Typecast, and (Not Your Typical) Shepherd's Pie

I don't think it happened to me until I started baking cupcakes.  But maybe I never did anything serially until I started baking cupcakes?

No, now that I think about it, it happened before then, too: with the web.

I was always the person people asked, because I was often the youngest in the room, and so people assumed that I had some superior aptitude (and interest) in technology. The web was in its infancy, and I'd been there in my dorm room to see it sprout out of Gopher.  Which made me an authority.

While I've always appreciated technology, for me, web design was more about an outlet for an interest in art, my lost sketchbooks, things that I dabbled in throughout elementary school.  And a love of fonts, if truth be told.  I loved how different looking words made me feel different about the words.  For someone who loves words and appreciates art, font design is like Nirvana.

So I built web pages.  The first when I was an intern in the academic services office in college; they liked the masthead so much that they made it in miniature on post-its that they distributed liberally to all incoming students.  And then another in grad school, in the grad office where they needed some help making fellowships more accessible.  And somewhere in there I had a short part-time stint in a web design company that I named, but had little interest in actually building.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm not actually very good at building web pages.  I'm better than your average technology-averse person, I guess.  I understand how to organize information; that's less about technology than it is about my obsessive type-A personality that likes everything organized.  I know how to appreciate good design, but I'm not motivated to learn programming languages.  I like the ease of drag-and-drop, as if I'm drawing or painting or making collages.

But somehow now it's a thing, especially at work: Justine builds web pages.

I resent the throwaway nature of web-page-building-assignments; in my case, where people don't spend much time on the pages, it's busywork.  A necessary evil.  No one is making important decisions about web pages.  And even I know that people don't really browse the web like they used to.  I know that all of the important information is in more ephemeral media, or more complexly designed sites that no longer feel two dimensional.  But even if the work felt more important, I hate feeling typecast about something that I don't even really want to be known for doing, or at least, known only for doing.

For a while, I was (maybe in some circles still am) also typecast as a cupcake-maker.  I was baking cupcakes regularly for friends and colleagues who appreciated them, partly for my own entertainment, and partly as a shameless attempt to win their love (that totally works, BTW).

But then came my second child, and less time, and long months of no job and no colleagues to bake for. I could have started a cupcake business, but I didn't want to be only known for that, either, really. I don't like being single dimensional.  And I couldn't claim expertise anyway; it was never like I was inventing recipes all by myself, so I could never really take full credit for development, just for execution.  After I got my new job, I baked for a while for students, but that labor of love quickly lost its lustre when I realized they were too busy and too overfed to appreciate them.  And--it seems to me, at least--I lost my touch.

The same thing happens in blogging, right?  At some point, perhaps your brand doesn't fit you as well as it used to.  But somehow, you feel sort of like you should be producing the same thing you always have, because you know that your readers come back for it.  You write the same thing, in the same way, because it's too hard to recreate yourself.  You typecast yourself.  Maybe you start to feel a little single-dimensional.

The real problem with being typecast is that (aside from the annoyance of feeling like you've been reduced to one dimension) you start to wonder what you're really good at, outside of what people tell you you're good at.  Your internal compass becomes corrupted, and it's hard to recalibrate.  You do nothing, perhaps, wondering if you should explore some long-lost talent (you used to be good at the piano, didn't you?) or take up something new (Swahili during the commute, perhaps?).  You spin, disoriented, wondering where you started, and whether it's still possible to find your way back, or if that's even what you'd want to do, anyway.

Have you ever been typecast?  Was it or is it for something you enjoyed?  Did you embrace the label or reject it?  How did it make you feel?

Sweet Potato Shepherd's Pie
Shepherd's pie is usually made with white potatoes, and usually involves ground lamb.  The original for this recipe originally had sausage, but I decided on beef and beans because we're having sausage later this week in soup.  And the apples and chard and nutty crunch are a welcome change from what you expect.

8 sweet medium sized potatoes
1 lb. ground beef
1 15 oz. can black beans, rinsed and drained
1/4 t. dried sage
4 apples, diced
1/2 onion, diced
1 bunch (4 c.) chopped swiss chard
salt & pepper to taste
5 T. butter
splash milk
1/4 cup toasted walnuts

Boil sweet potatoes until soft all the way through. Drain and return to pot. Add butter, splash of milk, and salt and pepper to taste. Feel free to add more or less milk depending on how you like it, or use olive oil instead of butter if you prefer the nutty taste. Beat until smooth then keep lid on to retain warmth.

Brown beef in a large skillet. When cooked through remove, reserving dripping in pan. Mix black beans in with the beef.

Add diced apples and onions to the sausage drippings. Cook until softened and onions are translucent. Add sage and stir until fragrant.  Remove and set aside.

Cook down Swiss chard in skillet (about 2-3 minutes).

In your pan of choice (I used a 9x13") layer meat and beans, apples and onions, Swiss chard then mashed sweet potatoes. Top with toasted walnuts.

Snow, the Village, and Black Eyed Pea and Rice Soup

I understand now why Eskimos have so many words for snow.*  Sure, I understood before, but that was purely academic.  Now, my understanding is visceral: I've shoveled at least five kinds of the stuff this winter.  Fast-falling medium weight snow that sticks to your eyelashes, making it impossible to see your shovel.  Snow so light and fluffy that it's like powdered sugar.  Heavy, wet snow that immediately bonds to whatever is beneath it, like crazy glue, making innocuous-looking death traps on our driveway.  Snow with a crust of ice which keeps re-crusting as it continues to fall.  Snow that falls sideways, in biting little knives that fly back at you just as you've tossed the last shovelful to the wind.

February and I haven't been on good terms for years; I lost my pregnancies in Februaries, my father died from complications of advanced stage cancer in February, my college RA died from brain cancer in February, and then there's this series of relentless storms that make me feel like the shortest month has been, by far, the cruelest.

The houses on our street are occupied by a diverse range of families, some young, some old.  We try to take care of each other, to the extent possible for both of us: we bring casseroles, we watch children, we play poker, we shovel in the winter.  One of our next door neighbors died this winter, leaving behind his ninety-some year old wife and sixty-some year old possibly autistic daughter.  He'd been a surrogate great-grandparent to our children, and a generous member of our community, and we were sad to say goodbye.  While we did our best to be good neighbors before, his passing made me more attentive to their needs, more aware that I need to be looking out for them.  Part of this involves snow.


