Thaw. (with Slow Cooker Lentil Soup)

The snow had left powdered-sugar dust on the grass, on the daffodils.  A thin crust of crystal, dazzling in the sunlight, invitingly crunchy, like water ice.

I wanted to stop and take pictures on the way, here, and here, and here: the alpacas, clustered together, moving slowly across the frozen field; the branches, bending, touching, bridging across the road; all of the world captured, for a moment, in thaw.  I can't seem to capture any of it well with an iPhone5, though, which is all I use for photography any more, simply because I have it with me, and because the big beautiful camera doesn't behave for me. The phone camera thinks it's smarter than I am.

It has been a strange winter here in the Northeast: first nonexistent, then relentless, then February (which is like relentless but worse, for so many reasons), then a weekend of spring, then snow again. But finally, now, when I sit in the sun, it feels less ephemeral, more determined, stronger, like maybe it will stick around for a while.

A blogger friend says she misses my voice.  I miss my voice, too.  Part of me wonders if I have lost it entirely.  But also why I should bother looking for it, and whether I might want to find it here, out in public.  Why not just write for an audience of one, where I worry less about judgment by the people I know in real life.  The answer, of course, is like the phenomenon of thaw: without the warmth and sunlight that can only come from the world, the plants are perfectly happy to stay hibernating.

Let the lamp affix its beam.

Welcome spring.

Slow Cooker Lentil Soup
This is what's in our kitchen: a hodgepodge of winter beans and root vegetables, with spring greens and new garlic.  Sort of like thaw in a bowl.

3 medium carrots, chopped (or 4 small or 2 large)
2 celery stalks, chopped
1 large yellow onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 large clove shallot, chopped
2 cups dry green lentils (rinsed)
8 cups Vegetable stock
1 14-ounce can diced tomatoes
1 bay leaf
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 bag of baby spinach
1 1/2 teaspoons balsalmic vinegar
2 teaspoons Kosher salt
1 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper
1 teaspoon ground cumin

Chop carrots, celery, onion, garlic, and shallots in the food processor.  Place chopped vegetables into crockpot along with lentils, stock, canned tomatoes, bay leaf and dried thyme. Cover with lid and set cooking time (4 Hours on high or 8 Hours on low). When cooking time is up, add spinach, vinegar, salt, black pepper, and ground cumin. Place lid back on and let sit covered for fifteen additional minutes before serving.

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.

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.

Seduction, and Roasted Sweet Potato, Squash, and Pear Soup

Though it's already mid-October, it felt like the first night of fall: a slight crispness to the air, perhaps even the scent of wood and leaves--the sort of weather that makes me walk faster, with a more determined step. It's been easy to notice the earlier darkness in my office, which becomes a little cave-like towards the end of the afternoon, illuminated by the same small lamp that I brought home from my office two years ago; as we walked across campus, it felt like people were scattering everywhere to gather in similar cozy spaces.

There is a lot of eating together here, and I was headed to dinner, for the third time in just over a week, this time to an awards banquet celebrating the "best freshmen and sophomores," whatever that might mean. I've been to about a hundred award events in my life, but still, somehow, I wasn't prepared for this: the round tables in a softly lit wood-paneled library (the first on campus), glass vases full of delicately orange-tinted roses, which matched the orange-brown iced tea already set at everyone's place, and the orange-paper wrapped books where each student was to sit, and even the bright orange mango-gelatine-topped custards which circled the centerpieces.

This? I thought--this is another planet.

Soon after we sat down, steaming bowls of deep orange butternut squash soup arrived. My first spoonful was like the culinary translation of the warm, intimate atmosphere in the library, a space to shelter from the gathering dusk.

I made small talk with the students, asking them about their activities on campus, about their research, about their homes, feeling a little uninteresting, myself. The names of the awardees were read, and I settled into my chair to listen to the speaker, the author of the book that was given to all of the awardees as their prize. And the atmosphere shifted.

He talked about Mozart, about grace and beauty, about the way in which Mozart manipulated music as its own language to communicate something more ethereal, about tension and letting go. As he played passages from some of the pieces I've known my whole life, I watched him shape sound in the air with his hands, leaning forward in my chair, my own fingers itching to play, finding myself nodding, Yes, of course; that's exactly how it's done. Just as it would be in poetry.

I don't know how many of the students felt as I felt that night, in the glow of the library, with soup and Mozart and mango dessert, suspended in time and space; I couldn't help but notice how differently intimate the intellectual community is from my own former roots, and I wonder what I would have turned out like, if I'd been a student here. The warm pool of light in my office is its metonym; I gravitate towards it, away from the darkness. I understand better what they mean when they talk about the "Bubble," now, I think: despite the tug of my children at home, I find myself wanting to stay here late into the night, too, holed up with these people, learning everything, drinking it in.

It is, in a word, seductive.

It's not all warm orange soup, of course. There are difficult conversations with struggling students, mis- and missed communications, challenges of technology. But I'm growing roots here. And I hope my children don't mind my being waylaid by the Siren's song too much.

Roasted Sweet Potato and Winter Squash Soup with Pears and Sage

3 lbs of sweet potatoes, washed, peeled and chopped
2 c. winter squash (butternut or other), cut into 1" cubes
1 T. butter
1 T. olive oil
6 fresh sage leaves, finely chopped
1/2 t. cardamom
1/2 t. garam masala
1 large onion, diced
6 pears, washed, cored, peeled and chopped
8 c. vegetable broth
1 c. white wine
2 T. real maple syrup
Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 400; toss the squash and potatoes in just a little bit of olive oil and roast until beginning to caramelize, about 40 minutes.

