Labour of Love

So, when you are thinking about moving, you are probably better at looking around your house and actually SEEING the amazing amount of stuff you have. As much as I would like to find a place of my own where I stay for the rest of my life, I find that moving every five years or so helps me prioritize, and hopefully to simplify. Well, it helps me to clean out my load of physical stuff anyway. Today I looked in a closet and found my box of tapes, which I have kept for many reasons. One, making a mix tape was a heck of a lot of work. You had to have a quality recording, and time your spaces right. Music was much harder to come by back then. I didn't even get my own music until maybe my eleventh birthday (Violent Femmes and the sound track to Stand By Me. I think I got an OMD tape too- strange mix.) Also, acquiring the songs on these tapes was like collecting music knowledge and making your own life soundtrack. We would play those ninety minutes of music over and over while we drove around- singing very loudly, I might add. And then, someone would get a new mix and it would start all over again- one tape would be thrown in the back seat, while the new one was shoved in the tape deck and we were off on a new adventure.

These mix tapes were an introduction, an initiation and the establishment of a bond. There was no other way to get a lot of music, and there was certainly no other way to put your own commentary on them. Your flow meant something- something hard to explain here. The blends of these mixes capture a very specific life moment, and I love that. It was so great that they didn't have to be homemade either. During my first year in New Mexico, we played the soundtrack to Reservoir Dogs CONSTANTLY. We never got sick of that revolutionary mix. I can still see my friends faces, as they were- free and longhaired, dancing, you know, 'cause everybody did.

But, I think it is time for some of these to go- Who has Liz Fair on tape? I do not need those terrible recordings of Grateful Dead shows, or the endless stream of the Allman brothers anymore. I am even still carrying around those tapes that I found under the mailbox on Stuart Ave, which I have never even played because I feel so darned guilty about taking them. I am throwing away the ones that are damaged and sticky (eww...) but there are some I have to keep. Earth, Fire, Water and Wind- a theme mix on two tapes- definitely keeping that. I am also keeping one called Naked Backgammon and one called Stay In Bed 'cause they sound like fun. I am also keeping Sallie's simply named Tape For Erin because I can't wait to hear what is on it. When will I ever get to hear them again?

Spreading the love

Oh, this confusing, and violent world. What are we to do?






Sometimes the universe aligns just right and I can still hear the love behind all of the craziness. Friday I woke up to this amazing love story from StoryCorps. StoryCorps is, itself one of the best ideas incarnate, but this story is particularly gorgeous. I would recommend listening to it without reading the included text first, it is so... well, it is perfect really. That is grace if I ever knew it.

Call me crazy

I have found it. Out past the Gospel Chicken House and the Sod Farm, I found land made for me, and with a house more gorgeous than I could have hoped, or probably deserve. The place even has a mature wine vineyard, so lovingly cultivated that the man who planted it is moving to Oregon so he can have more fun with vines. It has a huge walnut tree among fruit trees. It has a tractor. It is a place where I am quite sure that you can see the stars.

But, do I dare move there? Do I dare give up this house which holds a heck of a lot of my blood sweat and tears? Can I give up my coffee shop and my three mile commute to work? Last night, I woke up worrying about copperheads. What if I fell out of said tractor? What if I don't know enough yet to run head (heart) first into this endeavor?

I swore I would never live in the middle of nowhere by myself again. And, every time I make those kind of declarative sentences (think fake Ugg boots, all purses, musicals) I wind up eating those words. Mostly with relish.

Amazingly erudite

I am oh-so- proud. Our KT has published an article in the beautiful, local food magazine, Edible Chesapeake. Her essay, "Chicken Love" caught the eye of the magazine's editor, and, I have to say, looks really good in print. Look at the link to the right if you want more info on the mag. It is truly a gorgeous representation of the local food momentum around the Chesapeake area. YAYAY KT!

The search goes on

The other day, a question was posed to an unlikely group. Why are the poor served differently than the rest by the church? Isn't there the same spirit for all? A well meaning, (but I fear, naive) intellectual answered that Jesus was a counter cultural figure, and the poor aligned with the church at that its beginning for that reason. The church has since become part of the institutional life that cannot abide such a rebellion. My (rather heated) response was that, for many of us, survival is work- that one cannot have the luxury of faith or love if one has to work so very hard to keep one's life together. Faith is work- as is love. Life is hard, hard work.

So many things have diluted themselves in order to get noticed by us- churches use power point presentations (who does not get enough of those at work?) and our political candidates watch every answer they make so diligently that I don't even know if they are actually saying anything anymore.

I do not want a u2-charist. I don't want a body politic that kowtows to the opinions of us, their television audience, and not to the truth for which they work, while they watch their words with analytical precision so that we do not 'misunderstand' them. Do not come down to me- I want to work my way up to you. I want you to be larger than I am.

I think that we are all the poor. Yet, still, we know and work less than we should for what we have.

Michael Pollan was right

Have you seen the film Sideways? It is a fantastic film, with wine and neuroses at its center. My favorite. Anyway, part of the absurdity that perhaps only an oenophile would appreciate (and who uses the word oenephile anyway?) is the poetic complexity the characters attribute to the Pinot Noir grape varietal. Their obsession truly borders on irrational, which, of course, adds to the charm and hilarity of the entire film because Pinot Noir lovers are really that way. Turns out, their Holy Grail quest is not so very loony. Yesterday I learned that a group of Italian and French scientists mapped the genome of the Pinot Noir grape and found that it has 30,000 genes in its DNA. How many genes does human DNA have? 20,000 to 25,000.

Who is domesticating whom?

Ahhhh....Mercy

Ok- I feel better. I made soup. And not just any soup- I made bisque. And, not just any bisque- I made tomato bisque. Really, you should try it. And since I cook like I have six children, I made enough tomato bisque to keep me happy for days. Oh, let us be thankful for those who share our food, as well as for those who make it possible.

I also got a tree. A sparkly, fat, southwestern pine has now taken up residence in my living room. It is covered in my lackadaisical, spotty and effervescent Christmas past. And I love it. I got up in the middle of the night last night to see if it needed water. I went and bought the last Christmas lights available at Kroger. (Now that I think of it, that wasn't so very kind of me. ) But, hey. It took a lot of consideration for me to get here, with a tree in my living room. I was staunchly opposed to the Christmas tree for way too long. Before I knew about productive agricultural land use, and carbon fixing, and how very happy those twinkly beings can make a person, I was appalled at the very idea. But I must say, it is awfully nice to come around.

Pleading

This week, the world turned inside out and upside down. Usually I am down with the dynamism of the universe, but lately it has been particularly painful and confusing. What I thought was real was not so, what I thought was good turned out to be less so. I am having a hard time finding something to hold on to. Thus, I have few words as I try to discern whether or not the truth is malleable. So I will rely on the words of another. Yesterday I listened to this song by a gorgeous band named Over the Rhine (think Hem meets Cowboy Junkies with a wee bit of Fiona Apple thrown in for sass) over and over and over again. 'Cause it was lovely. 'Cause I needed it.

Jesus in New Orleans

The last time I saw Jesus
I was drinking bloody marys in the South
In a barroom in New Orleans
Rinsin' out the bad taste in my mouth

She wore a dark and faded blazer
With a little of the lining hanging out
When the jukebox played Miss Dorothy Moore
I knew that it was him without a doubt

I said the road is my redeemer
I never know just what on earth I'll find
In the faces of a stranger
In the dark and weary corners of a mind

She said, The last highway is only
As far away as you are from yourself
And no matter just how bad it gets
It does no good to blame somebody else

Ain't it crazy
What's revealed when you're not looking all that close
Ain't it crazy
How we put to death the ones we need the most

I know I'm not a martyr
I've never died for anyone but me
The last frontier is only
The stranger in the mirror that I see

But when I least expect it
Here and there I see my savior's face
He's still my favorite loser
Falling for the entire human race

Mash (sans bangers)

There is no end to the fun you get when you have a British friend. We get to entertain ourselves by shaping her idea of American culture through films like Heathers and previously mentioned trips to the donut factory, and she gets to make fun of our 'colonial English.' This means she teases us for leaving letters out of words like programme and colour. 'Tis the Queen's English, you know. Of course, sometimes the lessons go terribly awry and she winds up loving Lite 98, or K95, and we have to spend a little time in a kind of cultural rehab, banning that number on the radio dial. Last night, she brought me a particularly wise, well known British observation, 'Red hat, no knickers.' Consider yourself warned. Ahem.

