Barbara Chepaitis's Blog: http://aliterarylunch.blogspot.com/2015/07/frying-mad.html, page 6

THE FOOLS OF APRIL

Chaco, Just Fooling Around
    April is the month of Fools, starting with April Fool’s Day, and in our country, running toward tax day on April 15.  Also playing tricks on gardener’s in the great northeast, giving us a warm day, then snow.  Then warm, then MORE SNOW!!!!   T.S. Eliot called it the cruelest month of all, but for broader reasons.      Though I don’t like pranks very much, I do love Fools, because that’s what artists are, going out on the edge and standing there, peering toward infinities others never see. But you don’t have to be an artist to be a Fool.  They show up in all kinds of arenas, saying things like, “I have a Dream,”  or “I’m sitting right here in this bus,” or “Give Peace a chance.”       There’s a folktale titled The Fool of the World and the Flying Ship, and in it, the Tsar says he’ll let his daughter marry whoever could build him a flying ship.  Of course, the youngest , most foolish boy in the village, decides to try.  “How will you get this done?” his mother demands.  “God only knows,” he replies.        But not knowing doesn’t stop him.  Nor does it stop any self-respecting Fool.  We just go ahead and build that house, or write that novel, or paint that starry night. And now, here’s a brief list of some of my favorite Fools, who do justice to the term:
A big Hoo-ya, for Scott Hickman, Greg Wright, and Dr. Eileen Jenkins, who saw an eagle shot on a firing range in Afghanistan, and decided to step in and help.  Also Pilots N’ Paws , and all the other folk who helped get Eagle Mitch to Berkshire Bird Paradise.And let’s here it for Pete Dubacher, who runs Berkshire Bird Paradise , caring for about a thousand permanently injured birds, including Eagle Mitch.Speaking of Fools of the World, let’s hear it for my Lithuanian ‘cousins’ in Vilnius, who took a run-down artist’s section of the city and declared it an independent republic, with its own constitution.  The people of Uzupis reach out to artists around the world, and I’m proud to be their Ambassador of Fearlessness and Joy. Let’s also give a shout out to Venus, or Aphrodite if you prefer, because it’s her month, and as the goddess of love, she is certainly Queen of All Fools.                The name April comes from the Latin word aperire, which means "to open", and being open to possibilities others call, at the least, impractical, is what Fools do best. So here’s to the beautiful vision of Fools the world over.  Today, if you have a vision, pursue it.      f you don’t, make one up. 
      If you want to read more about the craziness of saving Eagle Mitch, go to amazon.com .  If you want to know where else my folly has led me as a writer, visit my website, wildreads.com .     

BLOODY FOOL
   A Fool is an easy treat to make, and since this month marks the end of the Blood Orange season, I decided to use some in mine.   If you don’t have any Blood Oranges, which are a beautiful red inside, and full of antioxidants, then use pureed strawberries or raspberries.  And maybe put a ladyfinger on the bottom of the bowl, or add some rum because you know the rule of all good fools:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!




Juice of 2 blood oranges1/2 cup sugar1 1/2 cups heavy cream1 peach, peeled and sliced, or 1 cup of frozen peaches, thawed and pureed with about 1/4 cup of waterAbout 1 cup of butterscotch chips, chopped up or ground in a nutgrinder.
Put the juice, the peaches, and the sugar in a saucepan.  Bring to a boil, and let it reduce to about 1 cup.  Keep an eye on it so it doesn’t burn.  You may be a fool, but you don’t want orange blood all over your stove, do you? 
Strain the mixture, put it in the fridge, and let it cool for a few hours or let it sleep there all night long, dreaming foolish dreams.  
Whip the cream to stiff peaks, and as you continue to whip it, pour in the cooled syrup.  Maybe keep a tablespoon back, to drizzle over the top, which is pretty.   
Most Excellent FoolIf you were smart enough to save the blood orange rinds you can put it in that.  If not, get a pretty bowl.  I mean, what are you saving them for, anyway?
Sprinkle the butterscotch chips on top, and laugh like a Fool.  

LISTENING FOR SPRING

Chaco Listens For Spring
     It’s the week of resurrection, and freedom.  Passover and Easter, two spring rituals, recognize the importance of annual renewal after winter, the first speaking to the yearning for freedom, and the second speaking to our longing for connection beyond the earthly realm.       I’ve participated in both Seders and Easter Vigils, and appreciate the wisdom of each, but I also find a primary connection to both freedom and renewal from the birds.        Every year, at just around this time, a miracle occurs in the land around my house. The Redwinged blackbirds return to their summer home, and sing about it.      Because March is an interstitial month that might be snowy or rainy or both, I often mark their arrival as I stand in my yard with fat flakes of snow falling all around me, while the woods surrounding my house is filled with their song.   The sound is a cascade of silver light falling all around, a chorus of trills and small chimes as they gather to announce who they are and call for a mate.  For that time, I’m transported to other worlds, where anything is possible, because beauty on this level  creates a whole different universe of possibilities.       I stand under the snow and listen.   I listen.  I listen.       This is something Jaguar understands.  That the sacred is contained in something as simple as the song of the blackbird.   That transport is possible only when you listen.  Really listen.        This is something I understand as a writer, and a human.  That a good book is only possible when you listen.  Really listen.  That love is possible only when you listen, really listen.  That in the moment of internal stillness, when you’re open to what might be, answers creep toward you like spring, maybe not as fast as you’d like, but longing for you just as you long for them.        Whatever you celebrate this week, make it a point to get quiet and listen.  Really listen.  Somewhere in the world, at every moment, someone or some thing is making music, and you might just be ready to hear it.  

