Mid-Week Musings

In my freshman year of high school, I was standing in line when a teacher motioned for me to come her way. I'd been queued with friends and had just repeated a story I'd been told. She'd overheard what I'd said and asked why I thought the story was mine to tell. While I hemmed and hawed and insisted what I'd shared was true, she reiterated that, true or not, the story was not mine to tell. Her words stayed with me and over the years there've been occasions when I've had to stop and ask myself if the story I'm about to share is actually mine to tell.

When you travel with a group you hear lots of stories. Some are told by lonely people seeking affirmation. Others are told when tongues are loosed by too much wine. These are the stories that must be rewoven before they can be told. And sometimes, as they are reworked you realize that there isn't much to tell. Many stories were shared on our long coach rides in Costa Rica, but, on examination, they belong to others and are not mine to tell. I can, however, share with you impressions, two in particular, that were garnered on our trip.

A bit of backstory is necessary here. In 1948, Costa Rica abolished all branches of its military and diverted the money used to support a standing army to education. As a result, the country has a literacy rate of 98%, but its educated citizens no longer want to do the hard physical work its coffee, sugar and banana plantations require. Migrant workers, approximately 1,000,000 of them from neighboring Nicaragua, are brought into the country to handle the planting and harvest of export crops. It is hard, back breaking work and men, women and children all participate. On coffee plantations they are paid by the canasta, which looks much like a small laundry basket. Because the canasta is tied around the waist, it's not uncommon to see mothers with small children in the fields. A full canasta weighs about 25 pounds and each basket is worth about $2.00. Costa Rica takes care of its citizens, but, despite protestations, life in the migrant camps is rough. We spent the better part of a day on a coffee plantation following the beans from their planting to a coffee cup. Our tour ended as workers were coming in from the fields. My final observation was that of an obviously weary, nursing mother carrying a baby in a makeshift sling along with a toddler at her side. She probably made $2.00 that day.

On a more upbeat note, we were able to meet the wife and the young daughter of our tour guide. Family size in Costa Rica has dramatically decreased over the past 40 years and homes with 1 or 2 children are now the norm. Children, while doted on, are not spoiled and these small families are closely knit. Diego's family met us for lunch halfway through the tour. He travels a lot and when he got off the bus his daughter hurled herself at him and darn near knocked him off his feet. They had a private lunch and when it was time to leave she did something that I've seen only once before in our travels. There was, of course, the big kiss and hug, but she then made the sign of the cross on his body rather than her on. No tears, just a blessing for safe travel. Her spirit is as beautiful as the country in which she lives, but only parts of her story are mine to tell.

Mid-Week Musings

I had been up all night watching election returns and as first light streaked the darkness, I turned off the television and began an internal monologue. My first thought was of old-school Irish wakes where liquor numbed the pain. Trouble was, I knew that no amount of spirits would counter the shock I'd felt earlier that evening. I needed a defibrillator, not a liquid stimulant, so despite the hour, I strapped on a miner's light, grabbed a can of pepper spray and headed to the river trail. I walked until the sun was high in the sky and my legs were as exhausted as my brain. I still could not sleep, but my mind had cleared.

I come from a family of political junkies. My father was raised in Detroit and his first jobs were with the UAW and the Railroad Retirement Board. He left Detroit, and for a period of time was a political operative in the wards of Chicago. He and my mother, a woman born too bright and forward thinking for her era, were New Deal democrats who believed our country had the means to improve the lives of all its citizens. Election night was a high holiday in our home, and because learned behavior is hard to put aside, I, to this day, carry on some of those early traditions. The big question then was always "Who won?" My dad kept a telephone tally of votes and the Chicago machine knew long before the newspapers who had carried the night. Since the televised results of the Kennedy/Nixon election, I do not go to bed until I can answer that question. Now we know.