The best part is that she is vegetarian too, and is going to teach me how to make a proper (and somehow still meatless) shepherd's pie- just in time for winter! I am planning a kind of 'Lord of the Rings' marathon, eating and drinking proper hobbit food, which in my head is shepherd's pie and Guinness- However, I may be sorely mistaken. Admittedly, the last time I read any Tolkien I was in the fourth grade, and I still have yet to see any of the films in the trilogy. I feel like hobbit-ness (hobbititude? hobbitiosity?) is one of those archetypes that remains with us though. Maybe just for creatures like me. In any case, I have been planning this hobbit festival for years- somehow winter has always passed by without it actually happening. But this year, I will have all of the proper knowledge and materials to make it happen. (read: food) Such lofty goals, I know.

Tofurkey Blues

I am considering breaking up with Thanksgiving. Not that I don't love it. I do. For goodness sake, it is a holiday all about food, and people and love and gratitude. There are pumpkins involved, and sweet potatoes, and (if you are lucky) a Tofurkey. I love that it is such a cozy day. Yet, on that day, one of the most traditional days we have, I realized that I have rarely celebrated Thanksgiving the same way twice. I am not getting what I need from Thanksgiving. It is just not treating me right, and I am starting to take it personally. I think I fell in love with the potential of the day, and of course that never works out the way I want it to.

They have been fun, don't get me wrong, the Thanksgivings of my past. There was the one in Santa Fe, where none of us really knew how to cook. Or the time at the farm when I couldn't wait and we had Thanksgiving in September. Oh, and in Napa, we ate Thanksgiving dinner outside- so gorgeous. My aunt's Thanksgiving menu reads like the finest restaurant in Eden. I have barged in on several other families' Thanksgiving dinners, hoping to get that thing- that beginning of winter, this is what Thanksgiving is all about, here are our family food stories thing. And those families are always so gracious and willing to share those things- but they are not mine. And, if I can't claim them, I don't think I want to chase them anymore. So this year, (thank goodness) we going to Mexico, where there is no Tofurkey, but there is family. And this one is mine. Maybe Thanksgiving and I will reconcile one day. I do hope so. But this year I think I will be happy to get some sun, drink tequila and shout Spanish war cries with my peeps instead. Viva con viva!

Irony can be Delicious

Some of my dearest friends are runners. This cracks me up because, as a rule, I don't run. Runners is a puny word for who they are, really they might as well be the bionic woman, incarnate, each one of them. Two of them run marathons. One of them is an Iron (Wo) man. That is right- a triathalon so huge that it starts out with a two mile battle in the ocean, then eases into a thirteen mile bike ride, and finishes up with a full scale marathon. No problem.

I love going out with these girls because they can EAT. We went to Krispy Kreme once, and you would have thought that we had landed in Santa's workshop. There were squeals and giggles, and they weren't all coming from me. Really.

I also love them because they each have their secret strong will, bound up close in their minds, and no matter how hard I search, I can't even see it. It is theirs and theirs alone, and that, to me, is awesome.

Burning

I have been overwhelmed as of late with the pull of desire. Every experience I have makes me want more- I positively ache for what I do not have- an asparagus bed, a pomegranate tree, pumpkins everywhere. A fire in the fireplace. A reason to go to Bali. I only realized this as a potential problem last night, when I was eating an amazing chocolate cake and I realized while I was still eating it that I wished I had the whole piece left, that I could keep eating it forever- I wondered when I could have it again. I had to consciously stop and remember that I had the cake in front of me still, that I would probably get to have cake again. So, now I am trying to counteract my heart pulling desires with a big dose of gratitude and presence. One day, I shall have my asparagus bed, my healing garden and some very happy chickens, I am sure. Right now though, I still have a lot to learn.

This weekend was intense. It started out with a strange desire to GET OUT. I love Richmond, but sometimes its familiarity becomes stifling, So, this was one of the rare times that I am happy that KT lives so darned far away- I can get a good, long gorgeous drive in. A head clearing drive. A drive leading to the sage embrace of the mountains in autumn. I love that drive. For half of the four hour drive home in fact, I could not have any music or noise of any kind playing in the car- I drove in absolute, perfect silence, admiring country garden decor and appreciating the many farmhouses with tin roofs. I spent the time just looking at the light, trying to let all of the information and energy I had encountered this weekend settle into something I could recognize. I am still a recovering introvert, you know.

I will keep the introductions of our teachers short, because I am not sure that I have actually processed their lessons, even in part. Basically, KT and I were the sole recipients of herbal, historical, magical knowledge from some of the most intense, cerebral people I have ever met. The Feral Intellectuals, as they are affectionately known, include two Hellenistic astrologers, (also former St. John's students) one Medieval astrologer, a Cherokee medicine woman, and Matthew Wood, an amazing herbalist and healer. I am sure that I am not representing their credentials fully, but you get the idea. Intense. Intense and wonderful, an experience supporting my desire for more knowledge with an incredible sense of gratefulness. For now though, I will rest.

It is always Christmas

At least that is what it feels like at this time of year. Usually, the amount of hoopla kind of annoys me, but I have FINALLY overcome my personal grinch. I waited until after at least Halloween to tell you all this, but we have been preparing for Garden Fest, (the garden's winter extravaganza) for weeks now, and it has me all spirited. The best part, (are you ready for this?) is that we are to build little hobbit houses for the train exhibit. That is the wording in the press release. Hobbit houses. What a trip!

So, if you are around the Richmond area between Thanksgiving and New Year's, check out Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden. It is so gorgeous, it exorcised my Christmas grouch. (Not an easy task- I even thought I liked him a little.) There will be tons of botanical displays, and lights everywhere. There will be a bonfire with S'mores, hot chocolate and, of course, hobbit houses. If you can guess which house is mine, your prize will be a glass of wine- with me. Hee.

Oh, but if you can't make it then, you should know that we also planted 2,000 POUNDS of spring blooming bulbs. Yep- one ton of narcissus, crocus and tulips. Do come and see. Good gracious.

Forgive my Self-Indulgence,

and this is, but in the post below I would like to share a satirical piece entitled “Is Cranial Sacral Therapy Right for You? A Step-by-Step Guide.”

I presented this paper as a project for my Anatomy & Physiology class, in which the assignment was to research and present a massage related topic that affects the nervous system. For those who don’t know, Cranial Sacral Therapy is a growing bodywork method employed by a wide variety of practitioners, and is well respected within the bodyworker community.

Reading this out loud was really fun, and no one in my class including my instructor realized that any part of this essay was tongue in cheek, which kind of made it perfect.


Is Cranial Sacral Therapy Right for You? A Step-by-Step Guide

[All of the following information is sourced from:
http://www.allexperts.com/
www.healing-arts.org
http://www.consciouschoice.com/
International Alliance of Healthcare Educators
http://www.scepdic.com/
http://www.quackwatch.com/
Some text from the above sources is quoted without direct reference.]

