tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55449134580284159172024-03-15T21:09:22.844-04:00A Half Baked Lifefood for the palate. food for thought.Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.comBlogger606125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-81586149057121459552024-01-20T17:20:00.007-05:002024-01-23T11:33:04.932-05:00in her hands<br />Every few weeks, I drive 45 minutes into Pennsylvania to see a massage therapist. I've never really liked massages, and I would never have said that I believe in energywork, but of all of the doctors and therapists I see (dry eye opthalmologist, retinal specialist, GP, endocrinologist, social worker, psychiatrist, gynecologial surgeon, physiatrist, oral surgeon, the list goes on and on), she is the most gifted healer.<div><br /></div><div>Her office is a small room in a brick building in the middle of nowhere, with a table, and low lights, relaxing music and a few plants, and a tree of life sculpture hanging on the wall. I arrive, and she lets me in, asks me how I'm doing.</div><div><br /></div><div>She knows it has been difficult. These days I also have pain. So today, when I arrive I tell her about this, show her where it hurts.</div><div><br /></div><div>I only ever want her to work on my upper body. This is where I hold everything: the accident, the pain, the frustration, the dread, the hopelessness. It is in my heart, my head, my back, my lungs, my shoulders, my hands.</div><div><br /></div><div>She begins by touching my feet, my legs, and my back ever so lightly, grounding me under the warm sheet, sensing the tightness, mapping me. As she works her way up my back, she begins to stretch the muscles that have seized into balls, holding gently with her fingertips when she feels the knots, encouraging them patiently to dissolve. She is not in a hurry. She is listening to my body. Sometimes I can let my mind drift. Sometimes I'm preoccupied. Sometimes the worry and fear and deep sadness creep in, even there on the warm table.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, I was trying to let go. I was having mixed success, all through my back and shoulders, until she worked her way down my arms and reached my hands. In that moment, it took my breath away and touched a place somewhere deep within me to be present to this connection: one woman acknowledging everything that another woman was holding, holding these things for her just for a little while, offering healing to hands that feel full of burden. It's not uncommon for me to weep as I'm driving home from her office (which I always weirdly appreciate because sometimes my eyes are so dry I can't make tears), but today, lying there on the table, my eyes closed, so deeply grateful for her releasing me from the holding for just a minute, I felt the tears come. As she put my hands back under the sheet, I felt connected, knit together, but also almost as if my body were invisible, like I was just light. For some who feels like her body is betraying her, that feeling was a gift.</div><div><br /></div><div>Part of the reason I sought out this particular therapist in the first place, driving 45 minutes for something that lots of people promise locally, was because she uses techniques called myofascial release and craniosacral therapy. It's another thing I'd normally think is a crock of horseshit, but I experienced it once two years ago after the accident and while it didn't cure anything, it was the most relaxing 30 minutes I'd ever spent anywhere. CST practitioners study for years before they're certified, but the fundamental belief is that the body heals itself, and that the practitioner is there to hold space for that healing. In CST, the practitioner holds pressure points in the head, creating still points in order to facilitate the flow of energy.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI10zBqx3FjPSELWEIAVjcnuw1qLVttzsXPcSHyJqAnyBd3DLY1p8Y2OTZ5dmn_OJ9bo0yExh-hwZDBDEAzwulYkdf0cwUTvkpGJ8R7cpMvH4YAseS8qTDJhxkfMXsgOJwwVdKSeDWnW0IxfSy2hCBh0T_SbILQ8T9kLY1tKo7rz36In1d_xOAfWwWb0D3/s612/light.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="612" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI10zBqx3FjPSELWEIAVjcnuw1qLVttzsXPcSHyJqAnyBd3DLY1p8Y2OTZ5dmn_OJ9bo0yExh-hwZDBDEAzwulYkdf0cwUTvkpGJ8R7cpMvH4YAseS8qTDJhxkfMXsgOJwwVdKSeDWnW0IxfSy2hCBh0T_SbILQ8T9kLY1tKo7rz36In1d_xOAfWwWb0D3/s320/light.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Today, as she cradled my head in her hands, my mind stopped all of its chatter, and settled. As she held me, slowly shifting positions, the words that were left in my conscious thoughts were "love" and "healing." I was overcome with what I can only describe as gratitude.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've never been good at making female friends (or any friends, for that matter), but I've been so grateful for those moments in the past few years when the nurturers among my friends (who happen to be women) have done this for me, in their own ways. I'm sure it says something about my relationship with my mother, or what I wanted from her and maybe didn't get, but nonetheless, I feel so deeply fortunate to have been held by them.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you're one of these people, or if you do this for someone, I was thinking about you today, as I lay there, broken open and feeling supported in her hands. Thank you for being the one doing the holding.</div>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-78739502629824282982023-09-07T13:32:00.024-04:002023-09-15T21:28:46.429-04:00on being seen<p>It's been a tough few months. OK, a tough few years. But for now, a tough few weeks.</p><p>I've been feeling the most sick I have felt since this all started and there are no answers yet, even though I have some people on my "health team" who I have to keep remembering do care and are trying to help. They're now thinking maybe it's Sjogren's, so I'm slowly getting tested for that (so far it's a bunch of negatives). School started, and I have to muster all of my happy energy to welcome new and returning students. My husband is traveling for work a lot this month. We lost my mom in February and his mom just a few weeks ago, also to cancer, so there's the not-knowing how to support someone when your relationship is already not as good as it could be, when you coexist in the same house but don't know how to do marriage any more. Sometimes I'm not sure what I can tell whom, whether work friends are life friends or just work friends or somewhere in between. My older kid is a senior in high school this year, and today was the first day of school, I'm starting to grieve what I know will be a hard transition. It's a lot for anyone, and as my therapist pointed out, when you're depressed, you don't really cope very well.</p><p>And then there was this morning.</p><p>A few months ago, the gas station on the corner of Cherry Valley and Route 206 was bought by a lovely young guy whose name is Sunny. He's from Pakistan. I only share that because it's important to him.</p><p>The first time I met him, he was so excited to introduce himself, to welcome me to his business. It was the most awesome gas pump visit ever. And so the next time, I greeted him by name. It made him smile, and it made ME smile, and now he calls me "my dean." When I drive up, he says "hello, beautiful!" We always have actual conversations: about people, about families, about religion, about mental health (his brother is a therapist), about life. He says he loves coming to work because he loves all of the people he meets, despite the insane hours on his feet. I met his mom and sister in Pakistan on a Facetime when I happened to be there one morning while he was on a call. I told them he was famous. He's met my daughter, and lectured her on the importance of mothers in your life. He introduced me to his wife, who is finishing her degree in social work; she's interested in end of life care, and we talked about the real need for this role in eldercare. He offers me coffee, and I always politely decline, because I've had my one cup, and then he offers me water. It's an unlikely and probably not very deep but heart-warming relationship, and I always drive away smiling.</p><p>Today was a particularly tough morning. I've been especially depressed and hopeless the past few days. My vision has been so bad that I thought I was going blind yesterday. I woke up feeling like crap, with a headache and feeling like I was going to be sick, was trying to decide whether to go get my blood drawn to check my sodium (because that's the only way you can check it and those are symptoms of hyponatremia to which I'm now prone thanks to my medication for diabetes insipidus), and noticed I needed to get gas. So I went to Sunny's.</p><p>I didn't see him when I drove up to the gas station. He recently hired someone else, so I thought maybe I'd end up with the new employee pumping my gas. But just as I was settling into that possibility, there he came, running up to my car from somewhere I hadn't seen.</p><p>"Hello, beautiful," he said, sticking his arm and head into my open window. He thrust a bottle of water past the passenger side to me. "I saw your car drive up and I grabbed some water for you."</p><p>As he walked away to start the pump, I clutched the Poland Spring to my chest and started to cry. (Which is always a relief because sometimes my eyes are so dry they don't even make tears.) And of course I was still crying when he came back to start his conversation.</p><p>"What's wrong?" he asked, genuinely concerned. I shook my head, still clutching the bottle to my chest. "What's wrong? Tell me, friend," he urged.</p><p>"I've been sick for a long time, Sunny," I managed to say. "It's OK. I just really needed this kindness this morning."</p><p>"Tell me," he said again, gently, holding out his hand over the passenger seat. I grabbed it with both of my hands, held it.</p><p>"It's OK," I said. "I have a therapist."<br /></p><p>"Friends are more powerful than therapists," he said. "I get off work at 11. You come."<br /></p><p>"I can't," I told him. "I have to pick up my kids after work."</p><p>"I will be waiting," he said. "You come." And he ran to take care of the next customer.</p><p>~~~~~</p><p>That would be a good end to the story. But there's more that matters, I think. </p><p>So I went to get my blood drawn, and on my way out, I got a text from one of my colleagues, with whom I'd spent two hours in close contact last night at a college sponsored event that I have to co-host. After feeling not great last night, he tested positive for COVID this morning.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWDHlbsH8ijDpIYm8ABuHCFMf0IBT48pIIZtMC6ElswzJj_7p8KdDwoBGoeuJ8LU1bUiLug-yW8izRSZyzEhlNaOj4XrDx_o6CwldSov9sPnM2kH-QrkBNw70ao4VrP7HogGaX6aVLWZ4I86hklfWcxDob3H-TnqauQi9tvIMP7Sjj8ZTBeuOMiVnFtLV7/s2016/seen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWDHlbsH8ijDpIYm8ABuHCFMf0IBT48pIIZtMC6ElswzJj_7p8KdDwoBGoeuJ8LU1bUiLug-yW8izRSZyzEhlNaOj4XrDx_o6CwldSov9sPnM2kH-QrkBNw70ao4VrP7HogGaX6aVLWZ4I86hklfWcxDob3H-TnqauQi9tvIMP7Sjj8ZTBeuOMiVnFtLV7/w351-h468/seen.jpg" width="351" /></a></div>I felt so angry again. I'm already sick. I'm already trying to spin many plates alone. I'm running on empty. I can't afford to get COVID right now.<p></p><p>My work guidelines say that if you're exposed, you come in anyway, and wear a mask. You test on day 5. So into work I went, texting everyone I knew I'd see, trying to do damage control from the event last night, trying to plan for the week ahead just in case. I canceled plans to visit my high school English teachers, whom I haven't seen in almost a year. I let my therapist know so she could tell me she wants to be virtual next week.</p><p>I went to my office, closed my door, sat down, and drank my Sunny water.</p><p>A knock came. One of my colleagues.</p><p>Who dropped a brown paper bag on my desk with a single chocolate chip cookie, and a note that said "While it won't remove all of the annoyance, hopefully it came bring a smile."</p><p>So here I am crying again.</p><p></p><p>Because sometimes it is so hard to try to communicate all of your needs when there are so many freaking needs, and you feel like you're completely exhausting because you have so many needs, and when people just SEE you without you needing to say a word, it breaks your heart wide open.</p><br /><p><br /></p>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-41243865562324235252023-04-12T16:20:00.006-04:002023-04-13T13:43:13.029-04:00and then<p>I had titled this blog post a long time ago. I don't know what I was thinking when I did, but it seems to fit ... the continuation of something, but not clear what, and no end, just leaving us all in suspense.</p><p>and then --</p><p>No, I'm actually not OK.</p><p>Two opthalmologists and a neuro-opthalmologist say there's nothing wrong with me, and yet I can't see right. Things are randomly blurry. My eyes hurt. I can't read past the floaters. The ringing in my ears is out of my control. The dripping down my throat is out of control.</p><p>The endocrinologist I was supposed to see two weeks ago in Philly for a second opinion about the pituitary condition potentially triggered by the concussion and causing dehydration called while I was 20 minutes away and had to reschedule to this week. My mammogram last week, which was supposed to be a two part mammo-and-ultrasound (which is how it always happens for me), got completely fucked up so now I have to go back in for second imaging and then an ultrasound on yet ANOTHER day. I saw a THIRD ENT last week, who said he'll treat me like everyone else (he doesn't think it's a CSF leak) and just suggested sinus surgery. My physiatrist, who I thought was the only one who actually gave a shit about my case and was trying to put the pieces together, after I sent her an impassioned plea through my portal to ask who can help, told me in a one line response to "send her an update" when I schedule my sinus surgery. Today, because I am truly fucked, the gastroenterologist I was supposed to see in May (for my first colonoscopy, after my second parent now died of GI tract cancer) called -- they're out on medical leave -- and rescheduled my appointment to July. </p><p>At the end of every appointment, they all say the same thing: "call me if anything changes."</p><p>Except that's why I called them in the first place.</p><p>Because things have changed, and I am not OK.</p><p>Because I am not OK, I called a therapist. She is out of town, but will see me the 17th. I talked with her on the phone, and she sounds kind. If I can make it to then (I can make it to then, right? It's only five days from now) I will pay her to care about me, because no other health care provider does any more. She was concerned enough about what I was saying to her that she referred me to see a psychiatrist ASAP to be "cleared." I called his office. His earliest appointment is the 26th.</p><p>But if "anything changes," I should go to the ER. Which will tell me I'm not an emergency because I'm not having a heart attack. I know, because I've been there before.</p><p>Friends, I am not OK. This is all not OK, because I am definitely not OK.</p><p>and then --</p>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-90332309326531071222023-03-15T13:12:00.021-04:002023-03-20T07:07:42.768-04:00Mostly OK, and Thai Butternut Squash Soup<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's winter here in NJ, the winter that we never had in December, January, or February. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My mother died on February 15th, just four days shy of 20 years after the day my father also died of cancer, and yesterday my brother and I were supposed to inter her ashes, except there was a nor'easter in Mahwah, where the cemetery is, so that was a non-starter. So instead we're going on Friday, when it's only supposed to rain. My mother, who was like my own personal Weather Channel (she'd always call -- no matter what precipitation was falling from the sky or the wind was blowing -- to speculate on the catastrophic conditions she was sure were unfolding wherever we lived) is definitely having the last laugh.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm mostly OK. There are moments when I almost go to call her and realize I can't. We'd only see her once every few months before her diagnosis, and I didn't see her that much more in the months after her diagnosis beyond the times I was driving her to appointments (which were not many, because my brother shouldered the bulk of that burden), but it was hard to not be there as much as I thought I <i>should </i>be there during those last days, and I miss just knowing she's out there. I've gotten some lovely flower arrangements, and lots of cards and kind words from friends and people who knew her and loved her, and I almost feel guilty for not feeling more miserable all the time, just as I felt guilty about not feeling more constantly miserable when my father died. Those cards and flowers make me feel even worse, in a way. I almost want to feel what they expect me to feel. Maybe it's even sadder that I can't right now. Maybe I will feel more miserable later? I know there will be spaces that feel unfilled when we all get together and she’s not there.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It is weird to be an orphan, completely untethered to living parents, but also ... family is complicated, you know? I loved my mother but home was a hard place when I was growing up and I would not say that I had a happy childhood. There were reasons (besides a good fellowship offer) that I left to live on the west coast for grad school, and there were many moments, even as an adult, when I wondered (and I realize how self-centered this sounds) if my mother saw me for me or cared enough to find out. She was a good person (and in fact a <i>lovely </i>person for <i>so </i>many people; she could talk to a lamppost and I know she made others feel good in her chatty way), but she was not a person I ever confided in. She offered no barrier between my father and me. Sometimes I couldn't be sure if she ever heard me at all when I talked to her ... there were so many times when it felt like she just kept right on talking. It wasn't a kind of relationship that invited confiding.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It feels particularly wrong to think about things this way right now when I feel like I should just be sad and only speak positively about a parent I've lost, but the past is bound up in how I feel about the losing ... it can't <i>not </i>be<i>.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As my brother and I were cleaning out her apartment we found my mother's journals of the year after my father died, which I read voraciously, hoping for something that might help me make sense of my complicated feelings of sad and hurt and everything else, but most of it was about food (things she cooked and things she ate at restaurants and things she felt bad about eating and how many weight watchers points they were), and my brother coming to do maintenance on her house, and her annoyances at “lazy” kids in her classes, and news of her teacher friends from school, and her activities at church, where she was very involved.