Barbara Chepaitis's Blog: http://aliterarylunch.blogspot.com/2015/07/frying-mad.html, page 9

HARVEST

Ziggy Harvests Carrot
   Mid to late August finds me processing various plant life from my garden.  Basil must be mashed into pesto.  Paprika peppers must be dried.  Cukes must be made into refrigerator pickles.  And so on.      It’s the beginning of the harvest in my area. and I’m thinking about harvesting in both the gardening and the larger sense, for a few reasons.      My oldest brother is a Franciscan priest, and yesterday he celebrated 40 years since his ordination.  Though I’m more of a free-lance pagan, I still appreciate what he does, and why and how he does it.  He spends most of his time taking care of those who need care, simply because they need it.  He’ll never get famous or rich for it, but he doesn’t care.  His primary concern is to follow the rule of St. Francis, a pretty cool guy who wrote some magnificent poetry and ended up the patron saint of animals.  Not a bad fate all around. Steve Harvests Ziggy    My brother's celebration was a lovely harvest ritual in the best sense, and I was sorry my mother wasn't alive to see it.  She would have appreciated the ceremony - though she surely would have told my brother to make his sermon shorter.  She always did.     But she had a good harvest, too.  In her final illness, when we were tying up loose threads between us, she told me she’d done exactly what she wanted in her life.  She had no regrets.  Nothing left undone.       St. Francis, poet rebel, said something along the same lines.  As he lay dying, he gathered his brothers around him and told them, “I have done what was mine to do.  I pray you will find yours.”     I’ve known for many years that writing is what's mine to do, but this week has made me ask myself what I hope my larger harvest will be - a good question to ask yourself periodically as you meander through your days.      Certainly I’d have no objection to my writing being recognized with a Nobel, or Oscar, or Pulitzer, but in general I hope to leave this world a better place than when I entered it, adding to its store of good in as many ways as I can.  That, I think, is not a bad goal.  In the meantime, my present joy is continuing to write, continuing to care for my dogs and cats, continuing to love my home and land, my husband and family and friends.       Is that enough?  Does being a half-crazed writer, willing to throw it all on the line for her imaginary friends and glad to do what she can for her real ones, constitute a life well-lived?  I may not know for many years.  But some time ago I realized that if I have any god, her name is Love.  If I do what love requires, that’s maybe the best I can do.     While I”m thinking about love, I should mention food. I have lots of tomatoes to bring in.  Some of them will go into sauce, of course.  Others will go into a writer's half-crazed rendition of tomato sorbet.  It’s unusual and astonishingly tasty, and will make you say “WOW!” just like my life does now and then.  Just like I hope all my harvests do.   


     If you want to know more about my philosophy of love, which is half-crazed, fierce, and unusual as tomato sorbet, you can get the Jaguar Addams novels at Wildside Books .  Or you can visit my website, wildreads.com.

TOMATO SORBET
Tastebuds say WOW!6 or 7 really tasty fresh (preferably home-grown) good sized tomatoes. 1/2 cup red wine vinegar2 tablespoons sugar1 clove garlic1 packet gelatin, dissolved in about 4 tablespoons water2 tsps. salt1/4 cup really good olive oil4 leaves fresh basil, chopped(Options:   You can add chopped parsley, and/or pepper, or if you’re feeling otherwise inclined, Cilantro and tabasco.  It’s really up to you because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!)

Cut the tops off the tomatoes and blend them in a blender.  Add the rest of the ingredients, with any improvisations you choose, and blend some more.  The tomatoes will sing with joy as other flavors join theirs (Usually either a Mayan chant, or opera).  Sometimes they sing off key, but don’t correct them.  It makes them go sour.
Put the blender in the fridge for at least half an hour to get cold.  This will prepare all the ingredients for what happens next, and also gradually slow down the singing.
Pour it all into an ice cream machine of your choice and let it run.  (If you don’t have an ice cream machine, you can put it all in a metal tray, put it in the freezer, and every 20 minutes or so stir it up) 
It will be soft, but I eat it right away because it’s sooooo tasty.  You can freeze what you don’t eat if you like, but it will shiver so be prepared for hearing it say ‘brrr.’  

INSPIRATION'S DAY OFF

Zzzzzz   I’m feeling uninspired today.  The weather is overcast, cool and quiet where I am, and summer is moving inexorably away.  After months of blazing sun that almost killed my tomatoes, for the last two nights the sky was too cloudy to see the meteor showers, and I’m whiny at the absence of a pretty celestial event I was looking forward to.  I also have lots of nonwriting stuff to take care of, and I'm whiny about that.  Uninspired all around.    That happens to writers more often than you’d imagine, because inspiration is just one part of what we do.  A lot of it is what i call housekeeping. Figuring out how to get a character from one side of the room to the other,  either gracefully or with appalling klutziness, depending on the character.  Standing in your office and gesturing your way through an action scene.  Going back through text to make sure you’ve spelled a character’s name consistently throughout.  The devil really is in those details, and must be exorcised regularly.     There’s also all those niggling business items - copyediting, money matters, deadlines for promotional work, and so on.  Not every writing day is filled with bliss.     However, low inspiration days don’t mean you stop writing.  On days I can’t invent, I play with additions and amendations to existing text.       Think of it like cooking.  I don’t create new recipes every day.  Some days I just play with what I know, and add a few new elements.  In writing, on cloudy Mondays when energy and bliss are running low, I see what I can add to an existing mix, to give it a bit more sparkle.  Something else to do on uninspired days
     Today, I’m playing with the seventh Jaguar Addams novel, The Voice of Fear.  I’ll take a sentence like this:  Jaguar felt Adept space in the air.  I’ll change it to this:  The tingle of Adept space moved through her.  There.  That’s better.  Something physical was added to make the sentence more palpable to the reader.   Then maybe I’ll spend a lot of time with this bit:  He showed no anxiety.  In fact, he was very satisfied with himself.  Less than an inch away from smug.  Is that exactly as I want to say it?  Should it be ‘he showed,’ or ‘his face showed?’  Very satisfied, or completely satisfied, or just satisfied?  
      That’s exactly the right kind of obsession for an uninspired day.  The words are all familiar, but the combination is what makes the fun.  So I’ll continue to mull over text I already have, fluffing it, prodding it, questioning it.  I’ll make small moves, and move on.        Then, when my writing day is done, I’ll go to the kitchen and take something very homey, like corn muffins, and see what new thing can happen there as well.    Hmm.  I’ve got a big container full of zucchini blossoms in the fridge.  And cooking, like writing, is all about the interesting combinations of the familiar, to create something new.       An idea occurs.  Let’s try it, because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!     