Melt butter and olive oil over medium heat in a large stockpot. Add the sage leaves and fry them gently just until they become fragrant. Add the cardamom and garam masala, and stir for a minute or two. Add onion, potatoes, squash, and pears. Sauté for about 8-10 minutes or until the potatoes start to soften a bit. Add the broth, cover, and simmer for about 20 minutes over low heat. Remove the lid, stir, and add the wine. Using a hand immersion blender, blend the soup until creamy. Taste to adjust seasonings. Serve sprinkled with some toasted nuts, or a sage leaf. And with more wine. And maybe a baguette.

On (Not) Knowing, and Kale Sweet Potato Soup

I don't like not knowing the answers.

I'm sure it comes with the territory of a relatively easy school career, of becoming accustomed to praise for getting it right.  Not knowing feels like dangerous ground.  In a strange way, it's probably one of the motivations that drove me back to graduate school, not once, but twice: this insatiable need to know, and to be right.

Except that sometimes, not-knowing is actually useful.

A few weeks ago, I heard an interview on NPR with Leah Hager Cohen, whose recently-published book I Don't Know: In Praise of Admitting Ignorance (Except When You Shouldn't) is not just an encouragement to confess ignorance, but to embrace uncertainty and honor doubt as a way to increase the possibilities for true communication.  In other words, not-knowing helps us to know in a more authentic way.

I was a little blown away.

I shouldn't have been, of course; I devoted seven years of my career before my current job to creating collaborative research placements for undergraduates, because I was so convinced of the value of not-knowing.  It wasn't just that I wanted to show them that knowledge comes from somewhere, and to show them that the process of arriving at knowledge was just as--if not more than--the knowledge itself, but to help them realize that there were instances in which even the people whom they most feared and respected, their professors, didn't know, either; it's a concept that dates back in writing at least to Socrates.  I wanted to destabilize the traditional balance of power in the classroom, in the typical Freirean way making authentic learning possible by helping students to feel like co-creators.  I used to talk with groups of academically at-risk students about imagining faculty members as learners, too, and feeling comfortable approaching them as fellow learners, as people who regularly screwed up, made mistakes, and were just plain clueless.  That usually elicited guffaws from the audience, but I know for a fact that it made a difference, because many of them started going to office hours. 

Cohen pointed out that this year's graduating high school class has, essentially, grown up under the No Child Left Behind Act; we are looking at an entire generation of students for whom there is a very real premium on knowing the right answer.  Not knowing has always had real consequences, not just for them, but for teachers, for school budgets, and therefore, for all of their peers.  The stakes around knowing are pretty high, and not knowing is ... well ... practically a crime.

I think about this where I work, which is a place full of students who have known things all of their lives.  They are excellent at knowing.  One of my responsibilities involves helping students to figure out if they need a tutor, and then finding one.  I haven't had a tutor myself, but I do know how hard it is to come from a place of power, in which you know everything, and suddenly, the street signs are written in Thai.  (True story, by the way.  One of the most humbling learning experiences I've ever had was in Thailand, where I realized what it must be like to be illiterate, and have to rely on people around you--many of whom you were told were  untrustworthy at best--to help you do the most basic things.)

Of course, the attitude is pervasive far beyond school.  People reassure us that there's no such thing as a stupid question, but I bet you've asked one yourself, haven't you?  You know what this is like: the sinking feeling that everyone knows the answer but you, and when you finally do muster up the courage to ask, you can see the muffled snickers and wide eyes that reveal the way people really feel about your question.  They will talk about you when you leave the room.  This "missed" communication happens even in polite conversation, when people talk about other people we really ought to know, or make cultural references that fly right over our heads.  We know how immersion--being placed into an environment where it's nearly impossible to ask ALL of the questions you might need answered--is a powerful learning tool.  So when is it appropriate to confess to ignorance?

I started a new job for the second time in two months, and while I feel confident that I have transferable skills, there's a lot I'm learning all over again.  I am doggedly self-sufficient, but the learning curve is steep, and institutional knowledge runs deep.  I want to look smart.  Don't we all?  But I will make mistakes (in fact, I already did make a mistake), when I think I know something, and it turns out I don't know after all.  I will have to ask questions.  If I'm lucky, some of the questions will surprise everyone, and will shake their assumptions, or identify gaps in knowledge.   Maybe they won't know, either.  And in the end, maybe we can try to re-value inquiry, not just as a theoretical academic value (because YES of COURSE we value inquiry!) but as a way of being in the world.

Sweet Potato Soup with Kale and Freekeh
Adapted from here.

If we never confessed to not-knowing, we'd also probably be a lot less likely to try new things.  Like freekeh, for example.  Which goes surprisingly well with red curry.  (Sing along with me: "super freak, super freak, it's super freekeh ...")

2 T. extra-virgin olive oil
1 large yellow onion, chopped
2 t. minced garlic
2 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and diced
3 T. red Thai curry paste
3/4 c. uncooked freekeh
7 1/2 c. vegetable broth
1 15 oz can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
3 c. kale, finely chopped
fresh ground pepper

Heat the oil in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add the onions and potato, and saute, stirring occasionally until the onion is translucent, about 5 minutes. Add garlic and saute another minute or two until that starts to soften, too.

Add the curry paste and mix to coat, stirring continuously until the curry is fragrant, about 2 minutes.