A few years ago, my husband went in on a snowblower with this neighbor and another old farmer across the street; the deal was that they would maintain it (tinkerers that they were), we would house it in the barn, and we'd take turns using it (mostly with my husband at the helm) when the weather was bad.  Of course, that was all fine until the snowblower stopped working last year, and they didn't fix it, and we felt sort of like we ought to be shoveling them out, because really, it's not a good idea to let your ninety year old neighbors with heart conditions attempt to throw six inches of sleet over their shoulders.

Since then we've been shoveling them out, feeling more and less grumpy about it, depending on the quality of the snow.  Finally, after L. died, the second old farmer fixed the snowblower; it was sort of like an homage to his spirit, I guess.

But we've still been shoveling when the snowblower isn't warranted, or won't work well because of the snow conditions.  Once, I confess, I thought about my own mother, and people shoveling her snow, and feeling a little like I ought to work harder at moving her out of her house.  The word "burden" may have crossed my mind.  And it's gotten me thinking about the village.  We talk a lot about how it takes a village to raise children.  We're always grateful for the people who step in and help us take care of ours, and I hope that we return the favor.  We make meals for people who are sick or who have had new babies.  But it also takes a village to care for the elderly.  Sometimes people say: "why can't their families take care of them? why are they still living alone?"  It's a difficult negotiation to make.  And I'm not sure what to do with the fact that I feel a little differently about the village, depending on whom the village is caring for.

Who lives in your "village"?  And how many words do you know for "snow"?

*(Though not, according to this linguist, as many as people say; he demands that we cease exaggerating.)

Black Eyed Pea and Rice Soup
I make a lot of soup in the winter.  It feels like the right thing to be eating when you've come in from shoveling for the fifth time.

1/4 c. olive oil
2 leeks, chopped
1/2 c. carrots, chopped
1/2 c. celery, chopped
1 15 oz. can black eyed peas
7 c. broth
2/3 c. rice
salt and pepper to taste
1 bay leaf
6 T. lemon juice
pinch cumin
1/3 c. fresh parsley, minced

Heat the oil in a soup pot over medium heat.  Add the leeks, carrots, and celery and saute for 3-4 minutes, until they begin to soften.  Add the cumin and saute for a minute, until fragrant.

Add the peas, broth, rice, salt, pepper, and bay leaf and bring to a boil.   Reduce the heat to medium-low, cover the pot, and simmer slowly for 30 minutes.

Add lemon juice and stir.  Sit, covered for 5 minutes, remove bay leaf and serve sprinkled with fresh parsley.

Asking For It: Stew with Chickpeas and Farro

I don't watch American Idol.  I think I've seen it a few times over the years it's been on TV, and while I found it oddly fascinating, in that train wreck sort of way, the setup was sometimes also a little too close to home.  As someone who spent a significant part of her formative years being taunted by people who had no business judging her, and as someone who lived in fear of the disapproval of people who did, I found the entire enterprise an unnecessary exercise in self-torture, on the one hand, and an undignified glamorization of bullying and bullies on the other.

I was, it seemed, in the minority.  People really loved American Idol.  Viewers fell for Simon, hook, line, and sinker, crowning him the King of Snark. Maybe those who auditioned were fully complicit in their humiliation, but most of them, I think, just wanted a chance to sing with someone listening.

There's been a lot of talk this week about the new kinder, gentler Idol.  The judges actually pay attention to the people auditioning, even if they're not very good.  They let the the most disastrous failures down gently.  They offer constructive criticism.  They joke with each other in ways that are friendly, not mean-spirited.  J-Lo, Keith Urban, and Harry Connick Jr. seem to actually like each other; it's like they're part of some collaborative project.

It's an interesting shift, ratings notwithstanding.  People agree that it was definitely time for something new, and that everyone tired of the catfights of last season.  But I wonder if something larger might be happening: now that bullying goes viral in a matter of minutes; now that people's careers, reputations, or entire lives, are destroyed in a series of 140-character tweets; now that everyone is an easy target, we're beginning to agree that maybe tearing people down isn't such a great idea, and more of us than we'd initially realized live in houses of glass.  We've watched people get shredded in the Twitterverse, and know that there but for the grace of the Internet we go, too.  And maybe we're beginning to re-think what social media is for.

I read this thoughtful piece on the NPR blog MonkeySee the other day about publishing and social media, and perhaps the shift we're seeing is the result of a lesson that social media makes more transparent.  Holmes suggests that social media is misread by journalists (and I'd argue, by lots of people):

"I wonder sometimes whether the self-disclosure and informality of Twitter leads journalists to conclude they have different obligations to those who write on Twitter than to those who write elsewhere, because once you step outside of traditional publishing, you're in a sort of free-for-all where whatever anybody says is your own fault, because you opened your mouth"

(Once you've agreed to audition for Idol, you've agreed to be terrorized by Simon Cowell.) Holmes argues that people who publish the personal on Twitter aren't asking for critique; rather, they're talking with people who have opted in to read:

"Twitter (like the Internet in general) is a "pull" medium, not a "push" medium; it is fed by specific and fluid choices, not longstanding trust in curation[.]"

I'm not sure that I agree entirely with her point that social media is unlike an op-ed.  In some ways, social media freed the op-ed: instead of relying on the Times to select them for publication, would-be opinionators were empowered to disseminate their ideas through blogs and microblogging platforms.  But where at one point the medium itself seemed to invite critique, even in the writing of things like memoir, I wonder, are we becoming a kinder, gentler social public?  And what does that awareness do, if anything, to the way we write and read each other's work?

What is it that we're asking for when we write (or sing) in public?

Chickpea and Farro Stew
Every time I put something new on the table, I feel a little like I'm sitting in front of American Idol judges.  My family can be pretty harsh critics.  Luckily, this was pretty well recieved, even by my daughter, who plays the role of Simon Cowell.

1 onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced (divided)
5 c. baby spinach, rinsed, pat dry
4 c. vegetable broth
2 15 oz. cans chickpeas, rinsed and drained
1/2 t. ground cumin
1/2 t. smoked paprika
15oz. fire roasted diced tomatoes
3 1/2 T. olive oil, divided
4 c. water
2 eggs
kosher salt
black pepper
1 c. farro
(fried egg, optional)

Add 1 T. olive oil to a large pot and heat on medium until oil is just shimmering.  Add half of the garlic and sauté a minute or two, until fragrant but not brown. Add the spinach and continue to saute until spinach is just wilted, 2-3 minutes. Set aside in a bowl; you'll add this back in later.