   To read the results of my inspired and uninspired days, you can check out my website, wildreads.com , or you can enjoy Jaguar’s company at Wildside Books .

ZUCCHINI BLOSSOM CORN MUFFINS
NOTE:  If you have a favorite corn muffin recipe, by all means, use it.  There’s plenty around, and you aren’t obligated to invent a new one.  Not on a cloudy day in August, anyway.  What matters here are the small additions which put a little pizzazz in the day.    Feel free to amend those additions  (maybe some hot smoked paprika in the large muffins?) because must I keep telling you the rule?  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD! 
2 cups all purpose flour Ziggy, Inspired by Muffins1 cup cornmeal1 1/2 tsp. baking powder1 tsp. baking soda1/2 tsp. salt3/4 cups sugar2 large eggs5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled3/4 cup sour cream1/2 cup milk
1 cup finely chopped zucchini blossoms1/2 cup pine nuts (optional)1/2 cup diced zucchini (optional)
Mix up your dry ingredients in one bowl, and  your wet in another.  Then combine them.  Simple, right? 
Add the zucchini blossoms and stir them in.  Pretty pretty.    What I did next was this:  I got out my Fairy Muffin Tin  (that makes tiny muffins, the kind most fairies prefer), put paper in the little cups, and added about two tablespoons to each.   
Then, because I wasn’t ready to stop playing around, I put some good olive oil in a saute pan, added the pine nuts and diced zucchini and cooked them on high until the pine nuts started to get tan and say ‘ouch’ really loud.  
I let that cool a bit, and added it to the rest of the batter in the bowl.  For this, I got out my regular size muffin tin, added muffin papers to the little cups, and put about an ice cream scoop of batter in each.
They got cooked in a preheated, 350 degree oven - the Fairy muffins for about 10 minutes, and the regular ones about 15 minutes.  

GOING FOR GOLD

2 Dogs, Out Standing in Their Field    Yes, I watch the Olympics, early and often.  Yesterday my husband got a new view of me as we saw the Lithuanian basketball players give the USA team a run for their money.  Some of you won't be surprised to learn I was cheering for the Lithuanians, using colorful invectives when the USA made points.  Well, my Lithuanian father was a high school basketball coach whose small-town team won the state championships. I come by it honestly.        Don’t misunderstand me here. I’m not against the USA winning. I’m just a sucker for stories of those who overcome great obstacles to achieve victory. And Lithuania, the last pagan hold out against the Pope, the first to leave the Soviet Union, is all that.        Maybe for me, the Olympics are all about the stories.  They’re a text, and like I always say, as we read the text, so the text reads us.  Who we cheer for and why says something about what we yearn for, what we believe in, what we value most.    Olympic Puddle Jumping     I think that’s true of the stories we write as well.  I advise my students to look at what they write and see what character they return to again and again.  Are they, like my husband, obsessed with stories of personal self-sacrifice for the greater good?  Do they repeatedly write about the disenfranchised?  If so, they should pursue the character that pursues them, consciously, working out the ending they prefer through the fictional world that captures their imagination, their emotion, most strongly.       Probably the same is true of readers, movie-goers, Olympic fans - even cooks.  Recently I imagined a new ways of making crepes that, as far as I know, has never been done before.  It uses zucchini flowers, which is just another way of privileging the underrated flower over the all-consuming fruit of the vine. Food is also a text that reads me.          I’d venture to say that tendency is true for us as a culture as well.  That means I’m sometimes troubled by our preference for both fast food, and movies about vampires.  Does it indicate we’re a nation of greedy bloodsuckers, trying to excuse or rationalize that trait?  Or how about our love of war stories?  Why do we tell them over and over again, while rarely telling the story of how peace gets made?  How about the whole zombie thing?  Let me not get into what an editor recently said about zombie erotica being hot right now.  Ew.        My husband says I worry too much, and he’s probably right. However, I do think that what we imagine creates us, perhaps as much as what we experience.  Those of you who read my Jaguar Addams novels may offer opinions on what that says about me.  God knows my therapists have had a few comments to make in that regard.     But you’ll notice, if you read her, that she’s still all about redemption.  I mean, she works with the worst criminals, and something in her continues to believe she can bring them around.  Recently a Hollywood professional, someone who’s worked in the TV business for decades, told me that her job would make her ‘unsympathetic‘ to the TV world.  People want to see the bad guys punished, not redeemed, he said.      Well.  Okay.  That’s one way of looking at it.  However, it won’t stop me from continuing to try.      After all, I’m the girl who’s cheering for the Lithuanians.  And will continue to do so, all the way.
      If you want to honor someone you see as a champion in your world, below is a recipe for my zucchini flower, gold medal crepes.  