Blackbirds and Grackles Sing For Spring
         If you want to know more about Jaguar’s listening, check out Wildside Press’s ebooks, and trade paperbacks .  Soon, as spring arrives, A Strangled Cry of Fear will be released.  

REDWINGED CUPCAKES

    I wanted to make something as light as the song of the redwinged blackbird this week, and though I’m not a baker, I decided to listen to my muffin tin and try something new.   Here’s a recipe for cherry-ricotta filled cupcakes, with a peachy glaze.   

CUPCAKES
I followed the recipe for white cake in the Test Kitchen cookbook for my cupcakes.  You can use a cake mix, or another white cake/cupcake recipe of your preference.  
Whatever you choose, bake them up and let them cool.  Then, with a good sharp knife, cut a cone out of the center.  Or, you can use a small biscuit cutter to do the same.  
Keep the cone and slice out the middle, to form a cap you can put back on after the filling is in.  
FILLING
1/2 cup cherry preserves1/2 cup ricotta cheese, drained
(NOTE:  I’ve also been known to combine frozen blueberries and marscapone with some sugar for a filling, and that’s also great.  If you click your heels and wish for joy as you make it, it will attract bluebirds as well.  )
Blend the two together.  Really.  It’s as easy as waiting for spring.
Cupcake Singing in the Dead of NightUsing a spoon, a pastry bag, or a plastic bag with a hole cut in the corner, fill the cone in your cupcake with the yummy thing you made.   Put the cap back on top.   Say Yay!
FROSTING
1/4 cup frozen peaches1 cup Confectioner’s sugarWater to consistency of your liking
NOTE:  You can substitute blueberries, or frozen cherries for this because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!   
Put the peaches in the microwave for two minutes.  Toss them gleefully into a food processor with the confectioner’s sugar and about three tablespoons of water. 
Blend them up, and if you think it’s too runny add more sugar or peaches.  Too thick, add more water.  
Pour into a bowl and let it catch its breath.  Go listen to something or someone.  
When you come back, ice your cupcakes.  If you like, you can add a dollop of cherry preserves to the top, to match the flash of red on the blackbird’s wings.   
Share, share, share, and enjoy.    

LEFTOVERS

Leftovers Again?

   March is a month of leftovers.  Leftover snow, leftover winter, maybe even leftover food in the freezer from the holidays.  It’s a good month for cleaning out, and for seeing what, if anything, you can still use.  What I can’t use, in my house, goes into the compost, to became the earth that will grow next summer’s food.        As I writer, I appreciate this concept.  I wrote my first three novels when I was 23, and they never got published, though they did get me an agent for a while.  I was too young to understand the need for persistence in these matters, so I put them away, in the freezer of my brain.  In my ‘idea’ file, which every writer should have.       Later - many years later - I dug them up and found they hadn’t gone stale, or gotten freezer burn.  In fact, I still liked a great deal about them.  So I used some of the characters and plots and central concepts, but added some hot sauce, in the form of Jaguar Addams .       That’s right.  Those unpublished novels became the basis for Jaguar’s novels, my first published books.               Now there’s a hopeful thought for the month of March.  Today’s snows create the summer antidote to drought.  Today’s frustrated work feed tomorrow’s published novels, or articles, or stories.        Of course, February and March can seem like really long months, where everything is still, and colder than you’d like.  But if you embark on the writing life, you have to see it as a marathon rather than a sprint, allowing yourself the luxury of pursuing works which may go nowhere immediately.  What you work on today might not be what you sell, but it will surely someday feed something you do.   Because of that, you must write what you’re called on to write, whether you see immediate payback or not.       No.  Really.  I mean, we MUST.       Regardless of your concerns about marketability, if a story is pushing at you to be written, WRITE IT.  Just WRITE, and PLAY WITH YOUR WRITING.   In a career track that’s twisty and rough and often has some pretty deep freezes, that’s the best thing you can do, because you don’t know ahead of time where it will lead.  But you do know this:  It’s all material, and none of it will be wasted.  
    If you don’t believe me, just ask Jaguar.  You’ll find her stories, all of them a recycling of my early novel attempts, at Wildside Press .   

      And here’s a recipe that came from a recycling of leftover food, because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!

ROSE PETAL BROTH
     My last post included a recipe for cornish game hens in rose petal sauce.  When it was eaten up, I used the bones for a stock, added some fennel and lemon and tried it.   I knew I was on the right track with the flavor profiles, but it was a bit muddy, like March.  I tried it again with a fresh chicken stock, and it was a keeper.  Let that be a lesson to you.       Do I really have to explain why?  I don’t think so.   

About a pound of chicken - legs, thigh, whateverAbout 8 cups of water2-4 cloves of garlic, depending on your tasteA scoop of rose petal spread, or some rosewater Tasty as Springsalt and pepper
About a teaspoon of lemon rind, and the same of lemon juice if you like1 eggAbout a half a cup of fennel, slice VERY THIN, like a New York City model.   

Put the first 5 ingredients in a pot on the stove.  Bring it to a boil and let it simmer until you have a nice stock.
Stick it in the fridge and when the fat hardens, remove it.  Also remove the chicken and strain the stock.  
Put the stock back on the stove and bring to a slow slow simmer.  Separate the egg and whisk the white until it’s frothy.   
Put the white in the slowly simmering stock.  when it cooks it will gather all kinds of not pretty stuff around it.  Skim this off, and your stock will be much clearer, like the arrival of Spring.  Ah!
Strain the stock again, and put it back on the stove.  Add the lemon rind and/or juice, adjust the seasoning as needed.  Taste it, and ask yourself if you want any other flavor in it.  A touch of fresh basil?  Maybe some heat?  A little more rosiness? Some thin thin daikon radish?   You know what to do.  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!   
Add the fennel and let it simmer for a few more minutes, keeping some of the crunch in the fennel.  
Check your freezer to see if you have any rose petals in it, left from last summer.  If so you may want to add a few.   If not, remember to freeze some for next year.   
Taste, and enjoy something clean and light for the interstitial time between winter and spring.   