In the same pot, over medium heat, heat 2 T.olive oil over medium heat. When oil is shimmering, add diced onion and remaining garlic and saute 3-4 minutes, until the onion is just translucent. Add ground cumin and smoked paprika and stir until fragrant, 1-2 minutes. Add chickpeas and diced tomatoes and their juices, and continue to stir until the juices are mostly evaporated, 8-10 minutes.

Add vegetable broth and farro to pot and bring to a simmer over medium-high heat, scraping up any browned bits from bottom. Reduce heat to medium and simmer, mashing chickpeas, until stew is thick and farro is no longer chewy, 15-20 minutes. Fold in spinach. Add water if it's too thick.

If your family likes them, serve with a fried egg on top.  I don't much like fried eggs, but I put a token piece on the picture, because the males in my family required it.

Adventures at ShopRite, Mattering, and Vegetarian Pot Pie

I'm a Friday night grocery shopper.  After the dinner has been eaten, the dishes are washed, the kids are clean and in bed, I head out into the darkness to scavenge what's left at the store.  I like Friday nights for two reasons: first, I buy supplies to cook during the weekend so we have leftovers to eat during the week, and second, it's really a much saner time to shop than, say, Saturday morning.  And because it's a little less crowded, I tend to see--and occasionally even talk with--the same staff each week, who are stocking shelves and bins with bananas and onions and juice.

Except that last week, it was the day before a snowstorm.  I'd prepared myself for a crowd, but never had I seen anything like this.  You'd think we were preparing for the nuclear holocaust, the way the lines to check out snaked through the aisles, to the back of the store.  Over the PA system, Sue, one of the managers, periodically apologized for the wait, and reassured people that all cashiers were working, and that they'd try to get us all out as soon as possible.

Knowing that it was fruitless to speed my way to the checkout, I loitered a little longer than usual, talking with Steve in produce about his solution to prevent squirrels from eating bird food (Tabasco sauce.  "Do you know how much the good stuff costs?" he demanded, indignant), making small talk with people in the deli section who were needlessly criticizing the speed of the guys behind the counter, and looked over my list, adding a few things I'd forgotten.

One of the things on my list was sidra, Spanish hard cider that my father used to get for Christmas from a bodega in Union City, along with assorted bricks of turrón.  I'd found it in ShopRite for two years running, much to my surprise, since New Jersey grocery stores don't sell liquor.  This year, it was nowhere to be found in the imported foods section, or at least, not that I could tell, among the cans of Goya beans and Maria cookies and guava paste.  I wrinkled my nose and pursed my lips.  Maybe someone had gotten wise to the alcohol content?

A bit farther down the aisle, someone was unloading a cart with new things from the back.  I figured I'd take a chance and ask, feeling a little badly, given that they were clearly swamped.

"Say it for me again?" he asked, kindly, when I told him what I was looking for.  I repeated the word, and explained: "It's basically like sparkling cider.  My father used to get it every year around this time; it's ... " (I feel somehow silly saying this) "... it's part of my heritage."

"Let me find out," he said.  "You go on and shop; I'll find you."

You'll find me? I thought, dubious.  It was bedlam; I decided I'd never see him again. 

A few minutes later, he did actually find me, shaking his head as he made his way around the other shopping carts.  "I don't think we have what you're looking for," he said.  "Did you check the ciders?"

"Yes," I assured him.  "But this is ... well ... ever so slightly alcoholic."

"Huh," he sniffed.  "And you got it here?"  I nodded.  "Someone wasn't doing their job."

"You're probably right," I agreed.  "Hey, thanks for looking."

I finished my shopping, and headed to the checkout, where the lines were now only halfway to the back of the store.

I didn't think much more about it, until I went back to the store this week, enjoying the relative quiet, reclaiming my shopping night.  He appeared out of nowhere, and it took me a minute to place him.  He, however, knew exactly who I was.

"Did you ever find your cider?" he asked.

I was flabbergasted.  "No, I didn't," I confessed.

He nodded.  "I found out that ours is imported from Spain.  Not exactly the same, but for a buck ninety-nine, worth a try, maybe?"

I laughed.  "Yes, worth a try.  Hey ..."  I faltered.  "Thanks for remembering."

"No problem," he said, grinning.  "Happy Holidays."

"You too," I said, putting the bottle in my cart, waving as I scooted away.

There was so much to unpack in that conversation.  The astonishment I felt at being remembered, especially from a busy night when the store was full of faces and requests.  The kindness of a stranger going out of his way to learn something about a small thing that was important to me, and seeking me out to tell me later.

I was talking with an old friend this weekend, who commented that coming from the place she went to college, mediocrity was considered akin to failure.  If you weren't winning Nobel Prizes, or writing the next Great American Novel, or curing cancer, or steering a Fortune 500 company, your life might as well be over; anything less than exceptional was unacceptable.  She's since come to realize otherwise, and said that she wished she figured it out much earlier, so she could have saved herself from a complete breakdown.

I used to think that way about success, too, at least, as it applied to me, even though I didn't go to school at one of those fancy brand-name places.  And yet, when it comes down to it, our lives are made up of many more ShopRite moments than they are the moments that find us creating the kinds of earthquakes that measure 8.5 on the Richter scale.  The same goes for blogging.  Sure, we get a post that goes viral.  Maybe we get hundreds of comments (not that this has ever happened to me).  But this is how I want to be remembered: not necessarily having published books that hundreds or even thousands of people read, or even building a program that has a legacy for my institution or my field, but mattering to individual human beings, one at a time, like one does in ShopRite.

How do you make people, even the ones you've never met, feel like they matter?

Vegetarian Pot Pie
adapted from Vegetarian Times
This could be a good alternative main dish for the vegetarians at your holiday table.  It's not terribly fancy, but it's hearty, and savory, and just the right kind of warm.  It would pair very well with Spanish sidra.