      You can learn more about Jaguar’s need to redeem the unredeemable at Wildside Books , and make comments about the troubled state of my mind on Facebook.   Gold Medal CrepeGOLD MEDAL CREPES3/4 cup all purpose flour3/4 cup milk1/4 cup granulated sugar1 tsp. cinnamon1/4 tsp. vanilla extractpinch of salt2 large eggs8 zucchini blossoms, end trimmed off.FILLINGYou can smear the inside with Nutella and add some fresh raspberries or strawberries, then roll it up, flower side out.Or, you can peel and slice up some really juicy peaches, broil them briefly, add a touch of sugar and cinnamon and use them for filling.Or you can layer some chocolate chips on the inside of the crepe while it’s still cooking to melt them slightly, add some ricotta cheese and then fold them.Or you can improvise another filling of your own choice because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!TO MAKE THE CREPES:  (NOTE:  These instructions us a crepe pan or skillet, but I make mine on my griddle, pouring a quarter cup of batter onto it and swirling it out with the back of a spoon. It's faster, impresses the judges.)

Crepes aren’t that difficult and you shouldn’t be afraid of them.  Or, if you are afraid, you should pretend Jaguar is looking over your shoulder and FACE YOUR FEAR!   Combine the flour, sugar, cinnamon and salt in a big bowl.  Stir it around to blend.In another bowl combine the milk, eggs and vanilla.  Now pour this into the dry ingredients, and stir it up.  Cover it and let it chill for at least an hour, or overnight if you like.  The ingredients need to get well acquainted if they’re to work together as a winning team.  When you’re ready to make the crepes, turn on some inspiring music.  Get someone to be your announcer.  Friend or spouse works well.  Slit the zucchini blossoms up the middle and make two halves, like sun rays.  Have them ready next to the stove.Heat up a crepe pan or medium nonstick skillet on medium-high.  Coat the pan with butter or cooking spray. Check your batter, which should be pretty thin.  If it’s thickened overnight, add some water. Pour about 1/4 cup into the pan.  Tilt the pan in a kind of swirly motion, like a gymnast on floor exercise, so the batter spreads evenly and thinly.  Pour any excess back into the bowl.  As the crepe cooks, take half the blossom and press it into the uncooked side.  If there’s room, put another half on the other side, so it looks beautiful as the sun.   When the edges begin to curl slightly, flip the crepe over and press it down to push the flower in firmly. ( If you’re adding chocolate chips, do so now.)  In a minute or less, take the crepe out of the pan and lay it on parchment or wax paper.  Repeat the process until all your crepes are cooked.  Ignore the cheering of the crowd until after you've filled them and put them on a platter. Then wave and smile to acknowledge your victory.   Or, if you like, you can stack the crepes between pieces of parchment paper and freeze them or save them for later.    

DANCING ON THE EDGE

Chaco likes the Edge   Here in Colorado people are grieving an act of senseless violence, perpetrated by someone desperate to participate in the cult of celebrity.  The impulse to kill for that reason, the fact that in the face of such tragedy there’s still argument over the need to make such weapons less available, the culture that fosters a sense of self-esteem based on wealth and fame – all that makes me want to take the world and its inhabitants by the shoulders and shake them, asking, “Good God, what are you thinking of?”    But listen – two things happened yesterday to turn me in a different direction.     The first was that I saw a man, walking down the streets of Gunnison, engaged in lone and personal prayer.       He was short, dark-skinned, and balding, and dressed all in white – I assumed he was from India.  Periodically he would stop, bring his hands to his chest in the “Namaste” position, and chant, his voice soft and cool as a breeze.  It was soothing to walk behind him and then pass through the air he’d prayed in, as if I was stepping into the fresh salt water of ocean waves.   I had no idea what he was doing or why, and I didn’t need to know.  I only felt deep appreciation for someone who would live out his connection with the sacred in a way that was both visible, and unobtrusive.  He wasn’t seeking attention.  He was speaking with his gods, and I could ignore it or witness it as I chose.       The second thing that happened was that my friend and colleague, author and teacher Michaela Roessner, sent me a video link called  Happy People Dancing on Planet Earth and you should watch it.  In it, the filmmaker dances with people all over the world, from Zimbabwe to Lebanon and Milan to Denver.   Yes, Denver.  Even Denver.        Nobody explains.  It’s not necessary.  The music plays and people dance, and you get it:  This is what we’re here for.  To dance with each other.  To walk oddly clad down unlikely streets  and sing to our particular vision of the sacred.  To appreciate, enjoy, and help each other. Ziggy and Chaco Rest after Dancing    Now, I’m not blind.  The world is full of problems that can’t be dispelled with dancing, so I’ll add that we’re also here to solve problems.  That’s why we have brains as well as hearts.  But I think the dancing helps us remember the kinds of problems we’re supposed to be solving.    Political problems aren’t about power.  They’re about how best to serve.  Insurance companies aren’t supposed to solve the problem of generating larger profit margins, but the problem of getting their customers the best possible health care.  Hollywood’s problem isn’t  how to create blockbusters.  It’s using their art to tell stories – all the stories.  Not just the ones that serve corporate interests.      And doing any of that these days is, well, dancing on the edge.  If you can't imagine how I feel about that, here's a hint.  In my novel , A Lunatic Fear , when Alex asks Jaguar if she’s taking him dancing on the edge she replies, “We seem to like it there.”  She knows that when greed and fear rule the center, it’s time to move out.        Well, I could go on and on, but I’ve already busted the dominant paradigm by going over the edge of what’s acceptable for the sound-bite of blog length.  Anyway, I’m sure you get it.  It’s like the Mohawk say – every creature on the planet has a job to do, and the job of humans is simply to give thanks, and learn to live in harmony with everything else here.      In short, we’re here to dance.    So go dance, or sing, or plant your garden.Thumb your nose at the celebrities and be the star of your own life.  Dig deep to find the right problems to solve, then solve them.  Go put something good in the world.  Make art.  Make supper.       And don’t forget to play with your food.
      Below is the recipe for the Dark and Stormy, which is something us writers  enjoy before we dance, or make our art, which is really the same thing after all.  