Background:

Cranial Sacral (or CranioSacral) Therapy is an outgrowth of the Osteopathic healing method. Andrew Taylor Still, MD (1828-1917) originally expressed the principles of osteopathy in 1874, when medical science was in its infancy. A medical doctor, Still believed that diseases were caused by mechanical interference with nerve and blood supply and were curable by manipulation of "deranged, displaced bones, nerves, muscles—removing all obstructions—thereby setting the machinery of life moving." His autobiography states that he could "shake a child and stop scarlet fever, croup, diphtheria, and cure whooping cough in three days by a wring of its neck." The admission standards and educational quality are a bit lower at osteopathic schools than they are at medical schools. The required and average grade-point averages (GPAs) and the Medical College Admission Test (MCAT) scores of students entering osteopathic schools are lower than those of entering medical students—and the average number of full-time faculty members is nearly ten times as high at medical schools (714 vs. 73 in 1994). In addition, osteopathic schools generate relatively little research, and some have difficulty in attracting enough patients to provide the depth of experience available at medical schools.

Cranial Sacral Method

CranioSacral Therapy (CST) was pioneered and developed by osteopathic physician John E. Upledger following extensive scientific studies from 1975 to 1983 at Michigan State University, where he served as a clinical researcher and Professor of Biomechanics.

CST is a gentle, hands-on method of evaluating and enhancing the functioning of a physiological body system called the craniosacral system - comprised of the membranes and cerebrospinal fluid that surround and protect the brain and spinal cord.

Using a soft touch generally no greater than 5 grams, or about the weight of a nickel, practitioners release restrictions in the craniosacral system to improve the functioning of the central nervous system.

Cranial Sacral Therapy relieves or cures such conditions as:

Migraine Headaches
Chronic Neck and Back Pain
Motor-Coordination Impairments
Colic
Autism
Central Nervous System Disorders
Orthopedic Problems
Traumatic Brain and Spinal Cord Injuries
Scoliosis
Infantile Disorders
Learning Disabilities
Chronic Fatigue
Emotional Difficulties
Stress and Tension-Related Problems
Fibromyalgia and other Connective-Tissue Disorders
Temporomandibular Joint Syndrome (TMJ)
Neurovascular or Immune Disorders
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Post-Surgical Dysfunction

Craniosacral therapists work by detecting a craniosacral "rhythm" in the cranium, sacrum, cerebrospinal fluid and the membranes which envelop the craniosacral system. The balance and flow of this rhythm is essential to good health. The rhythm is measured by the therapist's hands. Any needed or effected changes in rhythm are also detected only by the therapist's hands. No instrument is used to measure the rhythm or its changes, hence no systematic objective measurement of healthy versus unhealthy rhythms exists. The measurement, the therapy and the result are all subjectively based. Cranial sacral clients use their nervous system to determine if they feel better. No instrument can measure how the client feels. But what if the client thinks they feel better and they really don’t? This is a problem only science can solve! Scientists will determine whether the client’s mind has healed them or whether it was the cranial sacral therapy, or the third option, which is that the client is really not healed but they think they are. In summary, measuring results or diagnosing is beyond the scope of the massage therapist.

Dr. Elaine Stocker has been practicing cranial sacral therapy since the 1970s. She explains to new clients that by participating in therapy "You’re making a good home for the central nervous system as it exists in the head and the spine and the body." She calls the cranial rhythm "the moving tide of life," saying that when the movement of cerebrospinal fluid from the head through the spinal column, into the cranium and back is "full and complete, these fluids flow through the whole body and provide the tissues with nutrition and information." Stocker says she can feel the cerebrospinal fluid at many different places around a client’s body, including the fingers and legs. She specializes in the use of cranial sacral therapy with children and mothers.

Lewis E. Mehl-Madrona, M.D. prescribes CST for children with autism. He got his MD from Stanford University in 1975.

John Upledger says, "By connecting deeply with a patient while doing CranioSacral therapy, it was possible in most cases to solicit contact with the patient's Inner Physician the inner physician could take any form the patient could imagine -- an image, a voice or a feeling...once the image of their Inner Physician appeared, it was ready for a dialog with me and answer questions…" Paul Sutliff, who is an expert on cults and a renowned religious leader makes specific reference to this quote, saying, “The description given here could very well be of demonic possession. This can only be fixed by finding Jesus. No amount of ‘physical adjustments’ can change this. Another thing to note regarding this therapy is that almost all therapists of cranial sacral therapy are also certified in various other fields that are directly connected to occultist practices.”

In summary, it appears that cranial sacral therapy could help you, but unfortunately there has not yet been invented a machine so that you could see the printout of your treatment as done with an EKG machine or X-Ray. There is also a danger of associating with demons, so the best advice is if you are sure your Inner Physician is not a demon, then it may be safe to proceed, but if you are not sure of this, it is best to leave well enough alone!

Poetry is as poetry does

My friend Charles says that everything in the world is either prose or poetry. He, of course, knows loads of Wordsworth by heart. My problem is that I think I am mostly prose, wishing always to be poetry. What I mean is, I am a dreadful snob with a terrible memory. That kind of hypocrisy cracks me up.

So, we have got the food thing down. We have made the consciousness shift, and will not, can not change. Understanding our place in the food chain is so essential and obvious that reverting now would be like giving up on recycling. There is no way. This commitment is still only slightly satisfying though. I still have only a vague idea of where my clothes come from- and few viable alternatives to sustainable articles. I have no idea how my phone or this computer works, and much of the labor and materials that went into my house is completely lost on me. (How DO they make paint? How DOES electricity work?) And my car- no idea. So, I move into the poetry of things, because inevitably my prose soapbox gets kicked out from under me and there I hang.

My rants are mostly internal. My life holds a lot of time to think, and so it becomes essential that I come to peace with my thoughts. Poetry is often that vessel. As T.S. Eliot said, Poetry" may make us... a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves."

And so, with all of the discombobulated parts of this life, grab a hold of its poetry- the gift of food, the magical light of autumn, the goofiness of your dog. Perfume. The preciousness of rain. Too many apple pies and too few stars. The prose is so important, but don't forget the poetry.

In the mean time, you should know that the saffron is blooming.

Perfume

I thought you might want to read the description for the perfume I made for my teacher:

Indian Devotional
Fall into a rabbit hole and find yourself at a long banquet table set with rose and tuberose centerpieces. The pavilion is made with beams of sandalwood, and dancers stomp in revelry over a dance floor that has been strewn with dried clove buds. Blood orange fruit hangs low in the periphery over a rising moon.

And that's exactly what it smells like!

"I'll Have a Veggie Burger, Hold the Violence"

I don't know if it's this conversation that caused it, but I committed murder in my dream 2 nights ago. It was truly awful, the act itself wasn't the main event, I think it was kind of an accident but then I hid the body and had to go through this whole thing of convincing myself that confessing would be the best thing to do.

But I do tend to agree with you that anything not done in love is a form of violence. I know it sounds extreme but it doesn't really have to be, considering that love is the "om" baseline of the universe. Not exactly hard to tap into. I think this principle of non-violence is called ahisma in Hindu, and it extends to the concept of vegetarianism. In the last few years that I have been obtaining my animal products, milk and eggs included, from local farmers who raise animals appropriately, I have developed a real distaste for the general assumption in our culture that vegetarianism is by definition less violent than omnivorism. Shrink wrapped inside a Morningstar (Kellogg) veggie burger is a genetically modified soy product sowed as a uni-crop robbing it's home farm of any biodiversity, literally killing all Monarch butterflies who dare to rest there along the way, then processed in a slurry with irradiated spices and monosodium glutamate and shipped off to your local grocer up to 2000 miles away. But the average householder can knock the box into their cart and feel more virtuous, more generous of spirit, more evolved than a meat-eater. Let's not stack up the Monarch against the chicken, because that is not the point. The point is, we are not separate from any of it, and so we can do violence to all of it. To the gene, to the farmland, to the vegetable matter itself which lived a noble life, and though it may not (or may) be a sentient being, it is goes against the grain (so to speak) to subject it to a manufacturing process that creates a product that none of our ancestors would have dreamed of, let alone eaten.