4 c. vegetable broth
4 c. water
1 small butternut squash, peeled, chopped 
1 lb thin-skinned potatoes, unpeeled, cut into 1-inch chunks
1 large bunch spinach, well washed and coarsely chopped, or 3/4 c. frozen spinach
1 t. salt
1 1/2 c. frozen corn
1 1/2 c. cooked chickpeas
1/4 c. olive oil
1 onion, quartered and thinly sliced
1/3 c. flour
1/2 t. dried rubbed sage
1/2 t. dried thyme
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 c. milk
1 sheet frozen puff pastry, thawed

Bring the broth, water, squash, potatoes, and salt to a boil in a large pot. Cover, reduce the heat to medium and simmer for 5 minutes. Add the spinach and corn. Cook for three minutes more. Drain the vegetables, reserving the broth. Stir in the chickpeas.

Heat oil in the same pot over medium-high heat. Add the onions and saute for about 7 minutes, or until beginning to brown. Add the flour, herbs, and garlic, and cook, stirring constantly, for 1 minute. Slowly pour 4 cups of the reserved broth into the pot. Cook until the roux thickens, 5-7 minutes, stirring constantly. Stir in the milk. Return the vegetables to the pot and mix; season to taste with salt and black pepper. Allow to cool slightly.

Preheat oven to 375.  Pour the filling into a 9x13-inch baking pan.  Gently roll out the puff pastry to the size of the baking dish and place over the filling, pressing around the edges to seal. Score four diagonal lines into the puff pastry, and bake for 45-60 minutes, or until the top of the crust is golden brown. Allow to cool for 10 minutes before serving.

Why Are We Studying Zombies? and Brains ... er ... Cauliflower Soup

The other day, during a meeting in which we reviewed the course offerings for the spring term (yes, really, all of them), it became obvious that the university was offering no fewer than three courses on zombies this semester, along with two one witches/mystics.  I never really got caught up in zombie-mania (that whole not-having-a-TV thing means that I never got addicted to The Walking Dead), but I have to admit, the fact that a student could practically minor in zombies at my place of employment shifted my perspective a little bit.

What is it about zombies, anyway?

I asked an old friend this question over tea the other morning; she works at a university press and was, herself, just about to go write copy for a book on this very same topic.  Her theory, which she'd borrowed from a co-worker, was that zombie-mania comes in waves, altering with vampires: that when the economy is tanking, we find fascination in vampires (a metaphor for our own guilty consumption), and when things are looking up, we like zombies: exuberantly consuming everything. Someone actually tracked this, and while the correlation is imperfect, it's not implausible.  But it doesn't get us anywhere.

There's another theory: that zombies allow us to express our fear of ourselves.  Of the unknown, the unpredictable in human nature.  The erratic infection that reanimates some humans, the frightening evil that lies embedded within us.  The thing that makes us heartless, soul-less, and nearly impossible to kill.  Because of all of the scary things in the world, zombies are just like us.  They are us.  And they're out to get us, too. 

I sort of prefer the second theory, probably because I'm a humanist and not an economist.  I'm interested in (among many other things, of course) the things within us that destroy us.  What makes people evil?  What makes us self-sabotage, and be willing to eat others alive?  What makes us lose our souls?  How do people prepare for the zombie apocalypse, and what does this mean about our own defenses against the dark arts?  This is, to me, the more interesting question for the college classroom.  It makes minoring in zombies seem like a worthy pursuit.

I'm not sure we'll ever get a satisfactory answer to that question; that's not what the humanities are about.  Studying patterns of zombie behavior isn't likely to protect us against them any better (though the writers of copious zombie survival guides would argue differently, I'm sure; they would encourage me, barn-owner that I am, to get the app.).  Then again, maybe it's like going to therapy: if you figure out the patterns of behavior, and can recognize them early enough, maybe there are some souls--even your own--that you can save?

Are you a zombie-lover?  What do you think about the fascination with zombies?  Are you prepared for the zombie apocalypse, just in case?

Cauliflower Soup
The cauliflower just looks like brains, right?  Once you blend it up, only your inner zombie has to know.

1 T. butter
1 T. olive oil
8 leeks, trimmed and finely chopped, white part only
2 onions, finely chopped
1 cauliflower head, finely chopped
2 small potatoes, peeled and diced
4 bay leaves
4 c. chicken broth
2 2/3 c. milk
salt and pepper to taste

Melt the butter and oil in a large stock pot or dutch oven over medium heat.  Add the leeks and onions, and saute until just beginning to caramelize.  Add cauliflower, potato, bay leaves, and broth and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and cook, covered, until the cauliflower breaks apart easily with a fork, about 15 minutes. Discard the bay leaves.

Add the milk, salt, and pepper, and puree until smooth, either in a blender or with an immersion blender.

Top with shredded cheese, toasted almonds, creme fraiche, or snipped chives.

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.

NaBloPoMo: Paula Deen and Butter Chicken

Just a little more than ten years ago, I visited South Africa with a study tour from my graduate school of education.  As I've mentioned before, the purpose of our trip was to study the effects of apartheid on education; we visited schools both in Cape Town and in Johannesburg, most of which were still segregated according to the apartheid system--white, colored , Indian, black--and had obviously skewed access to economic justice that corresponded with racial identity.  Ten years and change later, while progress has been made, it's definitely slow going.  Reparations to the black community leave out those who were considered "colored."  And many argue that a new approach is necessary.  Some people in South Africa want to eliminate race talk; others think that the language of race is necessary in order to eliminate racism.

I've been thinking a lot about that visit again, after Paula Deen's recent debacle.  Though I don't consider myself a food blogger, and I don't watch the Food Network (that's my mother's job, and we don't have a TV anyway), and Paula Deen doesn't even cook the kind of food I would normally put on my table, I couldn't help following the coverage of her story as it unfolded, particularly on Twitter, where the hashtag #paulasbestdishes identified some of the most creative food-related racist slurs I've ever read.  It was, in a word, shocking.  As was Paula's testimony.  But really, I found myself wondering, why was I shocked?

When I visited South Africa, they kept telling us how impressed they were with how far we'd come since the days of Jim Crow; they kept asking us how we managed to do what we did.  What I wanted to tell them was that their discourse was actually more honest than ours.  Because we try very hard, it seems to me, not to talk about race.  Like South Africa, many people in the U.S. think that eliminating race talk, pretending that we are race-blind, will make it all better.

The reality, of course, is that we're not.  And it shouldn't be surprising to us that some celebrities act out the racism that still seethes just below the surface of our culture, or just above it, depending on where you live in the U.S. .  The only difference is that the media scrutinizes celebrities more closely, and celebrities represent the kind of people that many of us want our nation to be, rather than the complex (and sometimes disappointing) people we actually are.