      A Lunatic Fear pits the powers of greed and fear against those of love in an unusual way.  You can find the kindle version at Wildside Books .  And you can find me on Facebook . 

DARK AND STORMY
Dark and Stormies Dancing2 oz.  really good dark rum - preferably Gosling's Black Seal3 (or 4 if you like it lighter) oz. really good ginger beer (NOT ginger ale1 slice limeIce
You know.  Liquid in glass, add ice until it shivers, and garnish with lime.



YEZZI’S YEZZITO
Poet David Yezzi, faculty here at Western’s MFA, invented this when we ran out of ginger beer.  At that point, of course, we had to PLAY WITH OUR FOOD!
1 part really good dark rum3 parts Santa Cruz  (or other) raspberry lemonade1 tsp. sugar1 slice limeAbout two teaspoons fresh basil, rough choppedIce
Muddle the basil and sugar in a glass.  Add the rum and lemonade and stir a bit.  Add the ice.   Sip and dance.  

ZUCCHINI CONTROL

At night they bring the pods. . . 
    At this time of year, when zucchinis grow like baseball bats under the  sun, I feel I must broach the delicate issue of vegetable contraception.    With no intent to offend, I must ask my gentle readers if they’ve considered the possibility of family planning for their garden friends, and in particular those friends known formally as Cucurbita pepo, and informally as Marrow, Courgette, summer squash, or zucchini.     Of course, you're already assisting many of the little green garden people in this way. I mean, you eat peas, right? And neither do you let the seeds of the tomato fall upon the ground. At least, in my house we don't. We snatch them tomatoes right up and scarf 'em down. Sometimes with salt, sometimes without.     But zucchini, prolific and insistent in their belief that Size Matters, require a special approach, and a little more effort to restrain.      What we do at my house, dear readers, is eat the flowers.      This flower, plucked early and often, cuts down the overarching tendency of the fruit to loom large and threatening to your children - or your neighbors, who have to eat all that zucchini bread.      Now don't give me that shocked look. Lots of flowers are good to eat - nasturtium, violets, little lemon gem marigolds. Ignoring their pitiful cries for mercy, we toss them into salads indiscriminately and say yum. Or Miam. (cf. 'strawberries, wild and tame). Likewise, the flower of the zucchini, a golden bowl of wonder, is a taste treat beyond compare.     It’s like we tell our students here in Gunnison, at our Western MFA program.  Not all sentences, however beautiful, belong in your manuscript.  Some must be nipped in the bud to keep the work from burgeoning into the Dire Book.  But they shouldn’t be thrown away.  No, no.  Save them in a separate file for later use.  They’re still delectable.  They just have to find the right place.  The right plate. Ziggy and Chaco stay inside, fearing Zucchini     So it is with zucchini.  Nipping the blooms of the marrow and using them in other context is, in fact, a particular  treat for me, bringing back memories of Grandma Campilli  and Netty Fabiano, who would bring plates of fried blossoms to us as we played in the yard.  They are the smell of summer. Sunshine sugared sweetly.     Therefore, dear readers, I recommend that you try the recipe below, to pleasure your palate, and keep your garden safe from the menace of giant marrow. The long and the short of it - so to speak - is that an ounce of flower consumption will save you pounds of zucchini, so start snipping those flowers, and enjoy.

    You can find me on Facebook, where you’ll also find Jaguar Addams , a woman who is ruthless in using her knife to protect others, even from Zucchini. 

FRIED BLOSSOMS – SWEET
(NOTE:  My family tradition is unusual in that we make a sweet version of the blossom.   If you want savory, you can either: 1)  Omit the sugar, and dip the blossoms in bread crumbs after the batter, or 2) stuff the blossoms with about a tablespoon of ricotta, parsley or other herbs that seem good to you, then dip in batter and fry.  Of course you can amend what you stuff with, or use herbs with the bread crumbs because you know the rule.  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!)

12 or so Zucchini blossoms     (some people say don’t pick the male flowers, but I’m all for gender equality.  In fact, I like to pick the ones with tiny zucchini still stuck to the blossom and fry them up  as well)
Enough canola oil to half fill a good sized skillet.
Confectioner’s sugar for sprinkling on the joyous blooms.

BATTER:2 egg yolks2/3 cup water or milk (water makes a crispier version; milk a more cakey one.  I prefer water)1 tbsp melted butter1 cup flour¼ tsp salt2 tablespoons sugar2 egg whites

Mix the egg yolks, water (or milk), sugar, salt, and flour in a big bowl.  Add the melted butter.
In a separate bowl whipe the egg whites until stiff, then fold them  gently into the other ingredients. They’ll wiggle a bit, because it tickles.  Just keep gently folding. 
Put the bowl, covered, in the fridge and let the batter chill for at least an hour, or until it starts singing Marvin Gaye tunes. 
Before you remove it from the fridge, get your zucchini blossoms set up by the stove, put the oil in the skillet, and get it heated up.  Colder batter is better batter, so let it keep singing until the oil is at about 350 degrees.  If you don’t have a thermometer, drop a bit of batter in the oil and see if it sizzles up quick.  If it does, the oil is ready.
Dip the zucchini blossoms in the batter, getting them nicely covered (because they’re feeling shy right now).  Lay the blossom in the oil.  You can fry about three at once, but NO MORE!  They don’t like crowds.  
When the flower’s  golden brown on one side (less than a minute), flip it over.  Let it get golden brown on the other side and remove from the oil, putting it on a paper towel to briefly drain.

