and that you have, virtually, no relationship with them.

This was the excerpt, posted in Mels' Weekly Roundup, that led me to Is This What It Is (Or is it)? post on Estrangement.  Because it didn't take much for me to imagine what she might be describing.

I wouldn't say that I am estranged from my family.  We get together for major holidays and birthdays with my mother and brother, but our gathering seems more driven by Hallmark and expectations and duty than by genuine affection. I understand what she writes about your family never getting to know you, about never feeling unconditionally supported for how you thought or felt or what you wanted to do, about family suggesting that "you are too difficult, demanding, elitist, ungrateful, selfish" to want a relationship.  I understand the guilt and self-loathing, chastizing myself for being a horrible daughter for not feeling the sentiments in the Hallmark cards I read as I would search for one that would let me send good wishes without telling lies.

The other day I posted about roots and rootlessness, about my lack of knowledge about my blood grandparents.  What I didn't mention was that my father had eight other brothers and sisters, my mother two.  And that I don't really know any of them, either.

The thing is, relationships take work, and the relationships into which you are born (or where you find yourself as an adoptee) are no exception.  Being a parent doesn't give you easy automatic emotional connection to your child.  As I'm sure you all know, just because you've lived in the same house with someone doesn't mean that you understand them, or they you.  For my father, this work of relationship-building would have been complicated by the fact that his surviving family was spread over three continents, in an age before the internet connected us all instantaneously, not to mention that he left home at an early age to go to a Jesuit boarding school in France.  (We knew my two aunts in Spain, and my uncles in Guatemala and Puerto Rico, but none of them terribly well.)  For my mother, the work of relationship-building was complicated by the alcoholism of one of her brothers, and by the decision of her other brother to move, first an hour away, then to Texas.  In both cases, they chose to allow the complicatedness of relationship-building to prevent them from reaching out, and so we grew up without an extended family.

I find myself annoyed by people who take the "convenience" approach to relationship-building.  I had a former colleague who was like an aunt to my children.  After I left my job, though I reached out to her a few times, I only heard from her once.  I was astonished.  Wasn't I worth more to her?  But I should have known better.

Sometimes I think that maybe I'm like this, too.  That I find the work of relating too difficult.  On the other hand, I was the only one who kept in touch with my alcoholic uncle as he deteriorated.  I've followed friends across the country.  I can be counted on to follow up, to seek you out, to be there, as long as the relationship is not toxic to me or to my children.  My mother, on the other hand, has never once flown to Texas to see her brother.

How do you find yourself working at relationship-building, even in your own family?

***

I learned last summer that avocadoes make a pretty fabulous dressing.  I learned this spring the kale and farro go surprisingly well together.  I learned just recently that you can make salad out of all sorts of things thrown together, and the secrets include good olive oil, a variety of textures and shapes (crunchy, chewy, flat, round, leafy, nutty), and ingenuity.  But even salad still requires a little bit of effort.  And it's totally worth it in the end.

Kale Salad with Avocado Dressing
Inspired by Heidi Swanson's Kale Market Salad


1/3 c. scallions, chopped
1/4 t. fine grain sea salt, plus more to taste
2 T. fresh lemon juice
1/3 c. extra virgin olive oil
2 T. ripe avocado
1 1/4 t. honey, or to taste
fresh pepper to taste
1 bunch kale, destemmed, torn into pieces
1 1/3 c. cooked farro
4-5 carrots, very thinly sliced
1 avocado, cut into small cubes
1/2 c. almond slices, toasted

Using a hand blender or food processor, puree the first seven ingredients (through pepper) together until smooth. Taste, and adjust with more salt, or honey, or lemon juice.

In a large bowl, combine the kale with about half of the dressing and se your hands to massage the dressing and kale together until the kale appears almost slightly wilted, as if it has been blanched.  Add the farro, carrots, more dressing, and more salt, and toss again.  Add the avocados and almonds and toss gently before serving.

NaBloPoMo: Roots, Wings, and Chocolate Beet Cake

One of the first things a child learns in a Montessori classroom is how to use a work mat.  While selecting and unrolling a piece of carpet or fabric might seem like a trivial activity, the act of unrolling a work mat underscores one of the most important aspects of Montessori philosophy: responsibility for one's own work, and independence in its pursuit; or, more precisely, "freedom within limits."