And so I guess I'm saying, I don't think we can get non-violence on the cheap.

(Please don't mistake this for a tirade against vegetarianism. We're on to something totally different here.)

Happiness (is a warm gun)

You are really good and attuned to feeling energy though KT. Most people would be completely overwhelmed if they attempted that kind of openness. If they even could... And that is part of the tragedy of the human condition, I think.

I have been polling other people on your question regarding separation, and most people agree that a major driving element of human nature is its animal side. In their view, violence is thus inherent in the base part of us, some piece of survival of the fittest still animating us. Some even think that it is in our attempts to become civilized and quell the violence makes our savagery rise up to become an even even stronger influence on our actions. One friend, (who has actually slaughtered chickens herself during her Peace Corps term in Senegal), thinks we sentimentalize that energy though. To paraphrase Michael Pollan, when wilderness is no longer a threat to us, we romanticise it. Of course, there are also some who believe that we cannot have good without bad, light without dark- you know the drill. I don't know if I buy that. Undoubtedly though, we must consider the consequence of our separation from others (and our connection to all things) due to our lack of consciousness. Of course, (too) sensitive me thinks that any act not done in love is an act of violence. I swear, this will either be my peace or it will be my undoing.

So, my question that stems from all of this is, why is do we think of violence as stronger than love? Why do acts of violence motivate and stick with us more easily than acts of love? Why is darkness regarded (and respected-maybe out of fear) as so much deeper than light?

Ok-so, here is a (very silly) example. On the tv show, The Office, Jim and Pam have finally gotten together. And it is so right and good and perfect. (I have a song about it- it is more of a cheer really, but that is just how right it is...) Anyway, viewers are so wary of Jim and Pam getting together so early in the season- like the only thing that can happen to them is that they could now break up. As if they have already reached their pinnacle, and it is all downhill from here- as though there is not as much adventure to be had in the good times as in the bad. No one (but me) thinks that they can just be happy together. I mean really, if happiness doesn't sell, what good is it?

Chicken Love (continued)

So, I dropped off 15 of the chickens to the butcher and kept the other 5 whole. While carrying the whole chickens in, I noticed that they felt good. Energetically, they had a very strong, loving presence. And I felt grateful, really grateful. The kind of grateful I realized is the true feeling behind our custom of saying a grace before a meal, giving thanks and asking that the food nourish our bodies. This is the feeling that being close to your food will give you, and that our ancestors in some corners of the world felt as a part of their daily life and ritual. I wanted for a quiet place to truly embody this feeling, to be with it. At the same time I realized that I had committed some small sin in abandoning my chicken to the butcher and the electric blade, introducing them to violence for the first time when even their slaughter had been done in love. It went against the true flow of life, and in some ways felt like a denial of our shared life, the life that runs through chicken, beets, dandelion, and woman alike. A denial of life, a denial of true gratitude, a denial of our interconnectedness.

Too late.

The next day I went to pick up my chicken and the scene was awful. The place smelled weird/bad, not like meat turning bad per se, but just bad. I looked in the back where there was a line of 6 or 7 workers all in a row holding various cuts of meat with knives in their hands and thoughtless looks on their faces. Yikes. They brought my coolers out and the chicken hadn't even been packed back in its bags. It was piece by piece just thrown back into the coolers loose. The work was still for me to do to package it all in freezer paper and ziplocs. Oh, my, I was not prepared for that, I thought I would take them home and pop them in the freezer. As I raced to the store for ice and supplies, I was met with the warm smell of bacon-ny nastiness and unfresh meat that had built up on the outside of the coolers from being in a commercial butcher's walk-in. I began to cry. As I was packing the pieces, I was struck with the disrespect of it all; the pieces didn't have the smooth logic a handcut piece would, they were squarish and weird. Some of the legs would have the end of the leg be broken, and I was sad for the chicken that had its leg broken after death.

The story turns out ok. The chicken seems to be fine, all considered. But it doesn't have that feel anymore. It met it's true death at the butcher's saw.

And so I ask myself, what else in our life has lost its energetic presence, its life, it's connection to the One, as a result of our denial and our violence? What else and who else?

(Yet) Another Revolution

Funny you should mention Mennonites. For days I have been trying to put in words something that just won't come. This weekend, I had dinner with a young rebel, Chris Haw of Camden House, an 'intentional community' in Camden, NJ. He spoke of how to change the world by love and food. He shared stories of such reverence about the anabaptists, especially the Bruderhof and Huddites- all are pacifist communities who, of course, grow their own food. His group lives in a deserted urban area, rehabbing buildings, teaching at the local school, and growing food.

I learned about Chris because of a book called 'The Irresistible Revolution' by Shane Claiborne. Shane and Chris are writing a book called 'Jesus for President', due out next spring. At first I saw this rebel as a wellspring of unbounded brilliance with a real sense of integrity, then he started quoting Wendell Berry and Michael Pollan, and yes- that was it. To top it off, he kept speaking of his wife in adoring and wondrous terms. Imagine- a Roman Catholic, (new) monk, in love with nature, the world and his place in it, as well as with his wife. And he is LIVING his beliefs, those beliefs that would tend toward naive if they weren't coming from a man more brilliant than most. I can't really speak to them though- it is one of those rare cases that if one tries to name a thing, it crushes the spirit of the thing. What a strange place to be in- to have such a huge message and not be able to share it. Obviously, since he wrote a book about it, it is my problem more than his. Both the message and the problem have filled my head though, spun me closer to (being accepting of) my own rebellion.

I'd put a link to his blog or website up, but they seem to be doing and not just taking about what they are doing for a while. I'll let you know when I am finished with Shane's book, but in the mean time, look out for the 'Jesus for President' biodeisel campaign tourbus, coming soon to a town near you. And smile.

Chicken Love

Ok, so I have found this beautiful Mennonite woman in Pennsylvania about 40 minutes north of here who has 2 cows and laying hens, and I have often bought cream and eggs from her. She is my favorite farmer to buy from because she is equally taken with the Weston Price research on traditional foodways as I am. She pastures her chickens and cows on green grass, and lets them run around with plenty of space. Her chicken run all around in about a 2 acre area that she has marked off merely with stakes and that orange construction tape kind of stuff - they want to be there. Then they have these cozy little huts for sleeping in. She has kefir grains digesting milk on the counter, goes through a lot of coconut oil - you get the picture.

So anyway, at the beginning of the season she told me she was thinking about raising chickens for meat and was I interested. Well, the other day she and her husband were slaughtering them by hand at their farm, and so I drove up in the Jeep with 4 coolers and 4 bags of ice in tow. As usual it was great to see them and their operation, but I had to leave soon to get to the butcher in time to cut them up for me. On the ride up I had been anticipating the chicken and the feeling had come up in me that I would really rather I cut them up myself. These chickens were raised for me and it began to feel somewhat wrong to have someone else cut them for me, especially since when I had talked to the butcher shop on the phone they had mentioned what time they cut their saw. I had been envisioning hand cutting. But basically, I became concerned about handing my chicken over to be in someone else's care.

On the way home my rational mind took over and I thought certainly taking the chickens to the butcher was the obvious choice. I mean, come on, 20 chickens.

TO BE CONTINUED....

Confession

I have a new tactic for dealing with people I find difficult. I picture them as children. I see them with glasses too big for their faces, with shoes they did not pick out, with haircuts they did not choose, (or that they did themselves.) I see them with dreams of becoming heroes. I see them searching for truth- for an understanding of the way this crazy world actually works. As children, we are vulnerable and have not yet built the armour that protects our soul from the outside world. We have no firm grasp of truth. Hell, for all we know, there is some magical man at the North Pole who knows our innermost (albeit materialistic) desires.