One article in the NY Times described how Paula Deen's racist remarks have brought to light a long-simmering controversy among Southern chefs about the origins of Southern cooking; many of them expressed anger that Deen got rich on the recipes of slave cooks and domestic workers, and yet, the author suggested, disrespected the very people who made her success possible.  As someone who is particularly sensitive to intellectual property issues of recipes, I think they have every right to be angry.

Why do we hold celebrities to this standard (reasonable though it may be for all of us)?  Why do we pretend that we--as a nation--think racism is a crime, when we are so willing to turn a blind eye to it in so many circumstances?  How can we pretend that we have worked for and achieved justice when even SCOTUS can't come up with a stronger statement about affirmative action programs in higher education, where the effects of economic injustice (which have deep roots in racism) are often so blatant?  Or when SCOTUS strikes down section 4 of the the VRA?  Clearly we still struggle with racism as a nation, and not just in terms of black and white.  And I suspect that it would be a lot more productive to talk about the problem than pretend that Paula Deen is the only one.

Butter Chicken
Adapted from Dinner with Julie
Butter Chicken is not at all Southern, of course; it was one of the Indian dishes I first tried, somewhat paradoxically, in South Africa.  Though I don't often eat meat these days (and Bread Wine Salt makes a lovely vegetarian version of this meal with chick peas), my family enjoys it, and it's relatively easy to prepare.

1-2 T. olive oil
1 onion, halved and thinly sliced
6-8 skinless chicken thighs (with or without bone)
4-5 garlic cloves, crushed
1 T. grated fresh ginger
28 oz. can fire roasted diced tomatoes, undrained
2 T. tomato paste
4 t. chili powder
2 t. curry powder
2 t. garam masala
pinch cinnamon
3/4 cup evaporated milk
salt and pepper

Heat the oil over medium-high head in a large, heavy skillet.  Add the onions and saute, stirring often, until translucent, about 5 minutes. Push the onions to the side of the pan and add the chicken thighs, turning to just brown them on all sides. Add the garlic and ginger and cook for a minute or two, until just fragrant.

Add the tomatoes, tomato paste, chili powder, curry paste, garam masala and cinnamon and bring to a simmer.  Cover and cook for 20 minutes, or until the chicken is cooked through. Remove the lid and continue to cook until the sauce coats the back of a spoon.

Stir in the evaporated milk, season to taste, and serve with rice (most traditional), peas, quinoa, couscous, or whatever else you fancy.

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.

Self-Centered or Self-Care: Lentil, Mushroom and Sweet Potato Shepherd's Pie

I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be self-centered.  It's kind of a sticky wicket, isn't it?  You're supposed to take care of yourself, and be good to yourself, but if you do too much of that, people start to look down their noses at you.  And how do you decide what you're doing for yourself, and what you're doing for someone else, even if it fulfills you?

For example.

I know someone who dedicated 40 years of her life to teaching in public school and raising her children.  She paid her dues.  And now she does the things that she wants to do: going to the YMCA, meeting friends for lunch, watching TV, helping out with a project at church.  When you talk with her, she talks mostly about these things.  Is that self-centered?  Or well-deserved self-care?

And there are times I think that maybe *I'm* self-centered.  I'm at home with N., but most days I go to the Y in the morning after the morning routine and playtime, and N. plays in Child Watch for an hour while I go sweat.  We come home, I feed N. lunch, and she takes an hour long nap, during which I get to shower.  In the afternoon, we do something ... sometimes a walk, or an errand, or on rainy days, we draw and do puzzles.  Then there's picking I. up from the bus, and managing homework time trying to keep her entertained, and dinner.  At night, I am out at a meeting sometimes three nights a week.  Board of Education, the Board of the Friends of the Library, a meeting for church.  Sometimes I go to yoga.  Less often I go out to a discussion group.  I feel guilty about going to yoga or to other events, because I feel like I am already so self-centered.

Not making my own salary has a lot to do with this worry, I know.  I buy some expensive tea, or a book, and I feel like I have taken without giving back.  Like I've tipped the balance of the Universe in favor of MEMEME.
  
I made this recipe even though my family isn't vegan, even though my husband really likes meat, even though I knew my kids probably wouldn't like it (and that N. probably wouldn't eat it at all).  Is THAT self-centered?  (I also made another version of it, which I will post later this week, which my son DID eat ... for breakfast.  Maybe it's a matter of simply winning people over to doing what I want them to do in order to get around the problem of being self-centered?)

Lentil, Mushroom, and Sweet Potato Shepherd's Pie
Adapted from the kitchn

5 medium sweet potatoes
1 c. green lentils, washed and picked over
3/4 c. uncooked steel cut oats
1 bay leaf
1 t. salt
1 T. olive oil
1/2 lb. white mushrooms, quartered
1/2 lb. white mushrooms, diced
1 onion, diced
1 carrot, diced
1 celery stalk, diced
1 garlic clove, minced
3/4 c. low-sodium vegetable broth
1/4 c. red wine
1 T. tomato paste
1 T. soy sauce
2 t. smoked paprika

Preheat the oven to 400°F.  Wash sweet potatoes well and prick them a few times with a fork to prevent explosions.  Bake the potatoes for about an hour, or until they just about collapse when you try to pick them up with your potholder.  Set aside.

Place lentils, oats, bay leaf, salt and 5 cups of water in a medium saucepan, and bring to a boil.  Lower heat and simmer uncovered, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking, for 15-20 minutes or until lentils are just done, and no longer crunchy. Remove bay leaf and drain the mixture, trying not to eat too much of it before you add the other ingredients.

Add the olive oil to a large saucepan and heat over medium-high heat.  Saute the quartered mushrooms with a pinch of salt until tender and just beginning to brown, about 3-5 minutes, stirring frequently.  Add the remaining vegetables and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until they are softened.  Reduce the heat to medium-low nad add the lentil mixture and additional seasonings.  Simmer for 5 minutes, adjusting seasonings to your taste if necessary. Remove from heat.

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Peel the potatoes (this should be very easy; just grab one end of the skin and the rest should fall out) and mash into a medium bowl.  Season with salt and pepper.  

Pour the the lentil mixture into a 9x9-inch pan and cover with the mashed sweet potatoes. Bake for 30 minutes, or until the lentil mixture is bubbly at the edges.  Cool 5 minutes and serve.