Montessori children are taught to take their defined workspace very seriously.  The first time a teacher demonstrates this act for students, she will take the mat carefully from a bin, set it carefully on the floor or on the table.  The students who are tempted to shake the mat out in midair will be gently encouraged to follow her direction, and unroll it completely on the flat surface they have selected.  They are taught that when a mat is on the floor, they walk around it, heel-toe-heel-toe, being mindful that they don't step on it.  And when a child is done with her work, she re-rolls the mat, putting it away just as carefully as she removed it.  The Montessori work mat is a symbol of both responsibility and independence; its use, a ritual of reverence for both.

Today's NaBloPoMo writing prompt, which reminded us that "[t]he original quote about giving children roots and wings referred to the 'roots of responsibility and the wings of independence,' " was particularly apt for me, because today was my daughter's first day at the Toddler House in her Montessori school, and my first day, sort of, back to work.  I only went for a few hours, and she only went for an hour, but I found myself thinking a lot about those roots and wings, about what I've tried to give her over the past two years, and about how hard it is to watch her take this next step towards independence in the world.

As she grows older, she will ask the questions that begin with the work mat.  The questions that begin with this moment, and with every moment when she steps a little farther away.  Where do we fit into the world?   What work will we choose?  How can we try to ensure that we do good where we can, and that we not step on others' work-in-progress?

Going back to work, for me, is partially about remembering and testing the limits of my own roots and wings, too.  To whom am I responsible?  What are my contributions to the world, besides the ones I make through my children?  How do I define myself as me, in addition to the way I define myself in the context of my family?

This give-and-take, this push-and-pull, is probably the hardest thing about being a parent, and the hardest thing about being ourselves.

Which is why, at the end of the day, flying in the face of other things they will teach my daughter at her Montessori school, there will be chocolate cake on our table.

Chocolate Beet Cake
adapted from Nigella Lawson's recipe and The White Ramekins
Beets are some of the best kinds of roots there are.  Especially when paired with cocoa powder.

1 1/2 c. plain flour
2 T. baking powder
2/3 c. cocoa powder
1 c. superfine sugar
3 eggs
1/2 lb. beets
7/8 c. light olive oil or coconut oil

Preheat the oven 425F. Wash the beets, wrap them individually in aluminium foil, and place them in oven for about 45 minutes.  Let beets cool to room temperature.  When they are cool to the touch, you should be able to simply rub the skins off, and puree them in a food processor/liquidizer/blender.  Set aside.

Preheat the oven to 375F.  Spray an 8" springform pan with cooking spray.  Line the bottom with a circle of parchment cut to fit inside the pan, spray the parchment, and dust the entire inside of the pan with a very thin coating of cocoa powder.

Sift the flour, baking powder, superfine sugar and cocoa powder together in a medium bowl and set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together eggs, oil and beet puree.  Fold the flour mixture into the wet mixture. Pour the batter into the pan and bake for 40 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean.

Let the cake cool completely on a wire rack.

NaBloPoMo: Fathers, and Chard with Turnips

I always hated Hallmark Father's Day cards.  My dad didn't fish (not with me, anyway, except if you count that one time we went out on a half day boat trip from the Jersey Short when I was four, and my parents both spent the entire time in the bathroom ... my father for seasickness, and my mother because she was seasick and pregnant).  He did wear a tie, but never as an executive; he wore a tie to school when he wore a suit, or on Sundays, to church.  He didn't like sports.  He loved his grill, but it was a Japanese kamado grill built into a cement table that he'd laid himself ... not exactly the all-American image of the dad with his hot dogs and Coleman.  He did muck around with home improvement, but not in the way that the cards pictured it, either.  No, I remember thinking that my father didn't fit any of those cards, didn't look like the images on any of those cards (as a dark-skinned Spaniard, he was often mistaken for people who lived much closer to the Equator), and most importantly, didn't fit the sentiment of those cards.  Father's Day didn't fit us, at least, not the way everyone seemed to want us to celebrate it.

And now, it doesn't really fit my husband, either.  He does fish, but he only wears a tie in extreme circumstances (important meeting at work).  He doesn't follow sports.  He mucks around with home improvement and with our grill, but not in the way that those things are pictured.