LOVE, IN PARTICULAR

Very Particular
     I’ll admit that I really enjoy Valentine’s Day.  I mean, any day that celebrates love is a good day, as far as I’m concerned.  But something I always find a bit disturbing about it is the generalization of love it creates.        The advertising community is, of course, using the day to try and sell items as broadly as possible.  They want to reach the widest audience, and so we eat a lot of media hype which perpetrates the lie that love is something we all feel and act on in the same way.        But if you ask me, love is very particular.       Let me, then, be specific.  I know a woman who’s lover of more than 25 years is very ill.  Every day, she spends an inordinate amount of time arguing with various medical and social service and health organizations, to make sure he has everything he needs.  She leaves no detail undone, from getting him exactly the right kind of chair, to brewing her own concoctions for his feeding tube, because the ones in cans are mostly corn and water.         That’s love, in particular. It’s hers, and it’s an astonishing, miraculous, heartwrenching and beautiful thing to witness.        On the other hand, my husband, who had to go out of town for Valentine’s Day, handed me a little blue box before he went. You know where those little blue boxes come from, don’t you? On top was a card that said “You deserve the stars.  Here’s the first one.”      Inside the box was a small silver necklace, with a little star.        He knows that in the midst of our daily round, taking care of the house and the dogs and cats, taking care of business, I need the reminder that he sees me beyond his task partner.  He knows I live with my head in the stars, playing with imaginary friends.  He sees me as I am, and responds to what he sees.      That’s also love, in particular.   Because love is a verb, and it takes action, particularly focused not on itself, but on who and what it loves.        In my soon to be released Jaguar Addams novel, A Strangled Cry of Fear, Jaguar and Alex have the following conversation:  
     “We work well together,” she said, “though I wonder what you’ll do on the day I pull some shit you really mind.” Particular Blue Box   “I think we’ve been there and done that,” Alex replied.  “Besides, do I mind rain being wet? The sun being hot? Jaguar, I love you. As you are. Impossible to deal with, honest to the core, smart as all hell and beautiful as any creature from heaven you’d care to name. I trust that to hold true when the going gets rough.”   She didn’t move, didn’t speak, but he could feel her taking this in. He’d leave her to it for now. He brushed a hand across her cheek, kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his lips against her skin.   “I have to go the office,” he said. “Get some rest. You’ll be back to work in another week.”   She kept her eyes closed, and felt the breath of air that washed over her from his passing. He was so good at knowing when to leave her alone. But as she heard the door open, she stopped him.   Alex, she said, speaking into him.
   Yes, Jaguar?
   Come back later. Stay.   Alex knows Jaguar.  In particular.  And he acts on that.  So this Valentine’s Day find someone you love and be particular with them.  See them as they are, and offer them a gift that’s about their soul, in all its shining glory and strangeness.  That’s where love really lives.   
     If you want to read more about Jaguar and Alex, as they get to know what it means to love, you can go to Wildside Press .


           CORNISH GAME HEN WITH ROSE PETAL SAUCE
       This is a particular taste, and one that some friends of my love, so I’m making it for them.    
     2 Cornish game hens   (This also works great with pork tenderloin)     A can of Rose Petal spread, or a jar of rose petal jam     Garlic powder and garlic cloves     Salt and Pepper     White wine     Olive oil
    You may notice I’m not giving measurements.  That’s because I want you to PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD, and sort out the proportions according to your taste.  Rose petal jam and spread is a pretty particular and powerful taste, so only you know how much or how little you want.
Love in a Can    First, make a brine.   Get a big pot and throw in about a tablespoon of salt, and your desired amount of rose petal spread or jam.   (Okay, I use about a cup of that.)        Glug in water, maybe six cups, and stir it about.   Add pepper to your taste, and as many rough chopped garlic cloves as you like.   Stir it about some more and take a big sniff of it.  Doesn’t it smell like love?  Well, maybe just summer love, but that’s good, right?
     Put your cornish game hens in.   Add some glugs of white wine.   Whoosh it about some more.   Bless it, and go do your other work, or go love something, while it sits for at least one hour, and for as many as 12.          Now, get a small bowl and put in some more rose petal spread or jam.  (Yeah, I use another cup at least.)   Throw in less white wine - maybe half a cup, depending on what your nose tells you.  You can also use water instead, if you like.  The idea is to get an end result that’s thick enough to stick to the hens, but not so thick to be unspreadable.     Add some salt, pepper, garlic powder, and olive oil.   You can add other herbs if you like because how many times do I have to say it?  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!
      Set your oven to 350 degrees.  Take the tiny hens out of the brine and put them in a pan or casserole dish.  Spread the rose petal mix in the bowl all over them, and watch them go Aaah!   Pop them in the oven, and let them cook for about an hour, checking them to make sure nothing’s getting to carmelized now and then.  If you think it is, baste with some olive oil or water.   
     Take them out when done, and serve them with rice or potatoes, and maybe a nice salad or some yummy dilly green beans.         Love everything, in particular. 

WINTER CHANT

Can I eat it?
    I know.  More snow.  