Remembrance: Slow Cooker Pork and White Bean Stew with Apples and Cranberries

It's the part of February that I hate: the intermediate space between the holidays (even if we're counting the Hallmark holiday of Valentine's Day) and spring, when the days stretch out mostly grey and interminable.  It's a space of the year which is full of remembrances of loss for me.  And it's often full of random winter storms these days, which bring wintry weather, but not enough to go sledding; just enough to make driving hazardous.  My son and I have been reading The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and I've been admiring the pioneering spirit that got the Ingalls family through those interminably dark days.

This week marks the 10th anniversary of my father's death.  It's sort of an odd coincidence that he lost his battle with cancer in February; after all, he loved Valentine's Day (which, for him, was an excuse to buy chocolate ... the romance of Hallmark was lost on him), and blustery Sunday afternoons sleeping or watching Spanish TV in in his well-worn leather recliner.  I've never visited his grave; grieving is different for everyone, and for me, the kitchen is a more useful place to remember and celebrate the lives of loved ones lost than the cemetery.

My father was an eater of winter foods.  Roasts, hearty stews, potatoes.  And great quantities of bread.  I'm not sure if it had to do with the region of Spain where he was born (despite the fact that he spent such a significant part of his life in the warmer climate of Florida and the Carribbean), or if it was just his preference for hearty fare, but we knew better than to feed him a meal that would make him demand, "where's the meat?"

I've been following a nearly vegan diet lately.  Not because I want to be vegan, necessarily, but because I want to make more mindful choices about my food, and a vegan diet makes me more mindful.  I've removed almost all of the dairy (very little cheese, no yogurt), cut way back on refined sugars (almost no baked goods or chocolate), minimized carbohydrates (almost no bread or rice or pasta), and consumed only marginal amounts of meat.  I've been eating more vegetables, and hummus, and nuts, and legumes.  I can almost imagine what my father would say about this.  Something, no doubt, along the lines of what he told me when I informed him--old world Catholic that he was--that I was going to be married by a Unitarian minister; food was, after all, a little religious for him, despite his insistence that we "eat to live, not live to eat."

But my husband and my son are decidedly not vegan, and I still have to cook for them, too.  And when I'm cooking hearty winter stews in the kitchen, I'm remembering my father.  Who would nod with sage approval, watching me throw something like this together, even though he wouldn't agree about the beans.

Slow Cooker Pork and White Bean Stew with Apples and Cranberries

2 leeks, white and light green parts, thinly sliced
2 pork tenderloins, 1 lb. each, cut into 1" cubes
2 15 oz. cans cannellini beans
4 apples, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 - 3 c.broth (your choice)
2 T. apple cider vinegar
1/2 c. dried cranberries (no sugar)
2 t. dried thyme
salt and pepper to taste

Add everything to your slow cooker; make sure that the pork is just covered by the broth.  Cook on low for 7 hours.  Remove cover and boil on high for 15-20 minutes or until the stew is a bit thickened.

Change, and Slow Cooker Chicken Tikka Masala

Each month, my good friend and fabulous blogger Kathy Benson, who writes (among other places!) at Bereaved and Blessed hosts a blog hop and writing exercise called Time Warp Tuesday.   The Time Warp invites us to revisit an old post from our blog, and think about where we are now, how our thoughts about the post may have changed from its original writing.  This month, during the season of resolutions and goal-setting, Kathy directs us to find an old blog entry about change:

The new year is often a time for new beginnings and changes in our lives. Choose a post from your archives in which you wrote about change. Maybe you wrote about a change that you chose to make or one that happened without warning or intention. Then write a new post on your blog about why you chose the post that you did and what has happened in your life since.

Read more: http://bereavedandblessed.com/2013/1/time-warp-tuesday-change/

From the very beginning this blog has been all about and my attempts to cope with change (half-baked is, by nature, something in process), but the one that its feeling most important for me these days is a post I'd written back in 2011, in which I submit my letter of resignation.

I had struggled for months, composing that letter in my head, as conditions became untenable for me at work.  I worried about what it would mean to give up a 12 year career, in which I had won accolades from my supervisors and earned the respect of literally hundreds of people.  I worried whether I'd ever be employed again.  Leaving my job was both a change I initiated and something that happened without much warning.

I chose this post because I've needed to remind myself, especially lately, about how proud I felt, taking that step into the unknown, risking my career to maintain my sanity and integrity.  As busy stay-at-home-parent life took over, and as the economy continued to lag, the job opportunities evaporated.  Now, nearly two years since my daughter was born, and over a year and a half since I left my job, I'm still not employed outside the home.  I've questioned my decision to resign more times than I can count.  I've questioned my credentials, my intelligence, the fabulousness of my resume, my network.  It's hard going some days.

But sometimes even when we initiate change, life takes us in directions that we didn't anticipate.  We create the catalyst, we set things in motion, but there's a world out there to contend with, much of which is beyond our control.  Our choice is to find acceptance, to be more like water, flowing with change, rather than trying to work against it.

And, like cooking sometimes, change is slow.  I need to keep reminding myself that worthwhile changes can take time. 

The first time I read through this recipe I was a little reluctant to try it.  After all, isn't the whole point of the slow cooker to minimize your cooking time, rather than requiring that you essentially cook something twice?

But for someone who doesn't eat all that much meat, I have to say: cooking the chicken this way made it practically melt in your mouth.  Slow and steady for the win.

Slow Cooker Chicken Tikka Masala
based on the original at tasty kitchen

9 boneless, skinless chicken thighs
1 T. coriander
1 T. cumin
1 t. kosher salt
1 c. yogurt
4 T. butter
 for the sauce
4 T. butter
1 large onion, peeled/diced
6 cloves garlic, minced
1 T. kosher salt
3 T. garam masala
2-3" piece fresh ginger, peeled/grated
4 c. crushed tomatoes
2 t. agave nectar
2 t. cornstarch
1-½ c. evaporated milk (or cream)
cilantro (optional for garnish)

Cut the chicken into 1" pieces, place them into a bowl, and sprinkle with with spices. Stir in the yogurt to coat the chicken thoroughly. Cover lightly and let sit for 10 minutes to allow flavors to blend.

Melt 1 T. butter in a large saute pan over medium heat. Brown the chicken in four batches, using one tablespoon of butter with each batch, and transfer the browned chicken to the slow cooker.