And then, those truths come crashing down. People become fallible and hard to count on. Santa is, well, you know. And so, the armour is built. Piece by piece of painful memories and regrets that constitute our reality, 'protecting us' from emotional vulnerability. Until we discover that truth is not just what is in front of our noses, it is that which is both seen and unseen. Truth has a past, a present and a future of which we can only guess. And we discover that love cannot possibly act through that armour of pain we have built.

I absolutely adore Joseph Campbell. He changed my life with one command- Participate. You cannot love if you do not participate, act, roll around- do the chicken dance. You must BE in this world. You must BE love.

This works for me, when I can get past my own reaction and see the objects of my frustration as children. I can see the importance of loving those children, and of helping them release that armour of pain they must be carrying. I have always known love through its action, though love is not only a verb. It is a noun as well- a presence that can BE in us, with us, instead of the pain.

And, that is also the spirit in which I approach this blog. I have no idea who is reading it. I send it out into the great wide world with the faith that it is taken in the right spirit by the people who love me. It is my exercise in release, in loving that which is true to me, and doing so without fear.

"Jack pines... are not lumber trees [and they] won't win many beauty contests either. But to me this valiant old tree, solitary on its own rocky point, is as beautiful as a living thing can be... In the calligraphy of its shape against the sky is written strength of character and perseverance, survival of wind, drought, cold, heat, disease... In its silence it speaks of... wholeness... an integrity that comes from being what you are."
-Douglas Wood

Now you owe me a watermelon.

One fateful day in 1972, my grandfather Jack answered the door to a door to door salesman. "Have you made your final arrangements?" the salesman asked. Such a question. I mean- really. So, my grandfather, in a bout of agrarian irony, bought a section of a mausoleum which was yet unbuilt for himself and my grandmother. I had not visited his burial site until this past weekend when we brought my grandmother to rest next to her love. She knew what she was getting into. I had only heard of its horrible incarnation in family legend. And what a legend it is. The place where my grandparents will, (ostensibly) spend eternity is a corrugated metal building close to the Nashville airport. The building itself boasts a replica of Jesus' tomb, complete with shroud, crown of thorns as well as exposed air vents and tubing. The halls themselves are lined with pink carpet and an appalling number of fluorescent bug zappers. I was disappointed that the 'baptist organ music' that so disturbed my dad during previous visits was no longer in use. Needless to say that these arrangements totally appalls my family, who can build, grow and fly themselves any where or anything they darn well please. My dad is campaigning to move them, to take my grandparents out of that appalling place in the dark of the night and put them somewhere properly befitting our love and respect. I know this is wrong, but the whole thing amuses me to no end.

I LOVED Nashville. I mean, where else is there music pouring out of every bar, where you can get a cowboy hat whenever your little heart desires, where you can eat at a proper, locally sourced restaurant OR have a sandwich which employs coleslaw and fries with the cheese and tomatoes? How often do you get to hang out at your dad's college dive bar? And, if that is not enough, Rotier's had fried pickles. I ate them. We all did.

So, here's to you, my family- my gorgeous, crazy, Tennessee contingent. May we always find each other, even in the very strangest of places.

I love the Avett Brothers.

But, you probably already knew that.

It is So September...

and man, do I feel it. The light is different, the sky is bluer, and I have this uncontrollable urge for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The fall approaches, which is ok, because I think I actually accomplished everything on my 'Things I want to do this summer' list. Baseball games, check. The beach, check. I ate outside as much as possible. I fell in love with cooking again, thanks to the CSA (membership- check). I made LOADS of ice cream, I just hadn't put any food up for the winter. So, when we learned that Wes's apple tree was laden and his apples were ready for the taking, Sallie, Max, Clyde and I headed straight down to Kilmarnock with visions of apple sauce in our heads. Or pie. Mmmm- pie.



I am now the proud owner (manager?) of a huganic box of apples and really, the possibilities are very promising. I have already made one pie and several turnovers. What else? Hmmmm... I think I'll go consult the experts.

The End of an Era

You all know that I cry easily. I laugh easily too- which is (might be) an alright balance. Today has been a highly emotional day, full of more tears than laughter because one of our great forces is no longer with us. Yes, the Pathfinder has dug in its heels, and refuses to move. I knew it was coming- I have even been researching (other) cars. I have joked about the Pathfinder's 'Ghetto- ness', have likened him to a donkey and am quite sure he is ready and entitled to his pasture in the sky. I knew it was coming. In fact, yesterday, (lest you forget that I am indeed the coolest), he insisted on going through his enire throttling moan of various alarm noises while I attempted to turn the key to start the ignition. All of the horrid tones of his horn. For a very long time. This all happened WHILE I was at Lewis Ginter, an ultimately (and notoriously) silent place. The other gardeners looked on at me like stooty librarians- as if the only thing I had accomplished that day was to disturb the peace. That car roared on and protested so very loudly as I tried and tried to turn the key, and I realized that I had taken each and every easy start until now for granted. Indeed, I was not prepared for this.

Le Pathfinder, (who shall remain nameless), has over 157,000 miles on its tired frame. At an average of 35 miles per hour, that means a total of 4,486 hours I (or someone- in fact most of you) have spent behind the wheel . That winds up being about 187 days, at 24 hours a day. (Not even including the nights I slept in the plentiful back seat space while we were still and it was cold outside.) Six months (total) out of my life- 13 years including the times we were not moving. Four trips across the country. 11 house moves. Getting me out of a big sand pit in New Mexico when I took a 'short cut'. Dirt and dogs and boys. Up any fire road Colorado could put in our path. Trusty old thing. I really, really loved that car.

What is to become of him? Well, I expect he will pay my (over)dues to NPR, and that they will provide him a proper rest. I will go out in the morning, count his bumper stickers and various scrapes, and thank him for being there for me. Oh, man- I am really sad to let him go.

love, divided (like yeast)

I know it is a total cliche, but you get back what you give, and sometimes even more on top of that. It's kinda magic. The Beatles said, "The love you get is equal to the love you make" or something like that. Not necessarily advocating actually making love to random folks, but if you think of "make"ing as literally creating things for people, be it food, a place, the booze to have with the food at the place, or whatever...then there you have it.

As far as the sacrifice that goes along with either motherhood or fatherhood (or Motherhood, etc.), yes they can be a giant pain in the ass at times but it's pretty fun too. You definitely don't want to ever give to the point where you are giving up yourself, or pieces of yourself, for instance feeling like never having time to do whatever your passion is. But as long as you are not giving up yourself too much, all the other stuff isn't too important. I'm not saying to work one's fingers to the bones with never a thank you, but perhaps when you give up yourself a little bit you actually get bigger. Again, magic.

A Question for Mothers (and Fathers)

The other day, Matt sent me my life purpose report from an online astrologer. It was very sweet of him- all of my freedom has left me with a feeling of purposelessness at most, and at the very least the fear that I may have misplaced my bootstraps. So, his gift to me came at the perfect time. And what do you know? There is food involved in my life mission, (surprise!) along with fostering a sense of security and creating space for healing and support. It is an extremely feminine mission- the archetypal grandmother. I have always at once rebelled against the sacrifice of this woman while still embracing her arts. The question I am left with is one of the modern woman's role of nurturing. As third wave feminists, what does caring for others mean to us? Is fostering the needs and desires of others just terribly antiquated, by necessity entailing a sacrifice of one's own needs and desires, or could it hold the key to the healing work that the world so desperately needs?

I would love to hear what you already know day by day and practice minute by minute. In the meantime, I am going to go make some chocolate ice cream.