What I noticed today on Facebook was the variety of ways people were describing fathers.  And the wide variety of ways people were choosing to celebrate their fathers, their children, their grandfathers.  Not everyone went to a restaurant, or felt pressured to buy flowers.  A lot of people were doing things with their dads, spending time with them in a way that was active, hands-on.  And though I never resolved my own complicated relationship with my dad, I was glad to see so many people openly ditching the Hallmark depiction of the holiday.

Why, I wonder, are we so bound by the conventions of Mother's Day, then?

Turnips and Chard
This is a CSA meal that even my father would have eaten; the secret, of course, is the handful of ham thrown in.   Inspired by Cooking in Sens.

6 hakurei turnips, cut into cubes
1 1/2 tbsp olive oil
1 cup cooked ham, coarsely chopped
2 garlic cloves, chopped
2 cups chard leaves, chopped
2 bay leaves
2 tbsp white wine vinegar
Salt and pepper

Brown the turnip cubes in the olive oil.  Add the ham and garlic, then cook until the garlic is aromatic.  Add the chard, bay leaves, vinegar, salt and pepper, then cover and steam for 4-5 minutes.

NaBloPoMo: Vacation, All I Ever Wanted, and Thai Beef Salad

At the beginning of July, we will be joining my husband's stepmother's family for a few days on Cape Cod.  They've been going there for over 50 years, renting the same three cottages, eating at the same restaurants, building and destroying sand castles with the same grains of sand, combing the same stretch of beach for shells and digging for the same hermit crabs.  The sand shifts, the tides ebb and flow, the elements shape and reshape the coastline, and the cottages become more windswept with the years, but generally speaking, it's a place you go where you don't expect much to be different.

This is astounding to me, going to the same place every summer for fifty years.  We were lucky enough to have time and funds for a vacation, too, when I was growing up, but it was always somewhere different.  Often, we were visiting family: we would travel to Spain and spend ten days covering the countryside at a breakneck pace by car, from Vittoria to Madrid to Granada; or we would spend a week in Puerto Rico near my uncle's school, visiting the rainforest and the beach and the old city.  Twice we somehow came into a loaner condominium in Mexico (that was the year my brother pretended to drop his bathing suit off of the 15th floor balcony and nearly gave my mother a heart attack), once we went to a resort in the Dominican Republic (where I ate more coconut buns than were good for anyone).  We took a Canyonlands bus tour with forty mostly-senior-citizens (great scenery, but less-than-ideal social situation for a teenager) and spent a few days in Colonial Williamsburg.  We made the obligatory pilgrimage to Disney when I was a tweenager, the summer when my younger brother--already too jaded to really appreciate Disney anyway--had broken his leg.  Once we spent two weeks at two different rented houses in Myrtle Beach: that was the vacation when my father shaved the beard that was practically part of his face, and I got bitten by a crab that a girl named Julie and I caught using a questionable quality crab trap and a nasty chicken bone.  And then there was the summer we actually did rent a house in Cape Cod, though it was far from the beach, which we only went to twice anyway, and I found myself wondering why we didn't just stay home and take day trips to the beach like we would have done in New Jersey; it would have been easier than listening to my mother complain about the gas stove, on which she was unable to cook spaghetti properly.

As an adult, my husband and I honeymooned by biking through Umbria; we traveled to Thailand with a tour company that used public transportation, homestays, and a pickup truck to get around; I took students to Brazil for a five day research symposium; I joined a ten day study tour to South Africa, to look at post-apartheid education in Cape Town and Johannesburg.

The bottom line is, I can't imagine going to the same place every year, and staying in one place once you get there.

On the other hand, my father-in-law, who married the woman whose family rents said cottages, has often said I haven't mastered the fine art of relaxing.  In fact, he says, I'm pretty horrible at it.  He recommends vacationing on Cape Cod as treatment for my condition.  (The reality is: I don't love the beach.  At least, not in the summer.  I love walking along it, I love the power of the ocean, but I hate swimming in it and getting sand in my bathing suit.)