For the sauce, melt 4 T. butter over medium high heat. Add the onions, garlic, and salt, and stir. Saute until the onions just begin to brown around the edges.

Stir in the garam masala and ginger and cook about 1 minute before raising the heat to high and adding the crushed tomatoes and agave. Scrape the caramelized bits from the bottom of the pan, and bring to a boil. Pour the sauce into the slow-cooker.

Cover and cook on low for 5 hours, or until the chicken is so tender that it falls apart on your fork.

Use a fork or whisk to stir the cornstarch into the evaporated milk until smooth. Pour into the slow-cooker and stir gently until the color is even.  Cook for 10 minutes or until bubbly around the edges; the original recipe suggested that you re-cover the slow cooker, but I found it worked better without re-covering (perhaps because I used evaporated milk).

Serve with rice (tasty kitchen suggested rice with peas), and whatever else you like!

Pratyahara, and a Birthday: Carrot Leek Soup

So I turned 39 yesterday.  It was, in many ways, an ordinary day.  Little or no fanfare, no dinner at a fancy restaurant, just good wishes.  I went to the Y and tried a Boot Camp class that kicked my proverbial arse, but was told by the instructor that I "had potential to stick around."  My son baked me a birthday cake from a box (which I have to tell you about in my next post, because it deserves discussion of its own).  Though it was a quiet birthday, it felt just right.

This month in yoga, we're focusing on the practice of pratyahara.  In a nutshell, pratyahara involves sensory withdrawal, removing the information overload that we live in every day in an effort to draw inward, and pay more attention to the self.

My yoga teacher says that everyone on earth, when we strip away everything else, wants the same things: peace, happiness, and to be seen or known, by ourselves and by others.  Though I'm not sure I can agree with such a reductive statement about humankind, I do think that most of us want to be known.  And I also agree that sometimes all of the noise--both the noise that the world creates for us and the noise we create within ourselves, with negative self-talk or attachments to worldly things--gets in the way of us knowing our deepest selves.  Pratyahara--which we practiced by closing our eyes, blindfolding ourselves, and covering our ears--counters that noise by creating silences: by removing visual or auditory or other sensory distractions.

It so happens that I spend a lot of time in asana with my eyes closed.  I know it's not recommended; it's a force of habit.  And yet, I never realized why it was so natural until tonight.  Yes, in some ways it's relaxing (though I'll warn you, you're going to feel that stretch in your side seam a whole lot more in trichonasana, and it's a lot harder to balance in vrikshasana when you can't focus on a spot on the wall).  But it's mostly relaxing because those distractions go away, allowing me to focus on what's happening in the physical body.  Once you realize that's what you're doing, that sensory withdrawal is like a laser beam, illuminating one small piece of you at a time.

That drawing inward to look at ourselves, and to gather energy for what's coming next, is a perfect winter activity.  The pause, the caesura, the time of waiting.  Just as people do physical cleanses, and get rid of the junk food in their lives, so it's important, sometimes, step away from all of the noise.  To meet our truest selves.  Pratyahara offers one way to withdraw, to restore our senses, to renew.

And in some way, even if I couldn't articulate it at the time, maybe this was my wish for my birthday: to withdraw a little, to go inward, and to prepare myself for what's coming next.

Here's looking at you, 39.  I'm ready.

Carrot and Leek Soup
adapted from The View from the Great Island
Good mental nutrition requires good physical nutrition.  And though I hate to admit it, sometimes you need something a little better for you than cookies.  This is what I ate when I came home from yoga tonight.  You can strain it to get rid of the seeds, but I sort of like them, for a little crunch.

1 T. butter
1 T. olive oil
2 t. yellow mustard seeds
2 t. coriander seeds
1/4 t. tumeric
1/2 t. garam masala
1" piece of fresh ginger, peeled and minced
2 leeks, sliced (white and light green part only)
1 small green apple, peeled and diced
1 lb. carrots, peeled and roughly chopped
4 c. vegetable or chicken stock
salt and fresh cracked black pepper to taste

Heat the oil and butter over medium heat in a large soup pot and saute the spices for a minute or two. The seeds will start to pop.  Add the leeks and saute for a few more minutes, stirring often to prevent browning.

Add the apple, carrots, and stock to the pot. Bring to a simmer and cook until the carrots are tender, about 25 minutes.  Puree the soup in a blender, food processor, or with an immersion blender.  Add additional water if necessary.

Difference at the Table: Moroccan Root Vegetable Stew

Despite my love of the harvest, and the falling leaves, and the apples and squash, and even the raking, I don't love November.

It's something about the darkening sky, the full-tilt rush towards Christmas and the pressure to give extravagant gifts, the starches of the Thanksgiving meal, the conversations I'm doomed to have around our Thanksgiving table.

World War Three, the Passive Aggressive version, came early this year.  With my mother's fall down her stairs, and her move to our house for her recovery, we've been dancing around difficult conversations for weeks now, me sometimes biting my tongue, and sometimes not.  Imagine Thanksgiving, with all of its family land mines, stretching out for three, then four, then five weeks, and you'll get some sense of what it has been like around here.

Reflecting on the difficult topic of religious pluralism in church this week, our minister reminded us of another meal that wasn't exactly the most congenial of meetings.

Edward Winslow wrote, in a letter dated December 12, 1621:

Our corn [i.e. wheat] did prove well, and God be praised, we had a good increase of Indian corn, and our barley indifferent good, but our peas not worth the gathering, for we feared they were too late sown.  They came up very well, and blossomed, but the sun parched them in the blossom.  Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors.  They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week.  At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor, and upon the captain and others.  And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.

Can you imagine?  The Pilgrims had invited Massosoit to sign a peace treaty, and spent three days eating with ninety surprise guests with whom they couldn't communicate (except through Squanto), warriors who were bearing arms, not really sure whether they were going to be killed.  And you thought your Thanksgiving table conversation was a little tense?  Not that I am entirely sympathetic with the colonists, but it sort of puts things in perspective, doesn't it?  At least we're not armed.  And the one thing I've noticed is that over time, even if the conversations are still difficult, they've become less charged, as if time has diffused them, just a little bit.  Maybe we are figuring each other out, even if that understanding doesn't make us best friends.