Stir in the freekeh and broth, and bring the soup to a boil.  Cover, reduce heat, and cook 20 minutes.

Add the chickpeas and kale; cover again and cook until the kale is just wilted, between 5-10 minutes, depending on how small you've made chopped the kale.

Serve in a beautiful bowl, knowing that everyone at your table will devour it.

On (Not) Reading Carefully, and Cauliflower Soup

Long ago, I learned to tune out the talk about the demise of the humanities.  As a former English major, I couldn't help but feel like that rhetoric was a personal attack on the thing I loved best.  And while I could take the jokes from Prairie Home Companion, it was too hard to watch departments close because someone deemed them irrelevant.

And that was pretty much how it went, until the other day, when I found myself reading Jjiraffe's post about internet hoaxes, which also cited Mel's post over at BlogHer about the behavior of readers in the face of suspicious information, or moving on after a hoax has gone viral.  Both posts pose important questions about our responsibilities as writers, and even about our responsibility to behave well as readers in an online community.  But they got me thinking about what happens even before then, how we learn to read, and about the act of reading itself, about what we expect from the printed word now, whether on paper or on the screen.

Though I had a solid high school education, it wasn't until I got to college that I was systematically asked to be skeptical about information.  As far as I knew, even in high school, history was still history: sure, there were some people who were left out, but that didn't make the details any less true.  In college, though, I started to appreciate, more deeply, exactly what it meant to read critically.  I remember feeling a little overwhelmed by the responsibility.

Now, well-indoctrinated in the process of peer review, I'm a more expert judge of information quality.  While I google as well as the next person, and I don't always use google Scholar, I tend to have excellent querying techniques that get me reliable results.  I know how to quickly identify the relevant information, and separate the wheat from the chaff.

I remember the first time I had to tell a student that not everything he found on the internet was true.  He blinked, eyes wide, deer in the headlights, in disbelief.  Really?  He had to sift through this information?  And go on ... gut feeling?

Not really, I assured him then; there are standards.  But in the blogging world, the standards are pretty unstandard.

And blogs are just about ground zero for the humanities now.  Because the humanities are the study of our humanity in the making, aren't they?  How we decide to tell the stories of ourselves, our communities, our histories?  How do we process and document the human experience?  If you think about sheer numbers, it seems to me that there are more people creating these kinds of texts about lived human experience--publicly, at any rate--now than at any moment in history.

Which is exactly why we need the humanities in the first place.

The humanities teach us to read.  They teach us to read first in the literal way: the words on the page become stories, and the stories become books, and the books become chapter books, and then they become academic treatises.  But they also teach us to read other people.  To ask questions about narrators, and writing intention.  To put ourselves in the shoes of other characters, and also to put ourselves in the shoes of authors and figure out what that means.  To know that memoir and history are lenses through which we come up with our truths.  To play with the tools of language, and recognize someone else at play.  To be analytical and critical, but also to develop deep empathy and understanding.

Yes, it's reprehensible that people--bloggers--prey upon less careful readers.  Yes, it's terrible that people are exploited so that someone else can make a quick buck, or a quick reputation (which, these days, might as well be a buck anyway).  Yes, we ought to know when to click away.  But in order to make that click, we--ALL of us--engineers, historians, doctors, teachers, lawyers, economists, parents, consumers--need to know how to be careful readers.  Of everything, and everyone.  Because you can't do much science--or anything else, for that matter--if you can't really read.  And if that's not worth my education tax dollars, I don't know what is.

Cauliflower Soup
Adapted slightly from Super Natural Every Day
Even cookbooks need reading.  Like anything else, the thoughtful, critical reading of a recipe, and its re-interpretation in your own kitchen, makes it partly yours, too.  Thanks, Heidi, for an eminently readable text.

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 large yellow onion, diced
1/2 t. salt
1 large potato, peeled and diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 1/2 cups vegetable broth
14 ounces cauliflower, cut into small florets
1/4 c. white cheddar cheese, preferably sharp, grated
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1/4 c. almonds, chopped and toasted

Heat the oil in a large soup pot over medium-high heat. Stir in the onion and salt. Saute until the onions soften and are starting to turn translucent, about 4 minutes.

Stir in the potato, cover, and cook for about another 4 minutes, or until potato begins to soften. Stir in the garlic, and after about 30 seconds or when it becomes fragrant, add in the broth. Bring to a boil, while allowing the potatoes to become tender, a few more minutes.

Once they are tender, add the cauliflower and continue to simmer, covered, for an additional 4 or 5 minutes, until the cauliflower is tender. Remove the pot from heat and puree the soup. If you have one of those fancy immersion blenders, this would be the time to use it. Return the soup to the saucepan and stir in about half the cheese, and the two teaspoons mustard. Add more broth if you want to thin the soup at all. Serve, sprinkling each bowl with a handful of toasted almonds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Re-boiled.

If you're a parent, you've heard the admonition that you're going to find yourself saying the same things to your children that your parents said to you.  It's hard not to.  After all, we are good students, and those lessons happen at an impressionable age.  And we see ourselves in our children, too, don't we?  Sometimes the resemblance is obvious, and sometimes less so; sometimes it's physical, and sometimes something much deeper than facial features.  Sometimes it's flattering, and there is great joy in those moments.  Sometimes, it's anything but.

Especially when we see the parts of ourselves that we struggle with (or against) emerge in our children.