    Did I ask for this?  No.  Did I pencil it in?  Not at all.  But here it is, and there’s supposed to be a lot of it headed our way.     When I go out and shovel, I’ll be grumbling with the best of them. And if you’re in a sunny part of the world as you read this you may scoff at me for living in the great Northeast.  Or you may realize that in spite of the difficulty, there’s something good to be said for winter. Yes I can!     Later this evening, when it’s dark and quiet, and we’re all wrapped in a winter chrysalis of snow, I’ll marvel at the way this planet can make beauty out of only water and cold.   I’ll remember that it takes the cold to create the kind of winter bling we get around here.  Trees coated with ice, shaking their limbs to toss down diamonds.  The blue beneath the white of snow.   All that eye candy.       For those of us who have put up with some pretty big storms this year, here’s a chant to remind you of the good part.  Also a recipe to offer deep comfort from the cold.  If neither one works to chase the winter grumbles away, remember that March is just around the corner.  And April can’t be far behind.  
    Winter Chant The way the snow rests in the curve of a treeThe way the white snow rests on the branch of a dark pineThe way the branches, dark, arch to each other over your headThe way the they bend to meet the curve of the snow
How the snow curves to cover the belly of the earthHow the earth accepts the snow, curving under it in sleep.And the trees drink the skyAnd the snow drinks the sun.
The way the earth becomes sun, snow drinking lightThe way the moon glows.
The way the otters turn white and slide down the hillThe shadow of the owl.The way the snow swallows your feet as you try to walk.The stillness
The way light bends, curving over your faceThe moon glowing corn gold under VenusAnd Venus, sharp and piercing.Letting the edge of the stars pierce you
The way it is like furThe way it curves around you, promising stillnessThe wind, no language for speechThe fingers of the trees drenched in ice sharp and piercingThe way vision scattersThe way it stills you.  The stillness.
The sweet smell of the curve, the belly breasts and hipsThe way you stand, curved and listeningThe way the night weaves around you.  The way you let it
The Queen of the Night, singing to her Big CatsThe Cats, Big Cats, curled in the nightThe curve of the Cat against the rock ledge of the nightThe way the blue falls against the snow.
The singing.
The Queen of the Night and the sky she weaves, the stories she makes.The edge between here and thereGoing over the edge into thereThe way it falls all around you.  The way it carries you up
How small you are
The blue in your skin.  The smell of the moon.The Owl a shadow absorbing lightThe trail of the White Otter, little sisterThe Queen of the Night, singing this song.The stories she weaves.  The light she pours.the stillness she drinks.
The way it weaves through youThe way it is youThe way it is you
The Beauty
The Beauty
The Beauty

     You can read about my novels at my website, wildreads.com .  Or find me on Facebook , and complain about winter all you want there.  


HOBBIT FOOD
   This recipe is from my friend, Jake Bryan, a great guy who is largely responsible for teaching me that it’s okay to PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!  For many years he ran the Creature Comforts kitchen at Old Songs music festival, where he let me use all the giant  soup pots, to make good food for the people.  Thanks a zillion, Jake!  
Warning: Includes the magic ingredient bacon and therefore may be addictive.
  Hobbit Food (Mushrooms and bacon on toast) -- so named from the Fellowship hobbits' last meal in the Shire at Crickhollow. Can be breakfast, lunch or dinner, but I like it best on a chilly fall evening after a good brisk walk. It's very quick and simple to prepare. Luna and Ziggy, Mushroom Hunting
     For each generous serving:     - 2 slices toast (I prefer good whole wheat)     - 3 or 4 strips good smoky bacon, sliced crosswise in 1/4 inch pieces     - 1/2 lb. (8 oz.) mushrooms of your choice, wiped clean and sliced thinly     - a good grinding of fresh black pepper     - 1/4 tsp. dried basil
     While bread is toasting, sauté the bacon in a small skillet until almost (but not quite) crisp. Then add the sliced mushrooms and continue rsautéing, stirring frequently, just until the mushrooms begin to release their juices. Remove from heat, add black pepper and basil, stir, and spread over the toast.

A GOOD HIGH

Chaco Enjoys a Good High
     If anyone out there wants to know why writers do what they do, I can give you a simple answer.     We’re in it for the high.      When I’m sitting in a train, or a bar, or on a beach, or in my office, taking dictation as my characters go through their paces, I sometimes stop and say to myself that there’s nobody in world who’s happier than I am right now.  Not a millionaire or a king has my bliss in hand.         And I’d wager anything that I’m right, though I couldn’t tell you why.  I don’t know what it is about writing that gives me such joy, or if it would give the same joy to, for instance, a plumber or a stockbroker.  Maybe it’s just that when you write, you’re using about as much of your brain as you can, all at once, and we’re meant to do that.  Maybe  I’m a neurotic wreck.  Maybe writing fulfills that very human need to participate in something beyond the self, to reach out for consciousness bigger than who we are.       Or maybe it’s all of the above.  I do know that writing is the biggest and best high I ever had, and given my life, that’s saying a lot.        Author Mihály Csíkszentmihályi calls this state “Flow.”  He defines it as a completely focused motivation, a single-minded immersion that represents the ultimate experience in harnessing the emotions in the service of performing and learning. In flow, the emotions are not just contained and channeled, but positive, energized, and aligned with the task at hand. The hallmark of flow is a feeling of spontaneous joy, even rapture, while performing a task, with a deep focus on nothing but the activity – not even oneself or one's emotions.      Yes.  All  that and more.  But as a fiction writer, I had to give it different expression, which I did in my novel, Learning Fear.  In this novel, Jaguar has to use a telepathic trick called a chant-shape - meaning, she’s allowed her animal guide to take over her life.  This requires you to relinquish control, but in return, you get a lot of power. It feels like this: 
     Breath.  It felt like breath to her.   Being breathed into the night, and the night your skin and the moon your eyes. She fell into beauty, into ecstasy, thisi opening of time and space.  Fell into the skin that was slippery as daylight on water, elusive as the shadow of moon on snow.  Mist rolled over her like laughing silk.  She breathed in.    This is what chant-shaping was like.  Being breathed into the heart of radiant sun.  Breathed into the source.    Like finding the absolute center of the universe, and kissing it.  Like having it kiss you back.  
      Yeah.  That’s what writing is like for me.     I hope there’s parts of your life that feel the same.  My husband’s description of racing cars sounds much the same. I met a woman on a train who talked about redecorating her house with similar feeling. I know singers who would tell you that’s where they go when they sing, or write music.  And I know gardeners who feel that way about working the land.  Mihaly Czikszentmihalyi says people will feel it as readily when painting a barn as writing, if that’s the task that floats your boat.      While I run to writing space as one of the best realities to occupy, you may run elsewhere.  And where you run doesn’t matter, so long as you get there.  The creative impulse, however it’s lived, feeds us in ways that no amount of shopping or social networking or texting can. It’s a vitamin that can’t be replaced by anything else, and must be experienced regularly if we are to continue thriving, rather than just existing.         So find what it is that makes you feel like you kissed the center of the universe, let it kiss you back.  Participate in it as much as possible.  It’s the heart of you. Luna Regrounds       And if you find it knocks you around some, that’s normal.  Just ask Jaguar.  Like her, you’ll need to reground after your bliss, and below is a recipe that might help.  In the meantime, enjoy the ride.