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So sometimes I wallow in whatever it is I'm trying to sort out. Other times I'm back to making appointments to try to sort out my own health, now with the additional risk factor to report of a second parent dying from the same general kind of cancer. The latest addition to the constellation of my crazy postconcussive symptoms is pain behind my eye and what I can only describe as dimming vision, which is <i>not </i>a retinal tear (I've been assured of this by not one but <i>three </i>ophthalmologists) but could be optic neuritis, caused (?) by the past-nasal drip I've had for two and a half years but since my ENT — my second — isn't willing to do anything about the drip (which is caused by ... who knows? a nerve that was injured in the concussion? septum that was deviated when I hit my head and face?) because it's not bad enough (despite the fact that my ear is often clogged and painful and I’m often off balance because I am probably experiencing chronic infections). And since ophthalmologists don't look at optic nerves (you apparently have to go to a neuro-ophthalmologist for that) I get to wait until April 18 which is the first appointment I could get in Philadelphia, the only place close to me where one can see a neuro-ophthalmologist. By which point I could be blind and it honestly feels no one gives a shit. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I literally sound like a crazy hypochondriac even when I listen to myself.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I also finally got up the courage to see my ob-gyn, which I'd been putting off for two years because my last appointment felt so completely dismissive, only to be told that my excessive menstrual bleeding all. the. freaking. time. these days (really ... I had three days of <i>not </i>bleeding since early February) is "likely just perimenopause." Which feels not reassuring at all to someone who has just had a second parent die of cancer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On second thought I guess I'm not really as mostly OK as I say I am. I'm a hot freaking mess.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><b>Thai Butternut Squash Soup</b><br /><i>(made a while ago and adapted from the NY Times, and probably what I should be making for myself tonight, both because it's acting like winter and because I could use something warm and comforting. Except I am tired of cooking, too.)</i><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBqGcem89bgeiQBPgBwvyIVjEspqxBCcTxeYHAXhCeZsi7fD2w6uA-aqVKmO2dmsfFsxL9e_bx6L1H7YrCfFoKwRCuHp9EJSV8LP9sASSZXuLizdqP8pLsNEZR10m8JC5UyVCKlf-VCH-deCsmglvojzFX0LrV65L8oAkPlyKRvo41h71W4q0EbNrLhQ" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBqGcem89bgeiQBPgBwvyIVjEspqxBCcTxeYHAXhCeZsi7fD2w6uA-aqVKmO2dmsfFsxL9e_bx6L1H7YrCfFoKwRCuHp9EJSV8LP9sASSZXuLizdqP8pLsNEZR10m8JC5UyVCKlf-VCH-deCsmglvojzFX0LrV65L8oAkPlyKRvo41h71W4q0EbNrLhQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div>4 T. coconut oil or neutral-tasting oil<br />3 medium shallots, diced<br />1 (2") piece of fresh ginger, peeled, thinly sliced<br />1 lemongrass stalk, cut into 3-inch pieces<br />Kosher salt<br />2 medium butternut squashes (about 4 lbs.), peeled, seeded and cut into about 3/4-inch cubes<br />2 (13.5 oz.) cans coconut milk<br />4 T. Thai green curry paste, or to taste<br />3 T. fish sauce (or soy sauce for vegetarians)<br />3 to 4 c. water or chicken stock<p></p><p>FOR THE GARNISH:</p><p>¾ c. raw peanuts<br />¾ c. unsweetened raw coconut flakes<br />2 T. fish sauce (or soy sauce for vegetarians)<br />8 small dried red chiles, thinly sliced (optional)<br />1 T. neutral-tasting or melted coconut oil<br />1 T. minced lemongrass<br />1 t. sugar<br />10 lime leaves, thinly sliced (optional)<br />Handful of Thai or Italian basil leaves, or cilantro<br />2 to 3 limes, quartered</p><div><div>Heat oven to 300 degrees. Melt oil in a large Dutch oven or soup pot over medium-high heat. When oil shimmers, add shallots, ginger, lemongrass and a generous pinch of salt. Reduce heat to low. Cook, stirring occasionally, until shallots are tender and just starting to brown, about 18 minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Add squash, coconut milk, curry paste, 3 T. fish or soy sauce and water/stock. Increase heat to high. When liquid comes to a boil, reduce to a simmer and cook the soup covered until squash is tender, about 25 minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDa5ukv1-xQJUA9YNCxogHkmeckfqqfDkEyOJBZlWlPsHJyYVwGxHFyjZmcXWIkrqlGWbpFTyZ0pq5Padkf9R3MfxT5YXanv64XjxYSXTjHIrOy3vPOqCvovoaOk7nyfOjs19Jc026IG4L5_e8PWSlysG7T2n6q1bXMgU-oGiy1OA2QpUO3wvALjTH4g" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDa5ukv1-xQJUA9YNCxogHkmeckfqqfDkEyOJBZlWlPsHJyYVwGxHFyjZmcXWIkrqlGWbpFTyZ0pq5Padkf9R3MfxT5YXanv64XjxYSXTjHIrOy3vPOqCvovoaOk7nyfOjs19Jc026IG4L5_e8PWSlysG7T2n6q1bXMgU-oGiy1OA2QpUO3wvALjTH4g=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div>Make garnish while soup cooks: In a medium mixing bowl, toss together peanuts, coconut flakes, fish or soy sauce, chiles, 1 tablespoon oil, the minced lemongrass, the sugar and the lime leaves, if using.</div><div><br /></div><div>Spread mixture out onto a baking sheet in a single layer. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes, stirring every 3 minutes after the first 10 minutes. Remove from oven when coconut is deep golden brown, and pour mixture immediately into a bowl to prevent overcooking. Stir to combine, and set aside.</div><div><br /></div><div>Remove soup from heat. Remove lemongrass stalks from pot. Use a hand blender to purée soup. Alternatively, transfer soup in batches to a blender or food processor and purée. Taste and adjust for salt and curry paste. Add water or stock to thin soup to the desired consistency.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thinly slice the basil leaves or cilantro and arrange on a small plate or platter, along with lime wedges and peanut mixture. Serve soup hot with garnishes.</div></div>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-18876879279029522422023-02-10T10:09:00.012-05:002023-02-13T13:27:15.851-05:00Pick Me Up: a Story of Losing and Love in Isolation, with Honey Snack Cake<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Trigger warnings: loss, pregnancy loss, cancer, COVID, hospice, etc. etc.</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Back in August, right before school started, my mother was diagnosed with stage 3 esophageal cancer. They caught it early enough, the doctor assured us, and we agreed on a chemo-surgery-chemo sandwich, depending on how things might go. <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My mother, always a cheerful and compliant patient (through back surgery, knee surgeries, bunion surgeries, and more hospital visits than I can count) embarked on the journey with her Rollator, mostly chauffered by my brother (who has been her caretaker these 20 years since my father died), sometimes chauffered by me. The last scan before surgery came back good: no evidence of the mass. She prepared for surgery to remove any last vestiges of the cancer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And then, the week before it was supposed to happen, found herself in back pain again, so weak she couldn't leave her bed. She fell, twice, and was taken to the hospital. They encouraged her to eat, discussed rehab to get her back in shape for surgery. I went to visit on Saturday with my daughter, and she looked like she was returning to baby-hood. It didn't look good, worse than I'd seen her in a while.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Saturday night my daughter had friends sleep over for her birthday. And on Sunday morning, I woke up feeling miserable, and tested positive for COVID.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We called the parents to pick up their kids. My daughter cried, claiming her friends would hate her now, it was such a sad birthday. I began isolation in our bedroom, thinking good lord, now I've exposed not just my daughter and her friends but my own already-immunocompromised mother and the entire freaking hospital to COVID (I was masked of course, but we know that's not 100% perfect).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sunday night my brother called. The cancer had in fact spread, and my mother was dying. It didn't even matter that I'd exposed her to COVID. She would return to her apartment this week for hospice care.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So here I was, stuck in isolation, quite ill with this stupid virus, hacking up a lung, while my brother was stuck moving my mother to hospice alone, coordinating nurses and aides, ordering a hospital bed, doing logistics.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I called my mother every day. Twice a day. It was all I could do. She has never figured out video calling (she is obstinate about technology, despite her compliance in all other ways), so I'd talk briefly with her until she was tired, telling her when she sounded more or less loopy and trying to entertain her with thoughts of things other than death, encouraging her to drink water, to eat so she could stick around long enough for me to see her.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By Wednesday, the day of her move, I felt so helpless and desperate I didn't know what to do with myself. My brother said I should start thinking about when I was going to come up. He said she wasn't doing much to sustain herself. What should I do? I asked him. I'm COVID positive. I'm not just a little symptomatic; I'm actually really, really sick. The urgent care put me on Paxlovid and walking felt challenging. I just wanted to sleep. I wouldn't trust myself to drive down the street right now, even if the other stars aligned. What should I do?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course, it's February. The month my father died, the month of my pregnancy losses. The irony of all of this is not lost on me. I determined that if I could do nothing else, I would get her to eat.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So I did what any other self-respecting human stuck in isolation while their mother is dying in hospice would do: I ordered GrubHub.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tiramisu, I decided, was something she could eat. Soft, sweet but not sickly, loaded with calories. She mooned over an icee she'd had in the hospital; this would be better. I did the best I could with directions to her apartment in the senior living facility, and then realized the driver would never be able to figure out how to get in. I texted him my life story, weeping, telling him he was bringing tiramisu to my mother, dying in hospice, because I couldn't be there, because I was stuck in isolation with COVID. I told him he was not just delivering food, but delivering a blessing. He texted back: "don't worry I will do the best."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As I watched the little GrubHub car approach her place on my phone app, I texted him, asked him if he needed any help getting in. "Nope," he replied cheerfully. "I'm in!"<br /><br />I cried. I thanked him profusely. I gave him the biggest tip he'd probably ever gotten from a single small delivery. He told me I was kind, that it was his job. I told him <i>he </i>was the kind one, that I was so very grateful.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My brother reported she ate half of it, more than she'd eaten of anything else in days.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At this writing, my mother is still alive. I don't know how many more days she will be on this earth. Maybe she is waiting until the 20 year anniversary of my father's death on the 19th to make this shitty month's irony absolutely complete. But I will always be grateful to the GrubHub driver, who helped me to feel a little less helpless in my COVID prison, whose tiramisu was a literal "pick me up" when I am coming to terms with another loss.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOm6-afteUEtP69iOI0cOi2gpzRnMju-0Dw_o1VTSSSkmN1KA4OYro9IucLS1kRvj7MUaCOI7KrTCX_2BMCTYW-sHscygIR_OI57pL38PvKJsgXOydaNSkYGVa7Oo8g5jISK7cLef5BCtzJtt0qm7pDHT6rNs97wC_IJLn2fdYDV6JkRRMg5dk0ke8cg/s4032/745CE20B-2A10-4433-A003-F6F8771D7433.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOm6-afteUEtP69iOI0cOi2gpzRnMju-0Dw_o1VTSSSkmN1KA4OYro9IucLS1kRvj7MUaCOI7KrTCX_2BMCTYW-sHscygIR_OI57pL38PvKJsgXOydaNSkYGVa7Oo8g5jISK7cLef5BCtzJtt0qm7pDHT6rNs97wC_IJLn2fdYDV6JkRRMg5dk0ke8cg/s320/745CE20B-2A10-4433-A003-F6F8771D7433.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">I've always included a recipe in my posts. Maybe it's a little weird to do that now, but this is something alone the lines of what my husband left as breakfast outside my door this morning, which he made last night. Things are going OK down there without me, I guess, regardless of the fact the Universe is completely shitting on me in other ways.</span></i><div><br /><div><b>Honey Snacking Cake</b></div><div><br /></div><div>3/4 c. runny honey</div><div>1/4 cup light brown sugar</div><div>1 large egg</div><div>1/2 c. canola oil</div><div>1/2 c. buttermilk, well shaken</div><div>1 t. vanilla extract</div><div>1/2 t. ground cinnamon</div><div>3/4 t. kosher salt</div><div>1 1/4 c. all-purpose flour</div><div>1 1/2 t. baking powder</div><div>1/4 t. baking soda</div><div>1/2 c. sliced almonds</div><div><br /></div><div>Place a rack in the center of oven. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spray and 8-inch square pan with nonstick cooking spray. Set aside.</div><div><br /></div><div>In a large bowl, whisk honey, brown sugar, egg, oil, buttermilk, vanilla, cinnamon and salt until smooth.</div><div>Add the flour, baking powder and soda and whisk until well combined.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pour the batter into your prepared pan, tapping the pan lightly on the counter to release any air bubbles. Smooth the top with an offset spatula. Sprinkle the almonds on top, if desired.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bake until the cake is puffy and lightly golden, and a tester inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean, about 25-35 minutes. Cool the pan on a wire rack for 15 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature. Will keep well wrapped at room temp for up to three days.</div><div><br /></div><div>Notes (from Yossi's cookbook Snacking Cakes)</div><div>You could double the ingredients, skip the almond sprinkle and bake this in a 15-cup bundt pan, about 40-50 minutes. Let it cool in the pan for 10 minutes and then invert it onto a wire rack to cool completely. You could also use a 9x5x3-inch loaf pan, use only 1/4-cup of the sliced almonds for the topping and bake until a skewer inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean and the loaf is puffed and lightly golden brown, about 35-45 minutes. You could also bake it in a 9-inch round pan until a skewer inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean and the loaf is puffed and lightly golden brown, about 30-40 minutes.</div><p></p></div>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-16796155046540407182022-02-28T20:10:00.009-05:002022-03-01T16:47:53.489-05:00The King Cake Gift, and Coconut Flour Banana Chocolate Chip Bread<p>A few weeks ago, during staff meeting, my colleagues and I were reminiscing about pre-pandemic times in the dining hall, when the staff would put together a Mardi Gras spread like you've never seen: shellfish, po'boys, king cake, beads, you name it. We figured that the likelihood of a Mardi Gras celebration this year is pretty low, given that the dining hall has been short-staffed, supply chains have been unpredictable, and everyone is just plain old weary. I started waxing rhapsodic about king cakes, pining away for one, and one of our colleagues mentioned her friend's recommendation of Haydel's, which she said was the best king cake there was: totally authentic New Orleans.</p><p>I decided that I needed to order a king cake to lift everyone's mood. A <i>real </i>king cake, <i>from </i>New Orleans, from one of the famous king cake bakeries.</p><p>Except I didn't act on my plan until it was waaaaay too late to order in time for Mardi Gras, at least from any of the big bakeries.</p><p>I took to Facebook, to see if I could find someone in the New Orleans area to pick one up and ship it. People had all kinds of good ideas (Goldbelly, etc.), but most of them were dead ends. Except one.</p><p>One of my friends suggested that I get in touch with a friend of hers, a "good guy," she said; "I bet he'd do it." So I messaged him, telling him that he didn't know me from Adam, but would he be willing to pick up and send me a king cake, and I'd venmo him whatever he wanted?</p><p>To my utter surprise, he said yes, sure, he'd do it. And, it turns out, his neighbor owns a <a href="https://www.crcoffeenola.com/">coffee shop</a> (hey, if you live in New Orleans, drop in and say hi from me, OK?) which gets regular king cake deliveries from Nonna Randazzos, one of the other big king cake bakeries.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmpyMAkf02zqCWpGcmKg8ge72x5SC-228vqzvD6NQnb47f9res5jQCbpQ2HWxEOxV6_j0dOOI6l6ISos8-1yf7IX-5LaX__bdn0_lslynfGsnEcuFmPGsazmQ7pgA8Ys3ZbLMkpvZyiJMR6DX1ur5wskgYq1RjGHpT7CSCCqlNfRvWUoxpJWb7hqbFWQ=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmpyMAkf02zqCWpGcmKg8ge72x5SC-228vqzvD6NQnb47f9res5jQCbpQ2HWxEOxV6_j0dOOI6l6ISos8-1yf7IX-5LaX__bdn0_lslynfGsnEcuFmPGsazmQ7pgA8Ys3ZbLMkpvZyiJMR6DX1ur5wskgYq1RjGHpT7CSCCqlNfRvWUoxpJWb7hqbFWQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div>When he told his neighbor about my crazy scheme, he <i>gave </i>him a king cake to send to me. He told me not to worry about the cake, and just sent me the receipt for shipping.<p></p><p>And so four days later, there I was, sitting in our staff meeting, with a fresh king cake from New Orleans.</p><p>And: I found the baby.</p><p>With all of the shit going on in the world right now, with so much pain and suffering and war and violence, that king cake was a glimmer of hope and faith in humanity.</p><p>I didn't take any pictures of it, because it was too tasty, and we gobbled it up. But I'll leave you with coconut flour banana bread, which I made this weekend, and which is also pretty tasty, and because, chocolate.</p><p>Happy Mardi Gras, everyone. Lassaiz les bontemps rouler. The world sure could use some.</p><p>Coda: the dining hall did Mardi Gras after all. Jamabalaya, king cake and all.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcwVLjUmCNMLDKhf9n-zSj0SAAaLEPn868Canasps7aVkArONyRDLb2BgwH4RKuh9c3mctdfn6q2o5gGaaCfOMq0G_WwSnIAof-ZryY47ad4Hc68Ak4I_8jhLjtAV6xdzlTRI4cTokuvTwP7qL20-1iGsFo7l5DCe8WFDSeCHaAvEXnIjfEjmQdL2vdQ=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcwVLjUmCNMLDKhf9n-zSj0SAAaLEPn868Canasps7aVkArONyRDLb2BgwH4RKuh9c3mctdfn6q2o5gGaaCfOMq0G_WwSnIAof-ZryY47ad4Hc68Ak4I_8jhLjtAV6xdzlTRI4cTokuvTwP7qL20-1iGsFo7l5DCe8WFDSeCHaAvEXnIjfEjmQdL2vdQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJdfFx85ClSy_pc9aT4zjtVRpNgqRNTJ0lpsiTiRGF-DU5ryZZzURFUM8ZXudWBOOgmmxbP3h9n4PBu0rPewHyMJ8gDMRvJ0CL64AVQ2pTKL0ntBNQZfjfBQ9rCZFX-aNp3VaRURnczV0y9aY3bYVDO00yagw6ZPGwF1AUd5qmOwcio3OSXTaJEivcwA=s4032" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJdfFx85ClSy_pc9aT4zjtVRpNgqRNTJ0lpsiTiRGF-DU5ryZZzURFUM8ZXudWBOOgmmxbP3h9n4PBu0rPewHyMJ8gDMRvJ0CL64AVQ2pTKL0ntBNQZfjfBQ9rCZFX-aNp3VaRURnczV0y9aY3bYVDO00yagw6ZPGwF1AUd5qmOwcio3OSXTaJEivcwA=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><b>Coconut Flour Banana Chocolate Chip Bread</b><br /><i>adapted from <a href="https://detoxinista.com/best-ever-coconut-flour-banana-bread/">detoxinista</a><br />For a while I was feeding this to my son for breakfast, telling myself that it was healthy and full of protein. You can tell yourself that, too.</i><p></p><p>3 very ripe bananas<br />3/4 cup coconut flour<br />5 large eggs<br />1/3 cup coconut sugar (light brown sugar works fine too)<br />1 t. ground cinnamon <br />1 t. baking soda <br />1 t. baking powder <br />1/4 t. fine sea salt<br />1 t. vanilla extract<br />A generous handful of mini chocolate chips</p><p>Preheat the oven to 350ºF and line a 9-inch by 5-inch loaf pan with parchment paper.