Barbara Chepaitis's Blog: http://aliterarylunch.blogspot.com/2015/07/frying-mad.html, page 4

DREAM HOUSE

     Daily bread, daily dogs and cats, and daily living
  Luna Loves Bread      Some of the best parts of my life have happened in spite of my resistant, or by accident.  For instance, dogs.  And for instance, building a house, which happened by accident.  Or, more accurately, by a series of misadventures.  
     When Steve and I got engaged and he decided to move from Connecticut to upstate New York, we started looking for a house to buy.  We wanted a few acres, and didn’t mind a fixer-upper, so when I saw an ad for a 250 year old house with six acres, not too far from where I was teaching, I made an appointment to go view it.
     The night before I went, I had a dream - a very happy dream - about an area of scattered houses with lots of space between, but all connected by intricate paths through woods and over open meadows. Each house was different, some old and some new.  I saw it all from above, and liked what I saw.        The next morning, as I drove up the winding road toward our possible home, I kept seeing houses I’d seen in my dream.  Later, when I took a friend to look at it, she mused, “Wow.  This is weird. I’ve dreamt about this place.”      The land of dreams.  As a writer, I always felt I belonged just there.  So surely this must be my dream house, right?     When I got to the door of the plain white farmhouse with a big old Maple tree in front, I was greeted by two women, mother and daughter, one in her sixties, and one in her eighties.  They were only the second family to live here in all of its 250 years. They’d bought it many years ago, when they worked in their family circus.      That’s no metaphor.Their family owned a small circus, and the two women once worked as tiger tamers and horse trainers. From that moment on, we referred to the place as The Circus House, and the name was entirely appropriate.     As it turned out, they’d added six rooms to house the circus people. You know - the contortionist’s room, the trapeze room, etcetera. Unfortunately,  the circus went bust before they finished, so the top floor was just framing, with fireplaces and wiring that was nowhere near code.  When our inspector came to look at it, he showed me how he could bounce on the roof like a trampoline act, and how the septic system was oozing out the lawn, and how the three different heating systems (oil, electric, and gas) weren’t working. My Dream House was a nightmare.    Still, we were besotted, and willing to work, so we made a lowball offer. It was rejected. The circus ladies would accept nothing under full asking price, and if we combined that with repairs, we’d be joining the Circus of the Damned.      We walked away, but the nightmare continued. For the next year every attempt we made to buy a house led to strangely disastrous results.  One ended with the owner screaming at me for reasons I never  understood. Then there was the house with dead mice in the hot tub, the one with water pouring out the electrical fixtures, and the houses that seemed perfect, except they were right next to a railroad track, or had an electrical tower in the front yard.  And finally, there was the beautiful post and beam.         It was just down the road from the Circus House, and within budget. Everything looked solid and secure, until our inspector said the well might be running dry.  He suggested we get a well guy to test it, and we did.     The date we set for the test was September 12th, and the year was 2001.    Yes.  Really.  The day after the towers fell.      So imagine me, on the day after 9/11, gearing up for a well inspection.  I’d spent the previous day and night with my students on UAlbany’s campus, watching in horror as the towers fell, not sure if the attacks were going to get worse.  Then, first thing the next morning, I put on my leather jacket, my best sunglasses and boots, and made my way up the hill under a silent sky, to meet with a well inspector.  I had to be tough, prepared to meet men who might lie or bully me.  I had to not think about how the world was falling apart.     As I pulled in the driveway, the home owner and well inspector were at the well.  I got out of my car and walked tall.  When I got to them, before I could say a word, three gunshots rang out.       I stood very still.  Nothing else happened, and I wasn’t dead.  I pulled my shades down and stared at the owner.  “Who’s he shooting at?” I asked mildly.     The owner got nervous.  “That’s just my neighbor,” he said. “He likes to pop bunnies in his garden.  But don’t worry.  He’s got cataracts and can’t see anyway.”     Right.  And that’s a good thing?      As it turned out, the well was no good, and the owner wouldn’t negotiate, but if he had, I didn’t want to live next door to a blind bunny popper.  The year had enough violence in it already.        So again, we walked away and, and for a while, we just gave up.  Even our realtor suggested we should, um, ‘take a break.‘   Then, after a while, Steve and I talked about maybe sorta kinda looking at land. Not that we meant it or anything, but we had to live somewhere. I made appointments to view three parcels. The first was too expensive. The second was too small.        But the third one - ah, the third one.       I arranged to meet Bill West at his house, a log cabin that belonged to his family.  He was a tall, rugged man dressed in the flannel and workboots common to the area, and he had the country friendly attitude that was also normal here.  He took me down the road to walk the boundaries of the land, which was dry on top, a bit boggy behind, and wooded all around with about a hundred acres that he owned, and used mostly for hunting during deer season. From where the house would sit, I could peer out over the Heldeberg escarpment.  An old Shagbark Hickory was centrally placed in what might be the back yard. I liked it. When we were done walking around, we stood on the road and talked.        As we did, a car went by, and Bill shook his head.  “Dammit,” he said.  “That’s the third car in an hour.  Traffic around here is getting heavy.”     I smiled. That was just what I needed to hear.     There were good reasons I wanted to live on the hill.  But building a house?  Really?   Was I ready for that?  Did I have a clue?  Not at all.  But I’ve learned that when you follow your dreams, generally the first stop along the way is a place called Trouble.       Fortunately, Steve is the kind of guy who swore he would have gotten me off the Titanic alive, and I believed him.  He always had a plan.  So we strapped our seatbelts on, and got ready for the ride.  This land was ours.
    You can read a fictionalized version of The Circus House in my novel, Something Unpredictable , an environmental romantic comedy, with turtles.     
    Accidental Bread
    I made this bread by accident.  The original recipe was for rosemary and olive oil, which you can substitute because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!  However, I was out of olive oil, so I used a really good truffle oil instead.  Now, it's one of my favorites.  

You’ll need to make a starter - the kind called biga.  Don’t be afraid.  It won’t hurt you.  But  make it at least a day ahead, or even up to a week.  The longer it sits, the more flavor it develops.
Biga Shhhh.  It's resting2/3 cup water1 teaspoon instant yeast1 1/3 cup flour  (I use organic bread flour. You can use all-purpose unbleached flour, or a mix of white and whole wheat.)Mix all this together until a dough forms, knead it a little bit, and put the dough in a covered container.  Let it sit at room temperature for an hour, then refrigerate it for at least overnight, and up to a few days, until you’re ready to use it.  Bread Dough1 1/3 cup water1 teaspoon instant yeast3 1/4 cups flour (again, all purpose or bread flour, and you can mix in some whole wheat, but you may have to add more water if you do.)1/3 cup Truffle Oil  (Or mix truffle and olive oil if you prefer)1 tablespoon fresh finely chopped rosemary2 teaspoons sea salt.And a teaspoon of pepper won't hurt it at all.Take the biga out of the fridge and put a cup of it in a Big mixing bowl (A really biga mixing bowl.  Ha!  Get it?)  Pour the water over it and break it up with a spatula.  Add in everything else, and if you’re mixing by hand, get to it!  If you’re using a mixer, use the dough hook, and mix it on medium until it’s silky, smooth, and elastic - about 10 minutes.NOTE:  If you’ve never made bread before, the idea is to knead and pummell and flop it, stretch and mush it and stretch it again and smack it around some more until the dough is elastic, silky and smooth, holding together welll.  If you want, you can buy bread dough at the store and just feel it, so you’ll know the right texture of it all.Put the dough in a lightly oiled bowl or container and cover it, leave it to rise at room temp until it’s doubled in volume.  That’ll be an hour or two, so you can go write something while the dough does its thing.   When it’s risen sufficiently, divide the dough into two loaves and shape each into a log about a foot long.  Get a piece of parchment paper or a cookie tray and lightly oil it, dust it with cornmeal, and put the dough on it.  Cover lightly with plastic wrap or a clean dishtowel  (if you don’t have a clean dishtowel, go wash one, and explain to your mother, not me, why you had to do that.)Let the logs rise at room temp for about an hour.  While they’re rising, heat up your oven to WAY HIGH.  I mean, 500 degrees.   If you have a baking stone put it in the oven. When the dough is risen and the oven’s really hot, slide the loaves in, turn the heat down to 400, and close the oven door.  (Or, if you want a thicker, crunchier crust, put a cast iron fry pan on the oven floor and drop in some ice cubes just before you put the bread in to cook.  The steam does something to the crust.  Don’t ask me to explain what.  I can’t. )Bake until the bread is nicely browned, and sounds hollow when tapped.  Don’t let it burn, for pity’s sake.  Not after all this work.    When you take it out of the oven, the smell will be rich as all our lives should be, and you’ll be tempted to cut into it right away.  Let it rest for at least 10 to fifteen minutes.  It’ll  cut better, and be just the right temperature for eating all of it.     