My son is sort of a perfectionist.  He's been that way as long as I can remember, lining up his vehicles in lines that had to go just so, having a complete meltdown when he doesn't do something exactly right the first time.  His teacher, in a recent conference, said that she noticed this quick frustration (to the point of tears) and it worried her, to see it in a child so young.  We do the best we can to prevent this from becoming a life-long obstacle.  Being encouraging.  Telling him that practice is important.  Assuring him that the mistakes are part of the learning process, and that everyone learns at a difference pace.  

But of course, this is my nature, too.  Having things just so.  Doing everything exactly right.  Never disappointing anyone.  Making everyone happy.  Or if I'm pissing people off, doing so with full knowledge and confidence that it's my intention to do so.  And as much as I try to be reassuring, I confess that sometimes I also respond to the things that make me frustrated by expecting him to be perfect.  Why didn't you get those math problems right? You know the answers.  Why can't you bathe yourself faster?  You're a big boy, you don't need me to supervise you every minute.  And so on.  Just, of course, like my father.

I also see him react out of anger, snapping with a quick temper, rage flaring up and going off like fireworks.  Which is also the way I've reacted to bottled-up anger over the years.  Quiet, quiet, quiet, and then BANG.

It's a scary negotiation, those moments.  Because I step back and see myself with a lens that makes me uncomfortable.

The difference, though, is that I see it, and talk about it, and let him know that I'm not happy with the way I sometimes deal with anger, or disappointment, or frustration.  And we try to talk about how both of us can problem-solve better.  

A few years ago, Brene Brown wrote, in her series about imperfect parenting, about the fact that parenting is a journey that we have to walk with our kids, while also continuing to figure ourselves out.  And in some ways, having kids forces us to figure ourselves out, even if we thought we'd figured out everything already before we started family-building.  (Good for you, by the way, if you have managed to do this.)  We may want to forget about our own flaws, or our own self-work, but we can't focus on our kids without looking a little more deeply at ourselves, too.

The other thing to remember about parenting is that as much as our children do resemble us, they are also, thankfully, their own people, subject to a different set of environmental conditions, and a different co-parent (or even in single-parent homes, different adult role models).  I know that there's hope for my son, because as much as he's a perfectionist, he's also, as my husband might be, perfectly happy with hastily written homework, or half-eaten sandwiches and crumbs on the counter, or pajamas on the floor.  And he's just as apt to walk away from a situation, or let his rage go, as he is to allow it to fester and scream.  Which are good reminders for me, too.

It's sort of like ribollita.  You start with bean soup.  And you cook it forever. And it's really good bean soup.  But then, you stop cooking it, and you throw in some bread, and you cook it all over again, and now it's heartier, and stronger, and more flavorful.  That goes for them, and for us.

I ate a soup like this in a small cafe in Kingston with a friend, at the end of a long weekend training program.  It wasn't quite ribollita, even though it was listed as such on the sandwich board (perfectionist that I am, I wasn't going to point out that they'd left out the beans and the bread).  But it was the sort of thing that had been cooked forever, which is sometimes exactly the kind of soup you want.

What traits did your parents have that you see in yourself?  If you have children, which of your traits, if any, do you see in them?  How has the "reboiling" changed you?

(not exactly) Ribollita

1 T. olive oil
4 stalks of celery, diced  
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 yellow onion, diced
4 sprigs rosemary (2 T. dried)
3 sprigs fresh thyme (2 t. dried)
1 c. white wine
4 yukon gold potatoes, 1/2" cubes
15 oz. can fire roasted tomatoes
15 oz. white beans (optional) 
5 c. vegetable stock 
1 c. water 

1 bunch of kale, stems removed, leaves chopped  

Heat oil in a large stock pot over medium heat.  Add garlic, onions and celery and saute until just fragrant and beginning to become translucent.  Add rosemary and thyme, and stir until fragrant, a minute or two.  Pour in white wine, and reduce heat to medium-low; cook until the vegetables are tender.

Add potatoes and season with fresh ground pepper and sea salt.  Stir to coat.  Add tomatoes, beans (optional), vegetable broth and water and simmer on medium-low heat for 2 1/2 hours (or however long you can stand it), stirring occasionally and adding extra seasoning or water if necessary.

Remove the sprigs of herbs if they haven't disintegrated by now.  Add kale and cook until just tender and wilted, about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.  Enjoy with a crusty white bread and the rest of your bottle of wine.

On the Village: Parsnip Collard Soup

Today we had a delayed opening for my son's school.  One of the mothers from down the street called me to ask if she could drop her son off here, because she had to get to work.  And I reassured her that yes, of course, that was fine, any time she needed to do so ... because I remember those days, those days of complete panic because neither parent could afford to be late for work, which was never closed.  She thanked me profusely, and mentioned to me that she's collecting a bag of clothes for N., hand me downs from her four year old daughter.  We've been trading hand-me-downs; I gave her a bag for herself the other day, things from my closet that I knew would look better on her.  I'm loving this give and take.  It feels like we're realigning the balance of the universe.

In a sane moment while the kids were all playing with Magformers in the living room, where I could see and hear them, I shoveled our walkway and sidewalk, so that no one would slip and damage themselves on their way to the bus stop later.  I ran into our neighbor, who was leaving her house, looking worried, promising me that her boyfriend would get to the shoveling later, that she couldn't do it because she'd pulled some muscles and possibly cracked a rib the other day.  I told her not to worry, that I could easily clear her sidewalk and path to the house when I had a few more minutes, once the boys were on the bus and I had only N. to watch.  She looked doubtful, but I did it anyway.  Because it was the right thing to do.  And now there will be one less property for the kids to slip in on their walk home from the bus.  I suspect that some day, she will take in my garbage cans, or pick up the recycling that the wind blew all over my back yard.