</p><p>In a large bowl, mash the bananas. Add the coconut flour, eggs, coconut sugar, cinnamon, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and vanilla. Whisk the batter together well, breaking up any lumps so a smooth batter is formed.</p><p>Pour the batter into the lined loaf pan and bake until the center of the loaf has risen and started to crack, feeling firm to the touch, about 45 to 55 minutes. Remove the parchment onto a rack and cool completely before slicing and serving.</p><p>Because this loaf is moist, be sure to store it in an airtight container in the fridge. It should last a week or so; you can freeze it, too, for a few weeks.</p>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-74917482457873729452022-02-01T09:05:00.003-05:002022-02-01T16:15:46.976-05:00The Care Ring and Murgh Keema<p></p>My church has a Caring Committee, which I co-chair. Last week, there was a flurry of messages and requests from folks around the very quick decline and (and unfortunate passing) of an involved and committed church member; she was admitted to the hospital for jaundice, came home with stage 4 pancreatic cancer, and was gone in a matter of days. She was a vibrant, creative soul, and it was heartbreaking and hard in so many ways for so many people in the fellowship. And selfishly, it didn't do much to make me feel better about feeling dismissed by doctors.<p></p><p>The Caring Committee is meant to be the Casserole Brigade, a temporary support system of regional Care Rings that activate when people are sick, or when there's been a loss, or when people need a grocery delivery or a ride: when people have an acute material need. Helping people to make decisions to get hospice care and getting them connected to the right resources are, unfortunately, out of our wheelhouse. But that's what people really seemed to want us to do, as her friends surrounded her, were stepping in to give her a sponge bath or other personal care. I spent a good part of the week trying to be clear about what the Care Ring could (e.g. remove snow and ice) and couldn't (e.g. call the social worker) do, reminding her friends that they also needed to tend to their own hearts and that even the most loving of friends can't be expected to do these things. I tried to let people know that there were going to be other opportunities to help, that there was a village, that one person didn't need to go rushing in and feel like no one else was there. I tried to help them understand that we needed to empower her and her husband to make difficult and painful decisions that maybe we didn't agree with. Or even to empower them not to decide.</p><p>Despite all that, while I felt like it wasn't fair to ask her friends to do those things, I also know that I would want a friend group like that if I knew I didn't have much longer to live. And when we learned she was gone, I know they were glad to have done these last things for her.</p><p>The other morning, seeing a photo post from one of those friends of a group of women eating and being silly and just enjoying each others' company, I confess I felt sad and lonely. I <i>don't </i>have a group like this, a group that I hang out with or go on adventures with or even eat a meal with when I'm not with my family. This is probably in part because I work full time and have <i>chosen </i>to prioritize my kids and cooking and things like that when I <i>am </i>home. I don't work hard at group friendship, I've never joined any of the covenant groups in my church (which are effectively social connections with a spiritual common ground). But it's also because I've just never really figured that kind of thing out. And sometimes, on the darker days, I wonder who will be there, besides my husband, if I ever need it. Maybe the Caring Committee will bring a casserole. But also maybe not. Because they didn't when I broke my foot in March 2020, or when I concussed myself in October 2020, or while I have been freaking out about my health over the past month. Then again, COVID. So no one was bringing casseroles anywhere. And ... I didn't ask them to.</p><p>I realized this morning that maybe the 300 pound gorilla sitting on my chest making me contemplate my own mortality is probably not just my own health stuff but also my body remembering February, which is my month of multiple pregnancy losses and the complicated loss of my father, as well as my daughter's birthday. So there's that. But still.</p><p>No Kidding in NZ posted the other day about <a href="https://nokiddinginnz.blogspot.com/2022/01/i-need-bigger-support-network.html">needing a bigger support network</a>. I couldn't agree more; if the pandemic has shown us anything, it's that we desperately need each other. I don't think that those of us who have children can take that care for granted, because we can't rely on our children to be our caretakers, especially if they need care, too. And the larger village is out there if we think about it. Sometimes it's just hard to remember who they are because we're not used to asking for help.</p><p>On that note, I called my endocrinologist on Friday, after some encouragement from Mel. He took my call right away, between patients, without me needing to leave a message, and said that it was clear that <i>something </i>is wrong, and it's just a matter of finding out <i>what</i>. He proceeded to order a ton more blood tests, so I left another few pints at the lab this morning. Which gave me some hope, at least, that maybe someone can help me figure out what the hell is going on with this crazy body of mine. </p><p>And I go to the cardiologist on Wednesday to follow up on my two ER visits, but they called me yesterday morning. Apparently my two week heart monitor has shown ventricular tachycardia (the reason I wake up in the middle of the night feeling like my heart is pounding? is because it actually <i>is</i> pounding, at a lively 163 BPM). So I get to start taking beta blockers. Except that means I can't take the only thing that has made me sleep since my concussion in October 2020. Heart attack or insomnia from hell? I get to choose.</p><p>If I have to go on some kind of special diet, that will <i>really </i>curtail the bringing of casseroles.</p><p>Go give your Care Ring some love today.</p><p><b>Murgh Keema (or Turkey and Peas)</b><br /><i>This is a recipe from Madhur Jaffrey's </i>Quick and Easy Indian Cooking<i> that I make often at home, and that the kids really like. It's the sort of easy to digest meal that I might bring over to a friend who isn't vegetarian. If you're vegan, you could definitely use Impossible if you're into that, or probably even tofu crumbles ... if you do that, let me know how it goes.)</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicBgBskJmJMjuwki5cMjKRrGRzS9kcWpTTTv3C5VL5oCHftBjsyFhFnUWQRXW1E2KNfw6yPFEenohfPJAmQf6YX-cvpk3CffJ2d7AoyTqKkzgfioBoP0361yLNpSRPtAMYjgPKJNSNwZFlu7c5HQfB5B3G7QMiPNCgYKbUGHIySb1uCfOlwPjkjpmGUA=s1984" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1984" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicBgBskJmJMjuwki5cMjKRrGRzS9kcWpTTTv3C5VL5oCHftBjsyFhFnUWQRXW1E2KNfw6yPFEenohfPJAmQf6YX-cvpk3CffJ2d7AoyTqKkzgfioBoP0361yLNpSRPtAMYjgPKJNSNwZFlu7c5HQfB5B3G7QMiPNCgYKbUGHIySb1uCfOlwPjkjpmGUA=s320" width="320" /></a></div>3 T. vegetable oil<br />cinnamon stick<br />4-5 cardamom pods<br />2 bay leaves<br />1 small onion, peeled and chopped<br />3 cloves garlic, peeled and minced<br />2 t. peeled, finely grated ginger<br />1 1/4 lb. ground chicken or turkey<br />8 oz. fresh or frozen peas<br />1/4 t. turmeric<br />1 t. garam masala<br />1/4 t. cayenne pepper (optional; we leave this out for my daughter)<br />1/2 to 3/4 t. salt<br />2 T. fresh lemon juice<br />freshly ground black pepper<p></p><p>Heat the oil in a wide pan over medium high heat. When the oil is hot add the cinnamon, cardamom and bay leaves. Stir for a few seconds.</p><p>Add the onion and fry until the pieces brown at the edges. Put in the garlic and stir for a few seconds. Add the ginger and stir for another few seconds.</p><p>Add the ground meat and fry and stir until all of the lumps are broken up.</p><p>Now add the remaining ingredients. Stir and mix for another minute before removing from the heat. Serve with rice, or quinoa, or naan, or whatever makes sense to warm your belly.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-55059670305850527582022-01-25T09:35:00.009-05:002022-01-25T18:34:03.819-05:00When It's Just Not NormalSomewhere midway through December, I called my GP to ask if I could come in. I was experiencing symptoms of a UTI, something that has happened with me occasionally as long as I can remember. Health care is slow these days, for all of the reasons we read about in the news, and they agreed to see me about a week later, for which I was grateful. I left a sample, and she prescribed me a three day course of antibiotics, just in case.<div><br /></div><div>The culture came back negative, and I went on my way. Only the symptoms didn't go away. So I called again, a week later, asking if I could re-test.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Your culture came back negative," they told me. "Everything looks normal."</div><div><br /></div><div>Except it wasn't. I pushed them. My voice may have wavered. I didn't want to go back in for another doctor visit; I just wanted them to re-do my labs. Finally, reluctantly, they agreed. And got another negative culture, which I didn't hear about until I called them to ask about results another week later. Because no news is good news, right?</div><div><br /></div><div>We went on a short road trip for the holiday break, staying far away from other humans. Symptoms were getting worse. I had to run to the bathroom constantly, was drinking enough water for a small elephant, found myself having to stop and rest frequently because my heart was pounding away at over 100bpm doing the simplest things, like standing in line or walking slowly. One morning, I woke up with a nosebleed. I was scared, and we headed home early.</div><div><br /></div><div>The day after we got home, I called the GP again, left a message. Hours later, they called me back. Head to the hospital, they said. I felt abandoned, afraid of taking an even greater risk. But I did what they said. Six hours later, I was seen in a crowded, COVID-filled ER, where beds lined the hallways. They took my blood, took a sample, ran an EKG. Normal, they said, and gave me a 7 day antibiotic, just in case it was a UTI.</div><div><br /></div><div>I went for a follow up to my GP, described my worsening symptoms. Palpitations. Loss of appetite. Back pain. She was distracted; she asked me questions that I'd just answered, ran me around the office hallway, impatiently trying to recreate the palpitations I was describing. I tried to explain that there were so many symptoms. She told me she had four more patients waiting. "Maybe it will just resolve on its own," she said, shrugging. Because all of my bloodwork came back normal. When I called again, they ordered an ultrasound, just in case, which I couldn't schedule for another week and a half, because the hospital is so busy and short staffed.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Another week went by. I couldn't eat. I called the doctor again, feeling guilty for doing so. She listened, hesitated. "Should I be prescribing you an anxiety med?" said the doctor. "Are you feeling anxious?" "I don't even know any more," I replied. Yes, I am anxious. About my health.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Things got worse. A strange, sour taste in my mouth after eating. My stomach growling and gurgling. Unquenchable thirst. Abdominal pain. A fear of straying too far from the bathroom. Urine that looked like water. Palpitations. I kept telling myself it was all normal, like they said. But I was also googling, and the things I were turning up said kidney failure. I was trying not to let anxiety compound what I was already feeling.</div><div><br /></div><div>The ultrasound got postponed, because of "a change in scheduling" at the hospital. Another week.</div><div><br /></div><div>On Martin Luther King day, I called them again. I left another message, told them I was worried, wanted guidance. I went to a Day of Service with my kids, kept my phone on loud so I could hear the ring. It never came. And towards the end of the morning, I couldn't get enough air. I told my kids as calmly as I could that we were going home a little early. My husband drove me to the ER, for the second time in three weeks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Another ER, another five hours. More bloodwork. A chest x-ray, which is what they do when you complain about shortness of breath. A COVID test, which I knew would come back negative. All normal, they said. Or at least, this doctor said, in a way that felt almost angry, "sometimes the ER can't find the answer."</div><div><br /></div><div>So who does, I wondered to my husband, on the way home? Whose job is it to help me feel better? To figure out what's wrong? Why am I in the position of trying to diagnose myself, when I am not qualified to do so?</div><div><br /></div><div>There in the ER, I began thinking about the people who would care for my kids if I die. Not my husband, but the larger village. The people who would help my son figure out college, teach him to drive. The women who would be there for my daughter's first period. The people she could invite to her dance recitals, who would stand in together to be some semblance of what I would have wanted to be. I began thinking of all of the things I haven't done with my kids yet. The trips I wanted to take with them. The milestones I want to celebrate. I felt overwhelmed with grief. I’ve worried for fifteen years about losing them. Crazy, irrational fear, maybe, but I know that loss is possible. The thought of leaving them before I gave them everything I wanted to give them was too much.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few days after I got home from the ER, the doctor's office called <i>me</i>. Twice. I ignored the first call, feeling despondent. What was the point? I answered the second call. A follow up, they said. I agreed, wondering whether I should try to find another GP, not sure where to go any more.</div><div><br /></div><div>He ordered more tests. More bloodwork. I’m waiting for those results, feeling hopeless. This morning, I finally had the postponed ultrasound. Which came back…normal. I'm supposed to call a nephrologist, just in case, which will likely be another wait, because things are slow right now, and it's hard to get an appointment with a specialist, or with anyone. And still, no one knows what's wrong. My legs swell by nightfall. My heart pounds away whenever I'm not sitting still. My thirst is unquenchable. I strain to empty my full bladder. My taste buds are all messed up. Some days I don't want to eat. I've lost almost fifteen pounds. And I go to work, and cook dinner, and do the laundry, and act like everything is fine, because I am normal.</div><div><br /></div><div>Only I'm scared shitless that something is really, really wrong.</div>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-2538130555587695292021-09-24T16:52:00.002-04:002021-09-27T20:43:25.211-04:00Life's uncertain, eat dessert first.<p>When I was a college student, there was a pub-like place at the edge of campus where my parents would sometimes take me on weekends when they'd visit. They had a vast glass case full of cakes of all sorts, and I loved going there, not for the food, but for the treats; in fact, the menu they'd hand you had the desserts listed first. And their motto, printed on every napkin, was "Life is Uncertain: Eat Dessert First."</p><p>I've been thinking a lot about that recently, for a lot of reasons: a while ago, one of my best friends from college -- with whom I was woefully incommunicative -- effectively dropped dead when his heart stopped beating, and in a stroke of amazing luck, it started again, but now he has a pacemaker. And then there's the whole pandemic, which finally motivated me and my husband to write our wills, because we realized that it's actually possible that both of us might die at the same time.</p><p>And then the other night, my daughter confessed to me that she doesn't like to be alone at night, because she starts, in her words, "remembering that I'm a person. And people die ... but I don't want to die, and I don't want YOU to die."<br /><br />Deep existential thoughts for a ten year old.</p><p>We talked a lot that night, in the dark, lying side by side in her bed, about how it's true, people die, and it would be wrong of me to deny that, or even to promise her that I will live a long life. Because the truth is that none of us know. And thinking about that IS scary. I tried not to tell her how often I worry about this, too: that my miracle child will leave me, that I won’t have had enough time. We talked about how children who are diagnosed with terminal illnesses sometimes have to come to terms with that, too, and how incredibly unfair that feels. We did not talk about pregnancy loss, but we’ve talked about it before, and she knows that this is there too, the specter in the background.</p><p>And then we talked about how people sometimes deal with the uncertainty of life and death, with the help of religion, with the help of community, and with the humanistic approach of just making the most of as many moments as we can, remembering that we are human and celebrating it, rather than worrying about it.</p><p>Basically, eating dessert first.</p><p>This week was my son's fifteenth birthday. He's now taller than I am, and he'll be driving before I know it (he's taking driver's ed in school this year), and he has a lot to say that I don't always agree with. My daughter is starting to show the signs of growing up, too. It's a lot. It all reminds me that I'm a person. So I'm trying to get to the band competitions, and go for walks with them, and listen and play and talk, knowing that I don't have forever, even if I don't always get it right and do my share of yelling and don't always remember that it matters. Because given what we don't know, it's the most any of us can do.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RSO9pxQ3osU/YLfNt6pa1mI/AAAAAAAAGHc/ayiXYSUYJHUuNnr5G6DwGV_GBqO7YUE-ACPcBGAYYCw/s2048/3893C340-5EB5-45A7-9137-D37127974A20.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RSO9pxQ3osU/YLfNt6pa1mI/AAAAAAAAGHc/ayiXYSUYJHUuNnr5G6DwGV_GBqO7YUE-ACPcBGAYYCw/s2048/3893C340-5EB5-45A7-9137-D37127974A20.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><b>Chocolate Cake</b><p></p><p>3/4 c. vegetable oil plus more for greasing pans<br />3/4 c. unsweetened cocoa powder (not Dutch-process) plus more for dusting pans<br />1 c. water<br />3/4 c. well-stirred canned unsweetened coconut milk<br />3 large eggs, warmed in shell in warm water 5 minutes<br />1 1/2 t. vanilla extract<br />2 c. all-purpose flour<br />1 3/4 c. sugar<br />2 t. baking powder<br />1/2 t. baking soda<br />3/4 t. salt</p><p></p><p>Heat oven to 350°F with rack in middle. Oil pans and line bottoms with rounds of parchment, then dust sides only with cocoa powder, knocking out excess.</p><p>Whisk together water, coconut milk, 3/4 cup oil, eggs, and vanilla in a bowl until well blended and smooth.</p><p>Sift together flour, sugar, 3/4 cup cocoa powder, baking powder and soda, and salt into a large bowl. Add wet ingredients to flour mixture and whisk until smooth.</p><p>Divide batter between pans, and bake until a tester comes out clean and layers just begin to pull away from side of pans, 25 to 30 minutes.</p><p>Cool cake layers in pans on a rack 30 minutes, then run a thin knife around edge of pans and invert cakes onto rack. Remove parchment and cool completely.