I'm one of those people who talk with their dead. I've been keeping my mom up to date throughout this election and on the morning of the 8th I let her know it was in the bag. She'd listened to my lament when roars of "jail her" mirrored the "zeig heil" heard in the Reichstag of Nazi Germany. She, metaphorically anyway, held my hand when I described the terrible scar that was exposed when the scab covering festering bigotry, racism, xenophobia and misogyny was ripped from the underbelly of our country. And despite the hard work of men and women hoping to see history made, I had to recant and tell her I was wrong. There would be no transformational moment for women's leadership in the United States.

Autopsie are already underway. When they are completed the press will find no fault with its participation in this drama, and our chief law enforcement agency will sweep their interference in the electoral process under the rug. The lies and mendacity of politicians will continue and Congress will make sure the wealthy, rather than those in the Rust Belt, are taken care of. Campaign coffers will fill with a speed that would embarrass even King Midas, making Secretary Clinton's speaking revenues look like a weekly allowance. However, the group most responsible for this debacle is that portion of the body politic who did not exercise their franchise. They simply did not vote, allowing hot air to rush in and fill the vacuum, and they are about to get their just desserts.

My intent is not to trash our President Elect. He won and is entitled to a period of grace. The world is looking at us and our response to him. Let us handle it with as much dignity as we can muster, and while it will be hard, the office, if not the man, deserves our respect. When I saw those being considered for his Cabinet, the Rape of the Sabine Women rather than the Last Supper flashed before my eyes. My plan is to swallow hard and carry on the fight as best I can. We live in a constitutional democracy that demands our participation every single day, not just in election years.

Liberals need to identify young leaders who can inspire new voters and realistically advance the party without making promises for which there are no funds. The days of "promise them anything but give them Arpege" are over. Demographics are changing and we will have a non-white majority by 2043. I think it behooves liberals to make sure they find a home with us. My hope is that all Americans will hold political parties to the promises they make, and "throw the rascals out" when they do not deliver. Voters need to inform themselves. I'm still amazed that there are groups of people who vote against their own best interest. You should be able to articulate why you are opposed to a government program, and "John says" is not an acceptable argument. With this election women - yes women - have ceded the Supreme Court and their bodies to John. Next to go will be the right to die. You, no we, can stop the erosion of the common good, but it will take active participation on our part. Voting every 2 years is the place to begin, but the state of the nation demands more than that. We can't count on others to carry the water for the rest of us. Start by making yourself known to your representatives and holding them accountable, then join groups that have real political clout. Roll up your sleeves, volunteer and make your voice heard. A single voice can be powerful but voices heard in unison can change the world.

Mid-Week Musings

Back in the day, changes in behavior were credited to the "stages" children were passing through. Not much attention was paid to them, and, like growing pains, most folks agreed they'd pass with time and fresh air. Stages, save for adolescence, had no names, and even that fell into a broader catch-all that identified those in that category as "teens." It was a simpler time, and parents whose experience was mirrored in the behavior of their children, weren't worried and rarely stressed about the state of their children's psyche or personality development. It was a laissez-faire approach to child rearing, designed to raise obedient and God-fearing children. That changed as education, economic opportunity and technical innovation convinced those on the brink of adulthood they could do better and be better than their parents. We became more introspective and asked more of ourselves and others.

Mid-Week Musings

As a young man, my husband loved to be outdoors. Nothing could stop him from climbing up, over or into things that sparked his curiosity or challenged him. One of his passions was spelunking, and for a couple of summers he'd spend weekends in caves, crawling through tunnels with the weight of the world just inches above his shoulders. While cave exploration was not a passion of mine, he was, so more often than not, I could be found crawling behind him, elbowing my way to caverns we had not yet seen. My father, insisting that it had taken men millions of years to emerge from the caves, couldn't understand why anyone, much less his daughter, would want to return to them. He applauded progress and believed the survival of men, as well as sharks, depended on forward motion.