DRIVING WHERE YOU LOOK

Looking to Drive DRIVING WHERE YOU LOOK
     No, that title isn’t backwards. I said that just the way I meant to.  It comes from something a race car driver told me.  He said, “If there’s a wreck on the track, don’t look at it, because you’ll drive where your eyes are pointed.  Instead, look at where you want to go. Look at your racing line.”     I’ve been thinking about that lately, because my year had a few figurative wrecks in it, and I’ve been trying to shift my vision, stay on my racing line. Yesterday, something happened that helped me do so, which started with a literal wreck, when my mother’s stolen rosary was run over by a car.      Yes, that sentence is also accurate.  I’m a writer, for God’s sake.  The rosary is one I inherited from my mother, which my Italian grandmother stole from the Vatican.     The story goes like this:  Grandma Campilli, at the age of 70, returned to Italy for a visit.  This time she went first class instead of steerage, and she went to Rome, to see the Vatican. Grandma, a staunch individualist, wasn’t part of any tour that had a scheduled visit with the Pope, but there was a tour group there, so she just tagged along with them.  At some point she realized she wanted to bring home a rosary blessed by the Pope for her daughter (my mother), and she didn’t have an extra, so she stole one.     The particulars are fuzzy.  Whether she lifted it from the Vatican gift shop, picked someone’s pocket or what, remains unclear.  But she got it blessed, and brought it back with her.  It came to me during my mother’s last illness, because I was clutching it in one hand, holding her hand with my other, as she died.  As you can imagine, it’s meaningful to me, even though I am (as my mother always claimed) a pagan in practice and at heart.       I keep it with me when I’m missing her, or when I’m about to do something that subverts the dominant paradigm. That means I carry it around a lot.  But recently, when I was going to a friend’s house, it jumped out of my pocket and landed on the road.  I didn’t realize it until I got home, and when I returned to the scene, it was lying in the road, mangled and in pieces after being run over.       You can imagine my horror, my chagrin.  Was my mother rejecting me - again?  Throwing herself under the wheels of a car rather than be part of my life?  Or was she just trying to teach me something - again? She always had a strange way of teaching me stuff.     Instead of trying to figure it out - she was always very difficult to figure out - I brought the rosary to  Adams Jeweler, in Stuyvesant Plaza here in Albany and asked if they could fix it.     The first gentleman I spoke with wasn’t Catholic, and didn’t understand how rosaries were put together.  “What are these spaces for?” he asked.  “Are beads missing?” I tried to explain about the decades of the rosary and so on, but he shook his head, told me it would probably cost around $75, and got an associate, who apparently had an intimate understanding of rosaries.  I told them both the story of how it was stolen, how it came to me, and left it in his care.      Yesterday, I went to pick it up, good as new, its ebony beads shiny and bright.  When I pulled out my card to pay for it, the woman who waited on me - and who had been told the story of the theft and so on - said, “Oh no.  There’s no charge.  He never charges for rosaries.”     Really.     One of the recent wrecks in my life has disturbed the household’s economic equilibrium (a nice way of saying good lord, the furnace broke and we have to buy a new one), so I’d been concerned about paying for a rosary that’s of purely sentimental value. The other wrecks in my life were from people who have apparently sold their souls, relinquished their sense of compassion and human connection.  So this gesture, something Mr. Rosary Man does as a part of his being, was one I needed, pretty desperately.     A thoughtful and generous stranger had, just because he thought it was right, unwittingly met my needs on both a material and spiritual level. Out of the goodness of his own spirit, he did that. His very existence reminded me that eccentric integrity still exists, and still acts for good in the world.        Thank you, Mr. Rosary Fixer at Adam’s Jewelers . Your actions put more light in the world. Just you, being who you are, made the world a better place for me.   And probably thank you, Mom, for creating the wreck that made the light possible. 
   The Thomas Moore epigraph for my novel, Feeding Christine , reads: Simple gestures, taking place on the surface of life, can be of central importance to the soul.  This was all that, and as a writer, I take those gestures seriously as markers for what I need to do next.  Consequently, for the next year, instead of A Literary Lunch, my blog will be  Home on the Hill, telling stories of the land I live on, the people and animals I share it with, and what it’s taught me. It will include recipes, and it will be daily, a disciplined immersion on the complexity of dogs, cats, daily happiness, and love.         Mind you, it won’t be all sweetness and light, because love is fierce and honest as well as kind. Sometimes your mother creates a wreck in order to help you find the light. But  it will all be pointed toward the racing line of love, because in spite of all wrecks, I still think love is the answer, even when I’m not sure what the questions are.  
       You can find my books on Amazon , and link into my new blog at Home On The Hill .   
JUST DESERTS: STEVE’S WHOOPIE PIES
   I’m not a baker, and I don’t even play one on TV, but I thought I should include something that wraps a meal up nicely, since A Literary Lunch has been a tasty meal for me to write.  So here’s something we all should enjoy, a yummy something to say “WHOOPIE!” With, as we end one meal, and begin planning the next one.  My husband Steve got it from his aunt, about whom he says:  “My aunt had two endearing qualities.  The first was her laugh, which, I am convinced, was copied by funhouse operators across the country.  It was hearty, out of control, and genuine.  It was also highly infectious.  The second was her baking skill. . . . and these pies are like her laughter.  Be warned:  One is not enough, two is the beginning of the slide to hell, and more almost mandatory.”  The recipe can also be found in the cookbook, Serve it Forth , a collection of SF and Fantasy writer’s recipes, edited by Anne McCaffrey, with John Betancourt.  
They're all laughing at me
INGREDIENTS
for cakes    1 cup sugar   1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda   2 cups flour   1 cup milk   1 egg   5 tablespoons cocoa   5 tablespoons shortening   1 teaspoon vanilla
Put it all in a bowl and mix it well.  If you laugh like Steve’s aunt while you mix, that will infuse more joy into it.   Drop about a tablespoon at a time onto cookie sheets.  Bake at 350 degrees for 8-10 minutes.
for filling
1/2 cup shortening3 tablespoons butter1/2 cup confectioner’s sugar1/2 cup marshmallow creme1 teaspoon vanilla

Mix all this well, and after the cakes have cooled, spread between two cakes to make pies.  Of course, if you like, you can make the filling chocolate by adding cocoa, or you could try chambord in with it for a bit of raspberry zing because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!     