Yesterday I dropped a huge box and two bags of books off at the library.  I've talked before about my love affair with books, and how hard it is for me to part with them, but the truth is that, looking at my bookshelves, I decided I just didn't need them.  Some of them were from my first graduate school career, some were from the early days when I thought I could learn parenting from a book.  Some were novels I knew I'd never read again.  And it was good to give them away.  Someone else could use them.  And I've picked up my share of discards.

I did the same thing with my closet, clearing out two bags of clothes, and even my jewelry box, giving away things that I didn't need to two friends from church.  And told them that I wouldn't be offended if they needed to pass things along, or bring them to the next clothing swap.

The other day I brought a meal to a family; the mother had been sledding with her children and fell, suffering a severe concussion that has left her with some memory loss, vision issues, and headaches.  She wrote a very sweet note to me, thankful for the meal, and hoping that some day she could return the favor.  I wrote back that it was my pleasure, and that the real return would be her getting better.  I think back to all of the meals that people brought me when N. was born, and I know what a gift that was.

I'm not a do-gooder, nor am I looking for congratulations or compliments.  I'm not even a very nice person all of the time.  I yell at my kids.  I say mean things about the neighbor who leaves 20 bags of trash for the garbage truck week after week because he's too cheap to get a dumpster for his remodeling project.  And on the flip side, I've been on the receiving end of generosity plenty of times, too.  But I've been thinking that I really wish the world were more this way, more like a neighborhood where people didn't take more than they needed, where they gave things to neighbors who could use them, where they watched each other's children at a moment's notice not because they had a prearranged co-op (which, don't get me wrong, is great too) but because sometimes it's hard to do everything.  Where we were willing to understand each other, and look out for each other, even if we didn't feel like being nice all of the time.

I like this soup because it's a little bit of everything: smoky, sweet, spicy, smooth, chunky.  Sort of like I wish we were, too.

How have you experienced the give and take of the village?

Parsnip Collard Soup
Adapted from Jan's Sushi Bar

2 T. extra virgin olive oil
2/3 c. onion, diced
1/2 c. celery, diced
1/2 c. red bell pepper, diced
1/2 t. ground coriander
3/4 t. ground cumin
1/2 t. smoked paprika
1 t. chili powder
3/4 lb. parsnips, peeled and cut into large chunks
3 c. water, divided
1 1/2 t. kosher salt
1/2 t. pepper
4 c. collards or kale, coarsely chopped
1 ham hock (optional; if you prefer a vegan soup, add 1 can of beans and an extra 1/2 t. smoked paprika)

Heat the olive oil over medium heat in a medium soup pot. Saute the onions, celery and red bell pepper for about 3 minutes, until the onions begin to become translucent.  Add spices and saute for a minute or two, until fragrant.  Add 2 c. of water and the parsnips and ham hock; cover and reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer until the parsnips fall apart when you poke them, about 10 minutes.

Remove the soup from heat and blend in a food processor or with an immersion blender until you've reached the desired consistence.  Add the greens and the remaining water (and beans if you're doing the vegan version) and return the mixture to the pot; cover and simmer until the greens are tender.  Season to taste and serve.

On the Hand-written Letter, and Roasted Cauliflower and Sweet Potato Soup

My husband bought a Kindle not long ago.  He loves it, and reads most of his books that way now.  I, on the other hand, use it only when necessary and expedient.

I'm a book person.  You know -- the kind of person who flips slowly through the paper, drinking in the heady smell of the freshly turned page.  I love the feel and the weight of a book: I appreciate a smooth matte jacket, and I appreciate knowing both how far I've come and how far I have to go, just by eyeballing the location of my bookmark.  But honestly, much as I work diligently not to contribute to massive deforestation, I'm probably just a paper person in general.  At meetings for local civic groups, I find myself printing out e-packets just so I can write in the margins and spread them out all over the table.  The leaves take up space and overlap and rustle in a satisfying way that electronic media simply can't.  I love the three dimensionality of it, the completeness of the sensory experience.  And there's less and less of that in my life these days.

In addition to keeping a paper journal, I also used to write letters.  They were long, lovely, thoughtful affairs, written with the epistolary novel in mind, I think; I even had--and still have--a fountain pen and a wax seal to complete the romantic authenticity.  I had several friends with whom I corresponded in this way, and I've saved many of their letters from those years, imagining some day a relative would find them and be able to mine my past from the perspective of another person.  (I don't know why, but I felt more comfortable about this possibility than I feel about having my email read somewhere in the future.  Why is that, I wonder?)

The other day, after I'd responded to a of hers comment on my blog post, a friend of mine promised a letter.  She is an excellent letter writer (an excellent writer in general, but it is its own genre), and every once in a while, when she feels frustrated by the internet, or when it seems like it's simply not enough, she writes to me.  I usually write back, and sometimes there are three or four letters before we lapse back into electronic communication.

It's been a while since we'd done this, and I when I got her letter, I went to respond, only to discover that I no longer had a single sheet of stationery in my house.  It was depressing.  Good letters are more than words; they are works of art, unique because of the paper you've chosen to write them on, the vulnerability of the author's handwriting.  They're an important genre, a little window onto the soul that I'm not sure is the same in a published blog post.

I carefully tore a few pages out of one of my journals, and while my vegetables roasted for soup, penned a response, which may even have smelled just a little bit like garam masala and cauliflower and sweet potato.  And I determined to go stationery shopping in the not-too-distant future.  Because some art forms are too important to lose.