Mid-Week Musings

Photo Courtesy of the Carpe Diem Couple

The notion for today's musings began simply enough. We'd stopped for a donut and coffee on our way to the Oregon coast. The weather was terrible and business was slow, so the gal who waited on us kept one eye on the television as she poured our coffee. We could hear her mumbling, "Man, he's really cooked his goose." It made me smile because it was the first time I'd heard a cooking metaphor used politically. Others sitting at the counter shared her grim assessment, and while I was severely tempted to chime in, I thought it best to leave them to their thoughts and let the matter lie.

Mid-Week Musings

It's becoming obvious that vaccines have been tossed into a pot that already contains politics, religion, abortion and money. These are topics that sensible people avoid discussing because they trigger polarizing arguments that rarely change adult thoughts or behaviors, but some of us are stubborn and sometimes you have to try. This weekend, I had a dust-up with an anti-vaccine advocate that will help explain why a photo of an iron lung is being used as the lead-in to this week's musings.

Mid-Week Musings

My musings meander today because their scope is so broad. My thoughts regarding political correctness began simply enough. I was working on an assignment that explored the origins of Indian pudding. As I read through my notes, I stopped when I came to the expression Indian summer. Back in the day, we were taught that Indian summer referred to a warm spell that followed the first frost of autumn. I never for a moment considered it might be offensive to Native Americans, and thought it was a lovely way to describe the final flush of summer. Then I started to think. That's always a mistake and it never fails to get me into trouble. I live in a liberal community where political correctness is taken seriously. Sometimes I, by extension, take it too seriously. I had no problem with the expression Indian pudding. It was a recognized dessert that's been served in American homes for years, but for some reason the expression Indian summer made me uneasy. As it happened, I met with some local writers that day and shared my hesitation with them. Out came the iPads and before you know it, my research became a group project.

Mid-Week Musings

Image courtesy of Ryan Snook

The text lacked the import of Morse's "What hath God wrought?" or the directness of Bell's "Mr.Watson - come here - I want to see you." It was nonetheless a first. I texted Rosie, a fellow blogger, a message from my TracFone, the first I've ever owned. I wanted to keep it simple until I got the hang of texting, so I settled on, "What's cookin' Rosie?" Once that was done, I turned the phone off and threw it in my junk drawer. About an hour later, Rosie called me on my landline. She was irritated that I hadn't replied to the message she had sent me. The word "dumb" was never uttered,  but I swear I could hear her thinking it. While I've repeatedly explained my reticence to enter the world of instant communication, she's never understood it and thinks I'm a dinosaur.

Mid-Week Musings

Idioms

Last weekend Bob and I helped celebrate the birthday of a friend who is woman of color. Her 4 year old grandson was sitting with us and listening intently to the grownups at the table. When his aunt commented that her mother was tickled pink, the little guy took a hard look at his grandmother, shook his head and let everyone at the table know his grandmother was black, not pink. I wanted to laugh, but I caught myself for fear I'd hurt his feelings. I remember another four year old whose feelings were hurt when folks laughed at her very literal conclusions. I can still recall her looking first to my right side and then to my left when I told her I was "beside myself." This same child extended her hand and expected payment any time she heard the phrase,"A penny for your thoughts." I tried to avoid idioms until she was old enough to understand the difference between literal and figurative expressions, but her dad and I had a (literal) belly laugh as she mastered the vagaries of the English language. I'm here to tell you she was "a tough nut to crack."

Normally, those recollections would again retreat to memory, however, I was at a contentious meeting this morning, and to save my sanity, I withdrew from the conversation and started to mentally play and doodle with idioms. The first that came to mind regarded the circumstances in which I found myself. "The ball is in your court," and I "think you are barking up the wrong tree," came immediately to mind. They were followed directly by the suggestive duo, let's not "beat around the bush," you know it's time for us to "get back to the drawing board." Some things are best held "close to the vest," so I moved on and started to think about dinner and the creation of food related idioms. As it turns out, there are a ton of them. Here are the ones I came up with. If you have more, enter them in the comments section and I will add them to the list.