     If you want to read more about Jaguar, her stories are available as ebooks or regular books, at Wildside Press. 
REGROUNDING RAVIOLI
This is an unusual ravioli, totally fictional, meaning I made it up myself.  Try it, and don’t be nervous about switching up some of its parts.  Use pumpkin or squash instead of sweet potato.  Try pancetta in place of prosciutto, or add different herbs and a few grates of lemon zest because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!

RAVIOLI DOUGH
1/4 cup chickpea (garbanzo bean) flour3/4 cup Doppio flour (00) or all purpose flour1 eggAbout a teaspoon of crushed dried sage leavesA few dashes of fresh ground pepper
Mix the flours all up together in a large, wide pasta bowl, add the pepper and sage and stir some more with your hands, the cook’s best tool.   Make the flour into a well and crack the egg in the center.  Break the yolk up with your fingers and gradually toss the flour into it, mixing and stirring, stirring and mixing still with your hands.  
I don’t recommend any other utensil for this part, because it’s getting your hands in the dough that helps reground you after bliss.  That’s important, right?   
A Lisa Snelling Poppet Blesses the Ravioli.  Yay!When the dough looks kind of crumbly and begins to gather together, you have to assess whether or not it needs some water.  Your hands are smart about this, so keep moving it around.  If it’s holding together into a ball, you don’t need water.  If it stays crumbly, add a little - maybe a half a tablespoon - and keep mixing it up with your hands.  When they tell you, Aaah, it’s all holding together, then make it into a ball, wrap it in plastic and put it in the refrigerator to rest.  It needs to rest, because it’s been in flow just like you.
While it’s resting, make your filling
FILLING
1 sweet potato, cut into cubes and boiled, then mashedAbout a quarter cup of onion, diced fine1 clover garlic, smashed up good3 slices of prosciutto, dicedsome more dried sage (about a teaspoon) crumbledAbout a tablespoon of grated Parmigiano Reggiano      (Substitute goat cheese, or Romano, or Feta if you like, but DO NOT GET THE CHEAP STUFF!  Your ravioli deserves some respect.)Salt and pepper to taste
Saute the prosciutto and onion in some olive oil until it’s mildly carmelized.  Add the sage, seasoning, and garlic at the end.  
Put all this in the sweet potato mash.  Sprinkle in your cheese, and mix it all up.  Let it sit.
If your pasta dough is nicely rested, roll it out into strips  (I use number 6 on my pasta machine, and make it about 3 inches wide.)
Get about a tablespoon of filling on the dough, in a line down the middle, with maybe a quarter inch between each plop.  Put another strip on top, then cut out your ravioli squares with a knife or a ravioli cutter.  If you don’t have a cutter, you can press around the outside of each square with a fork to make it look nice, and to make sure it all holds together.
Get a big pot of salted water boiling, and when it’s ready, cook your ravioli,   
SAUCE
I use a simple sauce for this.  It’s made with about a quarter cup of chicken broth, 5 fresh sage leaves, cut into thin strips, about a quarter cup of olive oil, a quarter cup or so of thin thin onion slices, some more grated parmigiano, and a can of fava beans. 
I get the oil going, throw in the sage and onion and fava beans, with a little more salt and pepper.  When the ravioli’s cooked I toss that in, to let it brown up nicely.  Then I toss the chicken broth and grated cheese on top.  
After that, I sit with my feet on the ground, and eat food that tastes as substantial as the earth  it grew from.  I’m back on the planet! 

WHAT'S NEXT

Cricket, waiting for what's next    You probably noticed that the world didn’t end on December 21st.  Some of you may be surprised, or even disappointed  (My faculty colleague, Russell Davis, was looking forward to getting out of some looming deadlines, for instance.)  All those TV specials and films about it have to retire now, and we all get to go on with our lives, for good or ill, until the next possibility of Apocalypse occurs, when we’ll make more movies and TV specials, and secretly wonder if this is, this time, truly It.       Now here’s the question:  Why do we do that? What is it about the End of Days that makes us quiver with anticipation, gives us a particular thrill?  