</p><p>Frost with your favorite frosting ... I like white, because it makes for a nice contrast.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g1Bulyhj3OM/YLfNur3VgeI/AAAAAAAAGHc/qNafNJBCC4kpusCDApwGPm8PmrBdFIccQCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/657C4920-4474-40BE-A577-F28F358113D7.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g1Bulyhj3OM/YLfNur3VgeI/AAAAAAAAGHc/qNafNJBCC4kpusCDApwGPm8PmrBdFIccQCPcBGAYYCw/w300-h400/657C4920-4474-40BE-A577-F28F358113D7.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_NF9RAi4ZpGTcuHdK2gYLm0zfoi5iSUGsGC2jyZBx2XCbi9AwVd5Oap2kYArULLMJgea3XGsVVnLHDqB9nnnu7Ji2kL4Jlig4g8oODlIzMQKzipDRLAJ6yCS9_fy1u36xz7JmejC62Zc/s2048/A25373B5-2BD4-42E0-821B-731AD970E2C9.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_NF9RAi4ZpGTcuHdK2gYLm0zfoi5iSUGsGC2jyZBx2XCbi9AwVd5Oap2kYArULLMJgea3XGsVVnLHDqB9nnnu7Ji2kL4Jlig4g8oODlIzMQKzipDRLAJ6yCS9_fy1u36xz7JmejC62Zc/w300-h400/A25373B5-2BD4-42E0-821B-731AD970E2C9.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><br /><p><br /></p><p></p>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-55563874323976389992021-05-05T15:01:00.005-04:002021-05-05T18:27:39.177-04:00No One Teaches You<p>(still editing this. But publishing it anyway.)</p><p>Last week, we lost a student in my college. I knew the person only a little bit, but the staff, our students, our community has all been devastated by this incalculable, unimaginable loss, which comes during a time of so much other loss, on top of the stress of the end of the term, not to mention a year in which systemic racism has been a constant conversation and many people are re-living traumas on a regular basis. It has just all been so much.</p><p>I debated whether to tell the small part of the student's story that I know, the window into what happened over the span of just a few days, and the awful feeling in my stomach when I knew in my gut what I didn't want to know in my head, but decided that it is not my story to tell. What <i>is </i>my story to tell, though, is that this past week has made me so grateful for the ALI community that I met through his blog.</p><p>There are no words that can offer any comfort to a parent who has lost their only child. This isn't how it's supposed to go; you're supposed to have children (<i>multiple </i>children), and live a long happy life to see them grow up and have their children. That's the story we are told.</p><p>Of course, <i>we </i>know that this story has many different and difficult endings, or at least that it unfolds in many different and difficult and sometimes tragic and devastating ways.</p><p>As a nation, as a culture, we are not very good at dealing with death. We don't like to talk about it because it reminds us that we're not immortal, hat the narrative is flawed, and we're are an optimistic country, so mortality is not something we like spending time considering. If you want proof, just look at how we dealt with the pandemic. If we were really understood and accepted mortality, maybe we would have taken more precautions collectively, looked out for each other.</p><p>On top of that, we're also not very good about talking about mental illness. While it's better than it was when I was a teenager, there are still stigmas around anxiety and depression that make it difficult for people to seek and get the treatment they need. </p><p>So when mortality and mental illness collide, you can imagine how this goes. We come up pretty short. We want to make it go away. We don't even like to say, publicly, that this death was a suicide, because it feels like there is some shame in this act. We question ourselves, wonder what else we could have done, try to find someone or something to blame. All of this makes talking about it very hard.</p><p>Over the years, the ALI community gave me vocabulary and a way to sit with people who are grieving, people whose lives are not following the traditional script. We talk about death and loss in very public ways, we mourn together, we comfort each other, speaking the names of children we have lost. I learned the word "abide" here, even though we are rarely together in person to experience the solace of three dimensional companionship. Oddly enough, I learned here, in a space where we share words, that it's OK to <i>not </i>have any. I learned to sit in silence and presence.</p><p>I never want to have to have the kinds of conversations I've had last week. I don't think I've done it all right, or done enough, because those are impossible things to achieve. But I do know that I have been able to sit (virtually) in a space where I have no words, to abide (at a distance) with people who have experienced an unimaginable loss, and try my very best to simply be present, to bear witness. And I owe that to you.</p>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-41048045417085343742021-05-02T18:23:00.002-04:002021-05-03T13:41:02.628-04:00The Empty Tub and Sri Lankan Dal<p>Almost a week and a half ago, I got my second vaccination. My husband is now more than two weeks out.</p><p>We've been following the CDC guidelines to the letter for the past year, masking everywhere, minimizing our exposure, reducing our grocery shopping. We sent the kids to hybrid school, so there was a risk, but there has been no in-school transmission. The kids haven't played with friends inside at all, and even when they're outside, they mask in close contact--no mater how brief--with everyone. Unfortunately, this has pretty much ruined my daughter's relationships with everyone on the street, who no longer ring our doorbell and ask her to play.</p><p>When this all started, my husband and I filled a plastic tub with two weeks' worth of nonperishable food, things that the kids could even cook if need be: pasta, beans, canned vegetables. There was extra toilet paper and tissues, cereal, applesauce and canned fruit. Flour for making bread in the breadmaker. We imagined what would happen if we both became ill, and no one else was able to come help. And for a year, the green plastic tub stayed in the corner of the kitchen, occasionally refreshed with a new box of cereal or bag of flour. Even in the corner, it was like an unspoken threat, more visible than the wills we updated in April.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie3QpMdtVEK_q3OIfNxSGHCU4ABFkF8_zJuRmcOAbnrc0Z20n0-LryaUb-OfzKVYByL5UAng09y3aJ4Cf7BWsyUjbR0XfOH7lSSGytA75RvkPxIG6PP39lNNKfSPmKhuwcFghBuejntIw/s2048/IMG-1094.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie3QpMdtVEK_q3OIfNxSGHCU4ABFkF8_zJuRmcOAbnrc0Z20n0-LryaUb-OfzKVYByL5UAng09y3aJ4Cf7BWsyUjbR0XfOH7lSSGytA75RvkPxIG6PP39lNNKfSPmKhuwcFghBuejntIw/w300-h400/IMG-1094.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>This week, with a week to go until I was fully vaccinated, knowing that we wouldn't work through any of the groceries over the next week and that they'd still be around, I started to empty the tub, to put things away in cabinets where they'd normally go. The likelihood now of both my husband and me getting sick at the same time was much lower. We could get by on the things we usually keep in the pantry. It was a strange moment, exhiliarating and disorienting at the same time.<p></p><p>I know that we're not out of the woods. We will still mask, we will still be cautious, we know that it's not just about us but about protecting our whole community, especially given the new variants out there and the fact that right down the street in a town not far away the infection rates are still very high because people are living in much closer proximity without the privileges of protection (like the ability to work remotely) that I enjoy. The kids can't be vaccinated yet, and it's not clear when or if that will happen.</p><p>But for a moment, looking at the empty corner made me feel like maybe there is a light at the end of what has been a very dark tunnel.</p><p><b>Sri Lankan Dal</b><br /><i>This is one of the recipes we discovered this past year; it's a good go-to that uses pantry staples, and is particularly warming and comforting, sort of like the lentil version of rice pudding, especially if you omit the turmeric and hot pepper, </i><br /><br />1 lb. red lentils<br />4 t. coconut oil<br />3 cardamom pods, cracked<br />1 cinnamon stick<br />3 whole cloves<br />1 large brown onion, peeled and thinly sliced<br />3 cloves of garlic, peeled and crushed<br />1/2 inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and grated<br />2 green finger chillies, finely sliced (optional)<br />4 1/2 c. water<br />1/3 teaspoon ground turmeric (optional)<br />7 oz (3/4 c + 2 T.) coconut milk<br />1 1/2 t. sea salt</p><p>Place lentils into a sieve and wash until water runs clear. Place lentils into a large bowl, cover with water and set aside while continuing with the recipe. </p><p>Heat the coconut oil in a large saucepan over medium heat until hot, add the cardamom, cinnamon and cloves. Stir-fry for about a minute, or until fragrant. Add the onions, cook for about 10 minutes stirring frequently, or until onions are soft and golden brown.</p><p>Next, add in the garlic, ginger and green chili, stir-fry for about 2 minutes.</p><p>Drain the lentils and place into the saucepan. Add the ground turmeric (I sort of like it without ... it tastes a bit more "homey" and sweet) and pour in water. Increase the heat and bring to a boil then turn heat to a simmer. Cook the lentils for about 20 minutes, or until soft. Once cooked pour in the coconut milk and add the sea salt to the lentils, stir and cook for a further 5 minutes. Remove from heat, cover and keep warm.</p>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-64191739690460631162021-04-27T08:10:00.002-04:002021-04-28T11:46:12.091-04:00The Robin's Nest<p><br /> <i>trigger warning: pregnancy loss.</i></p><p>This spring, a robin started to build her nest right outside the window in our kitchen. I spend a lot of time looking out that window, since the sink is right there, and I'm doing the dishes at least twice a day, and it was fascinating to watch the process up so close.</p><p>Each day, the nest became thicker, deeper, more well-constructed. Sometimes we'd all marvel at the wonder of architecture, sometimes we'd watch the robin and wonder what she was doing as she pressed her body into the nest. "Is she laying an egg?" I asked no one in particular, aloud. I would avert my eyes, feeling like it was a private moment, but how could I not look?</p><p>The robin wasn't much of a homebody; we'd see her there occasionally, and then the nest was empty. Except one day, it wasn't. A bright blue egg, like a piece of turqoise. Astonishing, against the drab brown of the nest.</p><p>I worried about the egg. Was she spending enough time there? Was it safe? Were we too close to the window? Was the light from the kitchen too bright?</p><p>Then, one day, another egg. Then, away again. And another day, a third. Away. And finally, a fourth.</p><p>With each additional egg, my concern grew. The robin spent a lot of time away from the nest. Were the eggs warm enough? Would they be OK there? We learned that robins spend 15 minutes of every hour warming their eggs. They sleep at night.</p><p>I peeked over the windowsill carefully, never opening the window, taking stock of the robin's appearance and disappearance. After the fourth egg, it seemed to stay for a bit, hunkered down.</p><p>Except one day, when she was out, I noticed that two eggs had gone missing.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-wJ-cO87rxfij7jLeknNEpFtuX6a_RDlx1_3RSDS-ZgIwCihwM_ifVLtTD4Zdl97P7jLpSQGtfNUR7_ODeU8Q6S_6nWN57dydBbfIMHimuPONVZTBD6mADWkB2gmdoW48roLvtGgYlw/s2048/nest.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-wJ-cO87rxfij7jLeknNEpFtuX6a_RDlx1_3RSDS-ZgIwCihwM_ifVLtTD4Zdl97P7jLpSQGtfNUR7_ODeU8Q6S_6nWN57dydBbfIMHimuPONVZTBD6mADWkB2gmdoW48roLvtGgYlw/s320/nest.jpg" /></a></div>I felt my heart drop. Where were they? Eaten? Did they fall? I half wanted to go rooting around in the bush, see if I could find the eggs on the ground, replace them in the nest. But of course, I couldn't. So I pinned my hopes on the two remaning eggs, watching the robin come and go, come and go, checking to make sure that she was spending enough time warming the two precious remaining eggs.<p></p><p>And one day, the robin left, and didn't come back.</p><p>I have been watching the nest in vain hope ever since, the two perfect beautiful turquoise eggs that will never hatch. Was it something we did? Was the lawnmower too close and too loud? Did we walk by too many times, even at what we thought was a safe distance? I fault myself, ourselves, over and over.</p><p>My kids tell me "it's just nature, Mom." My daughter, wise, knowing that there were others before <i>her </i>that didn't hatch, tries to console me: "this even happens to humans." Which, of course, is exactly the problem.</p><p>I'm heartbroken. And every day, at least twice a day, ten times a day, I look at the eggs, sitting in the nest, outside my kitchen window. Reminders of the birds that will never be.</p><p>Reminders that our hearts are never quite the same.</p>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-87759990564888733072021-04-07T14:13:00.001-04:002021-04-07T14:13:15.822-04:00Rustic Bean Soup and a Visit to the Apocalypse<p>When the decision was made to bring students back to campus this semester, despite the fact that classes would still be remote, the Campus Life group developed a program that would bring staff in for occasional "rounds" to encourage student adherence to the social contract guidelines (facial coverings, social distancing, not moving furniture, limited in person gatherings, etc.). Initially, I declined to sign up for the opt-in responsibilities, thinking that I'd see students on my own terms, when I was ready, and not visit what was likely to be a petri dish of COVID. Over time, though, I started to feel like maybe I should show up. After all, it had been months since I'd really been on campus for more than a minute or two. And at some point, I thought, I'd have to go back. Better to mentally prepare myself for that moment in small doses.</p><p>My first shift the other day was scheduled close on the heels of another meeting, so I figured I'd go to campus early, take my meeting in the office, and then show up for my shift afterwards. On paper, it looked easy.</p><p>What I didn't anticipate was just how hard it would feel to walk into that office, remember where the light switches were, and sit in a chair that wasn't mine (because mine was at home, where I brought it early in the pandemic), looking at a huge double monitor setup. It felt weirdly foreign, like a space I'd never inhabited before.</p><p>But there were also weird reminders of time that stopped in its tracks. Files from students that had graduated last year. Half-completed paperwork that ended up completed online. Ghosts of the year gone by. And perhaps most bizarre, my planner, open to the date last year when we all left campus, thinking we'd be gone for two weeks. It was like returning home after the apocalypse, digging through the debris alone, lights turned off, no one else in sight.</p><p>I left that day, after my meeting, realizing that it would take a long time to feel like this space was normal again.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zyl4QeRAFN4/YGzFAEHLhBI/AAAAAAAAGDk/8Z59hg8NFEM2b1dWLuJl6kDwqK8iBHNYgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-1037.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zyl4QeRAFN4/YGzFAEHLhBI/AAAAAAAAGDk/8Z59hg8NFEM2b1dWLuJl6kDwqK8iBHNYgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG-1037.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><b>Rustic Tuscan Bean Soup</b><br /><i>This was a recipe I shared with some friends early in the pandemic when the "I'm out of meals, send your recipe to ten friends" chain letter was going around. I never forward those things, but I always respond to the sender. Sort of like a voice from the future, speaking into the past.</i><p></p><p>2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil1 medium yellow onion, diced<br />2 medium carrots, diced<br />2 stalks celery, diced<br />1 medium zucchini, diced<br />1 yellow summer squash, diced<br />4 cloves garlic, pressed<br />1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes<br />1/4 teaspoon dried thyme<br />1/2 teaspoon dried rosemary<br />1 quart vegetable (or chicken) broth<br />2 (14 ounce) cans cannellini beans, drained and rinsed<br />1 (14 ounce) can no-salt-added diced tomatoes with juices<br />3 cups chopped kale, ribs removed<br />2 teaspoons salt<br />1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper<br />1 tablespoon white sugar<br />1 tablespoon white wine vinegar</p><p>Heat olive oil in a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add the onions, carrots, celery, zucchini, and squash. Saute for 4 minutes.</p><p>Add the garlic, red pepper flakes, thyme and rosemary. Cook 30 seconds.</p><p>Stir in the broth, beans, and tomatoes. Bring the contents to a boil, then turn the heat down to low and add the chopped kale. Cover the pot and simmer for 15 minutes.</p><p>Use an immersion blender to partially puree the soup, leaving some chunks of beans vegetables for texture.</p><p>Add the salt, pepper, sugar, and vinegar. Taste and adjust seasonings as needed.</p><p>Serve topped with Parmesan or Dubliner cheese and a side of crusty bread.</p><p> <br /></p>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-29341119336642233672021-03-30T16:44:00.000-04:002021-03-30T16:44:05.849-04:00Buy Nothing, and Korean Beef<div>A lot of us have been thinking about community this past year, and the importance of deep and authentic connections, beyond the transactional relationships we have more and more. I was struck by <a href="https://theroadlesstravelledlb.blogspot.com/2021/03/a-favour.html" target="_blank">this post</a> from the road less travelled about the ways that people lean on us from the communities we build, in the most unexpected moments.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few weeks ago, my community started a <a href="https://buynothingproject.org/" target="_blank">Buy Nothing</a> group on Facebook. Essentially, Buy Nothing groups are hyper-local gift economies where people can "gift" from abundance or loan things they have, "ask" for anything they might need, and offer "gratitude" for gifts in public ways. They believe that strong communities can lean on each other, and that the value of a gift is not just the thing itself but a human connection.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was already a pretty active "free stuff" group in my township, where people posted all kinds of stuff. But it often felt like vultures circling, waiting for the kill. And by the time I was able to log on and see what was there, nothing was left; it was picked clean. On the giving side, I'd often leave things out for people who'd said "INTERESTED," only to have them go unclaimed for weeks. People seemed to feel no sense of responsibility and were super picky about said free items. It just left me feeling icky, even if it was sometimes a good place to get rid of stuff.</div><div><br /></div><div>The new group had a fresh start, and some ground rules. We were encouraged to let things "simmer" so that people could have a chance at an item even if they weren't watching a page constantly. We were invited to offer gifts of time and service, rather than just stuff. It felt like a breath of fresh air.</div><div><br /></div><div>I love decluttering, so I set to work posting things: clothing, shoes, toys, kitchenware, knick knacks. I made two Easter baskets ouf of some plastic baskets I had by adding some toys and lollipops. And I claimed stuff too: a new teakettle (which didn't require a potholder to pick it up), some new dishes (to replace the ones that have been breaking for years), some delicious biscotti, a Nespresso Vertuo coffee maker I'd been coveting (though now I have to figure out how to get cheap pods!). The other day someone arrived with a plate of Indian food as a thanks for the toy I gifted to her daughter. There's a tea round robin, circulating in an unwanted tin. A puzzle round robin is just starting.