1) apple of one's eye

2) (have a) bun in the oven

3) bad egg

4) big cheese

5) bread and butter

6) bring home the bacon

7) butter someone up

8) (have one's) cake and eat it too

9) carrot top

10) cheesy

11) cool as a cucumber

12) cream of the crop

13) (don't) cry over spilled milk

14) cup of joe

15) (not my) cup of tea

16) freeze one's buns off

17) full of beans

18) gravy train

19) (have something) handed to someone on a silver platter

20) hard nut to crack

21) hot potato

22) in a nutshell

23) nuts about something, someone

24) out to lunch

25) one smart cookie

26) peach fuzz

27) piece of cake

28) put all of ones eggs in one basket

29) souped up

30) sell like hot cakes

31) spice things up

32) spill the beans

33) take something with a pinch (grain) of salt

34) use your noodle

35) butterfingers

Food Idioms Sent By Friends

Bean counter

A piece of cake

The icing on the cake

Cook the books

Egg on

Egg on one's face

Something fishy

Sour grapes

Bought a lemon

A couch potato

...and here are a few more that came in later

Cut the mustard

Over egg the pudding

Gravy train

Walk on eggshells

Pie in the sky

Food for thought

Mid-Week Musings

Photo Courtesy of Tangerine Drawings

My cookbooks, most of them anyway, have moved on to a more deserving home. Their departure wasn't planned, and the decision to unload them was incident driven and came about by accident. You know how one thing can lead to another? Well, that's what happened here. Unlikely as it may seem, the books' departure was triggered by a much-loved pair of red suede shoes and a cleaning spree that was more thorough than originally planned. I must admit it got out of hand. I live in a relaxed community and the dress code here can best be described as informal. Anything can be worn for an evening on the town or services on a Sunday morning. Most of the folks who live here came from more formal places, but the sanctioned urge to dress down strikes quickly and with killer force. I call the syndrome going native. I'm no different than the others who have found their way here. I love the informality of this place, but deep down in my core, I know that God and country rely on me to uphold the standards of the empire. So, back in the recesses of my closet you find a collection of rarely worn shoes and a dress or two that are worthy of a New York restaurant. They will also help explain the sad tale of my red shoes.

Bob, known to most of you as the Silver Fox, invited me, and I'm using his words now, to "dine" with him. Not eat mind you, "dine." I went to my closet and pulled out a sophisticated sheath with clean lines. Paired with my pearls, I knew it would be perfect for our evening out. I also pulled out my red suede heels, choosing them and a matching clutch because I knew they would give my outfit the perfect pop. I slipped on the dress, and to my horror, it hung on me. I had no better luck with the shoes, though the problem was different. My feet, it seems, have grown as my body shrunk. Actually, I think both problems can be attributed to my current lifestyle. I'm a walker, and these days my feet enjoy the freedom of Rockports or Birkenstocks. Heaven knows they both are roomy and make for happy feet, but those feet no longer know how to behave in more civilized shoes. I grabbed a few more things and it quickly became obvious that the treasures in the back of the closet needed to be reassessed. Closet space is at a premium here and once identified, anything that can't be worn, beautiful or not, has to surrender its territory. By the time I finished, no high heels remained in the shoerack and I had not a cocktail dress left to my name.