THIS ONE

A writer’s daily bread, daily dogs and cats, and daily living.   

Luna is home on the hill      This is a new blog, so let’s keep it simple.  Let’s start with the dogs.       Wait.  Forget simple.  We nurture the illusion that dogs are simple creatures, hoping to satisfy our own yearning for simplicity, but they’re actually not, and neither is our relationship with them.  At least, mine isn’t.      I didn’t want a dog. In fact, I didn’t like dogs.  I grew up with an unneutered male beagle named Prince, pride and joy of my father, a hunter and fly fisher.  For my mother, Prince was the cross she had to bear because he was raised in an Italian household that never never let furred creatures enter the house. For my part, by the time I knew Prince he not at all cute or cuddly.  In fact, he was sausage shaped, smelly, and his amorous yearnings for girl dogs in the neighborhood was a constant embarrassment.  Between that and my mother’s muttered Italian imprecations about him, I’d learned that dogs were a lot more trouble than they were worth.       Perhaps in reaction to all that, as an adult I became a confirmed cat lover, taking a variety of interesting felines into my life.  Cats were easy, graceful, meditative and eccentric enough to be amusing.  Despite common belief to the contrary, my cats were always affectionate and responsive to their human companions, each in their own way.        However, shortly after my husband Steve and I moved into the house we’d built, I caught him sighing over doggie ads on the internet.   Doesn't need to be walked    “Her name is Lucy,” he muttered, as he pointed to a blue eyed lab mix who stared soulfully out from the screen.  He’d once had a dog named Lucy - Well, Lucifer, really.  A strange mid-sized brown dog who bounced up and down relentlessly.  He’d also had a big, docile black lab called Moo.  And a few insane Westies.  In fact, he’d had dogs all his life, and now that we had land and a house, he was missing them.        “This is important to you, isn’t it?” I asked.      He turned stoic, shook his head. “You don’t like dogs,” he replied.  “I’m okay without one.”      Yeah.  Right.  I took a wait and see attitude, and when I found him continuing to stare at dog ads the next night, and the one following, and the one after that, I caved. After all, part of our wedding vows, which I wrote, said that I’d consider his joy as I did my own.  That’s the problem with being a writer.  You put it in print, and then you have to live it.     “Maybe we should seriously consider this,” I said.  “Like, pick one and go see it.  How about that Lucy dog?”      If Steve was a dog, his tail would have started thumping.  He returned to that website, only to find that Lucy was already gone.  She’d found her humans.  But for us, the search was officially on.  We browsed websites, considered breeds and needs.      “How about a nice little Papillon?” I said.     Steve scowled.  “That’s not really a dog, is it?” he said disdainfully.      “It’s a little dog, for a small woman who doesn’t want a major appliance on legs,” I noted.  I’m only five feet tall, and I don’t weigh that much, so I was hoping for an animal I could manage without further weight training.     “We’re out in the country,” he said.  “We should give a home to a dog that needs to, you know, run and jump in water and stuff.”     I left him to seek doggie perfection, and in the meantime, I started my own research going.  I learned that pit bulls are actually quite lovely, if they’re trained.  Also that little dogs can be yippie, and big dogs droolly.  That border collies need a job and Vischlas have to run almost constantly.  That there were monks in New York State who bred the best German Shepherds going, while living next to nuns who made the best cheesecakes.  They kept the puppies tied to them all day, petting them and handling them gently from birth so they’d be incredibly in tune with their humans.        When I told my friend Rachel about this, she said, “Now there’s a tough job.  I can just see it.  ‘Oh, Sister Marie, I had such a hard day playing with puppies.  I need cheesecake.’”       She had a point.  Anyway, there was a two year waiting list for those dogs, and they cost a hefty chunk of cash.  We returned to scouring rescue sites, debating the pros and cons of breeds versus mutts, puppies versus grown dogs, and so on.  Since our journey from dating to marriage took more than five years, and our house-getting project about two, I fully expected we’d be at least another year picking a dog.        But then, fate intervened. Bill, our neighbor down the road and the man we bought our land from, called to let us know his two black labs, Gandalf and Arwen (yes, really), had produced a litter.  Were we interested? We told him we’d think about it.  At least we’d come see them.      We knew Gandalf well.  He weighed in at about 120, a big, loping, creature who had a regular routine of walking about to see the neighbors.  He stopped by occasionally to say hello, get a treat, and poop in the yard.  Arwen, smaller and sweet natured, didn’t travel, but I’d met her at times when I went to see Bill about the land buying process.         “Well?” I  asked Steve. “What do you think?”      “They’re puppies. They’ll be cute. If I see them, I might just get one,” he pointed out. “You sure you’re ready?”       I wondered if this was anywhere near what people felt when they were deciding whether or not to have a baby.  My own son was just suddenly there, and I’m glad I did it that way because if I had to think about the ramifications, I might not have that huge piece of joy in my life.  But a dog?  In fact, that might be harder.       I made a smile.  “Sure,” I said.  “Let’s go see them.”     “Puppies,” he muttered, and I became aware that his brain had just turned to mush.        Bill came outside, and he and Steve started talking particulars about the black balls of fur and  motion that were rolling about.  I never claimed to be psychic, but it was clear to me that one of them was going to be ours.     I started my own process going, hoping to retain the only control left to me.  I’d read that you don’t want the first dog that runs to you, because that one is probably dominant.  Nor do you want the one that runs away, because it might be too anxious.  So I moved among the puppies, and found one that was sitting, calm and alert, looking around.  When I approached her, she looked up at me and stood, moving toward me, her back end wiggling and her tail going, though her face remained serious and intent. I picked her up and held her.  She sat in my arms, still calm and alert, surveying the scene.  After a while she turned to me.  “So we’ve got that settled,” she seemed to say. “What’s next?”      Much to my surprise, my connection with her was immediate and complete.  Maybe because we were the only two females in a pack of males, or maybe because ancient Karma will always bit you in the rear, I knew she was right.  Though I still didn’t like dogs, something important had been wordlessly settled between us.  I couldn’t name the feeling at the time, but later I would recognize it as this:  She has been waiting for me, and I found her. We have places to go together.  Though I’m not sure I like it, we belong to each other.      I carried her over to Bill and Steve, who were rollicking with one of the bigger male puppies.  “This one,” I said, nodding at the puppy.       Bill blinked at me. Steve blinked at me.      “This one,” I said again. “We’ll take this one.”      And so it was that I chose my first dog.       But how I got to a place where I’d be choosing a dog is another story.  It has to do with seeking your Dream House, and all the obstacles you meet along the way.  It has to do with the way bliss is often preceded by obstacles that force you to run true to yourself, regardless.          Before I continue with the strange places this puppy led me, I suppose my next blog should tell you how I got the house that got me a dog.  And in case you’re hungry while you’re waiting, here’s food that says ‘home’ to me.
     If you want something to read while you eat, my novels and nonfiction books are available on Amazon .
     SIMPLE SAUCE AND MEATBALLS     Simple?  Sort of.  It’s like dogs - externally simple, but the chemistry is incredibly complex, with lots of transformations necessary to make your mouth say the simple word ‘yum.’  Or, if you’re French, ‘miam.’  Or if you’re Italian, ‘Mangia Buona!’  Fortunately, the making only takes good ingredients, time, and love, so consider NOT picking up that jar of store bought, and instead making your own.       My sauce, which you’ll not has no onions or oregano, is from my Abruzzi mother and grandmother, and creates the aroma of their houses, so it’s home base to me.  But sauce is infinitely variable, and you should feel free to try it without the sausage, or use just ground beef instead of meatballs (my husband’s preference) or try different herbs, because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!  
MEATBALLS1 pound ground beef1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste (In my house, we always tasted the meatballs when raw.  If you’re not comfortable with that, don’t do it.  Just use this measurement.)2 cloves garlic, grated or put through a garlic pressAbout a teaspoon of crushed dried basilAbout 1/2 cup plain breadcrumbsAbout 1/2 cup freshly grated Locatelli Romano pecorino cheese (use the good stuff!  It makes a difference!)1 egg
Get all this in a bowl and mush it together with your hands.  That’s right.  Your HANDS.  They’re the cooks best tools.  If you need to, add more breadcrumbs to make it hold together.
Roll the meat into balls, about 1 1/2 inches each.   Some people like bigger, some like smaller, so go with your preference on this one.  
Put them on a baking sheet, and bake in an oven at 350 degrees about 20 minutes.  Don’t overcook them, because they’ll also cook in the sauce.  
SAUCE
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil2 cloves garlic, grated or put through a pressAbout a tablespoon of dried basil, crushed in your hot little hands3 jars crushed tomatoes, or tomato puree  (puree has no seeds, if that matters to you.)2 really good sweet italian sausages (optional)About a pound of either short ribs, or other beef ribs (optional)The MeatballsMaybe a cup or 2 cups of waterAbout 1/2 cup of  fresh Locatelli Romano pecorino cheese, grated.Salt and pepper to taste
Simply DeliciousHeat up a really good sauce pot on the stove.  Add the olive oil and let it get to a sizzle.  Throw in the crushed basil.  Then toss in the sausage and the ribs, if you’re using them.  
Let them all dance around in the heat for a bit, then gradually pour in the crushed tomatoes or tomato puree, adding the water to keep it from getting too thick. (How thick is too thick?  Well, you want it to be a silky, viscous liquid rather than a pudding, or faux pudding.  Keep that in mind as you work, and adjust according to your own tastes. )  
Put the heat to medium-low.  
When it’s been simmering a bit, add the garlic, the meatballs, and then the cheese.  Turn the heat to LOW.  Let it simmer quietly, like it’s saying the rosary, for at least another hour.  Continue to visit it, stirring and testing.  You’ll know when it tastes right, the same way I knew the right puppy to pick.   Trust yourself.  (Besides, the worst that can happen is that it becomes compost, which will just feed the next batch of sauce. When it’s done, serve on your favorite pasta, and say THANKS!