</div><div><br /></div><div>But it's also been interesting to try to educate people about how the new group works, to remind them gently that this group is fundamentally about community. People are so stuck on the stuff. When someone says "interested" we remind them to tell us why. When posts start to speed up, we remind posters to simmer so that others have a chance. And some of us have been trying to model the kind of gifting we want to see start happening: gifting baked goods (to people who have to share with a neighbor), tutoring, offering plant cuttings, loaning out squirrel traps.</div><div><br /></div><div>Buy Nothing is complicated; of course, it's limited by where people live, which, if you know anything about the long term effects of redlining, is racially and socioeconomically segregated. The folks who wrote the book about it do think a lot about social jusice, which gives me hope. It's the other side of the frustration I felt about so much during the pandemic. It's a small <a href="https://ahalfbakedlife.blogspot.com/2021/03/vaccines-and-beans-gigantes-plaki-on.html" target="_blank">investment, I hope, in kindness</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Do you have a local Buy Nothing group?</div><div><br /></div><b>Korean Beef</b><div><i>Among the "asks" on our Buy Nothing group was for easy recipes. This was, oddly enough posted by another member, and I connected with her because it's one that my daughter happened to find and like, too.</i><br /><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4dkpJG-b63U/Xv9WRCujEGI/AAAAAAAAFyI/85NZ2GlvNVkCNFh9W5wJbg9tiAdc1APCACPcBGAYYCw/s2048/korean%2Bbeef.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4dkpJG-b63U/Xv9WRCujEGI/AAAAAAAAFyI/85NZ2GlvNVkCNFh9W5wJbg9tiAdc1APCACPcBGAYYCw/s320/korean%2Bbeef.JPG" /></a></div>1/4 cup low sodium soy sauce*<div>2 teaspoons light brown sugar</div><div>1 teaspoon sesame oil</div><div>1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes</div><div>cooking spray</div><div>1 pound 93% lean ground beef</div><div>1/4 cup chopped yellow onion</div><div>2 garlic cloves, crushed</div><div>1 teaspoon fresh grated ginger</div><div>3 cups cooked brown rice</div><div>1 small sliced cucumber, skin on</div><div>2 tablespoons Gochujang, or more if desired*</div><div>1/2 tablespoon sesame seeds, plus more for topping</div><div>2 sliced scallions, white and green parts</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Combine the soy sauce, 2 T water, brown sugar, sesame oil and red pepper flakes in a small bowl.</div><div>Heat a large deep nonstick skillet over high heat, spray with oil and add the ground beef. Cook, breaking the meat up with a wooden spoon until cooked through, about 5 minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Add the onion, garlic and ginger and cook 1 minute.</div><div>Pour the sauce over the beef, cover and simmer on low heat 10 minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div>To assemble the bowls, place 3/4 cup rice in each bowl, top with scant 2/3 cup beef, cucumbers, Gochujong, sesame seeds and scallions.</div></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-79717453191453706772021-03-22T14:58:00.004-04:002021-03-23T09:56:04.739-04:00Vaccines, and Beans (Gigantes Plaki): On Investing in Kindness<p></p><div><div><i>Disclaimer: I know this is going to be controversial. Bear with me.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>My FB feed has been full, lately, of people getting vaccinated.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is a really good thing, because vaccines in arms are good for everyone, except my feeds are also full of people who are older, or immunocompromised, or are in some way more vulnerable to COVID-19, and can't get an appointment, or don't know how. </div><div><br /></div><div>The underlying deeply uncomfortable truth--which I tested by posting to FB innocently asking if I might be missing something or should I be ignoring the message to wait my turn, and was rewarded by people PMing me both to encourage me to cut in line and sending me tips for getting that elusive appointment--is that some currently non-eligible people are getting vaccine appointments before people who are more vulnerable, know this, and don't care. As someone responded to my post, "it's like the Hunger Games."</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Some of this has to do with a lack of faith in the government to be effective (which, to be honest, it is NOT; the patchwork systems in place to connect people with vaccines are a mess in NJ, to say the least). Some of it is just "every man for himself." All of this has gotten me thinking a lot about what I've observed about human behavior during the pandemic, from the hoarding of toilet paper to the refusal to wear masks to protect others to vaccine "hunting." (And yes, that's really what it's called.)</div></div><div><br /></div><div>In the U.S., for better or worse, we invest in individuals; we reward competition, cunning, and greed. That's what gets people ahead. The first people in line get the most toilet paper. Honestly, it's been very tempting to game the system and schedule my appointment, even though I'm not eligible right now.</div><div><br /></div><div>Where is the opportunity for us to cultivate and invest in kindness? In generosity? In gratitude? How do we build a culture that truly believes that there's enough for everyone, and where you don't have to be first? There are "angel" vaccination sites, people who are staying up until 4 a.m. to get vaccine appointments for people when they "drop," but even they are reporting that people are demanding appointments from them.</div><div><br /></div><div>I used to bring this dish to our local community race and diversity potluck conversations, pre-pandemic. It doesn't cost much, it feeds a lot of people, and it's nutritious and easy to make. The cool thing about potlucks is that you almost always have more leftovers than you started with, even if people come without having brought anything. People <i>like </i>potlucks; you're bound to discover some tasty dish you didn't realize your neighbor had, and people like showing off their best recipes. What if we had approached this pandemic more like a potluck than a race? How much more toilet paper would there have been at the beginning, and how much more of everything would we all have right now?</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Greek Gigantes</b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FEd_zBn1MHg/YFOdEW5opDI/AAAAAAAAGB8/vlKRMU-2qxEKkUGEUIjw1TNHf-CD5nm8gCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/IMG-0862.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FEd_zBn1MHg/YFOdEW5opDI/AAAAAAAAGB8/vlKRMU-2qxEKkUGEUIjw1TNHf-CD5nm8gCPcBGAYYCw/w300-h400/IMG-0862.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /></div><div>1 pound dry gigantes beans, soaked overnight</div><div>2 medium yellow onions, peeled and chopped</div><div>4 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed</div><div>2 (14.5-ounce) cans no-salt-added diced tomatoes</div><div>2 cups vegetarian chicken broth (or water)</div><div>2 bay leaves</div><div>1 teaspoon dried oregano</div><div>1/2 teaspoon dried thyme</div><div>1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes</div><div>1 teaspoon salt</div><div>1 teaspoon sugar</div><div>fresh dill (optional)</div><div>Crusty bread, black pepper, and more olive oil for serving</div><div><br /></div><div>Boil the beans for 10 minutes. (OK, I confess sometimes I skip even this step.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Place all of the ingredients in the bowl of a large slow cooker. Cook for 4-6 hours on high, or 8-10 hours on low. Taste and add more salt as needed.</div><div>Serve with toasted crusty bread. Garnish with freshly ground black pepper and a drizzle of olive oil, and with a sprinkle, on each bowl, of fresh dill.</div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div></div>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-72233677792590113642021-03-16T20:24:00.003-04:002021-03-17T11:32:27.354-04:00Scars, and Green Minestrone <div><div>The sky was a flat grey during my early evening walk today, the sort of grey that precedes a snowstorm, interrupted--just overhead--by a row of dark grey and white streaks that reminded me, oddly, of scars.</div><div><br /></div><div>One year ago today we began working remotely; I was two days out of surgery for my broken foot, and things were incredibly uncertain. Each day my family would track the spread of the virus on the Johns Hopkins site, wondering when we'd get to go back to "normal." If only we'd known. Then again, maybe it was better that we didn't know: the grey stretching out before us may have been too immense to fathom.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last time I wrote in this space was also the morning before I concussed myself, walking at night through a particularly dark section of town, tripping on god only knows what, and hitting my head on a mailbox or a telephone pole or something that has left me, five months later, with a series of lasting symptoms: ringing in my ears, vision that is not quite right, sleeplessness, sinuses that don't seem to want to quit running. The palpitations and the dizziness are gone, but I find myself frustrated by what remains, and wonder how long it will take to heal. Some scars, like the one on my foot, are visible; others, like the one in my brain, are not.</div><div><br /></div><div>The scars in the sky tonight made me think of the visible and invisible scars left by the pandemic, one year later. Unimaginable losses of life, of jobs. Anxiety. Depression. Lasting illness. But our scars make us who we are. They interrupt the flat expanse of grey with something else, reminders of something deeper, reminders that we are more than what we see on the surface.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've made more soups than I can count this past year, some for us, some for others. I hope they have made the scars a little easier to bear.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hFRQYEnUecs/YFE2WuhkncI/AAAAAAAAGBU/yaicvSs5HEId3wfumtnqWveDBjo3C0apwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-0879.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hFRQYEnUecs/YFE2WuhkncI/AAAAAAAAGBU/yaicvSs5HEId3wfumtnqWveDBjo3C0apwCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG-0879.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><b>Green Minestrone</b></div><div><br /></div><div>2 t. olive oil</div><div>1 medium yellow onion, diced</div><div>3 celery stalks, diced</div><div>2 to 3 cloves garlic, minced</div><div>1 t. fresh thyme (1/2 t. dry)</div><div>1 bay leaf</div><div>6 c. vegetable or chicken broth</div><div>1 lb. waxy red potatoes (4 to 5 small potatoes), cut into bite-sized pieces</div><div>1/2 lb. green beans, trimmed and cut into bite-sized pieces</div><div>1 lb. small-shaped pasta, like shells or elbow macaroni</div><div>6 ounces greens, like spinach, kale, or chard, cut into ribbons</div><div>1 (15-ounce) can white beans, like Great Northern, drained and rinsed</div><div>Salt and pepper to taste</div><div>Grated Parmesan cheese, optional, to serve</div><div><br /></div><div>In a large soup pot, warm the olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion, celery, and 1/4 t. of salt, and cook until the onion and celery are soft and translucent, 8 to 10 minutes. Stir in the garlic, thyme, and bay leaf, and cook until the garlic is fragrant, about 30 seconds.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fqj8E9nRfO8/YFE2YD98NlI/AAAAAAAAGBY/9IzKgFKstHIi3ZIcLMv5Xg4iniWQEtWhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-0881.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fqj8E9nRfO8/YFE2YD98NlI/AAAAAAAAGBY/9IzKgFKstHIi3ZIcLMv5Xg4iniWQEtWhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG-0881.jpg" /></a></div>Add the chicken broth, potatoes, and 1 t. of salt to the pan. Increase the heat to high and bring the soup to a boil. Lower heat to medium-low and simmer the soup for 5 minutes. Add the green beans and simmer for another 5 to 10 minuets, until both the potatoes and the green beans are tender.</div><div>While the soup is simmering, bring a pot of salted water to a boil and cook the pasta to al dente. Drain and set aside.</div><div><br /></div><div>When the vegetables are tender, stir the greens and the white beans into the soup. Simmer until the greens are wilted and tender, 1 to 3 minutes. Taste and add additional salt and pepper if needed.</div><div><br /></div><div>To serve, add a scoop of pasta to each bowl and ladle the soup over top. Sprinkle some Parmesan cheese over top, if using. Store pasta and soup leftovers separately; they will keep refrigerated for 1 week.</div></div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-74787735304353256762020-10-06T11:44:00.010-04:002020-10-12T18:31:12.866-04:00Fragile (with comfort food: Arroz con Pollo)Early in quarantine (maybe April, maybe May ... time had already started to flex and stretch) I was talking with a friend of mine about motivation to get out of bed when it felt like groundhog day over and over. She owns a relatively new shop in town, one that sells American handcrafted goods and art, largely women and folks of color. Her shop had shuttered its doors temporarily, due to state executive orders, and she didn't have an online shop; there wasn't time, and she only has a few of everything ... there are all kinds of unique things there (she now DOES have an <a href="https://www.dandelionwishes.shop/">online presence</a> and it's neat to browse).<div><br /></div><div>I suggested that because I was up and getting ready for work and had my coffee then, anyway, she should text me a photo of her coffee every morning at 8am. No conversation, no zoom presence required, no judgment for missed days or late texts, no getting dressed. Just coffee, which we should share together, in solidarity and silence.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first day, I texted her my photo just after 8. She came back with hers closer to 8:30, and apologies. I reassured her that this was a no judgment zone. The second day, she texted me hers at 8am sharp. And so it went, her text, my text, day by day. A series of coffee cups. Sometimes these were interspersed by snippets of conversation, but more often, just the coffee, and a reaction. A heart. A hug.</div><div><br /></div><div>After a month or so, I finally commented on the mugs. As someone who sells gifts and art, and whose mom also had a store that sold gifts and art when she was a child, my friend has a beautiful collection of handmade pottery mugs. I'm a sucker for pottery, in case that wasn't obvious from my years of posting food photos. In fact, I'd been coveting a beautiful large tumbler from her shop windows -- the kind with a drip blue and white glaze pattern over a brown base -- and told myself it was too expensive, that it was too much to spend on myself. Weirdly, I didn't ever really drink from either of my two small handmade mugs. I rarely ate from my handmade bowls, except when company came, and even then, we mostly used them for serving bowls. So my photos of coffee were a series of pictures of a plastic United Way tumbler.</div><div><br /></div><div>My friend told me that she always drinks from her pottery mugs, because handmade pottery is <i>meant </i>to be used, and because it's a way of celebrating the ordinary, by elevating the ordinary to something special.</div><div><br /></div><div>I loved this idea. But I still couldn't bring myself to buy the tumbler from her shop window.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OEBKL7GX8A8/X3yggxW95-I/AAAAAAAAF4A/lWMi8h5wdZkB6kxhuIFa0sz5tEa7FRquwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-0372.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OEBKL7GX8A8/X3yggxW95-I/AAAAAAAAF4A/lWMi8h5wdZkB6kxhuIFa0sz5tEa7FRquwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG-0372.jpg" /></a></div>One morning, in August, my friend invited me to her back yard for socially distant coffee at 8am. The shop had been open, and things were as back to normal as they can be, at least for now, and she thought it would be fun to catch up before she headed in to work. She was waiting for me, our chairs set up before I'd arrived, and at mine, a gift bag, from her shop. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was the tumbler.</div><div><br /></div><div>A thanks, she said, for getting her up during those first hard days.</div><div><br /></div><div>I nearly wept.</div><div><br /></div><div>And so I've been using it ever since, every morning, making my coffee in this beautiful tumbler, appreciating the colors, the shape, the feel, the warmth, the sweet of the honey I add, making the ordinary feel special.</div><div><br /></div><div>Until on Saturday, my daughter was drinking the dregs of my coffee and milk foam, and knocked the tumbler over on the counter. Which, of course, cracked it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was weirdly inconsolable. This tumbler had become something more than a piece of pottery. It was a celebration of the ordinary beautiful things. It was a connection to my friend. It was something normal when everything else felt so shitty, when we had all lost so much. When I was mourning yet another loss, this time, <a href="http://hustleandsway.com/about/">an amazing blogger friend</a> who had died of cancer. And now it was cracked; usable, but not for long.</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought a lot about the tumbler in the days that followed. About how fragile so much is right now. Our health. Our relationships. Our democracy. Though I guess everything was always this fragile, right? So it's a matter of making the decision to use these fragile things anyway, to use the vessels we have to hold the things that might slip away, to accept the possibility that they might slip away or change. Maybe to appreciate the ordinary beautiful things a little more if we can. It's not a new lesson to many of us who have lost what we love, over and over again. Somehow it doesn't get easier to learn.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>(I always have a recipe, so here's a comfort food from my childhood, for moments when you need a full belly and things are slipping away and you need to be grounded. I ate it from a piece of pottery made by another friend, who uses clay he finds locally, with all of the stones and pebbles still visible. You can make a vegetarian version of this by skipping the first part of the process and using vegetable broth instead of the home-made broth, but I do recommend adding Sazón to whatever you're using as your broth base. I don't use Goya any more, if I can avoid it.)</i></div><div>
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<b>Arroz con Pollo</b><br />
<br /><i>Original at http://www.mycolombianrecipes.com/chicken-and-rice-arroz-con-pollo</i><br />
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<i>Chicken and Stock</i><br />
2 whole chicken breast, bone in and skin removed<br />
1 scallion<br />
½ white onion<br />
2 garlic cloves<br />
½ tablespoon ground cumin<br />
½ tablespoon <a href="https://www.instacart.com/products/3041271-badia-sazon-with-saffron-7-oz">Sazón with azafran</a><br />
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1 bay leaf<br />
Salt and Pepper<br />
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<i>Rice</i><br />
2 tablespoons olive oil<br />
¼ cup chopped onion<br />
1 garlic clove, minced<br />
¼ cup chopped red bell pepper<br />
¼ cup chopped green pepper<br />
1 cup long- grain white rice<br />
1 tablespoon tomato paste<br />
1 chicken bouillon tablet<br />
2 ½ cups chicken stock<br />
½ tablespoon <a href="https://www.instacart.com/products/3041271-badia-sazon-with-saffron-7-oz">Sazón with azafran<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></a> </div><div>¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro<br />
½ cup frozen peas<br />
½ cup frozen diced carrots<br />
½ cup frozen diced green beans<br />