Intuitive Feasts

I am not a visionary. I am a dreamer, however. And I have noticed that the relationships that foster and are most amused by my capacity for speculation and fantasy are the ones in which I am most comfortable. (Read: free to wave that flag.) KT is always willing to indulge my ideas as well as my emotions, and for that, I am always eternally grateful. But I don't think even she could have forseen this.

The week before last, I took that gorgeous drive up the Eastern Shore to join KT and Ted, and all of the other Thorns and some Higsons (thanks Mollie and Phil!!) at their beach house in Delaware. I stopped by the Farmer's market before I left, and arrived in Bethany armed with more veggies than you could shake a stick at. Oh, and no plan as to what to do with them. Beach houses are fantastic for oh, so many reasons. One reason is the adventurous spirit by which you must approach cooking- kind of like camping deluxe.



So, we dove right in, planning banana peppers stuffed with fresh goat cheese and herbs, brown rice, and a Mexican ratatouille with veggies, black beans and salsa. We had so much fun- I laughed and said something like 'Wouldn't it be fun to have intuitive dinners at the farm? We could bring in whatever was good that day, and make something up!' KT said she didn't know too many brides that would go for an intuitive menu for their wedding. She was probably right, but check out the Orangette entry for 8/20.

Weird, eh?

The Day of Clyde

I am a great lover of ritual and tradition. I don't mean political or social tradition necessarily, in fact I rather admire rebellion. It is the cycle of the days, the seasons that I relish. I love that the Milk Moon always, always comes right before the Moon of Making Fat. I love that right now it is tomato season. I love that certain Thanksgiving dishes trigger certain memories, the stuff legend is made of. The variations in the ritual, both natural and cultural, build and trigger memories. These days set bonds that strengthen our relationships.

What is so special about today? One year ago exactly, I drove breathlessly down highway 64 to get a puppy out of the pound. I can't say that I rescued him, because I honestly didn't know what I was going to do with him. It was just a mission really, an idea close to compulsion. I had to find him. In the days before his arrival, while I was waiting to see whether his previous people would show up to claim him, I restlessly painted my living room for the fifth (but not final) time. (I did not finish painting until January.) Nevertheless, the day arrived when Animal Control would release him. I remember that I got lost on the way to the Henrico County Animal Protection site, and had to turn around twice (which is notable because the Henrico pound is near nowhere you want to be.) I finally found the building, and had to walk through the entire room of hopeful, undeniably sad dogs before I spotted him- the pup who, only a few weeks before had captured my heart with his intrinsically joyful (what I would discover later as inherently dog) nature. He was in the second to the last cage, and as I searched, I remember worrying that I had perhaps forgotten what he looked like. But, there he was, and for $10.00 and a promise that I would 'sterilize' him, we were on our way. We stopped by the backdoor of the car, and it finally dawned on me that I had no idea about dogs. I couldn't even get him to get in the back of my car!

So, after a moment's pause, I put my arms around him, and helped him in. He rode with his face in mine all the way home.

Now, I will not bore you will all of the reasons my life is better because I have Clyde in it. Yet, for many reasons it is, and as a fan of anniversaries and other days of note, I am glad to have this opportunity to remember the day this goofy, lovable, nearly 80 pound beast came barrelling into my heart.



And there he stayed.

the Beach!!

Ok- so, here is a story of how I tried to impress my (almost) three year old godson with my sandcastle making technique. I dug the appropriate 'moat' around an island, which he heard as a 'boat.' So, after much explanation (and perhaps some pleading), the moat and castle idea went by the wayside, and we built the first ever Gaudi- inspired 'drip boat'. It was gorgeous. Of course, all he told his momma about his beach trip was that I took him "under the waves". It was true, at his request, I did. But, Momma, I promise- I held on tight.

What I Did on my Summer Vacation....

or: How I Ate My Way Through California...



I did it. I dragged everyone to Chez Panisse. And I took photos, (shamelessly), of all of the food that graced our table. It was fantastic, and beautiful, and I will gush on and on about it, if you will let me.

But, there's more. We went to the Scharffen Berger factory which smelled quite a lot like heaven.


And then, there is the Wright/ Easton compound, which is so beautiful, it is a wonder we ever left...


















And, for those of you who haven't started 'Animal, Vegetable, Miracle yet, 'tis the season... here is one reason why...


This poster was in a bathroom next door to a bookstore in Berkeley, called Black Oak or something. (Hence the terrible photo.) Anyway, take heed...

Ode to the Tomato

Oh- now that is a tomato. Purple Cherokee, you are the one for me. You must be seen to be believed- the ultimate in tomato- ness, (tomato- osity) and maybe even in summer- ness. Your flavor is perfect- a little salty with the sweet, and your texture is oh- so- smooth. Look at that color- it is nearly pornographic. I have to stop before I get too terribly carried away. Goodness me...

I have been singing 'Paradise City' all morning. It may just be because I am getting ready to leave for California tomorrow, where the air is sweet with wild fennel and there is no humidity. Take. Me. Home- yeah, yeah.

Ahhh... the dry air usually comes second to my love for the south in the summer. But, I gotta say, it just may bring my new rock and roll hairstyle closer to the side of Pat Benatar, and a little farther away from Whitesnake. Enter mad guitar. Yeah.

August

Every leaf shakes the light again,
begins to talk...

Cicadas
have found
their August voice.

Surprisingly lightly
everyone lets go:
ripe now, all we've
sung into being
since before the leaves...

-Megan Chaskey (1994)

Take me Home...

One of the best things about country roads is the surprises they hold. And in the summer especially, they make no secret about their magic- the wildflowers nod along their shoulders, the sweet churches appear around their curves, the cows doze in the shade of the trees that are left in surrounding fields like gifts. They are wondrous in their beauty- mostly because they seem so oblivious to it. We always exclaim at how one could choose nearly any three turns off of the highway and wind up somewhere that takes our breath away.

But, yesterday we had a mission. Casey and I were going to visit the most honorable Hyla Brook Farm- home of native Virginia plant landscaping. They are open only once a month, when they have demonstrations. Yesterday was the Perenial Propagation open house- we were both free, and off we went. We arrived to a bunch of people standing around a table, moving soil around. I don't know what we expected, maybe a lecture? A tour? Noooo- this was even better. So, like kids in a candy store, (or maybe more like pigs in mud), we elbowed our way through to the table and started stirring. We cut and rooted three different kinds of asters, goldenrod, and monarda (the one Earl Grey Tea comes from). We divided a groundcover called Green and Gold, and sowed seeds for coreopsis, echinacea, and campanula. We got to keep them all!! I think I was actually dancing I was so excited. (Plus, I only cut myself once.)

Anyway, here's to country roads and their many gifts. And to Casey, who is willing to drive them.

One good (wo)man

After a long chat with Erin last night about my lack of postings- here it is. This strays from the farm animal and vegetable theme but may touch on the wilderness bit. Sort of the wilderness of the soul of America right now - I (and I guess many of you) have been deeply disturbed by the administration's carte blanche use of torture in the "war on terror." After all the founding father reading done at SJC and law school, constitutional law and human rights are what I have always felt are the cornerstone of our country. Sadly, we (read the gov't) have given certain individuals the OK to treat human beings in a manner that defies our own laws - - it is most disturbing to hear about things done in the name of freedom that would in other times (and even now if done by another country's gov't) qualify the victim to seek political asylum. Not making too much sense, I know, but if anyone is interested I can give a tutorial some other time about what qualifies people to be granted political asylum. Point being, I have been feeling discouraged about humanity and most particularly the stark political divisions in the America. Surely not everyone who is "conservative" is behind this treatment! Surely it is not patriotic to support it or even ignore it! So, I was more than uplifted to read this opinion piece on WP today. I encourage you all to check it out. It has renewed some faith that our structure of government, based on the theory of one good (wo)man, may survive and this may again be a place where the rights of all are upheld, where we treat each person as valued, with a voice, a vote, and a dream (without which it wouldn't be America, huh?). So ladies and gents, as Jefferson encouraged each decade, it is time for a change in course, a revolution of humanity, a push for renewed democracy! I guess I should have posted this closer to the 4th of July! Yours truly, giddy with patriotic fervor

My Freak Flag (Part 37)

So, I just watched the most lovely film ever called The Price of Milk, and I had to explain a little before I put it on the recommended film list because the title makes it sound like it is a Fast Food Nation kind of film. (FFN was terrible- Avril Lavigne and Ethan Hawke tryin' to tell me what to do? C'mon...) But, really The Price of Milk is a (fairy tale) allegory about love AND farm animals- (and KT- just for the record, it is not love WITH farm animals...)