BIRTHDAY TREATS

Chaco is a Birthday Treat
     Every year, on my birthday, I tell myself I can do anything I want for the day.  Of course, there have been some exceptions to that rule - for instance, the year my mother died, and I had to give her eulogy. Someday I may forgive her for that, if she'll go ahead and let me off the hook for that unfortunate adolescent phase, and for becoming a writer after all, in spite of all her warnings.        Today, my birthday, I told myself the same thing, and thought about going out shopping or to a movie, or maybe out with friends somewhere.  But when I thought about what I really really wanted to do, I decided to stay home and write.    And here’s the thing -  as I scan my choices for birthdays past, I pretty much came up with that same answer every time, given all my druthers. Some years I took a manuscript out to lunch and worked on it.  Some years I went away and wrote.  But every year, the day was not Birthday unless it had some writing in it.   Birthday Treat from my husband. LOVE IT!     You might say I really have to get a life - or if I’m channeling my mother she might say that - but here’s another thing.  I’ve got lots of lives.  Jaguar Addams and Teresa DiRosa, Eagle Mitch and all his friends, Cricket Thompson, Alex Dzarny, and more.   Granted, many of those folks are imaginary, but I am not one to be prejudiced against the existentially challenged.  Are you?
    No.  Of course not.      So the only remaining question for my birthday is what I’ll write, besides this blog.  More Jaguar?  Start in on that werewolf restaurant novel?  Maybe my ghostie nonfiction, Honey From the Bones?       Aah, abundance.  So many stories to tell, which is the best birthday present of all.      I’d better leave off this blog, and get to it.  First, I’ll leave you with this thought.  At some point during the year, you, too, will have a birthday.  Start planning now, by thinking about what, for you, qualifies as the Best Kind of Day.      
          If you want to buy a birthday present for yourself and me at the same time, you can purchase one of my books at lots of places.  Barnes and Noble, Amazon, and Wildside Press among them.    


           BIRTHDAY TREAT TORTELLINI     I made this earlier in the week, because I don’t cook on my birthday.  It’s a sunny and warm winter treat, but you have to have plucked and frozen a whole lot of squash blossoms over the summer to plan for it.     There’s no real substitute for squash blossoms, but if you don’t have any and still want an interesting and sunny sauce, use a finely diced, cooked and pureed carrot and zucchini mix, which will give you taste and color, plus more saffron instead because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR BIRTHDAY FOOD!

FILLING: Happy, Chubby Tortellini
1/2 pound ground veal or chicken1 cup or so of frozen or fresh chopped spinach1 cup of Ricotta cheese1/2 cup locatelli romano cheese1 clove garlic, mashed or gratedSalt and pepper to tasteA dash of nutmeg
Cook the ground meat up and drain it until it sighs, and cook the spinach and squeeze it dry until it squeals.  Combine this with the other ingredients and set aside.  (Sometimes I put a little chopped proscuitto in with this)
TORTELLINI
2 eggs2 cups Doppio ( 00) flour or all purpose flourA little water.
Beat the eggs up like they forgot your birthday.  Make a well with the flour and pour in the eggs.  Swish the flour into the eggs and the eggs into the flour with your hands, getting all messy and scattering flour about because it’s your birthday and nobody can yell at you.   Add water if necessary to make a firm and elastic ball of dough.  Wrap this up and let it rest half an hour while you go have some wine or a nap or open a present.   
Roll out the dough with a pasta maker or by hand so it’s thin enough to let light through, but not thin enough to see through.  I use the number 6 setting on the pasta maker, or what feels like that by hand.    
If you haven’t done so already, put some music on so you can sing as you work.  Or call a friend to help you, and open another bottle of wine.  Treats are supposed to be fun, you know.  Then cut out three inch rounds with a biscuit cutter.  Add about a teaspoon to the center, and brush the rim of the circle with water.  Fold the round in half, pressing the sides closed. 
Now, you can stop here and have cute little ravioli pillows, or you can take the two pointy ends and wrap them around your thumb, pressing them together, to make tortellini.  It’s really up to you, because it’s your treat.

THE SAUCE 
24 or more frozen squash blossoms, chopped and ends removed  OR about half a cup of carrot and half a cup of zucchini puree1 clove garlic, mashed or grated1 cup good chicken or veggie broth1/2 cup heavy cream1/2 cup reggiano parmigiano cheesea few threads of saffron (double it if you’re using carrots or squash rather than blossoms)a few grates of nutmeg, to tastesalt and pepper
Heat up a good size skillet and put in about two tablespoons of butter and the same of olive oil.  Add your squash blossoms or carrot puree.   Add the chicken broth, saffron, garlic and nutmeg.  Season with salt and pepper and taste to see if it’s as  you like it.  Turn the heat low to let it all simmer.  
If you haven’t done so already, put a BIG pot of water on to boil, adding salt to make it taste like the ocean.  While it gets up to heat and the sauce simmers, go have more wine.  Change the music to something like David Bowie, Suffragette City and dance around in a lively manner because you’re celebrating.   
In about half an our, add the cheese and cream. Stir and stir, and taste and amend as necessary but DO NOT let it boil again.  
THE BIG FINISH
When the water’s boiling, toss in the tortellini or ravioli, one at a time, wishing each a happy birthday because they’d do the same for you if they were tossing you into boiling water.  They’ll take only about four minutes to cook, so keep an eye on them.  
When they’re done, get them out of the water and put them in a bowl - but SAVE SOME OF THE COOKING WATER!.  Check your sauce and if it seems too thick, add some pasta water.  Then smother your little tortellinis with the sauce, get a bowl and fork and enjoy!  