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Place the chicken breast, 5 cups water and the remaining ingredients for the stock in a medium pot. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bring to a boil, cover and reduce the heat to medium low. Cook for 20 to 25 minutes. Turn the heat off and let the chicken rest in the pot for about 15 minutes covered. Let it cool, shred and set aside. Strain stock and measure 2 ½ cups and set aside.</div><div><br />
In a medium pot, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the onions, green peppers, garlic and red bell pepper. Cook until the onions are translucent, about 4 to 5 minutes.</div><div><br />
Add the rice, tomato paste, chicken bouillon and sazon goya. Stir until the rice is well coated about 3 minutes. Add the chicken stock and bring to a boil. Then reduce the heat to low. Cover and simmer for about 15 minutes. Add the peas, carrots and green beans and cook for and additional 7 minutes, add the shredded chicken and cilantro, mix well with a fork, cover and cook for 5 minutes more.<br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>
</div>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-80282064500381707002020-08-07T14:14:00.003-04:002020-08-07T15:22:32.037-04:00Athena's Breastplate, and Cauliflower and Potato Masala<div>My daughter has already started making her Halloween costume.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm actually pretty happy about this, on the one hand, because she's been bored out of her little skull these past few weeks, quarantining at home all summer with little to no regular contact with other humans her size (besides a week here and there of half-day-masked-and-socially-distanced-dance-camp with two other girls in attendance). And there's a pumpkin growing in our garden, so it seems weirdly apropos. Maybe we'll carve it up and celebrate early.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because on the other hand, who even knows if there will <i>be</i> Halloween this year? Things are changing at the speed of light, and schools that were opening are now not opening, and wandering around a crowded street during a pandemic taking candy from neighbors and SO MUCH TOUCHING of things other people have touched ... well, that seems ... unwise.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hate to disappoint my daughter by telling her this. She's had so much disappointment these past few months, which she has handled mostly with grace, but also by sheltering in a little closer, by asking me to lie there next to her in bed while she goes to sleep, by patting me gently on the arm as she walks by, knowing that I'm stressed, too, asking me when it will all be over.</div><div><br /></div><div>And there's something about this particular choice of costume that I don't want to discourage. My daughter has been deep into Greek mythology this summer, and has learned more about it than I ever knew, for sure. She loves the whole pantheon, is enthralled by the stories (which she can retell in exquisite detail), and has chosen Athena as her alter ego: the goddess of war, strategy, wisdom, crafting. It's not a bad choice for someone who is as active and creative and stubborn and determined as she is.</div><div><br /></div><div>She's going to need a breastplate and sword for the fall.</div><div><br /></div><div>And so might we all, right? I've been drinking Emergen-C and turmeric tea with ginger and taking Vitamin D like my life depends on it, because I worry that it very well might (anyone else in the room start experiencing all coughs and aches with a sense of panic? Yeah, me, too). I am deeply anxious about our kids going back to school, even though I know that they really want to be there and that our district has such carefully crafted plans to avoid and contain an outbreak. I worry about what will happen to families that can't afford to juggle the hybrid model or be remote when the time inevitably comes to do that, if their school district isn't already doing it in September. I worry about the families who are enduring ongoing trauma as a result of this situation. And in my darkest hours, I worry about the very real possibility of loss, which is always there, haunting you, which never really goes away after you've lost a child, no matter what they say about kids not getting as sick as adults do.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am so very blessed to have the breastplates that I <i>do</i> have: a house, a job that will continue to pay and allow me to work remotely, caring colleagues who are friends, friends who are not colleagues. But we are not, like the Greek gods, immortal.</div><div><br /></div><div>What are your breastplates? How are you taking care of yourself?</div><div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lJjWqZZIB_A/Xvf01_DT1CI/AAAAAAAAFwg/0WmHKjumDO0HKOnfee0SeuL7af_GCBMRACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/potato%2Bcauli%2Bwith%2Burad.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lJjWqZZIB_A/Xvf01_DT1CI/AAAAAAAAFwg/0WmHKjumDO0HKOnfee0SeuL7af_GCBMRACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/potato%2Bcauli%2Bwith%2Burad.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Cauliflower and Potato Masala</b><div><i>because we might as well eat turmeric and ginger, just in case.</i><br /><br />1 c. potato, peeled and cubed<div>1 c. cauliflower, blanched<br />1 T. oil<br />1/2 t. mustard seeds<br />1/2 t. cumin seeds<br />1 t. chana dal<br />1 t. urad dal</div><div>1 pinch asafoetida (optional)<br />1 t. ginger (grated or paste)<br />1 cup onions, thinly sliced<br />1 sprig curry leaves<br />2 green chilies, chopped or sliced<br />1/4 t. turmeric<br />1/2 to 3/4 t. salt (adjust to taste)<br />2 T. cilantro, finely chopped<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Steam cauliflower and potatoes until not quite cooked. Heat oil in a pan and add the mustard seed, cumin seed, and dals. When the dal turns golden, add asafeotida. </div><div><br /></div><div>Add the grated ginger and saute until fragrant. Add onions, chiles, and curry leaves, and saute until the onions are slightly golden.</div><div><br /></div><div>Add the potatoes and cauliflower along with the turmeric and salt. Add 2 T. water, and saute well for about 2 minutes. Add cilantro and serve, in a dosa, with naan, with dal, with rice, or just as a side!</div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
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</div></div>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-60157595507358028972020-08-02T23:18:00.004-04:002020-08-03T08:09:55.268-04:00Vacation All I Ever Wanted: Cannellini Bean Salad<div>Ages ago, before children, S. and I biked the <a href="https://ptittraindunord.com/en/">P'tit Train du Nord</a>, a rail trail in the Laurentians in Quebec. I can't remember how we happened across the trail any more -- it was probably something S. found -- but it was a unique experience, and one of two times I've ever done a multi-day bike trip. When we did it, you could make arrangements with bed and breakfasts along the way, and a company would transport your luggage for you, so all you really had to do was keep pumping (it was entirely up hill) and enjoy the scenery.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was along that trail that I ate one of the more memorable meals of my life, in a little bed and breakfast (I think <a href="http://www.provincialart.ca/english.html">this</a> was it) in the village of Nomininigue. The meal wasn't elaborate -- in fact, the beauty of it was its simplicity. There was celeriac soup, and vegetables fresh from the garden, and a bean salad -- chickpeas, if memory serves -- that made me wonder if I'd ever really eaten chick peas before. I remember the air being crisp and clear, with perhaps a hint of sharp wood smoke and pine. I marveled at how the bounty on my plate could all come from the garden out back, how our host (Guillaume) managed to turn next to nothing into a feast.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our vacation plans have been thwarted multiple times over this year. First we canceled our trip abroad back in April, seeing the inevitable beginning to unfold. Then we canceled all of the kids' camps, with the exception of a two week part day dance camp for N, which kept her from climbing the walls, at least briefly. All the while we've both been working. And finally, when I thought I would catch a break next week and be able to take a long weekend away from my computer, my boss scheduled two important meetings for the days I'd just asked to take off. To say that I was upset about losing my most recent attempt at some mental health time would be an understatement.</div><div><br /></div><div>But this weekend we somehow managed to slow down, just for a little while, and it reminded me of the magical night in Nomininigue, the way we stopped to watch the blue sky and the clouds, the things we marveled at growing in our own garden (including a full fledged pumpkin), a half an hour of wading in a creek when we'd been looking for a way to cool off for weeks. And at the end of the day on Saturday, there were heirloom tomatoes still warm from the garden, and home grown cucumbers, and a simply herby bean salad. And just like that, a weekend felt just a little bit like a vacation.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's wishing you some small peace in your little corner of a quarantined world.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bgNS1NpXdTg/XyeAqWTjiTI/AAAAAAAAFz8/PuHQG6Xi0akjTqFFuTF9wkjF1fFssmfDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/beans.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bgNS1NpXdTg/XyeAqWTjiTI/AAAAAAAAFz8/PuHQG6Xi0akjTqFFuTF9wkjF1fFssmfDwCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/beans.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Cannellini Bean Salad</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>h/t to Yotam Ottolenghi, whose recipe in </i>Plenty More<i> was the inspiration for this salad. He uses quinoa, which S. is allergic to (and he couldn't find any in the store), but double the beans worked out just fine.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">2/3 c. flat leaf parsley leaves, finely shredded</div><div style="text-align: left;">2/3 c. mint leaves, finely shredded</div><div style="text-align: left;">3 to 5 green onions, green and white parts only, thinly sliced</div><div style="text-align: left;">2 cans cannellini beans, drained</div><div style="text-align: left;">1 large lemon, skin and seeds removed, flesh finely chopped</div><div style="text-align: left;">1/2 t. allspice</div><div style="text-align: left;">1/4 c. olive oil</div><div style="text-align: left;">salt and pepper</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Add the parsley, mint, onion, beans, lemon, allspice olive oil, 3/4 teaspoon salt and some black pepper to a bowl. Stir together and serve. </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KgCtf2WdXQE/XyeAqaeCA2I/AAAAAAAAF0A/dV7Q4Xuo7fQFR9p_lZZaoCvlZ9-wJ7UpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/beans2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KgCtf2WdXQE/XyeAqaeCA2I/AAAAAAAAF0A/dV7Q4Xuo7fQFR9p_lZZaoCvlZ9-wJ7UpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/beans2.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-23833029351498723482020-08-01T22:33:00.002-04:002020-08-02T20:32:39.073-04:00Pools, Being Neighborly, and Tres Leches Cake<div><div>I am six, maybe seven years old. I'm wearing a purple bathing suit and a fuzzy white beach cover up. My legs are hot and sweaty, sticking to the vinyl in my father's tank-like Mercedez Benz, the only car he would buy until late in his life, even if he did have to save up for years to get them third hand. My head aches. It's Sunday, a languid New Jersey summer day, the sun blinding me as it darts in and out of the trees. I'm imagining how good the cool water will feel.</div><div><br /></div><div>We never belonged to a pool when I was growing up. I was never sure why, because I felt like everyone else in town did, and it wasn't like my parents were working during the summer and couldn't take us, since they were both teachers. Maybe it was too expensive. I longed for access to the local pool, though, for late evenings with the ice cream truck and sparklers and the company of kids my age, who all seemed to disappear there during the day. Luckily, occasionally the weekends were punctuated by a trip to my parents' friends' house in Montvale, where we would go swimming.</div><div><br /></div><div>I could never tell whether we'd invited ourselves over or not, because I always felt welcome there. It didn't matter whether they had other people over. We'd arrive, there would be hugs and handshakes, and Leo (that was my father's friend's name) would look me up and down, squint, and tell me how much I'd grown since last time. He would know; at six feet, his ample hairy chest and stomach spilled over his red swimming trunks. He was a large man, in every sense of the word.</div><div><br /></div><div>For me, summer will always be associated with the crystalline waters of Leo and Mimi's pool. I wasn't a good swimmer, but I would bob up and down, play with their pool toys, and then, lips blue, I'd finally climb out to dry off, and, while my parents looked on disapprovingly, they'd encourage me ("honey," they'd say) to go to the poolhouse refrigerator where there was always cherry soda and leftover vanilla cake covered in whipped cream frosting, likely left over from one of their famous parties, to which hundreds of people would be invited, covering every inch of their ample lawn.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think about Leo's pool a lot these days, in this long dry pandemic summer. Usually my kids go to day camp where there is some kind of pool access, and in years past we've had some friends who owned a pool and would invite us over on the weekends sometimes, like Leo did, and we'd go bearing chips and sangria and cake, grateful both for good company and a chance to cool off. But this summer, there's none of that. Just endless days of stepping outside into a sauna or being stuck inside while I'm working long days. I know they--and I--should be grateful for our air conditioning.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Our neighbors down the street have a pool that my son and I can see when we go walking at night, and I will confess that I've become a little obsessed. Sometimes they're using it, but often they're not. This baffles me. I fantasize about sneaking in through the back gate that opens onto our street and leaving twenty bucks on the umbrella table for an hour of submerging myself in the clear blue water. Sometimes I wonder if I've said something to make them hate me so much that I'd never be invited there anyway. Sometimes they're there with other neighbors with whom we're friendly, <i>not</i> socially distancing, and they all wave to us, almost like we're waving to each other from different planets. I find myself--unreasonably--hating them for this. I think to myself that if <i>I </i>had a pool, I'd make sure the neighbors felt welcome there, whether I was using it or not, even--especially--in the middle of a pandemic.</div><div><br /></div><div>S. had heard enough of my complaining about our lack of pool the other day, and found swimply.com, which is essentially, it seems, like Air B&B for pools. People can put their pool up for use by other people when they're not using it, and make a few bucks. We haven't tried it yet, though this seems pretty brilliant, even if it's a little weird to be swimming in water where people you don't know were just swimming hours ago. I mean, the chlorine kills anything anyway, right? Right?</div><div><br /></div><div>Still, it's not the same as the magical pool of my childhood summers, the open welcome to share the water with friends, the refrigerator perpetually full of soda and cake.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Do you have a pool? Do you have a friend with a pool? Would yo<font face="inherit">u lend yours to a stranger for an hour, for a price?</font></i></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Xiu3Fx4Trn9W8gVgdNg6dCFMtHTIH4lq85Ju_TGnGTPN5MXXJP9YlgAeTUWcG8HoeLkG98vGcwelPA0xvDFlbA26GAlFX2_-RqYBi8jAdTOAuFxcKElfshwOn39UliqDknyuqmA_GXE/s1600/IMG_2398.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><font face="inherit"> </font></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Xiu3Fx4Trn9W8gVgdNg6dCFMtHTIH4lq85Ju_TGnGTPN5MXXJP9YlgAeTUWcG8HoeLkG98vGcwelPA0xvDFlbA26GAlFX2_-RqYBi8jAdTOAuFxcKElfshwOn39UliqDknyuqmA_GXE/s1600/IMG_2398.JPG" style="clear: left; font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Xiu3Fx4Trn9W8gVgdNg6dCFMtHTIH4lq85Ju_TGnGTPN5MXXJP9YlgAeTUWcG8HoeLkG98vGcwelPA0xvDFlbA26GAlFX2_-RqYBi8jAdTOAuFxcKElfshwOn39UliqDknyuqmA_GXE/w375-h500/IMG_2398.JPG" width="375" /></a><div class="wprm-recipe-ingredients-container" style="box-sizing: border-box; counter-reset: wprm-advanced-list-counter 0; font-size: 14.4px; text-align: left;"><h3 class="wprm-recipe-header" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: none; color: black; font-size: 1.2em; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin: 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><b style="font-size: medium;">Tres Leches Cake</b></h3><div style="font-size: medium;"><i>With gratitude to Brown Eyed Baker for the original. While this isn't exactly what they had in the poolside refrigerator in those lovely days of shared poolside snacks, it's about as close as I'd come.</i></div><div style="font-size: medium;"><br /></div><div style="font-size: medium;">For the Cake</div><div style="font-size: medium;">1½ cups cake flour</div><div style="font-size: medium;">1 teaspoon baking powder</div><div style="font-size: medium;">½ teaspoon kosher salt</div><div style="font-size: medium;">½ cup unsalted butter, room temperature</div><div style="font-size: medium;">1 cup + 2 tablespoons granulated sugar</div><div style="font-size: medium;">5 eggs</div><div style="font-size: medium;">1½ teaspoons vanilla extract</div><div style="font-size: medium;">For the Three-Milk Glaze</div><div style="font-size: medium;">12 ounce can evaporated milk</div><div style="font-size: medium;">14 ounce can sweetened condensed milk</div><div style="font-size: medium;">1 cup half-and-half</div><div style="font-size: medium;">For the Whipped Cream</div><div style="font-size: medium;">2 cups heavy cream</div><div style="font-size: medium;">1 cup + 2 tablespoons granulated sugar</div><div style="font-size: medium;">1 teaspoon vanilla extract</div><div style="font-size: medium;"><br /></div><div style="font-size: medium;">Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease a 9x13-inch baking pan; set aside.</div><div style="font-size: medium;"><br /></div><div style="font-size: medium;">In a medium bowl, whisk together the cake flour, baking powder and salt; set aside.</div><div style="font-size: medium;"><br /></div><div style="font-size: medium;">Beat the butter with an electric mixer on medium speed until fluffy, about 1 minute. Decrease the speed to low and with the mixer still running, gradually add the sugar over 1 minute. Stop to scrape down the sides of the bowl, if necessary. Add the eggs, 1 at a time, and mix to thoroughly combine. Add the vanilla extract and mix to combine. Add the flour mixture to the batter in 3 batches and mix just until combined. Transfer the batter to the prepared pan and spread into an even layer. (This will appear to be a very small amount of batter.)</div><div style="font-size: medium;"><br /></div><div style="font-size: medium;">Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until the cake is lightly golden and reaches an internal temperature of 200 degrees F. Remove the cake to a cooling rack and allow to cool for 30 minutes. Poke the top of the cake all over with a skewer or fork. Allow the cake to cool completely and then prepare the glaze.</div><div style="font-size: medium;"><br /></div><div style="font-size: medium;">In a 4-cup measuring cup, whisk together the evaporated milk, sweetened condensed milk and the half-and-half. Once combined, slowly pour the glaze evenly over the cake. Refrigerate the cake for at least four hours, or overnight.</div><div style="font-size: medium;"><br /></div><div style="font-size: medium;">Using an electric mixer, whisk together the heavy cream, sugar and vanilla on low speed until stiff peaks form.</div><div style="font-size: medium;"><br /></div><div style="font-size: medium;">Increase to medium speed and whip until thick. Spread the topping over the cake and allow to chill in the refrigerator until ready to serve. Leftover cake should be covered and refrigerated for up to 1 day.</div></div></div>
Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-59138341322059174752020-07-26T17:54:00.001-04:002020-07-27T14:59:20.974-04:00Ingenuity, Zoom Faux Pas, and Chicken Lettuce Wraps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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My daughter was bored.</div>
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To her credit, she is has been a real trooper this summer. After the stay-at-home order was imposed in NJ she has seen almost no friends in person since March (except at a playdate in the park wearing a mask and staying 6 feet apart), she's had very little camp (except for two half-day weeks of dance camp, with a mask, dancing outside, six feet apart), and both of her parents are still working full time, albeit remotely. She reads incessantly, she cooks every once in a while, and she plays with her dolls, but as someone who thrives on social interaction, she's been starved.</div>
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And it's not like the boring summers of our own youth, that still involved friends and swimming holes and trips to the library ... this is really just boring.</div>
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So when she decided that she was going to start making clothes for her Barbie dolls out of balloons, we were fully supportive. My husband even ordered balloons. Anything to keep her busy.</div>
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You can imagine what these clothes look like.</div>
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Spandex. Very, <i>very</i> revealing spandex.</div>
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This has been making us all laugh, and so when I was talking with a friend on a zoom call over lunch the other day, I thought I'd share it as a parting image. So I'm describing this, and we're both laughing, and she says "Streetwalker Barbie!" and we're both STILL laughing when I realize that ... my student appointment has just joined us from London.</div>
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Because I forgot to re-enable the waiting room.</div>
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(We both stop laughing, wide-eyed, and she disappears hastily from my screen while I try to recover myself in time to have a serious advising conversation.)</div>
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What's <i>your</i> most embarrassing zoom moment?</div>
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<i>Here's something my daughter made, NOT using balloons, based on a recipe that her principal made and shared via the morning video announcements back when she was in school. He is by far the coolest principal I know.</i></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rGHEIKzjoKY/Xv9VuoEqUOI/AAAAAAAAFx8/a0ltGhuba8IdcBqdWi1upYHt606H8ycpgCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/lettucewraps1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rGHEIKzjoKY/Xv9VuoEqUOI/AAAAAAAAFx8/a0ltGhuba8IdcBqdWi1upYHt606H8ycpgCPcBGAYYCw/s320/lettucewraps1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<b>Mr. Friedrich’s Lettuce Wraps</b></div>
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4 t. extra virgin olive oil</div>
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1 c.chopped yellow onion (1 medium)</div>
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2 carrots, shredded</div>
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1 t. grated fresh ginger</div>
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2/3 c. sweet chili sauce</div>
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¼ c. low sodium soy sauce</div>
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8 cloves garlic minced</div>
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Big spoonful peanut butter</div>
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1 head lettuce</div>
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1 c. finely chopped cabbage</div>
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1 lb chopped boneless skinless chicken breast</div>
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Heat the pan, add the oil. Add the chicken, garlic and onion and stir until cooked. Add salt and pepper, stir. Add the ginger, carrots, and cabbage and keep stirring to cook.</div>
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In a separate bowl combine sweet chili sauce with peanut butter, soy sauce. Stir until smooth. Add the sauce to the pan, stir to combine. Then add the cilantro.Spoon into lettuce and enjoy!</div>
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<br />Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-77285672325712704362020-07-03T11:39:00.003-04:002020-07-03T23:21:48.611-04:00Independence Day, Freedom, and KoshariI am a cisgender white woman who had a brown father with a Hispanic (and I use that word intentionally, because he was not from Latin America) last name, which became my last name. I grew up in a largely white suburban neighborhood in a house on a corner property where my window was the closest to the street for drive-by egg-throwing, teenagers—students of my mother’s—running away, laughing, shouting “Spic.” One of my most vivid memories from childhood is waking up hours after going to bed to a loud crackling sound, and realizing the bushes in front of our house had been set on fire, the flames leaping up towards my window. I am a cisgender white woman who grew up understanding that difference could be dangerous, and knowing I would enjoy the privilege of being white.<br />
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Maybe partly because of those formative years, I have spent the past 20 years of my career, getting on close to half my life, in higher education work, where I have tried to listen to and amplify the voices of less-heard people. I am not a constitutional law scholar, and I didn't take many politics classes, so perhaps my education is not as broad as it could be. I am a humanist, a reader and teller of stories. I studied with giants in the world of literary criticism like Cheryl Wall and Val Smith, Black women who cracked open the literary canon. My heroes of educational philosophy are people like bell hooks and Paulo Freire and Maxine Greene and John Dewey. I learned, through my undergraduate and graduate study, how the stories that we all grew up memorizing, the lenses we were given to look at the world, often did not represent the stories of people who had less power.<br />
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Over the past few weeks, we’ve seen a resurgence of the outcry to defend free speech at our university. As some of our leaders have decided to break from the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/27/nyregion/princeton-university-woodrow-wilson.html" target="_blank">shibboleths</a> of the past, unfortunately giving little credit to the protests of students from a few years ago, these students are clamoring for more due process, for the University to reconsider and do something different than other institutions who are rethinking and discarding their own historical giants.<br />
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Some students took to our student-owned listservs (intended for advertising student events and locating lost items or sharing rides) to express their opinions, to publish what amounted to political treatises. Others took up the mantle and offered counterarguments, trying to educate their peers about systemic racism as they feel they’ve been called to do time and again, without any official backing by the university, who typically stands neutral. A few responded to the messages in defeat, saying how much they hate it here. After much consideration, we finally decided to intervene, emailing our community to remind people of their responsibility to make our community a place where everyone feels welcome; without that element, the most vulnerable and marginalized people will leave the dialogue, and we’ll find ourselves right back where we started.<br />
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We were lambasted for our email, and informed that we’d created a “chilling effect” on speech.<br />
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I don't ever claim to have everything right, and I've been thinking about our decision to write what we did over and over again, second-guessing myself and then finding reasons to justify what we did. It seems fitting to reflect on on all of this going into the weekend when much of our nation will celebrate, in whatever limited way we can during a global pandemic that demands our attention to public health, our Independence Day.<br />
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I believe that with power comes responsibility. And because of that, I believe that free speech should be couched in humility. I believe that free speech should be accompanied by a generous helping of empathy. And I believe that our free speech should come with the attendant curiosity about the human experience that makes for rich and fruitful dialogue that is the hallmark of a healthy liberal arts institution and a healthy democracy. I don't know; maybe what I believe is flat-out wrong, and maybe that makes free speech less "free."<br />
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I believe that we should appeal to our right to free speech with appreciation for the fact that there are some who enter that arena with much less power, carrying hundreds of years of generational trauma. No matter what we might think, no matter how it might look, the table is not yet round, and not everyone gets to sit up close. Witness, for example, the differential treatment of largely white protestors with weapons in front of statehouses, arguing about their rights to open bars and salons, and diverse but largely Black and non-white unarmed protestors who have been physically abused and tear-gassed at Black Lives Matter protests.<br />
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I believe that our free speech comes with responsibility for deep listening. Otherwise, it’s just grandstanding. And I happen to think <i>that</i> kind of speech <i>is</i> best served chilled.<br />
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My education is probably biased in a different way. But if free speech comes without the other stuff—without humility, empathy, and curiosity (and in our national case, without appreciation of intergenerational trauma) and without all of the things that make us such a unique community—I'm less sure it's worth celebrating after all.<br />
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This morning, I happened across Frederick Douglass's speech, "<a href="https://teachingamericanhistory.org/library/document/what-to-the-slave-is-the-fourth-of-july/">What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?</a>" Written nearly 200 years ago, it's a poignant reminder of who has the rights we so cherish, and how far we still have to go. May it not be too late to make sure that other folks are free.<br />
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<i>I was originally going to post this dish right around the time the protests started in the wake of George Floyd's murder, but then decided that as a white woman, I didn't need to take up more space and talk about my experience of protests. This dish is a dish of colonization, a dish that the British brought to Egypt, since neither rice nor pasta is native to those places, but that Egyptians made their own (and is now the national dish). My daughter learned about it during remote schooling this year, when she learned about a few non-Western cultures, and asked that we make it. As we ate it, she talked about Islamic traditions of charity, and recounted a story about children who took up a collection for their bus driver. I love all of its layers, and the colors, and the ways that the flavors blend together, just as I love the empathy, the curiosity, and humility my daughter brings to her education.</i><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nfV66-rojU0/Xv9M2fl090I/AAAAAAAAFxg/hPLWIEppJWUUTKCfyWimVYx1atGubFRXgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/koshari1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nfV66-rojU0/Xv9M2fl090I/AAAAAAAAFxg/hPLWIEppJWUUTKCfyWimVYx1atGubFRXgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/koshari1.jpg" width="300" /></a><b>Koshari</b><br />
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<i>Spice mix:</i><br />
1 T. cumin<br />
1 t. paprika<br />
1/2 t. nutmeg<br />
1/2 T. coriander<br />
1 t. lal mirch (or a sprinkle of cayenne)<br />
1 t. black pepper<br />
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<i>Tomato sauce:</i><br />
14.5 oz can fire roasted diced tomatoes or 4-5 blanched tomatoes<br />
2 T. olive oil<br />
1 med onion, chopped<br />
1 t. garlic, crushed<br />
1/2 t. salt<br />
1 cinnamon stick<br />
2 bay leaves<br />
1 T. vinegar<br />
1 t. lal mirch (or a sprinkle of crushed red pepper)<br />
3-4 T. water<br />
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<i>Rice:</i><br />
3 T. olive oil<br />
1/2 c. basmati rice<br />
2 c. water<br />
1 t. salt<br />
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1 1/2 c. black beluga lentils, soaked and boiled until done<br />
1 c. boiled elbow macaroni<br />
15 oz. can chickpeas, rinsed and drained<br />
1/2 onion, sliced thinly and fried in a bit of oil (see below)<br />
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In a small bowl, mix cumin, paprika, nutmeg, coriander, red chili powder, black pepper; blend well and set aside.<br />
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Add tomatoes to a cuisinart or blender; puree and set aside.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT7r7Q-AzIsDNd6I-3d89UvSQDLhEyUJEEjVsNEAx4ZQ3qB9ePATsf9GXlFABsMsASKsWTUKGQwKNhRoeh0tTTQQbh0WltZY4QJp5v09INepJVvj7R85EivP2rUa8qkR9JI2PfszpptKA/s1600/koshari2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT7r7Q-AzIsDNd6I-3d89UvSQDLhEyUJEEjVsNEAx4ZQ3qB9ePATsf9GXlFABsMsASKsWTUKGQwKNhRoeh0tTTQQbh0WltZY4QJp5v09INepJVvj7R85EivP2rUa8qkR9JI2PfszpptKA/s320/koshari2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
In a medium saucepan, heat oil over medium heat; add onion and sauté until translucent. Add garlic and mix well. Now add 2 T. of prepared spice mix, salt, cinnamon stick, and bay leaves and mix well. Add tomato puree; mix well and cook for 4-5 minutes. Add vinegar and crushed red chili; mix well. Add water and mix, cover and cook on low flame for 10-15 minutes and set aside.<br />
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In a medium-large pot, heat oil over medium heat; add rice, mix well and cook for 5 minutes. Add remaining spice mix and mix well. Add water and salt, mix well, and bring it to boil over medium heat. Cook until water is reduced, about 10 minutes. Reduce heat to low, cover and steam cook for 5-6 minutes. Set aside.<br />
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In yet another small saucepan, add the oil and heat over medium high heat. Add the sliced onion, stir and fry until crispy.<br />
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In a serving plate, layer the cooked rice, then boiled black lentils, macaroni, chickpeas, prepared tomato sauce, fried onion and serve.Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-59861772144966777012020-05-19T00:17:00.002-04:002020-05-19T19:47:22.339-04:00Re-Entry, and BiscuitsI haven't left the house much in the past two months, except to go to the doctor for my follow up surgery appointments. Oddly enough, as those have become less frequent, the world is simultaneously starting to open back up, and we're being asked what we want to make of it.<br />
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The weirdest part of it all is that I feel like there is no road map for this. Some call it a vacuum of leadership. Some call it regional discretion. Despite the ridiculous amount of reading I do, I just feel confused. I have a mask that someone made for me, which doesn't fit me particularly well. I have a few masks I bought, in different shapes and sizes, so I could try to figure out what DOES work, in the case that I have to go back to work with a mask on, which seems both likely and unlikely at the same time.<br />
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I've started to walk a little farther each day, most days anyway, just to get some exercise and make my foot remember what it's supposed to do. Generally speaking people seem to give each other a wide berth, which is nice. A lot of people wear masks around their chins, and yesterday I even saw someone wearing one around the back of his neck. I'm really not sure what he was planning to protect with that approach.</div>
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Today, S. and I went to get our wills signed. Sort of morbid, but honestly, a lot of the reading makes me worried because it seems like there are quite a lot of people who are healthy and on the cusp of middle age just like me who are fine one day and intubated the next. So I finally got around to making a phone call I'd been putting off, to a former student turned lawyer, someone I've always thought of as a genuinely nice human being.</div>
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We had our first appointment via zoom, and that was fine, but there are things like notaries involved in will-signing. So we pocketed our masks, and headed out.<br />
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Have you noticed that in a lot of parking lots, even the cars seems socially distanced? Admittedly, I don't get out much, but it's seemed that way to me. So it struck me as strange to see all of the cars huddled together in the parking lot of the law office when we pulled in.<br />
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It was probably an omen, though, because we masked up, walked in, and quickly discovered that we were the only people wearing masks in the building. I immediately felt both a little uncomfortable, and a lot conspicuous, but even more determined than before not to remove it. I thought about all of the people whose lives these people touch. I thought about the super-connectedness of the human race that thought of ourselves as individuals. And I confess, I was stunned and a little bit horrified by the dish full of Hershey kisses still out the for the taking.<br />
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My former student turned lawyer greeted us, and reassured us that we were welcome to wear masks, but they don't. I wondered what it would take for the office to mask up, like the articles I've been reading by health professionals suggest we should do to slow the spread, not just now, but for a long time.<br />
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I still like my former student. He's still a nice guy. I don't regret asking him to prepare our wills. He donated a huge amount of KN95 masks to nursing homes recently, where a lot of his clients and clients' parents live. The visit was friendly, and we made small talk about our favorite restaurants in my town, and agreed that the biscuits at one of them really just don't measure up. But the experience gave me a small taste of what life will be like for a while if it remains the case that there is no universal guidance, like we're all flying blind. And I confess, I was more than a little glad to be back home, with the door shut, and where I didn't have to worry about the choice any more.<br />