Put all your flowers on a plate, sprinkle liberally  (because we are liberal people, aren’t we?) with confectioner’s sugar, and serve to friends and strangers, near and far.  

SHIFT TO HIGH ATTITUDE

No, it’s not a typo. I wrote high attitude, and I meant it.
However, the title does grow from the fact that I’m currently about 8,000 feet above sea level in Gunnison, CO, where I’m faculty in a low residency graduate program in creative writing. In fact, I’m the boss of the fiction department.
Though our fall and spring semesters are on-line, for two weeks in the summer our students come out to to Western State College, and we eat, breathe, dream, and probably belch writing.
Those of us who come up from sea level also spend time adjusting to the altitude difference, and as I go through that process, I realize that every step up in attitude has about the same effects as shifts in altitude, emotionally and psychologically speaking.
When I first arrive in Gunnison I spend about three days being clumsy, stupid, tired but unable to sleep, struggling for breath when I climb stairs, and in general rather out of it. Rocky Mountain High indeed.
And every time I’ve stepped up a notch in my life – my first publications, my first teaching job, my current status as boss lady, and every time I’ve laid claim to my own power internally – I started out feeling clumsy, stupid, tired but unable to sleep, and disoriented.
You know what I mean, I’m sure. Ascent brings new vision and possibilities, and the confusion of uncertainty, as you ask yourself if you really know what the hell you’re doing.
No surprise there, really. Climbing a mountain has long been associated with touching the greatness of the celestial sphere, a broadening of the mind and heart. When I wanted Jaguar and Alex to discover each other for real in The Green Memory of Fear, I sent them up the mesa, “where the immensity of stars overhead was a reeling of all time imaginable.”
At the same time, Jaguar had to face her nemesis - not a walk in the park by any means. Going up the mountain asks you to bear with risk and difficulty before you get the perks. Vision plus difficulty breathing. An opening of the sky toward heaven, plus maybe falling off the mountain, which will hurt when you land.
This also holds true for times of personal evolution, which can be as, um, breathtaking as 8,000 feet up. I’ve watched my students struggle with discomfort, disorientation, as they climb from seeing themselves as wannabe writers to professionals, capable of managing the weirdness of the industry. Skilled enough to finish a novel, beginning to end. Also, I watched myself go through it, right here at 8,000 feet up.

Cattlewomen with High Attitude
During my first year here a strange set of circumstances got me involved with helping a Navy SEAL and Army Ranger who were stationed in Afghanistan bring an eagle they’d rescued back to the US. The entire story of that is a book of its own, forthcoming next May, but what’s important here is that the job grew much bigger than I anticipated, and I had to grow with it. I’d always been an outspoken woman, but I had to be her at a much higher level, cajoling Senators, news folk, and even the White House.
Often I was so afraid I felt like throwing up. Frequently my moves felt unnatural, wrong. A lot of times I woke in the night gasping for breath. But I stuck with it, and in a little while, I recognized my new self. She fit in my skin. I was comfortable with her, and trusted her to get me to the top of the mountain.
This year, as our first set of graduates go out into the world, I’m hoping they feel the same about their new selves. And you, dear readers, if you happen to be going through shift to High Atttitude, anticipate a time of adjustment. Don’t let it throw you off your mountain. Eat well and drink lots of water. Take good care of yourself, and let others care for you as well. Never be afraid to ask for help.
And when you feel comfortable in your skin again, enjoy the new view. You’ve earned it.

Below is some of what I eat for breakfast while I’m in Gunnison, where my cooking facilities and my time are severely limited.

You can find me at wildreads.com, and Jaguar at Wildside Books



GRAZING BREAKFAST IN GUNNISON

This one’s easy, and more about shopping than cooking.

About half a cup of marinated artichokes, store bought because I DON’T HAVE TIME TO PLAY WITH MY FOOD!
Two slices of really good bread, also store bought because I DON”T HAVE TIME TO PLAY WITH MY FOOD!
A hard boiled egg
A spoonful of bee pollen or honey
A few slices of Asiago cheese
Maybe some chopped up olives and/or tomatoes, if I can find good ones

Take the slices of bread and slather one with olives and marinated artichokes. Add slices of hard-boiled egg and, if they’re not whiny and flavorless, tomatoe slices.

Put the other slice of bread on top and press it down, even if it protests. If it continues to protest, you may want to check in with your doctor. Remember, not all highs are good highs.

Slice your slices in half and enjoy, with a lot of water, or maybe some juice. Munch on the cheese in between bits of the sandwich.

When you’re done, take the spoonful of honey or bee pollen with more water. I don’t know if it helps, but it tastes good.


BREAKFAST OUT IN GUNNISON

The WCafe, on Main Street, has some of the best Huevos going. Here’s how they do it:

A soft taco, with refried beans spread on it.
Two eggs – scrambled or over easy, as you like it – on top of the beans.
A generous portion of pork green chili on the eggs.
An equally generous portion of cheddar cheese on the chili.

Stick a fork in it and call it me happy.