POWER OF THE NAME

Chaco Names EVERYTHING

     Today is the feast of St. Barbara, for which my mother named me, and in some cultures you celebrate your name day, just as you celebrate your birthday. 
    This is, for me, a strange dilemma, because my mother died on the feast of St. Barbara, and she took my identity with her.  
     Warning: This is no metaphor. I’m not saying I had to struggle to find myself in the aftermath of her death and so on.  I mean that because my mother died on my name day, and was buried on my birthday, I forgot to renew my license, and when I finally went to DMV to do so, I was told I couldn’t renew it because there was a thirty year old error on my social security card.  Yes.  And I couldn’t get a new card because my license was expired.  And I couldn’t get a license because . . . .     You get the idea.  It’s a particular kind of hell.       The maelstrom of paper pushing confusion ultimately required a congressman, a lawyer, and some determined effort on my part to clear it up. You can read about all that in my nonfiction book, Saving Eagle Mitch. All I want to say here is that I’m convinced the entire debacle was my mother’s doing.  She was a teacher, and she was trying to teach me a few things about claiming your own identity, about naming yourself, about how to make difficult systems cooperate. These were all skills she was adept at, and as it turned out, skills I’d need to save a war-wounded eagle.    So today I’m sending a thank you to my mother for the lesson, and for the name. She gave it, but I chose it, and continue to do so, because it suits me to my bones.    Here’s why:         In Catholic terms, Barbara is patron saint of artillery, explosives, and lightning, still honored even though she was ousted by Pope Paul VI because of doubts about the historicity of her legend. But she existed long before any popes wore a mitre.  In pre-christian terms she was the "Barbarian" goddess of Round Mountain, near Pozuoli, one of the entrances to the underground pagan paradise of Fairyland, where the heathen dead dwelt and, according to the church, "spent their time in dancing and lechery." This site also had a tower on its summit, to attract lightning.      For those who know me, this explains a great deal. It takes the power of lightning and the joy of dancing to write a character like Jaguar Addams .  It takes someone who’s willing to be ousted by the larger institutions to save an eagle.   
     And now, let me ask you this:  Do you know the power of your own name?  Where did it come from?  Why do you carry it?  For writers, and for ancient heathen folk, naming was the ultimate power, and that ‘magic’ has a lot of truth in it.  What we can’t name often controls us.  What we can name we own.   
    So if you don’t know why you carry your name, you should.  And if you don’t like it, you should cast it away and choose a new one.  Rename yourself.  As poet Wendell Berry says, Practice resurrection.    

     You can find out more about what happens in my name with Jaguar Addams at Wildside Books.  And more about the rest of my naming power on Amazon

    CELEBRATION FOOD (Ricotta Fritters)

     For your name day or your birthday, something special should happen with food, and this recipe is all that.  Try it, and you might rename Ricotta as a sweet.

Happy Little FrittersIngredientsOil for frying¾ cup unbleached all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
¼ tsp. salt
2 large eggs1 cup whole milk ricotta cheese, drained in cheesecloth over a bowl overnight if wet2 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
1 -2 tbsp confectioners sugar and 1 tbsp cocoa for dusting
 Prepare a good thickness of paper towels and/or brown paper for draining your hot fritters.  If you want to use birthday wrapping paper, I've got no objections. Or last week's funny papers, which is how we wrap presents in my house.

 Preheat vegetable or canola oil in a large (14”) skillet. While the oil is finding its lightning, and with any luck before it gets explosive, stir together flour, baking powder, salt, in a medium size mixing bowl and set aside. If you like, you can add cinnamon or nutmeg, or orange rind, or even small chocolate chips to this because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!

 Break two eggs into another medium size mixing bowl. While you do this, make explosive noise (P-chew, P-chaw)  Beat eggs as vigorously as if you're telling the Pope what to do.  Add the ricotta, sugar, and vanilla.  Combine with a whisk until mixture is smooth.  

Add dry ingredients to the egg and cheese mixture. Blend only until the flour has been incorporated, and do not overmix because if you do, Barbara WILL send lightning. When the oil is hot enough to make artillery sounds if you drop something into it, drop batter by tablespoons or a small ice cream scoop (about 1½ Tbsp.) into the skillet. Make up to 6 fritters at a time, taking care not to overcrowd the skillet.

Cook one side until golden, then turn the fritter to brown the other side. Fritters take about 3-4 minutes to cook.

 Remove the happy little fritters from the oil  and transfer them to the paper to drain and consider their own names. When they're still warm and all confident about who they are and why, sprinkle liberally with powdered sugar and cocoa.
 
Makes 16-24 fritters

SEASON OF FEAR

Fear Me!
     What are you afraid of, and how do you deal with your fear?    That, of course, is a question I have to ask and answer a lot in Jaguar’s Fear series, from lots of different perspectives, not all of them my own.  Jaguar’s job is to make criminals face the fears that drive their crimes, and her stories often make her face her own.  Her supervisor, Alex, also has his share of fear to face, as do we all.  It ain’t easy being human.       Right around now, the halfway point between equinox and solstice, we play with our fears, putting on masks, becoming monsters, or witches or ghosts, tricking ourselves into the treat of being what we fear, or what we wish we could be and fear we are not, or any variation on the theme of those shadowy complexities.      But what do you really fear, and how do you deal with it?       Some, such as Jaguar, suggest that the best thing you can do is face your fear.  Embrace it, learn from it, then move beyond it.  That’s a journey into the basement of the soul, with a flashlight that quickly goes out, leaving you in the dark with mysterious whisperings and cobwebs brushing over your face.       Generally, it’s worth the trip. When you emerge into the light again, you’ll be stronger, and you’ll laugh a lot more.        So this year, for halloween, do the following:
 1) make a list of fears.  Look them over, and see which ones you’re up to meeting in the dark.     Pick one and have a conversation with it, asking it what it has to teach you.  See if it’s something you’re ready to learn. Make a costume honoring the fear, and wear it.  Read Joy Harjo’s poem, I Give You Back, in the volume She Had Some Horses   (I release you, my beautiful and terrible fear.  You were once my hated and beloved twin, and now I don’t know you as myself.)    Can you write a poem to your fear? Ask yourself, what would Jaguar do with this fear?  If you don’t know, go read some more of her adventures and perhaps you’ll figure it out.Be kind to yourself when you’re afraid.  Ask others to be kind to you as well.  Fear is not an easy state to be in. Nothing to Fear Except JaguarEat some candy.  Watch children trick or treat.  Laugh.  Then laugh some more.   Have a great Halloween.  Do as Jaguar suggests:  See who you are.  Be what you see.  

    Jaguar’s take on fear is available at Wildside Books, in print copy , or ebook format.    A Jaguar short piece is also available on smashwords.  