Once I started the paring down it consumed me. I next attacked the "prop" shelves that hold the dishes I use for blog photographs. They are kitty-corner to my only remaining bookcase, and, my now clear eyes could see they were jammed to overflow with books of one sort or another. I first stripped the novels and completed book club material. That made no dent in the accumulation, so I carefully went through the travel section, removing anything not related to our plans for the current year. The shelves still buckled under the weight of what remained, so I had to take a hard look at the books that were left. What remained were my favorite cookbooks. First, went the large "picture" books. I know there will be angst come January. Our winter weather invites a blazing fire, hot chocolate  and the turning of well-worn pages to help wile away the hours and fight the Oregon damp. Unfortunately, nothing is forever, and since  I've prepared all the dishes I wanted to make, it was clearly time to part with my picture books. I gave them a last look-see before putting them in the growing donation pile. Next, I sorted through the culinary memoirs I've accumulated through the years. The only one I saved was "On Rue Tatin" by Susan Herrmann Loomis. I read it at a time when I was still refining my skills and the direction my kitchen would take. I loved it then and now. Then came the books themselves. Julia and Ina went but I kept all my Patricia Wells' cookbooks. I also kept Gloria Bley Miller's encyclopedic Chinese cookbook, all of Mark Bittman and "The Gourmet Cookbook" that was edited by Ruth Reichl. Still remaining, but on borrowed time, are two volumes from the Culinary Institute and a copy of "The King Arthur Baking Companion." I actually can see the shelves of the bookcase now and have room to add any new purchases I might make.

Many of you have read Marie Kondo's book, "The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up." I'd love to tell you that my quest to bring order to a chaotic world is based on what she has written, but that is not the case. I am, by nature, a neatnick, and save for personal weaknesses like shoes and cookbooks, I conquered clutter a long time ago. Not because I think that's virtuous, but I know it makes life easier and gives me more time to do the things I actually enjoy. For those of you who are still trying to tame clutter, this article from One King's Lane will will help get you started. It summarizes the principals Kondo outlines in her book. She advises, "Keep only those things that speak to your heart.Then take the plunge and discard all the rest. By doing this, you can reset your life and embark on a new lifestyle." Her advice may not change your life, but it certainly can do no harm. I do, however, have a final thought to bounce against the wall. Even if you love it and it brings you joy, make sure it fits.

Jack and the Beanstalk and My Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

From the kitchen of One Perfect Bite...It has been a day. It began when eggs rolled off the counter and hit the floor in scrambled dumpty fashion. While cleaning up the mess, I left oatmeal on the back burner and managed to scorch it beyond recognition. Lest I be allowed to forget a day that got off to a bad start, the acrid odor permeated the house and refused to dissipate. Things didn't improve as the day wore on. I was late for a meeting and in my hurry to make up for lost time, I left the spigot on the coffee urn open, and didn't notice it until the coffee swirled around my no-longer white sneakers. That wasn't the impression I was trying to make, but at least they'll remember my name. Once home, I managed to fall up the stairs, dropping the sack of groceries I was carrying. I decided to take a breather and rev up my chi before I killed myself. I headed to the deck, plunked down in my favorite chair and took a deep breath. That's when I saw the arborvitae and the vine that was climbing around it. In a progression that is natural only in a brain like mine, the story of Jack and the Beanstalk entered my frontal lobes and would not go away.

Mid-Week Musings

No Room in the Inn

A consequences of growing old in America is having time to reexamine beliefs that may not hold up to the challenges of science or scholarship. Christian scholars, including the Pope who is a biblical scholar, have concluded there are problems with the Gospel accounts of the nativity. There was no stable and Jesus was probably born in a home belonging to a member of Joseph's family. The discrepancies can be attributed to poor translations and and the desire of early Christian leaders to emphasize the humble origins of the Christ child. While the recounting of the nativity may be fanciful, no one doubts the event took place. I loved the story and committed it to memory as a child and those words, "no room in the inn," come to mind whenever I pass one of the tent villages that spring up in this area.

Mid-Week Musings

Not to Worry - I've Got Your Six

...and I won't charge a cent for any information I share with you tonight. I'm not a life coach or a therapist, and I suspect my life experience is not much different than your own. What I do have in abundance is a lot of nerve, a fair amount of ego and access to a keyboard that allows me to record my meanderings in that mysterious "cloud" where they will survive me and remain for all eternity, or until we are swallowed by a black hole, whichever comes first. Now, I know my limitations and have no intentions of telling you how to live your life, but I had lunch today with friends and as we laughed I realized just how important they are to me and how much they've enriched my life.