Determining Wildness

I am working on my last paper, (at least for a while), and I can't say I am not ready for a break. I swear I have sustained a typing injury- and I think my right forearm muscles have grown slightly larger than my left, not to mention I am super restless and (can you tell?) slightly whiny. I am dragging my feet in my work, though I do (in theory ) find the subject fascinating. It is this: that our creation story introduced the world in terms of polarities- right/ wrong, obedience/ freedom, man/ woman, good/ evil, nature/ civilization- even dominion/stewardship. In order to transcend this dualistic thought, a third idea must be born. One plus one equals three.

So, I love the books- these quotes are from 'Uncommon Ground', the result of an academic seminar on the state of the environment, attended by scientists and literary types alike. Good stuff. These are from an essay called "The Trouble with Wilderness" by William Cronon.

“This, then, is the central paradox: wilderness embodies a dualistic vision in which the human is entirely outside the natural. If we allow ourselves to believe that nature, to be true, must also be wild, then our very presence in nature represents its fall. The place where we are is the place where nature is not. If this is so- if by definition wilderness leaves no place for human beings, save perhaps as contemplative sojourners enjoying their leisurely reverie in God’s natural cathedral- then also by definition it can offer no solution the environmental and other problems that confront us. To the extent that we celebrate wilderness as the measure with which we judge civilization, we reproduce the dualism that sets humanity and nature at opposite poles. We thereby leave ourselves little hope of discovering what an ethical, sustainable, honorable, human place in nature might actually look like."

“Learning to honor the wild- learning to remember and acknowledge the autonomy of the other- means striving for critical self consciousness in all of our actions. It means deep reflection and respect must accompany each act of use, and means too that we must always consider the possibility of non- use. It means looking at the part of nature we intend to turn toward our own ends and asking whether we can use it again and again and again- sustainably- without its being diminished in the process. It means never imagining that we can flee into a mythical wilderness to escape history and the obligation to take responsibility for our own actions that history inescapably entails. Most of all, it means practicing remembrance and gratitude, for thanksgiving is the simplest and most basic of ways for us to recollect the nature, the culture, and the history that have come together to make the world as we know it. If wildness can stop being (just) out there and start being (also) in here, if it can start being as humane as it is natural, then perhaps we can get on with the unending task of struggling to live rightly in the world- not just in the garden, not just in the wilderness, but in the home that encompasses them both."

You think you are weird...

So, for her birthday, Camilla received two sheep from her husband the prince. Call me crazy, but I am so jealous. Farm animals are definitely the way to this girls heart. And apparently to Camilla's as well- a British paper says: "Camilla is, in fact, absolutely chuffed to bits."

I'd be chuffed too.

We are Weird

Ok, well Sallie already knows this because I had a long conversation with her outlining just how weird I am last night. But this point is watermelon specific. I made that fabulous watermelon salad a few days ago, the exact day that it was posted by our blogmaster, in fact. Well, Ted and I thought it was THE most fantastic thing!! Great recipe. Then my last day of class and we were all supposed to bring it some food to make it celebratory, you know. I was too preoccupied to make something special for my classmates, so at the last minute I grabbed the bowl of watermelon salad and brought it along. One person asked for the recipe but didn't eat anything. (What is that? Her special method of being polite?) The people that ate it said things like, "Oh it's actually good," that kind of thing. I said "I know it's good." I think they felt like they had to like it, but fellow bloggers, I'm here to tell you, the watermelon salad was not a hit. Of an unwatermelon nature, shall we wear our strangeness like high school chidren wear their combat boots and black eyeliner or shall we tuck it neatly away in our sock drawer for a private moment on a cold winter's night?

Distractions

As the front lawn goes the way of green shag carpeting, (or in my case, crispy brown astro- turf), I am considering ripping it all up in favor of native grasses in the front and woodland green in the back. What do you think? That is AFTER school, AFTER I land a fantastic job, and perhaps AFTER I give this place a good scrubbing. Or, in the fall- whichever comes first.

In other, more interesting news, my brother Al opened an online artists' collective called Drip Book- He is so fantastic, and I am oh- so- proud of him. I'll give y'all the address etc. when it is full blown opened.

I, on the other hand, am reading Ishmael by Quinn, and am finding that I have a rather fragile constitution for impending disaster literature. I put the book down two days ago, and am obviously avoiding picking it up again. Egads.

So, as I continue to attempt to distract myself, I wonder if it is a little strange that I find the song 'Stickshifts and Safetybelts' by Cake one of the most romantic songs ever? Really, is there anything sweeter?

I heart watermelon.

So, I kind of thought that I would not post recipes here. But, as with most things I am at one time adamantly against, I have found an exception. Except you won't believe it. It is so good, and so very strange- my favorite combination...

I cannot post exact measurements (not that I follow those anyway) because I had this at a dinner party, but I think it will be good almost no matter what.

Tomato Watermelon Salad (!)

A bunch of red tomatoes, large chopped
One seedless watermelon, large chopped
One red onion, sliced and soaked in the juice of three limes (juice should be added to final salad)
Feta, crumbled
Kalmata olives, whole (pitted)
Basil
Mint

Swoon.

Really, as far as I am concerned, this is the only way to eat watermelon.

That word thing again...

You are right, preventative care is a stupid term. It sounds as though we stand, battle ready, for any disease that is ready to pounce. Really, it should be about maintaining health. We are just not educated on, nor connected with how to maintain our body's health. Our physical (and therefore emotional and spiritual) health is connected to the 'outside world'. Have you ever considered what a sublime act eating is, taking something from the outside, something that was not a part of you, and somehow turning it into a part of you? How intimate that act is, and how for granted we take it. We have stepped outside of maintaining our mere existence- or is it our miraculous existence?

Progress

Also, what is this myth of progress. It seems that we are indoctrinated with a mythos of, "moving forward in time, we are always better off because of our 'advancements' and our newest enchantment with our 'technologies', like a man admires his descendant gonads. but nobody questions this bit of brainwashing except with the occasional romanticizing of some nonexistent past. meanwhile we all suffer as one while Mother Earth is gang raped with our "technologies" and we're all supposed to smile proud. Primitive people can have their dreamtime, but we've all moved past that bit of nonsense into the far more sterile 5th Avenue condo of the Mind. While we drag our now dead bodies around like so many sacks of potatoes. Why would it matter now what we put in it?

And we've built a mountain out of time, so we can always be perched at the pinnacle, staking out our flag of separateness. The incrementation of time was the worst idea of all humanity. Seasons, Yes! Moons, Yes! Solstices and Equinoxes, I'm all for it. But when did it change from a circle to a line? And now, horror of horrors, a grid that I must pack myself into. (Maybe it's just that I'm tired of being late)

Dear friends, I do know that this is terrible cocktail party conversation. I must be driven home.

Argh...