Did you ever write letters, and do you still do so?  If you received letters, have you saved them over the years?  How would you feel about having your email read some day, and archived in the same way that some writers preserved their letters?  Do you feel like reading someone's handwritten correspondence is the same as reading their email correspondence?

Roasted Sweet Potato and Cauliflower Soup
adapted from Isn't That Sew

3 large sweet potatoes, 1" cubes
1 head cauliflower, cut into small florets
4 large carrots, cut into 1" rounds
2 T. olive oil
2 t. garam masala
1 medium onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
olive oil
4 cups vegetable stock
5 cups water
pepitas

Preheat the oven to 400.  Toss sweet potatoes, cauliflower and carrots in a large bowl with garam masala and olive oil.  Place on a cookie sheet lined with aluminum foil or parchment.

Roast vegetables for 30 minutes or until just beginning to brown checking every ten minutes or so to stir, loosening the vegetables from the bottom of the sheet and avoid burning.  Remove from the oven and set aside to cool.

In a large stock pot, saute onions and olive oil until just translucent, about 3-5 minutes.  Add garlic and saute one minute.  Add broth, water, and roatsed vegetables, and simmer for 15 minutes, or until the vegetables are very tender.  Using an immersion blender, blend the remaining ingredients until smooth.  (Add more water at this point if you like your soup less thick.)

Serve topped with toasted pepitas, or if you prefer, a swirl of heavy cream.

The Crawlspace, and Pumpkin Black Bean Soup

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about what we do with the remnants of our past lives, and about some things my mother had saved from my childhood and deposited at my house just recently, which are now living on the top shelf of my bedroom closet.  It was interesting timing, because just a few weeks later, I found myself faced with the same question, this time from a much different perspective.

Generally, I'm pretty good at purging.  I hate all kinds of clutter.  (Originally I saved clothes from our son to prepare for another child, and more than once, teetering on the edge of madness during those years of pregnancy loss, I almost threw them all in the clothing donation bin, thinking that all hope was lost, that we'd never be able to use them after all.)  Now that I know we're done having children, for the most part, I give away the kids' clothes to other families who have younger children.  I've held on to one or two hand-made sweaters, for nostalgia, but the rest are gone.  The same thing with the baby gear.  Boppies, pillows, baby monitors, store-bought blankets (I can't bring myself to give away the ones that were handmade), even the crib: all of those things have been Freecycled or given to friends.

As N. has gotten older, the toys have started to go away, too ... some of them to other children, some of them to garage sales, some of them in the trash. 

We have a few toys from my husband's childhood: a plastic phone (the kind with the red handle and the dial ... you know, the kind that children will never recognize these days anyway as a phone), and a small music box radio that plays "My Name Is Michael" when you turn the knob.  When I asked him about these things, since N. no longer really wants to play with them, he mentioned that he wanted to save them.  I was surprised, since he's not a hoarder, either, but I figured I'd find storage for them.  And suddenly there were some things I wanted to save, too.  Because I love well-made wooden toys.  And besides, durable toys that won't rot in the basement are good to have around if someone with a smaller child comes to visit.

But that's not why I was saving them, really.  I think I was saving them for my grandchildren.

Of course, it's not that simple, is it.

When I found myself in the basement crawlspace the other day, putting toys in big Rubbermaid tub -- for the future, of course -- it seemed, on the one hand, like the most natural thing to do.  But on the other hand, it was completely awkward and unnerving.  I was pretending not to know that I could not take that future for granted.  I was pretending that my daughter and son would have children of their own, that they would grow up, get married, start families.  My heart knew differently.  My heart knew that it is entirely possible that my daughter, or my son, might have to go through what we went through, or worse.  My heart knew that lives take unpredictable paths.  That terrible things happen, and that, at the other extreme, people also make not-at-all-terrible-but-entirely-sensible decisions.

As I closed the lid on the tub, knowing I would reopen it again to squirrel more things away for this fairy tale future, I decided that it was OK to live "as if."  Because even despite what Buddhists teach about not being attached in this world, I think that it's only human to project ourselves into the future.  It's like the crawlspace of our minds.  We squirrel things away there, just in case.  As long as that projection doesn't consume us or hinder our ability to live mindfully in the present; as long as we have the stability of spirit to adapt when things don't turn out as we had imagined they might, knowing that ultimately nothing belongs to us; as long as cultivating compassion is our most important work -- imagining the future isn't inherently a bad thing.  In fact, it gives us hope.  Which I think is probably one of the best things the human race has going for it.

In the meantime, my daughter continues to consume great quantities of black beans.  Which, if you believe in practitioners of Chinese medicine, is probably as good an omen as any.

Pumpkin Black Bean Soup
adapted from Sunday Morning Banana Pancakes

Practitioners of Eastern medicine, among others, have long associated black beans with fertility.  Pumpkin seeds are also supposed to increase fertility.  And even if you're not trying to have children, they're still just plain good for you.
1 T. olive oil
2 medium red bell peppers, seeded and roughly chopped

1 small onion, diced

3 garlic cloves, minced

2 t. cumin
1 t. salt 

15 oz. can black beans, drained and rinsed

1 1/4 c. pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling)
olive oil

5 c. water

2 T. tomato paste

1 t. garam masala

2 T. raw honey or agave

pepitas for serving

In a medium pot, heat olive oil over medium heat.  Add peppers and onions, and saute until the onions are just beginning to become translucent, about 5 minutes.  Add garlic and saute for an additional 8 minutes or until the onions are beginning to caramelize.