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How about you? How are you making sense of the choices before us right now, if you happen to have one where you live? How are you coping with the choices that other people get to make?<br />
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<i>These biscuits are way better than the biscuits we both agreed were terrible at our local restaurant. I was feeling like we needed bread with soup one night, and it was too late to start something in the breadmaker, so this is what we ended up with. And best of all, we don't need yeast, which you can't find anyway. For best results, chill your butter in the freezer for 10-20 minutes before beginning this recipe. It's ideal that the butter is very cold for light, flaky, buttery biscuits.</i><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q5wPD6xN8JQ/XsNcZlBFH7I/AAAAAAAAFs0/VyGqVq9iNwwhht_AnGp145wlV_Ri2LIEQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/biscuits.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q5wPD6xN8JQ/XsNcZlBFH7I/AAAAAAAAFs0/VyGqVq9iNwwhht_AnGp145wlV_Ri2LIEQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/biscuits.JPG" width="300" /></a><b>Better Biscuits</b><br />
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2 c. flour<br />
1 T. baking powder<br />
1 T. granulated sugar<br />
1 t. salt<br />
6 T. unsalted butter very cold<br />
3/4 c. whole milk<br />
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Preheat oven to 425F and line a cookie sheet with nonstick parchment paper.<br />
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Combine flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt in a large bowl and mix well. Set aside.<br />
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Remove your butter from the refrigerator and either cut it into your flour mixture using a pastry cutter or use a box grater to shred the butter into small pieces and then add to the flour mixture and stir. Cut the butter or combine the grated butter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs.<br />
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Add milk, use a wooden spoon or spatula to stir until combined (don't over-work the dough). Transfer your biscuit dough to a well-floured surface and use your hands to gently work the dough together. If the dough is too sticky, add flour until it is manageable.<br />
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Once the dough is cohesive, fold in half over itself and use your hands to gently flatten layers together. Rotate the dough 90 degrees and fold in half again, repeating this step 5-6 times but taking care to not overwork the dough. Use your hands (don't use a rolling pin) to flatten the dough to 1" thick and lightly dust a 2 3/4" round biscuit cutter with flour.<br />
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Making close cuts, press the biscuit cutter straight down into the dough and drop the biscuit onto your prepared baking sheet. Repeat until you've gotten as many biscuits as possible and place less than 1/2" apart on baking sheet. Once you've gotten as many biscuits as possible out of the dough, gently re-work the dough to get out another biscuit or two until you have at least 6 biscuits.<br />
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Bake for 12 minutes or until tops are beginning to just turn lightly golden brown. If desired, brush with melted salted butter immediately after removing from oven. Serve warm.</div>
Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-53782732756511772422020-04-22T19:36:00.005-04:002020-05-20T08:23:08.496-04:00Abby Normal, and Rustic Cabbage SoupI don't know about you, but some days I feel like I've become, a Vonnegut puts it, a little "unstuck in time." Other days I get up and think, OK, I can do this. I've been having more of the latter kinds of days recently, and I feel my sense of normal shifting a little bit.<br />
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Yesterday, at a meeting with some senior administrators, it became clear that there was a real possibility that we wouldn't be back at my university in the fall. I guess that had always been a possibility, but I guess I've been coping pretty well because I'm living in denial. And suddenly I felt like the ground moved out from under me.<br />
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It was a familiar nausea, a small part of something like what I felt when I lost my second pregnancy. I had all of these plans, plans that were made not just with me but with other people -- family, colleagues, friends -- and then the plans suddenly were not-plans. I didn't know how to live in the world any more, when the reality I'd imagined for myself was suddenly no longer even possible. And further, it was <i>never</i> going to be like it was "before."</div>
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My yoga teacher wrote something the other day that her teacher taught her about patience, and that really struck a chord for me. She wrote that "patience is not when we're sitting and waiting for something to be over" (that's more like tolerance); rather, patience is "staying present while knowing you don't know when, or how, or even if it (whatever it is) will end. What you do know is that you can't do anything to speed the process along." And what happens in the course of that kind of patience is that we emerge, from whatever it is, changed.<br />
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Like many of you, I suspect, I've felt frustrated and sad that the world I'm used to moving through isn't here, and from all indications, it's not likely to be back to that kind of normal any time soon. Or ever. People will die. People will lose jobs. Our whole economy is likely to change. That realization is sort of like being at the top of a roller coaster, and knowing that there is no way out but down; frankly, it makes me a little queasy, as unknowns tend to do. But maybe there's something to be gained from the practice of patience in the way my yoga teacher describes it. Normal wasn't working all that well anyway for a lot of people; if nothing else, COVID has laid bare those failures. Maybe we begin to cobble together something different, and eventually something better, than the normal we had before. Arundhati Roy has written about the how the <a href="https://www.ft.com/content/10d8f5e8-74eb-11ea-95fe-fcd274e920ca" target="_blank">Pandemic is a Portal</a>: “Historically, pandemics have forced humans to break with the past and imagine their world anew. This one is no different. It is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next…We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas, our dead rivers and smoky skies behind us. Or we can walk through lightly, with little luggage, ready to imagine another world. And ready to fight for it.” And Ruha Benjamin reminded us in a <a href="https://aas.princeton.edu/news/black-skin-white-masks-racism-vulnerability-refuting-black-pathology" target="_blank">talk she gave</a> at our local independent bookstore <a href="https://www.labyrinthbooks.com/" target="_blank">Labyrinth</a> recently, hope isn't something we have, but something we do.<br />
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You may not feel like you have the energy for that right now. I don't consistently have the energy for that, either. As a blogging friend said to me: there are "no words of wisdom or inspiration that are going to spiritually bypass us out of this one." But instead of waiting for it all go to back to the way it was, maybe there are small ways in which I can reimagine what's normal. Being present, being patient, showing up for whatever the hell this is, and being willing to be changed.<br />
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<i>We've been making a lot of soup around here, because they're filling, comforting, and not too expensive. Good pandemic food, and good for a different kind of normal. This one is easy, uses things you are likely to have in your pantry or can find in a store.</i><br />
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<b>Rustic Cabbage Soup</b><br />
<i>courtesy of 101 Cookbooks</i><br />
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1 T. extra virgin olive oil<br />
a big pinch of salt<br />
1/2 lb. potatoes, skin on, cut 1/4-inch pieces<br />
4 cloves garlic, chopped<br />
1/2 large yellow onion, thinly sliced<br />
5 c. stock (I used chicken stock)<br />
1/2 c. soaked dried white beans (you can also just use 1 15 oz. can, see note)<br />
1/2 medium cabbage, cored and sliced into 1/4-inch ribbons<br />
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Warm the olive oil in a large thick-bottomed pot over medium-high heat. Stir in the salt and potatoes. Cover and cook until they are a bit tender and starting to brown a bit, about 5 minutes - it's o.k. to uncover to stir a couple times. Remove to a bowl.<br />
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Stir in the garlic and onion and cook for another minute or two. Add the stock and the beans and bring the pot to a simmer. Cook for about an hour and a half, and then add the potatoes back in. Cook for another 20 minutes or so or until the beans are soft.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Fne4oevFmt4Z9hi6rGU_HlCks5jI_-pXXwHVU9r5UbaUQkQTBW5STScVcVWHIRwyXiJkgPZfk9g1GCm7Tl5eQIiQAp4ej4Hs8tK02BC9Jsnnan3Ijbiwn0j89nPFKISskmJmi73g1wU/s1600/IMG-7083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Fne4oevFmt4Z9hi6rGU_HlCks5jI_-pXXwHVU9r5UbaUQkQTBW5STScVcVWHIRwyXiJkgPZfk9g1GCm7Tl5eQIiQAp4ej4Hs8tK02BC9Jsnnan3Ijbiwn0j89nPFKISskmJmi73g1wU/s400/IMG-7083.JPG" width="300" /></a>Stir in the cabbage and cook for a couple more minutes, until the cabbage softens up a bit. Adjust the seasoning, adding more salt if needed.<br />
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Serve drizzled with a bit of olive oil and a generous dusting of parmesan cheese.<br />
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<i>*Note: if you want to use canned beans, just add them into the potatoes along with the stock, and then add the cabbage without the long cooking time in between.</i><br />
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Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5544913458028415917.post-33752355489700454492020-04-10T22:05:00.001-04:002020-04-11T21:13:13.872-04:00Acknowledgements, and Cinnamon BunsEvery Friday, I write to the senior class, in a series I call my "senior thesis Friday" emails. All of our AB students (about 75% of them) write a senior thesis, and a good chunk of the engineers do, too. It's something between a rite of passage and hazing ritual, I guess, and it's hard enough to do under normal circumstances, never mind during a pandemic when you've been scattered away from your community of friends, and are now REALLY writing this thing alone. I am worried about them.<br />
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I always try to offer some practical advice (like break down a larger thing into small manageable uber-specific chunks, or get enough sleep) and encouragement (the equivalent of "you got this"), and I always include an inspirational song (I always wonder if they follow the links and ask each other whether they think I really listen to Lizzo and Andra Day and Gorilla Biscuits).</div>
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We're getting closer to the University deadline, and I have no idea how many of them may not make it over the finish line this year. It's right around now when I start to worry about the ones we haven't heard from, and at least when we're on campus I know how to find them. Now, I really don't even know where to begin if they go MIA and stop answering my emails and texts.</div>
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Knowing that it's getting both close to the end and also getting more difficult (as people continue to get sick, and the markets tank and job offers are revoked or not extended at all, and as students lose motivation and a sense of purpose), my piece of advice this week was to write the acknowledgements. It seems a little crazy to do that before you finish, but it's better to do it when you're not exhausted anyway, and I tell them that it will make them feel good to remember the people who have been there all along and are still cheering them on, and that it can motivate them to keep going when things feel impossible. It's like gratitude, I guess, right? When we express gratitude, we feel better about the world, we notice positive things, we feel loved and cared for. The acknowledgements, in a weird way, engender hope.</div>
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If I had to write the acknowledgements for what was a particularly sucky week, I think I'd have to do something along these lines: </div>
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I want to thank everyone who helped me get to Friday this week. To my orthopedic surgeon, who continues to see me in 3D for follow up care and makes me feel like an important patient, for not laughing at my crazy jury-rigged pink bandanna mask, and for making me feel like I was doing a good job at <i>something </i>(sitting on my butt), at least. To my colleague A, who invited me to zoom happy hour for two in the middle of the week, and reminded me to take care of myself and stay sane. To the amazing <a href="https://www.sciasciaconfections.com/" target="_blank"><b>chocolatier</b></a> that I know on a first name basis, who overnighted a SECOND package of Easter bunnies to us after the first package was lost to the UPS black hole (I know that UPS folks are completely overwhelmed and hope someone is enjoying an early Easter present---you seriously need to order yourself some of his macarons). To the people at my car dealership, who, in a turn of insanity that I can't quite wrap my brain around, risked their health to come pick up my car with the perpetually dead battery from my house and drive it to the dealership for repairs so I didn't even need to worry about how I'd get it there with a broken foot and only one other driver in the house. To my long time friend who checked in on me randomly, even though I should be the one checking in on <i>him</i>. To the kind people who welcomed me back so warmly to my little space here, which I hope I can try to inhabit again for a while. To my husband, who has been pretty patient with me, and who has tried to anticipate my needs. To my son, whose dry and flat sense of humor and ability to be amused by pretty much everything continues to me to maintain perspective. To my daughter, who, in needing lots of hugs this week, also gave them to me. This week would not have been survivable without their support.<br />
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We are going to have to talk, at some point, about the problematic nature of acknowledgements. The people who are most endangered by this. The people I can thank, but for whom "thanks" is really not cutting it. The people who need better pay for what they do. Health insurance. Better housing. The people who allow me, who has done nothing to deserve it, to stay home.</div>
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It's Good Friday, speaking of acknowledgements (because isn't that what Easter really is about? about someone who made the ultimate sacrifice for human beings? to give them hope?), and I probably should be posting a recipe for hot cross buns. But no one except me likes them around here, so I've got the next best thing: cinnamon rolls. Which my daughter made. The one who needs, and gives, hugs.</div>
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What do <i>your</i> acknowledgements look like this week?</div>
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<b>Cinnamon Buns</b> (from the Unofficial Harry Potter Cookbook)</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s6ZCWHIXi38/XpEk4akH2HI/AAAAAAAAFmo/rE5fxIn_MXoXFN6-ROTJOnz9YPWpC79DwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/buns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s6ZCWHIXi38/XpEk4akH2HI/AAAAAAAAFmo/rE5fxIn_MXoXFN6-ROTJOnz9YPWpC79DwCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/buns.jpg" width="300" /></a><u>Dough</u></div>
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1/4 cup warm water</div>
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1 Tbs (1 package) active dry yeast</div>
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1 Tbs granulated sugar</div>
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2/3 cup whole milk</div>
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1/2 stick (4Tbs) butter</div>
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3 cups all-purpose flour</div>
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1/2 tsp salt</div>
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2 large eggs</div>
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1/3 cup granulated sugar</div>
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<u>Cinnamon Filling</u></div>
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1 Tbs butter, melted</div>
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1/4 cup packed dark brown sugar</div>
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1 Tbs ground cinnamon</div>
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<u>Icing</u></div>
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1 cup confectioner's sugar, sifted</div>
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4 oz cream cheese, softened</div>
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1 Tbs heavy cream</div>
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1/2 tsp vanilla</div>
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Combine the water, yeast, and 1T sugar in a small mixing bowl and set aside until puffy. Heat the milk and butter in a small saucepan (or the microwave) until the butter is melted; set aside. Whisk together the flour and salt and set aside. In yet another bowl, whisk together the eggs and sugar, then whisk in the milk-butter mixture. Add the yeast and egg mixtures to the flour and stir to combine (it's helpful to whisk 1/2 cup if the flour into the egg mixture first until smooth before combining everything).</div>
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Knead the dough until it's smooth and elastic, about 10 minutes. Place the dough in an oiled bowl, turing to coat, and cover. Leave in a warm place until doubled in size, 1.5 to 2 hours.</div>
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Grease and flour a 9x13" pan. Turn the dough out onto a floured surface and roll (or press) out into a 16x12" rectangle. Brush the melted butter over the dough.</div>
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Combine the brown sugar and cinnamon and sprinkle generously over the dough within 1/2" of the edges. Roll up the dough long ways and cut off the messy ends if you want (I didn't). Use dental floss (no, really!) to cut the roll in halves until you have 12 rolls. Lay the rolls in the prepared pan and leave them to rise until the rolls are all touching and reach the rim, about 1.5 to 2 hours (or overnight in the fridge, which is what we did).</div>
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Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and bake the rolls for 20 minutes until golden brown. Let the rolls cool for 10 minutes before inverting the rolls out of the pan, and then flipping them again onto a serving dish.</div>
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To make the icing, beat the icing ingredients together with a fork (if you don't sift the powdered sugar, the icing will be lumpy). Spread the icing over the warm rolls and eat as soon as possible. They really don't keep well for more than a couple hours!</div>
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Justine Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14190295175501659469noreply@blogger.com2