I'm looking forward to getting away, and I'm grateful for the generous gift of space in those cabins, of that family making us feel like family, too.  My children love the time we spend there.  But it's also true that I miss the kind of traveling I did as a child, and as an adult before children.  It's a very different kind of vacation.  It's given me a perspective that I wouldn't have had otherwise.  Driving, alone, back across the country from LA to NJ, when I'd decided to leave my first graduate program, I stopped for a night in Sandusky, Ohio, and ate dinner at the bar in an Applebee's.  I never eat at Applebee's, and I never eat at bars, so it was doubly weird, but it was a good opportunity for conversation.  People were astonished to learn that I was driving across the country by myself, that I'd been so far from home, and that I'd traveled so much.  Most of them had never left their town, never mind their state.

Maybe it's true that I'm not very good at relaxing.  Maybe it will do me good to have to sit still and do nothing for a few days, and just listen to the thoughts in my own head.  I know that my children will thoroughly enjoy themselves; they don't feel the need for novelty and difference that I do just yet.  Maybe they never will.  Still, I'll look forward to the day when I can take them somewhere new, rock their worlds a little bit, make them a little breathless.

Do you take regular vacations?  Did you family go the same place every year when you were growing up, or have you been able to see the world?  Do you prefer the kind of vacation where you stay in one place, or do you like to be active and on the go when you're vacationing?

Thai Beef Salad
If I can't be jetsetting in person, at least I can do so in my kitchen.  This salad came from a skinny little volume that became one of our favorite go-to manuals for Thai food.  It was surprisingly authentic!

2 t. red curry paste
2 t. water
2 t.  grated fresh ginger
1 garlic clove, minced
2 t. lime juice
Cooking spray
1 lb. boneless sirloin steak, sliced thinly across the grain
1 1/2 T. lime juice
1 T. fish sauce
2 t. coconut palm sugar (or brown sugar)
1/4 c. cilantro, finely chopped
2 T. mint, finely chopped
1 1/2 c. thinly sliced radishes
1 small kohlrabi, quartered and thinly sliced
1/2 to 3/4 good-sized head of lettuce, torn

Combine curry paste, water, ginger, garlic, and lime juice in a bowl.  Add sliced steak and marinate 30 minutes.

Spray a skillet with cooking oil, heat to medium-high, and add steak slices.  Sear and cook through, turning down the heat during cooking if necessary.  Remove from heat; set aside.

Combine fish sauce, additional lime juice, and coconut palm sugar.  Add cilantro and mint.  Toss with steak.

Place torn lettuce in a large serving bowl.  Top with radishes and kohlrabi, and then with steak and dressing.  Serve warm.

NaBloPoMo: Worry About Yourself, and Roasted Tomato Soup with Farro

The other night, a friend of mine shared a YouTube video with a group of us that made me laugh out loud, on the one hand, nod my head in total recognition on the other (because this little girl could be my daughter, with whom I had a nearly identical conversation about two days ago); it made me think, too about independence, interdependence, and how we learn to walk the fine line between them.

But first, you have to see the video.



Worry about yourself.  YOU DRIVE.  YOU DRIVE.

The other day, when I sprained my ankle for the second time, one of the other women in my class (who happens to be a nurse, though I don't think I knew that) came downstairs with me to make sure that I got ice packs and that I elevated my foot to reduce the swelling right away.  I was incredibly frustrated with myself at the time, and I kept saying something on the order of "you should go back to class" ... partly because I really didn't want her to miss out on my account, and partly because I don't like people seeing me at my worst, when I'm frustrated and in pain.  Who does?  It's like being strip-searched.  Besides, I really don't like asking for help in general.  As I think we've already established.  Worry about yourself, I told her, in my own probably-not-so-kind way.

But there are some times when help really could be useful, right?  Like when we're two and trying to buckle ourselves into a car seat and we can't quite get it right, and so we just get more and more frustrated, eventually melting down entirely.  Like when we are unlikely to sit down and get ice packs for ourselves, and more likely to grab our child from the Child Watch and limp or hop away the building.  Or even professional help.  Like when we're trying to move an elderly parent out of an apartment while also trying to move our entire family, with them, to another state.  Movers really come in handy.  Or, yes, that time you're thinking about right now.  Yes, you could use some help with that, too.