Add cumin and salt, and stir for one minute.  Add black beans, pumpkin, tomato paste and water; bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for 20 minutes.

Stir in garam masala and honey, remove from heat.  Blend in batches until smooth (or use your fabulous immersion blender).  Garnish with pepitas for an added crunch.

Enjoy You: Coconut Curry Soup

I wrote a whole post about sattvic eating and meditation and spring (or winter) cleaning.  In fact, I've written about ten posts over the past week, but I deleted them all because none of them said what I really wanted to say.

So I began again.

The other day my daughter and I had lunch with a former colleague.  It was both good and difficult to see him; good because I always enjoy conversation with him, and he is so full of joi d'vivre when we meet, and difficult because he reminded me yet again of everything I'd left behind when I left my job, reminded me of the things that were said to me that I still have difficulty forgiving.  But N. is good for distraction, and since I'd carefully selected a Mexican restaurant that had black beans and rice on the menu (separate, of course; N. doesn't do miscegenated foods), she enthusiastically finished almost everything on her plate.

We parted ways, I to walk in the cold and wind for a bit longer before putting N. in the car for her nap, he back to work for the afternoon.

There is a bakery in this town that I used to visit occasionally for cookies.  They have fabulous, fabulous cookies.  And since N. had done such a bang-up job of eating lunch, I thought that we'd make that our short walk destination.

Inside the shop, it was cozy, and it smelled of sugar and ginger and nutmeg, as it always does.  We spent a few minutes gazing through the old-fashioned glass at the cookies on the counter, and N. finally decided on a star, with sprinkles.  I settled on a triple ginger (grated fresh, candied, and powdered), telling myself that at least ginger improves digestion.

The young woman behind the counter smiled approvingly at our selections, and made small talk with N. as she packaged the cookies in a small white bag.  Handing the bag over to N., who insisted on carrying it, she told us to enjoy them.

"Enjoy you," replied N.

The young woman grinned.  "Enjoy me," she said, turning the phrase over on her tongue.  "That's the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time.  Enjoy me."  She paused.  "I will.  Thank you."

N. waved, and I carried her and the bag of cookies back to the car, where she enthusiastically dumped them onto her lap as I tried to buckle her car seat.

She fell asleep on the way home with a half-eaten cookie in her hand, forgetting everything, but the phrase stuck with me: "Enjoy you."

Last week I went to my endocrinologist, where I was weighed for the first time in over two years.  Fifteen pounds heavier than I used to be.  I spent days listening to the negative, self-deprecating monologue in my head, which had already been swirling for other reasons.  But as my yoga teacher says, sometimes a little gentleness is what is needed.  Scrubbing something with an abrasive cleanser makes it look shiny, but actually weakens it in the long run.

Enjoy you.

Enjoying you means being gentle.  Taking care of yourself.  Feeding yourself nourishing foods and thoughts.  Getting enough rest so that you can appreciate the marvelous manifestation of being that you are.

So that's what I'm trying to do these days.  It's good advice.

What do you do to enjoy you?

Coconut Curry Soup
This simple, filling soup is full of good things.  Like ginger.  Which is good for digestion.  ;)  Adapted from Cooking Light, September 2009

2 T. oil (preferably coconut)
2 t. minced garlic
1/4 c. red curry paste
1 t. agave nectar or coconut palm sugar
2 (13.5 oz) cans light coconut milk
2 c. vegetable broth
1/4 c. fresh lime juice
3 T. thinly sliced peeled fresh ginger
1 T. soy sauce
1 t. thai fish sauce 
2 c. thinly sliced carrot or cauliflower
1 1/2 c. green bean, 1" pieces
14 oz. firm tofu, drained and cut into 1" cubes
2/3 c. fresh cilantro, chopped
1/4 c. thai basil, chopped 

In a large pot, heat the oil over medium heat (melt if using coconut oil, and be careful because coconut milk has a lower smoke point than other oils) . Add the garlic and sauté 30 seconds or until fragrant.

Add curry paste; sauté 1 minute, stirring constantly. Add agave nectar or coconut palm sugar; cook 1 minute, stirring well.

Add 1 can of the coconut milk, broth, juice, ginger, fish sauce, and soy sauce. Reduce heat to low; cover and simmer gently for 1 hour.   Be careful not to boil hard, because the coconut milk will separate (it will separate some anyway). Add the other can of coconut milk and bring to a simmer.  Add carrot; cook for 6 minutes. Add beans; cook 4 minutes or until vegetables are just tender. Add tofu and basil to pot, and cook 2 minutes. Garnish with cilantro.

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.

Simple Gifts: A Story About Giving, and Celeriac Soup

It's pretty clear from the insane traffic around here (because NJ is Mall Central ... haven't you seen the Kevin Smith movies?) that the holiday shopping season has reached full-on crazy, and though I did not stand in line anywhere for Black Friday (except in a row of people lifting weights at the Y--go me!), I've been thinking about gift-giving.

My husband pokes fun at me for my notoriously poor gift-receiving skills.  And in many ways he's right.  I don't give a second thought to returning something that I don't want, or passing it on to someone who might make more use of it than I would; I don't like waste, and I hate to see something sit in a closet and gather dust.  And maybe that's a character flaw.  But I do appreciate gifts that have meaning, even if they may not be the right size or color, and maybe the reason I hate holiday shoppers so much is that I see gift-giving as an art, not an obligation.