    I thought about that a lot when I was writing my Jaguar Addams novel,  The Fear of God,   which features a cult leader who's sick of waiting for the End of Days and decides to stage it herself, so I have a theory or two.  Some of them have to do with wanting to expiate old guilt,  which worked well in the novel.  But mostly, really, I think we want to belong to something larger than our daily round.      Come on.  Admit it.  What Douglass Addams calls the Long, Dark Tea Time of the Soul afflicts us all now and then, and when it does we yearn to touch what’s beyond our ken, to be part of a larger web than the job and the bills and what’s on TV tonight.  I don’t think that’s a bad thing, either.  I think it speaks to our human longing for knowledge, and communication, and belonging and  - well, let’s say it -  love.     There’s lots of ways to feed that longing, some more useful than others.  Joining a survivalist group might not be as benign as taking up contra dancing, for instance.  Writing your memoir is probably more productive than hooking up with a cult.  But the impulse is the same.  To belong.  To connect.  To be in community.  To know that who you are and what you do makes a difference in this strange world.      As our need for connection continues beyond the cancelled Apocalypse, go ahead and find some good ways to meet it.  Do something kind for others, and do it in a way that utilizes your unique talent, whatever it is.  Teach literacy, or cook at a shelter, or get a telescope and teach some kids how to gave at the infinity of sky.   Do something kind for yourself, too, because joy is something that spreads fast as the flu.  Go sing or dance with other humans.  Take a long train ride and TALK to people.  Take lots of long, hot baths, and dream of what’s possible.  Of what’s next.   Consider the nature of your spirit, and what spirits beyond you speak to it.   
     Most importantly, ask yourself this:  In what way does my life contribute to the store of good in the world?     There’s your connection, in the best possible way.  And that, more than any Apocalypse, is what we need next.        What's Your Fear?     Below is a recipe for food that will both comfort you during the cold season, and sustain you as you pursue the Greater Good.   

  You can find out more about my writing at my website, wildreads.com.   


    BLINTZ BLITZ
  I’m giving the traditional version of the cheese blintz here, but there’s lots of ways to amend it.     Maybe you want to toss some spinach and dill in with the cheese, which is good and good for you.  Or maybe you want to try a mix of mushrooms, bacon, and sour cream, which is good though not good for you.  Or maybe you want fruit instead of cheese, which is not uncommon either.  Go ahead and try some variations, because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!
Happy Blintzes, with berries and sour creamPANCAKES
2 eggs1 cup flour1 tablespoon melted butter, cooled1/2 teaspoon salt1 cup milk1/2 teaspoon baking powderButter for cooking
FILLING1/2 pound farmer cheese2 ounces softened cream cheesesalt for seasoning

Get all your filling mixed together and let it wait in a bowl.  It’s very patient and won’t mind at all. 
To make the pancakes, mix the flour, salt and baking powder together.  In another bowl beat the eggs, add the melted butter, and milk.  Add the dry to the wet - or vice versa.  The Bubba who taught me to do this said it didn’t matter at all.   Mix it all together until smooth.   
Put on some good old swing music, which will help establish a smooth rhythm for the pancake making.  Butter a 5-6 inch nonstick pan and get it hot on the stove.  Pour enough batter in it to coat the pan thinly, pouring excess back into the bowl.  Rotate the pan around to spread the batter evenly, while you sing Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.  
Cook until the edges just begin to curl up and dance with you - about half a minute.  Remove the pancake to a cookie sheet, and repeat your performance until the pancakes are all cooked.  They will not want to wait as patiently as the filling, so keep going forward with the project.
Put about a tablespoon of the filling on the cooked side of the blintz, in the center.  Roll up the bottom over the filling, tuck in the two sides, then fold the top down.  Do the same with the rest of the pancakes.  
Now that they’re all filled and content, you can get some butter in a pan, put it on the stove on medium, and saute the blintzes for about 4 minutes, turning them to brown all sides.   
You’ll get about 6-8 blintzes from this, and they’ll all be happy.  So will you.     

COMFORT AND LOVE

    A few years ago, I was stuck in Penn Station in New York City at about one in the morning, waiting out a snowstorm.  Since I don’t own a cell phone, I went to the phone booth kiosk to try and make a call, letting those I love know where I was.  While I stood there dialing, I heard the young man at the phone next to mine slam his phone down.  Then, he started yelling.  “Gonna kill everyone,”  he shouted.  “They all gotta die.  Gonna kill ‘em.”     As you can imagine, I was scared.  Really scared.  I considered my options, and realized that any way I ran I was directly in his view, and he was getting more and more agitated, and I didn’t know if he had a gun.     Then, from a few yards away, I saw a janitor.  He was an older black man, portly and tired looking, mopping the floors.   He sighed, dropped his mop and approached the young man.       “What’s wrong, kid?” he asked gently.  “You don’t wanna be talking that way.  You need something?”     His voice was both soothing and authoritative as he approached this potential violence.  He raised his arm, held a hand out to the young man, and he kept talking.  “I get it,” he said.  “We all a little angry these days, but you don’t gotta do nothing stupid.  Talk to me, man.”       Before long, he was within reach of the person who terrified me, and then he put his arms around him, led him away, still talking.         I breathed again, and watched with amazement.  An angel, I thought.  An angel in a janitor’s uniform.         I never saw him or the young man again, but I remember both of them often.  I ask myself what it took for that janitor to move toward rather than away from what looked like real danger.  I think with wonder about the ordinary heroes whose names we never know.  I thank him repeatedly, as I realize the power and authority of true compassion, which is available to the most humble as well as the greatest of us all.        In this season of miracles, what happened that night recurs to me, reminding me that our true power resides not in money, or status. Not in rage or fear.  It resides in our capacity to love.  In the strength it takes to choose love over fear.  That’s the miracle of being human.       As we all wait for the darkest night of year, after having lived through one of the darkest moments we share as a nation, that’s all I want to say.  That we’re here to move beyond our fear and learn love, to live love, in all that it requires.   
     May the darkness bless you with dreams of light.  May the returning light bless you with lessons of love.   