SCARY GOOD POSOLE
  Yeah, it really is.  And there’s two ways you can do it - simple, or complex. I’ll tell you right now, the complex tastes ever so much better, and is worth the journey, like facing your fears.
About three or four pounds of Pork Butt12 Tomatillos or green tomatoes, though the tomatillos are slightly sharper and more savvySpice rub for the pork2 Poblano chilis1 Red or Orange chili, choppedAbout a tablespoon of cilantro, or more if you like it a lotAbout half a cup of pureed tomatoesA can of hominy, or the equivalent of your own boiled chicos2 cloves garlic1 chopped onionCup of waterTime
SPICE RUB - I use this for my spice rub:  Half a cup of dark brown sugar, half a tablespoon of salt, half a teaspoon of smoked paprika, a teaspoon of cumin, a teaspoon of garlic salt.  You can amend, add thyme, use more or less of this or that as you choose because you know the rule: PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!
Rub your pork butt all over with spices. Try not to think about it in other terms than cooking. Let it sit overnight and get all comfy with its fate.
The next day, you can either sear the pork butt, or grill it on each side briefly (about two minutes per side.)   The grilling will add more intense flavors, just so you know.
Now, you can either grill your tomatillos for about five minutes, or just boil them down. Again, the grilling will add more flavor. Also, you can either roast your poblano peppers on the grill, or on your stove until the skin is blackened and you can peel it off.  And yes, do I need to repeat myself? The grilling will add more flavor.
Once you’ve got your tomatillos and peppers where you want, put them in a blender with the cilantro, the tomato puree, and the garlic. Add a cup of water.  Blend it up.  
Put the pork butt in a heavy duty cast iron or enamel dutch oven type pot. Pour the tomatillo blend over it.  
Now you can either put it in the over at 275 degrees for two or three hours, or on the grill at the same temp for the same time.
About an hour before it’s time to take it off, add the onions and orange or red peppers, and the hominy or chicos.  Let it finish its job of cooking.
Take it off the heat, and serve with cornbread, or corn tacos.  Everyone will say THANK YOU! I’M NO LONGER AFRAID OF ANYTHING!

WHY WE WRITE

Ziggy Wants to Know WHYYYY?
     Recently, I put my first small, self-published ebook into the world - a Jaguar Addams novelette titled A Two Faced Fear - which you can locate and buy easily through this link to smashwords. As I was wending my way through the logistics of the process, I stopped and asked myself once again why I do this.  Why I write.     This is something my mother asked me a lot.  WHY must you write, even though you know it disturbs everyone?  WHY can’t you be a nurse, or even a doctor?  Of course, let’s keep in mind that this is the same woman who told my brother, when he was deciding between being an astronaut and a violinist, “Be an astronaut.  You can always play the violin in space, where no one can hear you.”     Later, much later in her life, in fact, just before her life ended, my mother seemed to understand the truth about her daughter, which is something I want to share with you. We write because we’re built to write.  Because our entire being, including our brains, insists on it.    If you’re a writer - or any other kind of creative artist, because I suspect this applies to you as well - please don’t take what I say as an insult. I mean it in the most complimentary of terms.  Given what the world says is normal, I’ll do without.  If you can’t figure that out, well, you need to develop a bit more complexity in your writing and your life, something I’m always telling my students.  So dig deep.  Here it is.  Why We Write.1.  BECAUSE THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH OUR BRAINS.  Wrong, in the sense that our brains are different than people who don’t engage in creative activity on a regular basis.  This comes from a Harvard study on the differences and similarities between schizophrenics and creative artists, which said that we share something in common.  We both have a lowered latent inhibition.  Meaning the part of the brain that filters out unnecessary stuff isn’t as strong in our brains as in others.  Simply put, we take more stuff in. For schizophrenics, that means getting overwhelmed. For creative artists, that means organizing it into art.  So the Harvard study says.  Of course, the question is, for creative folk, were we born to a lowered latent inhibition, or did we teach ourselves to filter out less because of our artistic inclinations?  I have no answer, and as far as I know, neither does Harvard.  I only know we tend to take in more.  More information, more emotional impact, more images, more of everything.  And so, we write, because messy things could happen if we don’t.2.  BECAUSE THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH OUR BRAINS.  Meaning, we can do something with our brains other people can’t. We can daydream and logically sequence at the same time.  Trying this unsupervised can set your hair on fire.  If you don’t believe me, look deep into the eyes of a writer when they’re writing, and you’ll see the flames starting to leap.  Though writing looks easy,  the brain is set up so that daydreaming turns off the capacity to logically sequence, and vice versa, so it’s actually a highwire walk while juggling light sabers, and it takes a lot of energy.  How do we do it?  God only knows.  Perhaps we’re addicted to the thrill of that supremely delicate mental dance, the impossibility of the mental act required to surf worlds, emotions, events that don’t exist until we make them exist.  Wheeee!   I love my job.3.  BECAUSE THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH OUR BRAINS - We are determined, stubborn, pigheaded, OCD.  We truly believe that the stories we have to tell need telling.  What’s our evidence?  Well, who needs evidence?  Haven’t I already explained about our brains?  And that we’re pigheaded, stubborn, OCD, and must finish the stories we begin to tell, or our characters will attack us in the night, our strange and miraculous brains will implode, and someone will have quite a mess to clean up?  We wouldn’t want that to happen, so we write, smashing and pinging our way through twisted neural circuits, a weird business paradigm, and the tsk-tsking of our relatives and friends.  Go figure.4.  BECAUSE THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH OUR BRAINS - A Ford Center study set out to determine the difference between violent offenders and other folk, and found that the primary difference was their ability to mediate experience through language. Yeah. Really.  And writers mediate experience through language, because we know we’re the storytelling animals, our primary job to teach through story.  Given that 2.2 million of our population is in prison, that suggests we have something important to teach, which we’d love to do, if congress didn’t continually cut funding for prison education.  Again, go figure.   5.  BECAUSE THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH OUR BRAINS - I’m not sure if it’s because of all the other things wrong with our brains or a whole separate thing, but writers continue to BELIEVE in the possibility of change for the better.  In spite of Congress, in spite of the Tea Party’s resistance to reality, we truly are idealists, believing that the needs of the people, the supremacy of the earth and all its nurture, matters. Okay, our beliefs may differ in some fundamental ways - for proof of that, put Normal Mailer and Marilyn French in a room and see what happens - but whatever our beliefs, we write about them a lot, sometimes in metaphor, sometimes more directly.  We do this because we also know, intuitively and intrinsically, that stories shape and define us.  We understand archetypes and dreams, and believe that if we get enough of our stuff into the world, the people will shift paradigms and move toward love and peace and all that good stuff.   Really.  That’s who we are.  What we do.   And if we say we’re not in it for that, we’re kidding you and ourselves.
     So the next time you meet a writer, don’t ask them (really, don’t) if they hope to be as rich and famous as Rowlings.  Ask them why they write, and what they hope their writing will accomplish.  If they’ve had enough to drink and it’s late enough at night they’ll tell you the truth.  They hope their imaginings will shape the imagination of the world, for the better.  Amen.  Long life.  Honey in the heart, no evil, and 13 thank yous. 
To read the weird stuff my brain does when it’s working, check out my new Jaguar novelette on Smashwords, or the Jaguar novels on Wildside
    

SOMETHING RIGHT RAVIOLI  (Ravioli L’uovo)
      This recipe is perfect for writers. It’s complicated and difficult, and the first three times you try it, you’ll probably fail.  It asks you to coordinate a variety of highly detailed tasks, some of which require a high degree of intuitive understanding, and all of which must ultimately mesh into yummy flavorfulness, with a rich reward hidden inside a well-structured framework.  If you’re lucky.  If not, there’s always Chinese take out.
THE SAUCE  (Do this first. You’ll be glad you did)