There are also times when we need to be independent, when we should "worry about ourselves," but in a way that is perhaps more constructive and less self-destructive.  For example: forgiving ourselves.  That topic came up the other night, too, and we were surprised at how much easier it is, sometimes, to forgive others; we often hold ourselves to a very different set of standards.  Maybe forgiving other people who haven't asked for forgiveness also falls into this category: the "worry about yourself" category.  Take care of your own heart; there's not much you can do about theirs except to release them.  And of course there are lots of other things, too.  Like knowing and being attentive to our limitations.  Putting on our own mask first before we put on the mask for the child sitting next to us on the airplane (am I alone in thinking that I'd have a hard time remembering to do that in a real emergency?).

But when we say these words, it's not usually in the kindest of ways.  When I first saw this video, after I stopped crying from laughing so hard, I said, "well, she had to have learned that phrase from someone, right?"  Of course she did.  I can imagine the scenario: young sibling butts into older sibling's business when parent is admonishing older sibling for misbehavior.  "Worry about yourself."  Or: vulnerable adult is being offered help by someone, and doesn't want it.  "Worry about yourself."  Is it any wonder we live in a world in which we become more and more isolated?  "YOU DRIVE."

How do we learn when it's time to really "worry about" ourselves, or others, and when it's time to back away?

Roasted Tomato Soup with Farro
Adapted from Heidi Swanson's 101 Cookbooks
This is a "worry about yourself' kind of soup.  Because sometimes you also need someone to tell you what to do.

4 T. coconut oil (can substitute butter)
2 medium onions, thinly sliced
1 t. salt
3 t. curry powder
1 t. ground coriander
1 t. ground cumin
2 (28-oz.) cans fire roasted whole tomatoes
6 c. water
1 14-oz. can coconut milk (full fat preferred)
to serve: (any of the following)  cooked brown rice, farro, lemon wedges, toasted almond slices, fresh parsley.

Melt coconut oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onions and salt, and cook, stirring occasionally, until the onions become soft and translucent, about 10 minutes.

Add the spices and cook, stirring continuously, for about 30 seconds, just until they are fragrant.  Stir in the tomatoes, juices, and water. Simmer for fifteen minutes or so, then puree with a hand blender until smooth.  Taste and adjust with more salt to taste.

Garnish the way you like, and make it as hearty or light as you wish.

NaBloPoMo Comfort Food: No-Mac and Cheese, or Chard with Cannelini

It poured outside today.  And, as luck would have it, I have a newly acquired accessory: an air cast boot.

I re-sprained my ankle yesterday at the Y.  Not doing anything particularly extraordinary; just doing some aerobic exercise in my favorite class.  But I could kick myself, because I'm in the last stretch of workout time before I start a new job (yes, you read that right; I will be employed) on July 8.

(The good news is that at our CSA today, our amazing farmer actually pre-picked the pick-your-own strawberries himself in the rain so we wouldn't have to stand out there and get sopping wet ourselves.  My ankle and I were both grateful beyond words, and I told him I loved him.  I'm not sure he really took me seriously.) 

Of course, I can't exactly go running with a boot on my foot.  Which is probably for the best anyway; my attempt to recover too quickly the first time may have contributed to the re-injury.   For a week or so now I've been feeling like my ankle was weak, or my foot was hurting in a strange way, but I figured if I ignored it, I would feel stronger, or it would just go away.  Well, it didn't.

Unfortunately, it's a metaphor for the way I do lots of things.  Not just working through the pain, but ignoring the signals to slow down, to rest, to heal the right way.  And of course, if you don't heal right, you're at a greater risk for re-injury.

Which is my way of telling myself, "I told you so."

I was asking my therapist tonight (for what was probably the tenth time) when I was going to be done with therapy.  ("Wait," you say, "you never told us you were in therapy."   "Yes," I counter, "I didn't tell you until today that I got a job, either."  Touche.)  And essentially she replied (also for the tenth time) that we don't change overnight, that sometimes we need constant reinforcement and support during change, especially if we've been living with a skewed perspective on things for a long time.  It wasn't the answer I was hoping for.

Tomorrow I'm going to ask you about your thoughts on forgiveness.  But today, for once, I'm going to go to bed before midnight.  Because sleep is one way of taking care of mind and body.  And it's something I don't do enough of.

The funny thing is, had I known that it was going to be this kind of day, I might have saved the sausage I had in the refrigerator for Sausage, Chard, and White Bean soup.  Instead, we had this.  Which was probably as close to comfort food as I could get out of an early-June CSA box.