      Different people mourn tragedy in many ways.  Some cut their hair.  Some sit Shiva.  Some howl against the darkness.  For my part, I’m fasting, to remember with grief the children and educators killed at Sandy Hook.  There are no recipes for this, except the strength it takes to move beyond darkness, into the light of love and what it asks us to do next.       

12 DRUMMERS DRUMMING

Cricket Likes Drums
       This one was easy.  What else would you make for drummers drumming except a timbale?  Well, or a timbaline, which is the same thing, only smaller.        That’s right.  I made a little drum, and felt good about it in a number of ways.  I love drumming, and do it whenever I can.  And this timbaline is filled with artichokes, cheese, olives, and has a bit of truffle butter on it.   I mean, really.  Does it taste good?  No.  It tastes great.     But what text goes with it?  In what text do I drum out my own heart and let the world hear that rhythm?       Probably in all of them.  I’m the kind of writer who writes everything from the center of my pounding heart, because that’s where the fun is.  So, for this one, I decided to give you a bit of a novel that’s not yet published, just to remind you that writers generally have a few novels they’re waiting to bring into the world.  This one is a fantasy novel, Children of the Land, which might be available in a few months.       But the main point is that the character is walking in the dark - something writers do as a matter of course - and finds that dark is no problem as long as you listen to the beating of your heart, knowing the song it sings is true.          That, I thought, was a good thing to remember as we approach the darkest day of the year.   A good thing to know at any time, since we all face darkness at different times, in different ways.   And what song we can glean from it is what really matters, after all.  

      EXCERPT FROM CHILDREN OF THE LAND
       All around her was a thick dark her vision could not penetrate, and with each step she took she didn’t know if she’d fall into some infinite hole, or walk into a wall that would stop her here while the world ended.  She groped ahead and to her sides, but she grappled only with air.  One halting step at a time she moved forward.       Every step created the sensation of falling, and she had to continually still a rising panic.  Was she about to walk into nothing?  Was she walking in circles without realizing it?  She fought to see anything at all, her eyes greedy for vision.  She could walk here for weeks, and the chance to complete her task would be lost while she fumbled in the deceptive dark.  She stifled the contradictory urges to either stop and lie down for good or turn around and run madly back to beat on the door until Beatrice’s guards dragged her out into the light.     “Stop it,”  she told herself.  “It’s no worse than Rondole.”       But that was a lie.  In Rondole she’d had the comfort of friends, and was surrounded by their love for her and hers for them.  Only Beatrice would find her here.  And death encompassed with love seemed somehow better than dying under a hateful hand.  She would not go back to that fate.  She moved forward, counting her steps as a way of soothing herself.   It didn’t help.  She’d gone more than two hundred paces, each one a painful sister to stumbling, when she halted.    “This is folly,” she muttered into the dark. “I must find a better way of going.”    She stood still, her only physical knowledge the ground immediately under her feet. She forced her breath to slow, seeking anything that might help her in this profuse emptiness.  A surprising memory returned:  She thought of Oshun dancing, her body made of song carried by beating drums.  It was a skill, Oshun had said, to stumble blindly in the dark.  It was a dance of power Vareka owned.        She sighed in relief.   Her body relaxed into the memory of rhythm and she did not try to see ahead.  Instead she traded vision for the perception of skin sensing air and her feet touching ground.   Her heartbeat became a clear drumming within her, and under this guidance, she made her way forward.       She went slowly at first, but then the drumbeat in her quickened and so did her shadowed dance, until she perceived the power of the sheltering dark.  It held her, dim and consoling, shielding her from the eyes of the City.  She relinquished herself to its care, and the dark became not an enemy or an obstacle, but a source of other visions that won’t show themselves in the light.      She drank from a fountain of grace beyond vision, moving swiftly and smoothly within her own song. Her spirit was made to draw strength here. Her shadowed legacy of Aroc and Beatrice transformed itself into the ability to dance with darkness, knowing it was a place of the heart.        She didn’t know how many minutes passed or how many miles moved under her feet.  Motion was all.  Motion, and the pleasure of the dance.
     For more about my writing in a variety of realms, visit wildreads.com.


LO SIGNO  (The Jewel Box)
There’s always jewels inside the drum, and this is no exception.   It’s a crepe timbale,  and you’ll need 6 small ramekins to accommodate the filling.  Butter them, and let them wait the filling.
CREPES
3 large eggs1/2 cup flour1/2 cup milk1/4 cup salt
For the crepes:   Mix it all together.  I use a hand mixer, then let it sit while I do the rest so the materials can all get to know each other.
FILLING
1 can artichokes1 clove garlicAbout a pound of chicken breast, boneless and skinless, chopped up Tastes like Jewels, Only Better!1/2 cup chopped up black olives1/2 cup Madiera wine3/4 cup heavy cream1/2 cup grated parmegianno regianno1/4 cup Tallegio goat cheese  (I LIKED this cheese as an addition. You may not, and if not, use a different kind of cheese.   Mozzarella, or ricotta.  Because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!)     OPTIONAL:   Some Truffle butter to melt onto the finished product.OPTIONAL:   Add some pancetta or prosciutto to the mix.   Yum.   Dash in a bit of nutmeg if you like that.   