Much has changed since 1621; though we haven't entirely abandoned our "roots," there's a lot on our Thanksgiving tables that is hardly "traditional" fare.  This dish is a nod to those early settlers and to their native American guests at the table, a stew made with traditional root vegetables, most of which actually were around for that first Thanksgiving (no potatoes, since they hadn't yet made their way across the Atlantic).  It's a perfect example of the meeting of cultures, American vegetables fused with the flavors of the Middle East.  Even if peace may be hard to imagine, perhaps at least we can appreciate the result of the marriage of flavors, knowing that the longer we sit around the table together, the more likely it is we'll at least achieve some kind of understanding, if not agreement.  And we can give thanks for that.

What--and who--will be at your Thanksgiving table this year?  What do your Thanksgiving roots look like?

Moroccan-Style Chicken and Root Vegetable Stew

4 c. canned low-salt chicken broth
1 T.olive oil
1 lb boneless skinless chicken
1 1/2 c. onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
2 t. garam masala
2 t. ground cumin
1 cinnamon stick
2 c. sweet potatoes, peeled, 1/2" cubes
2 c. parsnips (I used kohlrabi, because I had one) peeled, 1/2" pieces
1 1/2 c. turnips, peeled, 1/2" pieces 
1 large carrot cut in 1/2" pieces
1 c.  rutabaga, peeled, 1/2"pieces
1/4 c. golden raisins or apricots (chopped)1 14-oz can fire roasted diced tomatoes, drained
Juice and zest from one lemon

In a small pot, bring chicken broth to a boil, continue to boil until reduced by half, then set aside.

Heat oil in heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Sprinkle chicken with salt and pepper. Sauté chicken for about a minute until light golden and remove from pot; set aside.

Add onion to pot and sauté until golden and translucent, about 4 minutes. Add garlic and stir 1 minute. Add spices and stir 30 seconds until just fragrant. Add sweet potatoes, parsnips (kohlrabi), turnips, carrot, rutabaga, broth and currants. Cover and simmer until vegetables are tender, about 20 minutes. Add tomatoes, lemon zest with juice, and chicken, and simmer over medium heat about 5 minutes, or until chicken is thoroughly cooked. Sprinkle with cilantro if desired.

Stranded: Chicken Pot Pie Soup

Noon on a rainy Tuesday.  The towtruck pulled up in front of my neighbor's driveway and began to slide the bed back, inclining it to the ground.  N. heard the commotion and went running to the door, pressing her face to the glass, where her breath made frosty marks around her small nose.

I'd been expecting the truck; my neighbor told me the other day, in her matter-of-fact way, that the van was going to be towed.  My neighbor is almost ninety, and the van has been uncooperative for a long time; finally, it rusted out completely underneath, leavings its entrails exposed to the elements.  But uncooperative as the van may have been, it was the symbolic representation of her independence.  It was her escape.  To the Amish market.  To the salon.  To the doctor's office.  To wherever she needed to go, by herself.

As I watched her from our doorway, standing on her own porch, I tried to imagine the thoughts in her head.  About borrowing her daughter's car.  About juggling rides.  About not going places.  About having to ask for help.

She stood there for a long time, stoic, half inside, half outside, newly coiffed with an auburn bouffant.  There were no tears; it was as if she was standing watch to make sure it all went right, rather than offering her last goodbye.  Finally, as the driver loaded the van onto the truck, she closed the door.  Perhaps she could take no more.

I believe that part of what has kept her and her husband alive and healthy for so long is their sense of independence, their sense of freedom. I can only imagine how difficult it was for her to give up that freedom.  She was, effectively, stranding herself.

My mother is also now stranded here.  She has no car, no friends, no lunch dates, not even 24 hour access to the Food Network, because we have no TV, much less cable.  She is in some pain; she can walk from room to room, but prefers not to move from standing to sitting positions more often than she has to.  She has to ask for help, and it's as if she doesn't quite know how; she doesn't want to be a burden, and yet sometimes not knowing how to help her is more burdensome than a simple request.  Today I helped her wash her hair in the sink, and take a sponge bath, and felt an awkward intimacy, almost like I was intruding.  These are things I do for my children.

This is a difficult negotiation for us.  There were times, as an adult, when I wanted her to be there, to support me, to tend to me, and she wasn't.  At least, not in the way I wanted her to be.  And I couldn't ask her to be, because that is not the person she is.  And yet now, I find myself in the position of caretaker.  Feeling like I ought not to be feeling sorry for myself, because she is the one in pain.

In her 2001 book Bodhichitta, Pema Chodron writes

"Bodhichitta is [...] equated, in part, with compassion—our ability to feel the pain that we share with others. Without realizing it we continually shield ourselves from this pain because it scares us. We put up protective walls made of opinions, prejudices and strategies, barriers that are built on a deep fear of being hurt. These walls are further fortified by emotions of all kinds: anger, craving, indifference, jealousy and envy, arrogance and pride. But fortunately for us, the soft spot—our innate ability to love and to care about things—is like a crack in these walls we erect. It's a natural opening in the barriers we create when we're afraid. With practice we can learn to find this opening. We can learn to seize that vulnerable moment—love, gratitude, loneliness, embarrassment, inadequacy—to awaken bodhichitta."

The soft spot.  Our innate ability to love.  The crack in my wall.  Maybe this is the moment that Pema would call the "teacher."

There is more soup on the menu this week.  The sort of soup my mother would like.  Because when you're stranded, at least you ought to have something you like to eat.

Chicken Pot Pie Soup
adapted from no, 2 pencil

2 T. butter
1 medium onion, diced
2 stalks of celery, diced
1 large carrot, diced
2 T. flour
2 t. sage
1 t. thyme
6 c. chicken stock - plus additional to thin if soup is very thick
3 c. shredded and 1 c. diced potatoes
4 c. cooked, diced or shredded chicken
1/2 c. evaporated milk (or heavy cream)
1 cup of frozen peas

Melt butter in a large pot over medium heat.  Add onions, carrots and celery and saute until softened. Add flour; stir well and cook about one minute more. Add herbs and chicken stock, increase heat to medium high. Once chicken stock begins to simmer, add potatoes and let simmer for about 15 minutes, or until potatoes begin to break down and thicken soup. Add chicken and let simmer until heated through, then add milk and peas and let simmer about 5 more minutes.

Add salt and pepper to taste, and adjust consistency of soup with additional chicken stock if needed.