The Green Memory of Fear

SHIFT TO HIGH ATTITUDE

High Cattitude
      No, it’s not a typo.  I wrote high attitude, and I meant it.        However, the title does grow from the fact that I’m currently about 8,000 feet above sea level in Gunnison, CO, where I’m faculty in a low residency graduate program in creative writing.  In fact, I’m the boss of the fiction department.        Though our fall and spring semesters are on-line, for two weeks in the summer our students come out to to Western State College , and  we eat, breathe, dream, and probably belch writing. 
     Those of us who come up from sea level also spend time adjusting to the altitude difference, and as I go through that process, I realize that every step up in attitude has about the same effects as shifts in altitude, emotionally and psychologically speaking.     When I first arrive in Gunnison I spend about three days being clumsy, stupid, tired but unable to sleep, struggling for breath when I climb stairs, and in general rather out of it.  Rocky Mountain High indeed.       And every time I’ve stepped up a notch in my life – my first publications, my first teaching job, my current status as boss lady, and every time I’ve laid claim to my own power internally – I started out feeling clumsy, stupid, tired but unable to sleep, and disoriented.        You know what I mean, I’m sure.  Ascent brings new vision and possibilities, and the confusion of uncertainty, as you ask yourself if you really know what the hell you’re doing.        No surprise there, really.  Climbing a mountain has long been associated with touching the greatness of the celestial sphere, a broadening of the mind and heart.   When I wanted Jaguar and Alex to discover each other for real in The Green Memory of Fear , I sent them up the mesa, “where the immensity of stars overhead was a reeling of all time imaginable.”          At the same time, Jaguar had to face her nemesis -  not a walk in the park by any means.  Going up the mountain asks you to bear with risk and difficulty before you get the perks.  Vision plus difficulty breathing.  An opening of the sky toward heaven, plus maybe falling off the mountain, which will hurt when you land.       This also holds true for times of personal evolution, which can be as, um, breathtaking as 8,000 feet up.  I’ve watched my students struggle with discomfort, disorientation, as they climb from seeing themselves as wannabe writers to professionals, capable of managing the weirdness of the industry.   Skilled enough to finish a novel, beginning to end.  Also, I watched myself go through it, right here at 8,000 feet up.  Cattlewomen with High Attitude     During my first year here a strange set of circumstances got me involved with helping a Navy SEAL and Army Ranger who were stationed in Afghanistan bring an eagle they’d rescued back to the US.  The entire story of that is a book of its own, forthcoming next May, but what’s important here is that the job grew much bigger than I anticipated, and I had to grow with it.   I’d always been an outspoken woman, but  I had to be her at a much higher level, cajoling Senators, news folk, and even the White House.      Often I was so afraid I felt like throwing up.  Frequently my moves felt unnatural, wrong.  A lot of times I woke in the night gasping for breath.  But I stuck with it, and in a little while, I recognized my new self.  She fit in my skin.  I was comfortable with her, and trusted her to get me to the top of the mountain.      This year, as our first set of graduates go out into the world, I’m hoping they feel the same about their new selves.  And you, dear readers, if you happen to be going through shift to High Atttitude, anticipate a time of adjustment.  Don’t let it throw you off your mountain.   Eat well and drink lots of water.  Take good care of yourself, and let others care for you as well.  Never be afraid to ask for help.       And when you feel comfortable in your skin again, enjoy the new view.  You’ve earned it.
      Below is some of what I eat for breakfast while I’m in Gunnison, where my cooking facilities and my time are severely limited.   
      You can find me at wildreads.com , and Jaguar at Wildside Books


GRAZING BREAKFAST IN GUNNISON
This one’s easy, and more about shopping than cooking.
Bowl of BreakfastAbout half a cup of marinated artichokes, store bought because I DON’T HAVE TIME TO PLAY WITH MY FOOD!  Two slices of really good bread, also store bought because I DON”T HAVE TIME TO PLAY WITH MY FOOD!A hard boiled eggA spoonful of bee pollen or honeyA few slices of Asiago cheeseMaybe some chopped up olives and/or tomatoes, if I can find good ones
Take the slices of bread and slather one with olives and marinated artichokes.  Add slices of hard-boiled egg and, if they’re not whiny and flavorless, tomatoe slices. 
Put the other slice of bread on top and press it down, even if it protests.  If it continues to protest, you may want to check in with your doctor.  Remember, not all highs are good highs. 
Slice your slices in half and enjoy, with a lot of water, or maybe some juice.  Munch on the cheese in between bits of the sandwich. 
When you’re done, take the spoonful of honey or bee pollen with more water.  I don’t know if it helps, but it tastes good.  

BREAKFAST OUT IN GUNNISON
The WCafe, on Main Street, has some of the best Huevos going.   Here’s how they do it:

A soft taco, with refried beans spread on it.Two eggs – scrambled or over easy, as you like it – on top of the beans.A generous portion of pork green chili on the eggs. An equally generous portion of cheddar cheese on the chili.  
Stick a fork in it and call it me happy.  