Swiss Chard and White Beans with Mascarpone
aka "noMac and Cheese"
Adapted from Sprout and Pea 

1 c. veg­etable broth
2 T olive oil
1 large onion (finely chopped)
2 cloves gar­lic (finely chopped)
1 head chard (leaves julienned, stems cut into 1/​4" dice)
2 cans can­nellini beans (rinsed)
4 T. mas­car­pone cheese
2 T. lemon juice
1 T. lemon zest (or to taste)
1/4 t. thyme
salt and pepper

Heat olive oil in a large saucepan over medium heat, add onion, gar­lic and the stems of the chard. Cook for about 5 min­utes, stir­ring occa­sion­ally, until soft­ened.  Microwave the vegetable broth until it barely begins to simmer, and add to the vegetables.  Cook and stir until the broth is almost evaporated.

Add chard leaves, can­nellini. Cook and stir for a cou­ple of min­utes, adding water if it begins to look too dry, until the chard breaks down well.  Add mas­car­pone cheese, lemon juice, lemon zest and thyme. Sea­son with to taste with salt and pepper.

NaBloPoMo: The Story of a Potato, and White Beans with Cabbage and Potatoes

A few weeks ago, I noticed that the potato which had been living in the bowl on my counter had started to sprout.  At first, I was annoyed.  Another potato, wasted.  I pride myself on not wasting produce.  I plan meals, I buy what we need.  And I don't usually buy extra potatoes.  Because I don't even really like them all that much.  Which my husband thinks is akin to blasphemy.

But then, I wondered.  What would happen if I just let it grow?  It would be fun for the kids to watch, at least.

So I did a little research on the internet, poked some toothpicks into the side of it, put it in a glass that I refilled with water when I remembered to do so (which was probably less regularly than it deserved), and put it in a sometimes-sunny window.

At first, it grew slowly, trying to figure out which way to send shoots, and which way to send leaves.  But one morning I woke up and there were stalks.  And then, real leaves.

I should have planted it by now.  It could make me more potatoes this summer.  And (though I think I see one tiny little red potato growing already in the bottom of the cup) if I really want it to be healthy, it needs more than water and sun.  It needs soil.

But I've grown attached to my awkward-looking experiment, and I worry about what will happen when I change the equilibrium I've created. What if I break off these pieces, and they die?  What do I really know about potato farming, anyway?

When you try to root something, it's always a gamble.  I remember my father breaking off little shoots of plants he'd find everywhere, and putting them in a magical (and probably toxic) substance called "Root Tone," where they would transform seemingly overnight into full plants.  I was always enamored of his ability to make things grow the tiny little hairs that would sustain them once we put them in the soil.  Our house, when I was growing up, was filled with plants, many of them towering above me, or creeping, snake-like, across the floor; most of them were started from shoots.  But there were, of course, times when things didn't do what they were supposed to in Root Tone, when they turned yellow and died.  Because sometimes, they needed more.  And sometimes, they just weren't ready to root.

I've thought a lot about putting down my own roots here, where I am now.  How in some ways it happened so randomly (my husband and I were evicted from our last apartment because our landlord wanted to sell), but how it's become home, how I've created a network.   And how surprised I am that I have roots at all, despite the fact that I tend not to rely on people, that I tend to disconnect, that I've moved around so much during my life, even if most of it was within one state.

It's almost potato season for the CSA, and with the potatoes will come cabbage.  One of my favorite dishes to make with that combination lately has been Heidi Swanson's White Beans and Cabbage with Shallots, Potatoes, and Parmesan.  It's the sort of thing that's perfect for a cool summer night or even an easy lunch, perhaps with a glass of white wine.  Like my little potato plant, it's not beautiful, but it's simple, healthful comfort food.  I won't reprint the recipe here, but Sierra Madre Vineyards got permission to reprint it on their blog; here is the link to the recipe (and California folks, you can tell me if the wine is any good).

Have you ever tried to coax anything to grow roots?  Do you consider yourself a gardener?  Have you put down your own roots?  How random has that been?

Hanuman, Anandam, Memory, and Chickpea Ratatouille

Each month, my yoga teacher focuses on a different asana to deepen our practice, and this month's theme was hanumanasana.  Hanuman, according to Hindu scripture, was the deity who reunited the lovers Sita and Rama, symbolizing the role of public servant, and seeker of truth.  We're also thinking about the second of the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, and last night, my teacher was talking about the things that keep us from anandam, from bliss: the things that keep us from uniting with the truth.