1 cup fava beans, parboiled and skinned.  (Fiddly dee work, skinning favas, but wowie zowie they’re good.  Take care of this before ANYTHING else.)1 cup GOOD chicken broth (canned is okay if it’s low sodium.  I use my own homemade)1 clove garlic, grated or mashed through a garlic presssalt and pepper to taste7 fresh (Like they talk back fresh) sage leaves, sliced into chiffonadeOlive oil1 tablespoon butterAbout a quarter cup of cream or half and half
Put the oil in a pan and heat it up.  Add the butter.  When it melts, add the sage chiffonade and let it sizzle a bit, like a rumba rather than a tango.  Then pour in the broth, and add the garlic.  Stir it about a bit.  Taste.  Add salt and pepper to your liking. Gently urge the fava beans to join the party.  Tell them they’ll like it.  Stir it all about.  Add the cream or half and half and stir some more.  Turn the heat off and let everyone get to know each other.   
PASTA DOUGH
2 eggs2 cups of flourWater as needed.
Make a mound of the dough, with a dent in the center.   Beat the eggs and pour them into the hole.  Gradually work the flour into the egg, the egg into the flour.  If it’s not coming together entirely, add a bit of water.       You’ll have to do this bit by feel, because the hands know when dough is ready.  Smooth and elastic is the term used, so look for that.      When it’s a nice smooth and elastic ball, wrap it up in plastic or cloth and let it rest in the fridge for about 30 minutes.  Or, make it the night before and let it dream.  
THE FILLING
1 cup ricotta cheese1 cup spinach, chopped, cooked, and SQUEEZED until it giggles.  About half a cup of Locatelli Romano cheese, or reggiano parmigiano, as you prefer8 medium egg yolks, or 8 whole quail eggs (These will be used later.  DO NOT MIX THEM IN WITH THE REST OF THE FILLING!)
Mix everything EXCEPT the eggs in a bowl.  Add parsley if you like because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!  
Oscar for Best Story in Food FormFILLING THE RAVIOLI
Now’s a good time to put a BIG pot of water on the stove and get it heated.  Add salt - maybe a tablespoon or so.  Dust your work surface with flour, like it’s a gentle drifting of snow.  Using either a rolling pin or a pasta machine (If pasta machine, I go to about 5 for thinness), roll out four sheets of pasta, about 12 inches long.  Equally space 4 mounds of the ricotta (About a tablespoon each) mix on two of the sheets, and make a dent in each mound.  
Put either an egg yolk, or crack a quail egg into each dent.  (Do I have to say that you get the quail egg out of the shell before you put it in the dent?  If so, I’ve said it.)
Dab a bit of water or egg white around the edges of your pasta dough, then lay a sheet on top of the one with the filling.  You can use your fingers or a ravioli roller to seal the edges, then either a knife or the ravioli roller to separate our your little bundles of joy.  
When the water is boiling, add half the ravioli to it, and cook for around 3 minutes.  Carefully transfer to a good size bowl, then cook the rest and do the same.  
Slather them in the sauce you made, add Parmesan or Romano cheese to taste, and say Aaaah!  I did it!

HARVEST

Yay!  Yay!  Yay!    I know, I know.  I haven’t posted this blog in a while, and I apologize to my readers. Really, I had to leave the planet and get some fiction writing done.  Also watch my son get married, and officiate at my nephew’s wedding - two very big events that took place less than a month from each other.  My sister and I considered that we’d raised them entirely wrong for doing that to us, until they said their vows, which they’d written themselves.  Then, hearing two young men declare themselves so authentically and beautifully, well....Pass the Kleenex, please.
     That, for a mother, is harvest time.  The moment you know that even if they still play video games and don’t think about what it means to have two weddings in less than a month, something has gone magnificently right.  Phew.       It’s also harvest time in general in my part of the world, today being the Equinox, so I thought this blog should do what any good harvest does:  Show gratitude for sustenance gathered, reflect on how it got made, and look to what seeds should be planted next.   I highly recommend that you take the time out to do just that in your own life.  What have you gathered?  How did you get to that gathering?  What do you want to grow next?  This is Ziggy's Harvest     For me, the gratitude is all about our children whose lives are moving forward in many ways.  Also about the work I got done this past year.  Eagle Mitch is published, A Strangled Cry of Fear is published, and I’m almost done with the next two Jaguar Addams novels, while planning out what else I’ll write in the coming season. As for seeds I want to plant, well, there’s quite a few, both in my backyard garden, and in my writing life.  I’m still brooding over that, keeping the thoughts interior, because seeds grow best in a warm, dark environment.        In the meantime, I’m pulling produce from my backyard garden, and would like to share a strange, small harvest treat. Not traditional, perhaps, but neither am I, so that’s okay.     Plant well, harvest in joy, reflect in wisdom.   Good Autumn to you all!
   Amazon carries the most recent Jaguar adventure, A Strangled Cry of Fear, and my nonfiction book, Saving Eagle Mitch .  Reap and enjoy!  
HARVEST BLOSSOM SALAD
Yes, it’s a salad, but there's no lettuce in it, and it’s got an incredible zippy thing going for it, because the heart of my harvest is all about things that make your palate go WOWIE.  If you've read Jaguar, you'll know what I mean.  
About 5 springs of fresh frilly dill ferns, picked from the stem but NOT choppedAbout 7 Basil leaves, sliced in chiffonadeAbout 10 nasturtium blossoms, whole and singingAbout 10 lemon gem marigold blossoms, and maybe about the same of their frilly, ferny leaves, NOT chopped True SuperbowlAbout 1/2 cup arugula leaves NOT choppedAbout 3 springs of Parsley leaves, NOT choppedIf you can get it, 2 or 3 Shisho leaves, sliced in chiffonadeMaybe an eight of a cup of purslane leaves.
DRESSING:
SaltSugarA tablespoon of good pink Balsalmic vinegarA tablespoon of your best, first cold pressed Extra Virgin Olive Oil
   Now, this is a salad, so keep in mind that you can add to it as you prefer, or perhaps sub out some things you don’t have. No lemon gem marigolds?  Chiffonade some sorrel instead.  No Shisho?  Try some watercress.  Feel like experimenting?  Use a basil infused oil instead of olive oil.  And so on, because you know the rules: PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!    What IS important is that all the players in the bowl should be fresh fresh fresh, that our nonlettuce friends should get the spotlight, and it should be minimally dressed.  If you have a backyard garden, pick stuff and experiment.      Once you’ve put it all together, salt the top lightly and toss it.  Then mix your vinegar, oil, a dash of sugar, and splash that over it.  Toss again, and serve.  Look out at the planet and say, “THANKS FOR ALL THE YUM!”