FIREFLIES AND FIREWORKS

Some Small Things Shed Great Light
When I woke up one day last week I lay in bed listening to the morning chorus of birds outside the window.  The rolling trill of the Veery joined the bell-like call of the wood thrush and the silver song of the Red winged blackbird, all underscored with bullfrogs, and topped by the cheery bluebird.  The light was soft and delicate.  There were no other sounds.      “This is what I love about here and now,” I said to my husband, and I meant it.      Where I live the primary sounds are not human made.  They’re constructed by wind shifting through leaves, bullfrogs and birds, crickets and peepers. Except, of course, right around the fourth of July, when the neighborhood pretty literally explodes.  That’s because a few people here can legally set off fireworks to their heart’s content.  In fact, when we were building our house, one of the first people I met was Mitch, who lives down the road and stopped by to introduce himself.       “You’re gonna love it here!” he exclaimed enthusiastically.  “I’ve got an explosives license.”     Okay, then.       On the other side of our house is a family who is also apparently licensed to explode.  Every year on the weekend after July 4th, they put on a fireworks display that lasts over an hour, and rivals that of the state capital.  It’s  stunning, but I have a kind of vexed relationship with fireworks.  I love the way they look, but my entire being is thrown into primal fear at the sound.  It's a visceral reaction, and I can't do anything about it, except maybe hide under the desk with my dog, Luna, who feels the same way.  (Ziggy, on the other hand, tries to eat them. Of course.)      Instead, being human adult, I plug my ears and watch, and go ooh and aah with the best of them.          But here's the thing. The firework extravaganza always takes place at the same time the fireflies are reaching their peak, and we have, quite literally, thousands of very active fireflies. When they enact their ritual of twinkling love it seems the woods and fields are filled with fairies, each one carrying a tiny piece of star at the tip of a diminutive finger.  And every year I do just what I did this year.    I stand in my back yard, my fingers in my ears, and watch how the fireflies react not at all to the fireworks cascading around them.  Sometimes I wonder what they think of it all.  Really Alpha fireflies, with sound effects?  They don’t tell me.  They just continue their silent dance, a light show without sound.  BIophosphorescence at its improbable best.     This year, after the booming was done, I almost went down to the neighbor’s house to hang out and drink some of their wine, but the mystery of the fireflies was more compelling.  Somewhere inside what they do lives music, and if I stand and watch them long enough, I believe I’ll hear it.   Fireworks over my yard    The fireworks - I already know what they’re saying.  Something like, “Hey - aren’t we BIG!  I mean, aren’t we just the BIGGEST thing? Watch us BLOW UP!  BAM!  POW!  Pop-pop sizzle whistle.”     It’s fun in its own way, but the fireflies.  Aah, the fireflies.  It takes time, and an open heart to know their song.  A willingness to join in the mystery.  To hear them, you need the same patience it takes to hear the heart of a novel you're trying to write.     So I stay put, and I listen. 
    Below is a fruit salad that’s a rather mysterious and sparkling combination of fruit, veggie, spice and herb.   Make some for yourself, take it out to the country, and have a late night picnic while you contemplate a field of fireflies, who remain oblivious to human invention, and invite you to join the mystery of their existence, and your own.           Fireflies are one of the deep pleasures of summer.  If you’d like to know what else goes on that list for me, and share what’s on your list, find me on Facebook , and let me know.  You can also visit me at my website, wildreads.com FIREFLY FRUIT SALAD  (NOTE:  I made this to bring to a party, so it’s big.  You can cut the ingredients in half and still have plenty. ) Yum!  Be sure to share!MAIN CHARACTERS1 baby seedless watermelon, cut up into 1 inch pieces1 cantaloupe cut up into one inch pieces1 green pepper, fine diced1 cucumber, peeled, quartered and sliced1/2 onion, sliced VERY thin and rough choppedCHARACTER’S DRESSING1 cup finely chopped cilantroJuice of 1 limeAbout a quarter cup of good balsamic vinegarabout a tablespoon of olive oil1 tablespoon agave nectar, honey, or sugarsalt and pepper to tastetabasco sauce to taste

HOW TO FEED A WOMAN CHILD

Chaco Contemplates girl stories
       This last week my almost-11 year old niece, Stella, stayed with me, and I remembered what it was like to feed a child almost constantly.  However, at the same time, I was well fed by her. 
     We were very self-focused, and we wore cool sunglasses.  We giggled, and then grew solemn as we talked about how strange boys are, and how friendship is so complicated sometimes.  We were wistful as she showed me youtube songs which showed a future she’s beginning to catch the scent of.      We thought of ways to paint her hair blue, while she sang in a high clear voice that would make the angels sigh, Come dream a dream with me.  Come dream a dream with me, and I will ease your mind.  And I’ll give you hope, when hope is hard to find.  I’ll give you love, like a rose in winter time.       Yes.  All that.        My own almost-11 was a bad year, and being with Stella gave me the chance to review the old tapes, and record some new music over them, as I found laughter to wash away old tears, and a few new tears to wash away old pain - a gift beyond measure.  I’ll admit I cried when she sang that song at a music festival I took her to, for a room full of people who all sat securely in the palm of her hand.        And what, you may want to know, did I actually feed her?  Well, that music festival was a main meal.  While she was there she took in the notion that some boys wear skirts when they dance.  Hmm.   She also chewed the new vocabulary she heard at my husband’s Roller Derby practice, which I’d rather not talk about in case my brother reads this, along with images of the very strong women of all shapes and sizes in the sport.  And she gleefully consumed a spur of the moment decision to get a new kitten.      “Just like that? You’re not even asking anyone if you can?” she exclaimed, amazed.    “I’m a grown up woman,” I replied.  “We can do that.  Kinda cool, right?”     Another main meal was her first Tarot reading, an important rite of passage in my house.  For dessert she had ghost stories, the advice of some smart smart women about how to deal with a teenage brother, and clothes shopping, and trying on her first pair of high heels.       Almost 11 takes a lot of feeding.  And of course, not everything they eat will be good for them, but a few popsicles won’t hurt, if you balance it out with a good salad.  At almost 11 my son ate some horrific video games, but would also gently remove a fly from his room and set it free outside because he felt he had no right to kill it. This, I’m sure, because some of his food was watching me do the same with spiders.  A Girl and her Kitten     Stella’s parents (my brother and his wife) are doing a great job with her, so she’s healthy as a young colt in all ways.  She has self-confidence, and can talk honestly about what scares her, or makes her feel bad about herself or others.  She laughs, and she thinks.  She loves, and she does her work. She makes mistakes, and recovers from them.  That’s due not just to good nutrition on her plate.  It’s also due to the stories her parents tell.  Lots of them, of all kinds.        Just as we are what we eat, we are also made of stories.  Our stories define us, and then teach us what’s possible beyond our definitions.  And the more different kinds you have, the more you can be.  That’s my working theory, anyway.         Of course, she’s not quite old enough to manage my Jaguar Addams series, but when she asked about the books, I put just a little of that woman on her story plate - someone else who doesn’t ask permission when she wants to get a kitten. Someone who knows it’s not always easy to be a girl, and it ain’t for sissies.  I told her about Alex, who prefers his women wild, and would do anything to protect those he loves.  And I told her about Maya, a little girl in The Green Memory of Fear who faces horrible circumstances, but kicks and screams against them relentlessly until she finds her way through to something good.         “You have a better life than Maya,”  I told her, “but I thought of you when I wrote her, because you’re also really good at naming the truth.”      When her face lit up, I knew those words were food she’d gotten full value from.          Well.  As I fed her, so I was fed. This week I had more than my share of laughter and toenail polish, singing and thoughtful contemplation of what it means to be female.  I hope the same is true for my star daughter, who dreamed a dream with me, and gave me hope.         Below is a recipe for one of the soups we made together at the music festival - Cold Carrot Cantaloopy.  It’s zingy, yet sweet.  Cool and refreshing, with a bit of heat.  Full of light and sass.  It tastes of the full spectrum of girlness, and that’s something to celebrate.   Razzle Dazzle Yum