One of these things, according to Patanjali, is reproducing memory, living as if what was true then is also true now.  Or distorting memory in ways that link it with other thought patterns.

I guess that's one reason that yoga has been recommended as a treatment for PTSD: to help us get closer to the truth of now, rather than inhabiting a past that our minds can embellish.  If we are focused on our breathing, on the position of our bodies in space, it's a lot harder to rehash the things that caused us pain; we are too busy with the process of reunification of self.

Mel posted the other day about refusing to get on an emotional roller coaster, and I could have sworn she was talking to me.  I've recently gotten back on a roller coaster that I thought I'd never get back on again.  It's a ride that takes me right back to where I was two years ago, with twists and turns and plummets into the depths that make me -- even now -- dizzy and sick: I have a strong visceral reaction to living in this space of memory.  I did it because I thought it would bring me closer to the truth.  I did it because I want, desperately, to do the right thing.  But sometimes it's hard to know what the right thing to do really is.

There have been a few times over the past few days when I look down at my daughter and realize that she is becoming this little person; I find myself wondering where this small, articulate little one came from.  I've been with her from the beginning, of course, but I will admit to being a very distracted parent over the past two years.  People have asked "are you enjoying your time at home?"  And I would have to answer, "well, sort of, but it's hard to focus on enjoying your time at home when you think you're supposed to be somewhere else."  It's hard to focus on being at home when you never know if and when you'll get a job, and you live in constant limbo.  (Sort of like being pregnant after infertility and loss.  Yes, you are happy to be pregnant, but you also know that at any moment you may lose everything, so you try hard not to attach at all.)  It's hard to focus on being at home when you feel like you're treading water.  It's hard to focus on being at home when you are depressed.  It's hard to focus on being at home when you feel like you are going to leap out of your skin at any moment, because this is not your life.  It's hard to focus on being at home when you are still stuck in the memory of what happened to you when this all started.

And now, I feel sad that I've squandered the time I had, the gift I had.  Not on purpose, but because I couldn't be present for it.  Still on the roller coaster, I try to drag myself back to the now, and notice the amazing little one before me.  Because she is what's real.

Om anandam, sachit anandam.  Welcome bliss.  Be present now.  And be gentle when the memories come.

Chickpea Ratatouille
This Mark Bittman dish from the April 2013 issue of Vegetarian Times is the sort of thing you can prepare and then step away from, so that you can spend more time being where you are, rather than where you think you're supposed to be.  This is not my mother's ratatouille.

1 lb. small eggplant, cut into large chunks
28-oz. can whole tomatoes, drained and chopped
3/4 lb. zucchini, cut into large chunks
1 medium yellow onion, sliced (1½ cups)
2 red or yellow bell peppers, cored, seeded, and sliced
5 cloves garlic, peeled and halved
1 t. salt
¼ cup olive oil
2 15 oz. cans chickpeas, rinsed and drained
1/4 c. chopped fresh parsley


Preheat oven to 425°F. Combine eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, onion, bell peppers, garlic, salt and oil in large  roasting pan.

Roast 30 to 40 minutes, or until vegetables are lightly browned and tender, and some water has released from  tomatoes to create a sauce, stirring occasionally.

Stir in chickpeas, and roast 5 to 10 minutes more, or until chickpeas are heated through. Stir in parsley, and season with salt and pepper, if desired. Serve hot, warm, or at room temperature.

On (Not) Giving Enough, and Yukon Gold Potato Soup

Today was Commitment Sunday at our fellowship.  Like many religious organizations, my church collects pledges from its members in order to fund the church's operation for the coming year, and in the past few years, we've taken one of our Sunday services to celebrate the gifts we give and receive from the community and to commit ourselves to supporting the church for the coming year.

I don't generally get emotional at Sunday services, but I was a teary mess by the end of the sermon, which was given by a friend of mine.  She described her grandparents as people who were "master givers," people who actively looked for ways to make a difference, who always knew exactly how to intervene or contribute, who were beyond generous.  They were the people who would show up your door to do the laundry and feed your cats and cook meals when you were sick, the people who would shower you with leftovers and the fresh produce from their gardens, the people who would take care of people they never even met.