CREPE MAKING:
Use an  8 inch crepe pan or nonstick skillet.   Get it on medium heat and put a pat of butter in.  When it melts pour about a quarter cup of the batter in, tilt and rotate the pan to distribute the batter evenly.  Pour any excess back into the bowl.  Cook until the edges start to curl - less than half a minute.  Then tap the crepe out onto another surface.   Cook the next crepe, and continue.  (You can do this ahead, and keep the crepes, separated by wax paper, until you’re ready to use them)
FILLING:
Get a saute pan hot and put some olive oil in it.  Add the diced chicken, and salt and pepper it.   As it begins to brown add the clove of garlic.  After less than a minute add the olives, the artichokes, the cream, the olives and the cheeses.   Keep stirring, because you have to pay attention to all this.  Taste it and see if it needs more salt or anything.   
Let the liquids reduce by half, then turn the stove off.
Put the crepes into the ramekins like linings in a coat.    Fill them with the filling.   Fold the top of the crepes over the filling.   
Put them in an oven heated to about  350 degrees for about 5 minutes.   
Tip each ramekin onto a plate and tap it out, so you get a little drum on the plate.  Dot the top with truffle butter.   
Serve it to the astonishment and pleasure of your guests.   Have one yourself.  Really.   They’re quite miraculous, and this is the season of miracles.  

11 PIPERS PIPING

Luna Also Likes to Sing
   This was a tough one to figure out, until my husband said ‘beans.‘       Yeah.  Beans.  The musical fruit, etc.  What else would pipers piping want?        But I wanted something that might be served at the table where the ladies were dancing and the lords leaping - something that won't hurt the moment, so to speak.   I went with a Portugese confection, Feijao.  That’s a kind of bean tart, reminiscent of miracle cookies because it uses beans in a sweet rather than savory way.  The recipe is below.

     And for novel excerpt?   Well, that was easier.  Something I share in common with Jaguar Addams is a love of singing - of working my own vocal pipes.  When I was performing with The Snickering Witches, I sang a lot,  Night Chant, and there’s one song I still often sing as intro to a reading of a Jaguar novel.  It’s the kind of song she’d also love, sultry and deep, with just enough high notes, the kind of song that enters your soul.  Don't be afraid to listen to it here.        Creating scenes where Jaguar sings is a particular writer’s challenge, and one I happen to love, so I’ve included a scene of that, a place where Jaguar’s vocal pipes are piping.        That’s how we get it done around here.  I hope both food and text are tasty to you.   
Excerpt from The Fear Principle - How singing leads to love
     Jaguar possessed the stage at Silver Bay, and the hearts of all the people who watched her sing. They were silent and listening, eyes pressed onto her swaying, silk-clad form as she sang a song that used the upper range of her voice. Alex walked into the bar and ordered a drink. Then he sat with everyone else and listened.     The song was about the Killing Times, an old one, mourning the loss of trust, of hope, of anything like a chance for beauty. Then, somewhere in the wavering notes of grief, a chance for the world to reweave itself, a pleading for the heart that heals and lives again.      Her voice was a thin ghost of a line carrying the blade of sorrow to his ears. Alex waited, twirling his brandy around and around in its glass and not drinking.   When she was done, he caught her eye. He signaled that he wanted her, and she tossed a nod at him. At the set break, she didn’t stop to talk to the other band members, but walked right over to him. When she reached him, she didn’t say a word. Not hello. Not what are you doing here. Not how’d you like the song. Nothing.  She knew.     “Sit, please,” he said, motioning to a chair. Once she was settled he took her face in both his hands, holding it very still. He leaned close, catching the scent of mint as he did so. She made no motion to escape his hold. She was consenting to this. He hoped it was a good sign.     Anyone who saw them would think they were lovers caught in a moment of intimacy. Empathic contact looked like that sometimes, though it could also seem as violent as fire, or soft as feathers, depending on the empath and the subject.      Alex let his hands search, finding his way in through this dear and unfamiliar flesh, going in slowly, taking time and care as he went.
       You can read more about Jaguar and Alex in ebook or paperback , at Wildside Books.  

FEIJAO
1 sheet puff pastry1 can chickpeas, drained and mashed or pureed.   (You can use white beans or red kidney beans if you prefer, because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR TARTS!)6 eggs, separated1 cup sugar1 tablespoon butter1/4 cup water1/2 cup mini chocolate chips, semi-sweet1 tsp. cinnamon
Roll the puff pastry out thinner than it is in the package, but still sturdy enough to make a shell.  Prick it all over with a fork, even if it says OUCH.   Cut it with a 4 inch biscuit cutter or glass, and get the rounds into a muffin tin.  (Nonstick, or one rubbed with butter as we’d all like to be)
Strange and TastyMake a caramel with the sugar by putting the sugar in a small but sturdy pot (Like the island of Portugal itself) and putting it on medium heat.  The sugar will liquify and get all brown, and you can shake and stir it as it does so.  Keep an eye on it, so it doesn’t burn.  When it’s all liquified, turn the heat off and add the water, but BE CAREFUL!  It will bubble up vigorously, like a Portugese man taking umbrage at a slight.  Stir it down and take it off the heat to let it cool.  
When it’s cool, add a bit of it to the egg yolks and stir it in.   Add more, and more, a little at a time.  Be patient.  This is a food you seduce rather than command.   
Add the chocolate chips, the mashed beans, and cinnamon and stir some more until you have a smooth blend.    
Put about a quarter cup or more of this mix into the puff pastry shells and bake at 350 degrees for about 45 minutes.  
When you’re done, you can dust them with confectioner’s sugar or not, as you choose.  If you like it, then SING!