I saw Sicko recently, and afterward my first impulse was to figure out how to pick up and move to another country. Any other country. I was so discouraged by witnessing this piece of American injustice through our own neglect that I thought I'd just have to abandon ship. Then, I realized how much I'd miss my people, and that we all deserve the same rights that will be lost if we just leave. I remembered the words of my precious Avetts, 'When you run, make sure you run to something and not away from, 'cause lies don't need an aeroplane to chase you down.' Not lies I have told, but lies I have believed. Lies I have encouraged through my own disregard for the truth. Admittedly, trips to the grocery store have lately taken on a new learning curve as I am trying to be aware of where my food actually comes from, but I have faith that will get easier with practice. We all know that as Americans, we vote with our dollars. What we choose to spend our money on empowers us and our world more than amorphous policies handed down from government agencies. Which brings us back to Sicko- what are we to do? Half of the group I saw the film with have no health insurance. It only puts them in precarious situations when they, say, have to have an emergency appendectomy, or when they get sick and it is a hassle to find a doctor. But it matters that they do not get preventative care. It matters, specifically as Michael Moore points out because we no longer are taking care of each other. America worships the individual, and yes, I am a lucky American, but we value our own needs over those of others. We care not what we are feeding, teaching or helping each other. Americans are like spoiled party kids, trashing the house because we can with no consequences. I do not even know how to begin to clean it up.

So, in a book by Susan Griffin, I found this:

“If human consciousness can be rejoined not only with the human body but with the body of the earth, what seems incipient in the reunion is the recovery of meaning within existence that will infuse every kind of meeting between self and the universe, even in the most daily acts, with an eros, a palpable love, that is also sacred."

So, for now, I will ponder and hope and be and do, and try to honor this world as an extension of my self and of your self.

A Midsummer's Thanks Giving

Ah... the fourth was so very food exciting. I found myself squealing about each dish to some poor soul, and wound up eating so much that my stomach ached long into the night. It was worth the pain. Casey MADE mozzarella, Ned grilled foccacia, and we just chopped and peeled our way through grilled vegetables, cucumber yogurt soup, a berry crisp, lavender honey ice cream and another attempt by me to solve the shortbread mystery. More food arrived in glorious appreciation of the vibrancy of the season, and together we happily listened to the chirping crickets and waited patiently for the fireworks to begin. Thank you, Freemans for a proper and so very joyful passage into mid-summer.

Now, I must make my way out of this food love haze to class, for which we read Pete Hamill's 'Snow in August'. I didn't adore the book, but I did love the rabbi's edict that "Love is almost always about words." Now, I am not even going to pretend that I understand anything about love, but I do revere the power of words. I have a near visceral reaction to words, so much so that there are some I stubbornly refuse to use. Fortunately, most of these are proper nouns, and so can be easily avoided. Anyway, I thought I'd share a few of my favorite words with you- Roll these around on your tongue, and see what occurs to you. To me, they are gifts, prayers and spells. In English, you can't beat the power of Shazam! In French, aubergine resounds. In Spanish, mariposa undoubtedly has a life of its own. And in Greek, you can feel the depth of logos.

Sunflowers for Sallie

The Revolution Continues...

Ok- sorry you guys. I just finished the book Plenty by the couple who invented the 100 mile diet. It was so very good. I could do nothing else but read it... Anyway, here are the two beautiful quotes I am using in my paper:

“Hebda, when he gives talks to the public, often suggests something he calls the One Bean Revolution. Everyone, he says, should plant at least a single bean in a windowsill pot. He will always recommend a bean over, say, a tree because a bean reinforces an original truth: that human beings are sustained by the natural world. The thing we call nature is not, as a tree can be, just something to look at on weekends out of the city. It is what keeps us alive. This is so basic a fact that it seems tedious to say it, and yet this understanding is not among the founding principles of civilization as we know it. There was a time, though, when we felt this knowledge every time we ate.”

“The garden is a constant reminder that our depleted global environment is linked to the gap we have constructed between our food and ourselves, but a deeper truth is rooted in paleoecology. The science bears witness to changes enormous in scale, the fact that even the continents are works in progress. It can make a person’s brief existence seem meaningless; more than that, though, it staggers the mind with the duty of care in our everyday lives. The universe seethed a million years to give us a row of cabbages, or a quail’s egg, or a broken heart.”

Right? Enough said.

Woo- Hoo!

So, I was the lucky hostess of our west coast contingent this weekend, and we both happily left our serious lives behind and reveled in frivolity. It was lovely, and so very summery.

There was a honky tonk!



There was shopping...


We acted like good vegetarians at a whole festival dedicated to such....















And, of course, there was food. Melissa is one of my earliest inflences of the food kind. As we cooked this weekend, we shared stories of the importance of food to each of us, and wound up with stories of the people who had brought our appreciation to new levels. I got to thank Melissa for her many lessons. We even discussed the pros and cons of naming children after lovely food items, (Kale? Olive? Ruben? Rosemary?) Anyway, pictured is a gorgeous Dashi/ Miso soup, inspired by the fresh shitakes I got at the market this week. And yes, we ate it all.... SO GOOD.







As a proud owner of the Cuisinart ICE-20, I now use any excuse to make ice cream. So, this is a apricot, peach, plum and blueberry crisp with vanilla ice cream. ( And yes, we ate it for breakfast as well.) Mmmmm Hmmm.


So, thanks for the super fun weekend, Melissa- Don't forget to send photos of Seattle!

Spring into Summer (an essay in pictures)

Happy solstice, y'all!

Bonfire and a potluck?

And who's to say we can't start with a bonfire and a potluck? It seems all we need is a nice big open field, at least for starters. After a raucous weekend at Bonnaroo (whew, we actually did it) I'm feeling like starting small is a great idea. Not that we could...or should ....ever.... attempt to attain the scale of 'the roo'


The long car ride was aided by the new Kingsolver year of eating locally, check it out...

http://www.animalvegetablemiracle.com/

It truly is everywhere, and I think the time is nigh to jump on the growing local food bandwagon and at least start thinking about how to start, however small. I know the majority of the troupe is otherwise occupied for the 4th but Ned and I have decided to start the first of our quarterly seasonal food fest/feasts- Whatever we can find fresh and ready is on the menu, maybe grillin' a little tomato, corn, summer squash. A sort of mini bacchanalian, solsticesque and perhaps a smidge orgiastic.... at least in spirit.

You are of course all welcome, we figured why not practice now? Community anyone?


Oh and while we're being shameless, here's one for the other team!

But in all seriousness...

But in all seriousness, I did just get invited today to a campout at a farm in Pennsylvania not far from here that is a Pagan retreat center kind of thing, and so I think orgiastic Pagan festivals are definitely the right mindset to be in. I also recently heard about someone who bought some property in WV, about 100 acres, a little west of here, and set it up as a campsite. They have a bonfire/potluck every Saturday night and there is a bit of a community feel to it, not just straight camping. And that speaks to the idea Sallie was having about the fact that so much of our "offering" is a sense of community.

Here's the blueprint ->

Also, a couple years ago Ted and I went to a fantastic party at a cross-country skiing property. They had the BEST Moosewood style food, a huge bonfire, old-time string bands and a real green feel. They don't have lodging but I think mostly make their money from skiing and the restaurant which is on the property. Here is the link to their cafe: http://www.whitegrass.com/cafe.html

Check it out, because that's an interesting model for us too, presumably minus the skiing.

Point is, it can be done.

Now to the subject of competitive eating.

I also think it would be a great idea to get into competitive eating, host hot dog eating contests, saurkrout, doughnut, and rib eating contests. Now just because the Japanese seem to be dominating this arena for the past decade or so doesn't mean it couldn't work here on the East Coast. I hereby submit the future of competitive rib eating:

Ok, that was a shameless ploy to show this adorable picture of Ruby eating a rib in celebration of our first business planning session that went so terribly awry for poor Ted Higson. Trying to rein us all in. Not realizing that the glory of the hobbit people HAS TO BE REALIZED. I do believe I should retire. Tomorrow I rub.