She described herself as a "practicing giver," someone who was more able to give when it was easy, but harder when giftees were not exactly good, or patient, receivers.  She also described herself as a "practicing receiver," someone who is getting better at appreciating the gifts, even when they don't really fit, or when they don't exactly seem like gifts at all (the unexpected honest criticism, the cast-offs), both because she recognizes that people need to give in order to feel in control of the uncontrollable, and because sometimes those gifts really do end up being useful in the end.

It so happens that I see my friend, as I do many of the other people in my fellowship, closer to a "master" giver than a "practicing" one, unless we're talking about "practice" in the yoga sense of the word.  She's the kind of person who wouldn't think twice about offering to watch my children if I suddenly found myself in need of help.  She's the kind of person who would drop by with a casserole without being asked, who asks after the things you think everyone's forgotten about, who looks after other people, listening carefully and fully, sometimes between the lines of what's actually being said.  She radiates beauty, inside and out.  As she spoke, I thought about the gifts she's given me over the years, and felt, as I've often felt, humbled.  I've often said that when I want to grow up, I want to be more like her; it's completely true.

The truth is, the fellowship is full of people who give, and who love, with abandon.  They give selflessly of their time, their talents, their money.  They commit hours to the nonprofit that works to reduce poverty in our area, donating food and outreach time and mentoring time.  They commit hours to the nonprofit that shelters homeless families in church congregations.  They commit hours to Habitat for Humanity, or countless other social justice programs and initiatives.  They teach our religious education program, run church committees, bake every Sunday for coffee hour, do major construction and renovation on the church and grounds, tend to the spiritual needs of the membership.  They listen and act seemingly without boundaries.  I have more role models for giving than I've ever wanted, all sitting in one building every Sunday morning.

As I sat there and took stock of my own contributions, I was feeling like I just don't give enough.  And not in financial terms; actually, I was completely fine with our pledge.  That's the easy part.  But I was feeling like I could never measure up to givers (and gracious receivers) who were gathered around me.  It's true, I give time on the school board now.  I give time to my library board.  I give time to the church, on the committee that looks out for short-term concrete needs of our members, but I can count those hours on one hand, and even often on one finger, each week.   And on the other hand, I was feeling like I've been so focused on me these past almost-two years; it's not exactly, as my friend suggested in the "receiving" part of her sermon, that I feel I don't deserve gifts (of time, of people's attention and concern), but more that I feel others need and deserve more than I do.

Of course, this begs the question: would I ever be able to give "enough" by my own definition?  Do I feel this way because my standards for myself are too impossibly perfect?  Or because we can all always give more (As Dorothy Day put it: "No one has the right to sit down and feel hopeless. There's too much work to be done.")?  Do I just need more practice at being a good receiver?  Or is the problem that I'm measuring any of this at all, and the solution to simply stop measuring, to both give and receive to the depths of my ability, without reservation or self-judgement?

Who are the givers in your life?  How do you give?  Do you consider yourself a "practicing reciever"?

Yukon Gold Potato Soup
This is the sort of soup you can make on a moment's notice to bring to a friend who needs a meal, or to serve for a weeknight dinner.  It's simple, unfussy.  Enough in its uncomplicatedness.

8-12 cloves garlic, peeled
2 t. extra virgin olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
2 carrots, peeled, 1/2" slices
1 rib celery, 1/2" slices
3 1/2 c. vegetable or chicken stock
1 1/2 lbs.Yukon gold potatoes, scrubbed and rinsed, not peeled, cut into 1/2" cubes
1/2 t. thyme
1/2 t. rosemary
1/8 t. dried lavender
5 oz. container evaporated milk
salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 375.  Toss cloves of garlic with 2 t. olive oil, place in the center of a 12" square of foil, wrap and seal.  Roast about 1 hour or until tender.

Heat remaining olive oil in a medium stockpot on medium heat.  Add onion, carrots, and celery.  Cover, reduce heat to medium low, and cook 8-10 minutes or until soft but not brown.

Add stock,  potatoes, thyme, rosemary, lavender, and roasted garlic and partially cover; bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium low and simmer until potatotes are tender, about 20 minutes.  Blend soup together until smooth, add milk, and blend again.  Salt and pepper to taste.  Add more water for a thinner soup, or boil a bit more for thicker soup.