***

It was a Sunday afternoon in the spring of my junior year in college when my parents and brother appeared in the doorway of my bedroom, laden with the usual parcels: a few items of clothing from home, a box of cookies from the Italian bakery, my mail.

I was starting to sort through the mail, making small talk with my family, when my father produced a small wrapped package.  "Here," he said, handing it to me.  "From Disney."


I once read that many Japanese tourists take photos as a matter of politeness; it's expected that you bring the experience back for those people who couldn't come with you.  It's part of the collective nature of Japanese culture.  In my family, when you go somewhere, you bring something back.  Because that's what you do.  It's sort of like the T-shirt so many of my friends had when we were growing up: "Grandma and Grandpa went to (name exotic place) and all I got was this lousy T-shirt."  And I've gotten some strange stuff over the years.  Bookmarks.  Potholders.  Maracas.  On the one hand, it's nice that the buyer is thinking about me; on the other hand, I feel like I'm on a list in the souvenir shop: J-check-maracas.  B-check-keychain ... you get the idea.

I knew that my family was going to Guatemala without me to visit my ailing uncle, but they hadn't even mentioned to me that they'd be going to Disney.  I found myself feeling strangely hurt about being excluded, even though I'd just taken a trip, myself, to California, to visit some graduate schools, and though I was "too old" to care about a trip to Disney.   But taking the package in my hands, I also felt excited: what could he have brought for me?

Gingerly, I lifted the folds of tissue paper.  And nearly dropped the object when it was unwrapped in its entirety.

It was a scarlet unicorn head, a four inch tall wooden figure with a wild, frightening look in its eye.  I held it, looking at it, unable to speak.  From Disney?  Why?  Why had he gotten this thing for me?  What did it mean?

"You like unicorns," he said, almost triumphantly.

I think I nodded, feeling terribly immature, biting back the tears, holding in my hand what felt, at the time, like proof that my father never knew me, would never know me, and didn't care to get to know me.  Yes, I thought; I liked unicorns ten years ago back in the fourth grade, when my favorite color was also purple.  Maybe he thought he was giving the perfect gift.  After all, he didn't have to bring me back anything.  But at that moment, to an adolescent who desperately wanted her father to get her, it felt all wrong.

After what seemed like an eternity, I managed to set the offending item down on my desk.  I swallowed hard.  "Thank you," I said.

Long after we returned from dinner, and my parents and brother had returned home, I found myself at my desk, face to face with the blood-red unicorn head.  I turned it over; fingering the small gold "Made In China" sticker, and, selfish as it sounds, felt alone in the vast universe.

***

Twenty years later, the unicorn head is long gone.  Or maybe it's somewhere in the recesses of my mother's closets, and I'll find it when I inevitably have to clean out her house some day.  But the memory of it returns every year when I start to think about finding holiday gifts for the loved ones in my life.  Because each year I'm determined to try to get people the kinds of gifts that say "I know you, I am thankful for you, you matter to me."

***

Two weeks ago a good friend and colleague finalized her move to Boston.  She won't be far away, but it's not close enough for an impromptu cup of coffee any more.  Even though we hadn't gotten together all that much since both of us left our last place of employment, it was comforting to know she was right there.

She came to have lunch with me before she left, and after we'd placed our order, took from her purse a small tissue-paper-wrapped package.  "I wanted to give you something of mine," she said, smiling broadly, handing it carefully to me.  I opened it gingerly, unfolding the paper in my hands, revealing these small Chinese mud men.  I knew immediately: this was us.  The older and the younger friend, a mentor and his student, thinking and reading and working together on a project of great philosophical importance, focused on a similar, if not identical, outcome.  When I asked her to tell me about the piece, she described this relationship, too.  "But colleagues, equals, not a mentor and student," she said.

It was perfect, and I was touched.

It's difficult to give good gifts all the time.  It takes a great deal of forethought, and energy, and care.  And hell knows, there are many times when I get it all wrong, too.  But it's good to remember that the best gifts, like the best meals, are often the most simple ones, not the ones from the mall, or from the mega souvenir shop, but given from the heart.

Have you ever gotten a perfect gift?  Have you ever given one?

Celeriac Soup
This soup is made from a less-than-beautiful root, but it is comforting, warming, and not too rich, like some cream soups tend to be.  Serve with your favorite crusty loaf of bread for a simple dinner on a cold late-autumn night.

2 T. butter
3/4 c. chopped onion (about 4 ounces)
3/4 c. chopped celery (about 4 ounces)
1/2 t. minced garlic
1/2 c. white wine
1 lb. celeriac, peeled and coarsely chopped
1 large potato (1/2 pound), coarsely chopped
1 1/2 c. low-sodium chicken stock
1 1/2 c. milk
1/2 c. evaporated milk
1/4 t. celery seed
1 t. salt, or to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Freshly grated nutmeg, to taste
1 teaspoon lemon juice

In a small stockpot, melt butter.  Saute onion and celery until translucent.  Add garlic and white wine and cook until the wine is reduced by half.  Add the celeriac, potato, stock, celery seed and just enough milk to cover the vegetables simmer over low heat, covered, until the vegetables are tender (check at about 15 minutes).  Add the remainder of the milk and bring almost to a simmer.  Remove from heat.  In a blender or food processor, puree the soup until very smooth. Strain back into the stockpot, heat to a simmer and season with salt, pepper, nutmeg and lemon juice. Add additional milk, if necessary, to achieve desired consistency.