.           For more on my writing, in all its flavors, you can visit wildreads.com .  For more on Jaguar and Alex and Maya, check out wildsidepress.com  COLD CARROT CANTALOOPY SOUP2 cups carrots, peeled and sliced into small pieces1 cantaloupe, cut into chunks1/4 cup freshly grated fresh ginger root7 cups watersalt and pepper to taste1/4 cup good olive oiljuice of 3 limesOPTIONAL:  Chopped up Cilantro, tabasco sauce, chicken stock instead of water because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!Put the oil in a soup pot and heat it up.  Add the carrots and let them sweat a little, because it’s hot out this summer.  Season them.After about five minutes, relieve them by putting in your water, or broth.  Add at least half the cantaloupe.  You can add it all if you like, or leave the rest to be chunks within the soup.  I prefer having it all pureed together, but I’m not you.  Add the lime juice, salt and pepper to taste, and the ginger. Let it simmer until it’s all soft, then puree the lot. Taste, and adjust seasoning as needed.  Chill it, and serve it cold.  If you like, pass around tabasco and chopped cilantro for your guests - a gaggle of girls, if you’re lucky - to add as they prefer.  

Tasting Stars and Strawberries

June is the month when strawberries go ripe, and that is a wondrous thing indeed, and well worth celebrating because of how strawberries please our palates, and fill our souls with a sense of summer. In Mohawk, the word for strawberry is Eryahsa, which also means heart, and at the traditional Mohawk community of Kanatsiohareke, in Fonda NY, the people of the flint hold an annual festival celebrating and thanking this leader of berries.
In my yard, I celebrate them as well, in two different forms.
I have a big patch of tame strawberries, a Honeoye variety, plump and juicy and sweet. But before ever I planted a thing, our yard was already full of resident wild strawberries, which I first noticed as tiny pieces of red light, flashing in the shadowed green world of what passes for a lawn out our way. They look so different from tame strawberries the first time I saw them I wasn’t exactly sure what they were, or if they were edible, though the leaves were definitely strawberry leaves. Being bold and adventurous, I picked some and ate them, and when I did not die, I ate some more.
As they dissolved in my mouth, the taste of strawberries seeped into my skin, carrying undertones of something more. Something beyond strawberryness. Something far away, and singing.
Mmm. Yes. They taste like stars.
These, I thought, are worth nurturing, so I started making sure our patches had room to grow, room to spread and multiply and be - you know, fruitful. I didn’t want to change them, or make them bigger or more tame, even though they aren’t very practical. It takes a lot of plants to get a bowlful, topping them is persnickety work, and they don’t store well. They’ll never be suitable for mass market, but then again, I’m not sure I ever will be either, so we get along.
Another problem is the way they attract fairies, with whom they love to frolic at night. That gets noisy, which bothers some home owners. Their high-pitched laughter often fills my dreams. But I love their delicate insistence on being themselves, and I think their uniquely stellar flavor profile makes them invaluable for recipes both culinary and literary. For example, they’re the main ingredient in a love scene between Jaguar and Alex, in The Green Memory of Fear:

This is how her skin tasted to him. Like wild strawberries that disappear on the tongue and taste of stars. This is where they met each other, sweet and sure, direct as stars. He tasted and fed her the longing that lived in his mouth, and she drank it and gave him back what poured down her throat.
You taste like stars, he whispered into her.
Yum. Or, as the French say, Miam.
Now, I have been asked how I know what stars taste like. Well, really. I’m a writer. That’s one of my Superpowers. But you don’t have to be a writer to get this same wisdom. Just find a wild strawberry, and put it on your tongue. Or, if that’s not possible, take a moment to lick the lips of someone you love. Savor and sigh. Then you’ll know.

Here’s some simple ways to feature strawberries, tame and wild, on the stories of your table.



TAME STRAWBERRY MOLE (pronounced Mo-lay)

Dry fry a mix of about a quarter cup total of fennel seeds, cumin, cinnamon, ground almonds, and ancho chili powder.

Add this to two cups of really fine melted dark chocolate and stir.

Get a really big bowl of tame strawberries from your local farmstand or your yard or your neighbor’s yard. Dip them in the chocolate sauce and watch them go wild.

WILD STRAWBERRY FAIRY CAKE

Make an angel food cake, in a tube pan. Or, when it’s too hot to cook, go to the store and buy one already made. Slice about half an inch off the top, and scoop out a tunnel in the center.

Whip a cup of heavy cream with about a quarter cup of confectioner’s sugar. Or, if you prefer, add cocoa, because you know the rule: PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD!

Sprinkle your precious wild strawberries into the tunnel and spread a blanket of freshly whipped cream over them. They like that, and will wiggle and giggle some, but probably not too loudly.

Cut slices and add more berries and/or cream to the top. Dig in, but when Fairies clamor at your window, be sure to share.
The Green Memory of Fear