WEDDING REDUX

LUNA DRESSES UP FINE FOR WEDDINGS
   During the month of July, while everyone at home is sweating in 95 degree weather with 70% humidity, I'm in the mountains of Gunnison, Colorado, teaching in WSCU's graduate program in creative writing.  It's low residency, which means we run intensive writing seminars for 2 weeks, and do the rest of our work during the year on line.  A good gig for all concerned, and work I truly love.
    The only drawback for me is personal: My wedding anniversary falls right in the middle of it, so my husband and I don't get to celebrate the way we'd like.  Trust me, in this case, Skype just doesn't cut it.
     Of course, some people think anniversaries aren't important.  They're just another day, no more or less meaningful than any you spend together as a couple.  I get the relevance of that, I'll admit.  But no matter what our rational mind says, physical details of time and season cue us to remember past events.  The body remembers, and the human heart wants to acknowledge memory, re-invoke events with words and ritual.
     In the great Northeast, we scent approaching winter in the air, and start planning for Thanksgiving.  When a child's birthday comes around, mothers feel in their bodies the circumstances surrounding the birth, and re-tell the tale.  So it is with a wedding anniversary. And this year, on our anniversary, my husband emailed me a photo of the lilies in full bloom in our garden at home.
    We were married on the land where we'd built our house the year before.  We're both gardeners, so we dug through clay and shale, added the manure and compost to feed young green things, and planted the bulbs for those lilies.  Our gardens were still young, but they were blooming, and I have a clear memory of walking out my front door and picking the ones I'd carry as I walked to the tent where we'd exchange vows.
     When I saw the photo, I could once again feel the stem under my finger, the soft petals, moist at the edges. I heard the voices of our waiting guests in the background, laughter and music and the hum of conversation.  I saw my son's kind face, looking at mine.  He walked me across the yard for this, my third wedding, and later gave a funny speech about how the problem with my last two marriages was that he didn't get to say anything.
LILY MEMORY     And under all that external memory, I could feel again the calm assurance I had about my choice.   It was more than happiness, because it wasn't that fleeting. And it wasn't a certainty that everything would always be wonderful, because I knew better. It was a deep and abiding sense of rightness. A great big yes.  
    I still feel that way.  And every year, in the middle of July, even when I'm away from home, the lilies bloom to remind me of where it all began.
     Anniversaries allow us to return to where we started.  Sometimes that means we can better heal old hurts.  In the case of a happy anniversary, we can  drink from the energy in the well of memory, and once again fill up on the flavor of the good.

     To find out more about a really cool writing program in fiction, poetry and screenwriting, visit the website for Western State College University.    Come and join us.  Bring cake!
 
SUE'S WEDDING CAKE

   Sue is the kind of friend who baked cakes for a year before my wedding, and let me do taste tests to choose the one I wanted.  I chose chocolate cake with buttercream frosting and chocolate raspberry filling.  It had to be transported carefully to my house over some bumpy country roads, and then kept somewhere cool because, as she says, buttercream frosting is about the worst choice for an outdoor wedding in July.  But OH was it yummy. I'm still trying to think of an excuse for her to make it again.

A TRUE SUPERFOOD     When I asked for the recipe to include in this blog, she told me it's three pages long, and instead gave me the source, with her amendations.  Of course she changed it, because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!
   
Sue's Email:
    It's from The Cake Bible , Rose Levy Beranbaum, 1988 3-Tier Genoise au Chocolate Wedding Cake to Serve 150 pp. 499-503.   Put Chambord in the syrup on p. 501. 
    Classic Buttercream for a 3-Tier Cake, Chocolate, pp. 517-18.  Chambord is the liquor in that one too. I increased the quantities on this recipe by 50%,  as your cake was heavy on the buttercream between the layers.  There was a little bit left, but I believe my two young kitchen wenches made it go away.

     Maida Heater's Book of Great Chocolate Desserts, 1980, The World's Best Hot Fudge Sauce, p. 373.     This sauce hardens up nicely - a hell of a lot better than that buttercream you'd picked to serve on what was probably the hottest day in five years.  I split each layer of the cake and spread it on to spackle the layers back together again, also adding a spread of fresh raspberries that had been macerated in Chambord.  

SHADOW AND LIGHT

   This blog is different from my others. The only food it offers is poetry, to nourish the saddened soul.

miracles of light through shadow   Today, as contention rages over the Zimmerman verdict, I'm thinking of the family and friends of Trayvon Martin, and my heart grieves for them.  No matter what you think is right or wrong in the case, no matter what your political stance, you must, as a human, feel for their pain,  because yours would be the same if Trayvon was your son, your brother, your friend, your student. We are human because we can imagine beyond ourselves, with compassion for the sorrow of others.
    No political division should ever make us forget that, nor should a clamoring for power ever ever ever overrun the fundamental human impulse toward kindness.  If it does, we're dead in the water.
     And yes, that basic principle can be applied politically, corporately. Not only can it be, it should be.  It's the bottom line.
     That notion's been taking a beating lately, I'll admit.  I may be an optimist, but I'm not a blind fool. I watched our congress ignore the wishes of 90% of the country for weapons background checks as they scraped and bowed to the power of the NRA. They won out over a group of parents who appealed for one small change in the law, to protect our children.  Our children, not their own, who were already dead. Whether you stand with or against the NRA, surely you must feel their anguish in your own skin.
     That was just one example of ways in which human compassion has been sucked away in the undertow of political and corporate power mongering. The 99% can attest to the others, which they get to live every day.
      But I'm a writer and a teacher. I believe we'll do better when we know better, and I believe we can learn how to do that - us, and our government and corporate leaders.  After all, we've had quite a few good examples on how to make big decisions, what to base them on.
    For those who lay claim to being Christian, it's a no brainer.  Whenever any large decision comes their way, they can ask, 'what would Jesus do?'  In asking, they need only remember what he told them:  Love one another as I have loved you.  Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  Jews can refer to Micah, who said, "All the Lord requires has been told to you.  Only this:  Act justly, love tenderly, and walk humbly with your god."The other major world religions all have words to the same effect. Moral atheists tend to be even more scrupulous in that way. Even my character, Jaguar Addams, offers some advice in this realm.  Choose love over fear, every time.
    If it's so simple, you might ask, why is it so difficult?  Maybe because we're afraid of the shadow we have to confront in ourselves when we admit the grief of others.  We'd rather think it can't happen to us, to stave off our own fears.  And maybe we're told too often that imagination is a bad thing, and so we forget how to imagine beyond ourselves, into the emotions of others.  And maybe sometimes we just disagree on the best way to proceed.
     Well, we're a big country, with many opinions, and we're bound to argue.  In fact, we should argue. But just for today, for a little while,  no matter what you believe politically, I'm asking you to practice your humanity.  For a moment, stop thinking about who's right and who's wrong in the Zimmerman case.  Instead, bow your head and allow yourself to feel what Trayvon's family is feeling.  For a moment stop arguing for or against gun control, and let the grief of the families whose children were killed infuse your heart.  Feel with them, and let that feeling inform your life, the decisions you make, the beliefs you hold dear. I don't know where it will lead your opinions, and frankly I don't care, because I know that true compassion for others won't steer you wrong.
    Right now, this land I love is divided on many issues, and I don't see any quick solutions. Instead, I think we face the harder task of a deliberate persistent effort of many people talking loud and learning to walk toward love, in all ways possible. For that, I can only offer the food of poetry, which can provide some strength for the journey. Here's an excerpt from Joy Harjo's poetry, medicine for the wounded soul, and food for the hungry one.

Excerpt:  Reconciliation: A Prayer
    (In The Woman Who Fell From the Sky)


. . . . .Oh sun, moon, stars, our other relatives peering at us from the inside
of god's house, walk with us as we climb into the next century
naked but for the stories we have of each other. Keep us from giving
up in this land of nightmares which is also the land of miracles.

We sing our song which we've been promised has no beginning or end.

All acts of kindness are lights in the war for justice.

Joy's book of poetic medicine We gather up these strands broken from the web of life. They shiver
with our love, as we call them the names of our relatives and carry
them to our home made of the four directions and sing:

Of the south, where we feasted and were given new clothes.

Of the west, where we gave up the best of us to the stars as food for the battle.

Of the north, where we cried because we were forsaken by our dreams.

Of the east, because returned to us is the spirit of all that we love.


    you can find this volume, and all of Joy Harjo's poetry on amazon .