Mid-Week Musings

September Song

No, not that September Song. I love it and understand why it became a classic, but as my own expiration date comes nearer, I've become more grounded and less lyrical. Mine is a more basic melody that's born of apples and cinnamon and a combined aroma that can bring grown men to their knees. Add to that the fragrance of bread baking in the oven, and you have my version of September Song. It's come early this year and I'm more than ready to open my fall kitchen.

Mid-Week Musings

Those Were the Days My Friend

It began with Miss Smith's shrill whistle. "I have enough cheerleaders, I want players." By the time she'd finished with us she'd have that and more. There were 250 freshmen in the gym that day. Collectively, we were the class of '58, and long before the women's movement woke the psyche of the nation, there were islands, ironically manmade, where women made decisions and ran the show. Mercy High School, under the auspices of the Sisters of Mercy, was one of them.

(Random) Mid-Week Musings

This Place Is A Zoo

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." I speak not of the gates of hell, but those of the Portland Zoo. To understand how we ended up in such a great place at such a bad time, a quick peek at the backstory that led us here is necessary. Several months ago, we put together an itinerary for our 7 year old grandson's visit. The zoo was not part of that plan, but a limited attention span and the arrival and departure times of flights to and from the East Coast caused it to become a factor in the time he would spend with us. The premium to fly directly into Eugene is steep this summer, so we decided to use Portland Airport as home base and pocket the savings for other trip related expenses. Flying into Portland is no problem, but departure is always a trick. On a good day, it takes 1-1/2 hours to get to the airport. The gods of travel have deemed it necessary to add additional time to that estimate because a sneeze can cause significant highway delays. Arrival delays can be easily handled, but departure is another thing. We have to be up at 4 AM. to reach the airport in time for an early morning departure. In order to avoid that hideous hour, I suggested we spend the day prior to departure in Portland and spend the night in an airport hotel. What better place to spend the day than at the zoo and the children's museum. Right? As it turns out, that would have been a great decision most days, but on the 2nd Tuesday of the month, entrance fees, which are normally high, are just $4 per person and the immediate world descends on Portland Zoo. I, who in another life, was paid for research and logistic skills most others lack, dropped the ball and got us to the zoo just in time to rub elbows with the immediate world. I swear, right hand on a bible you cannot see, of the 11,000 bodies  assembled that day, there was one adult and 10,999 children, some of whom were advanced in years but had not yet learned to surrender to the limitations of a very hot day. It was a zoo, my friends. Fortunately, the enthusiasm of that wonderful 7 year old saved the day. He's my favorite for always and ever. We just aren't going to tell the others, and we'll stay away from the zoo for a while.

Mid-Week Musings

Photo courtesy of the New York Daily News

Aging Women

Someone, somewhere floated the idea that aging women will do anything to remain young. It was probably a man working in the fashion or cosmetic trade and his message resounded with such clarity that it became an obsession for those wishing to remain forever young. Not all women, however, accepted the idea, and having read Faust or Dorian Gray, understood that aging was a natural process, and those who treat it as a disease will be disappointed, if not damned. These gals know all things have their season, and they wear their wrinkles and gray hair with pride, considering them to be the battle scars of a well-lived life. Unfortunately, we live in a society that plays on insecurities and magnifies imperfections, and for those not happy with themselves, it is easy to equate being old with being unacceptable. They are unable to see the strength, character and beauty in the faces and bodies of those molded by a lifetime of experience. I came across some thoughts about aging women today. They were written by Kumar Vishwas, an Indian poet and politician and I wanted to share them with you tonight.

Mid-Week Musings

Molly Wizenberg - Delancey

Long term readers of One Perfect Bite know I think highly of Molly Wizenberg. I became familiar with her work through her blog Orangette. When her fist book, A Homemade Life, was published, I snatched it up and I've been a fan ever since. Molly's second book, Delancey, was published last year and has recently been released as a paperback. Delancey, like A Homemade Life, is part memoir and part cookbook. It details the travails of opening a new restaurant with a new husband as partner. It is beautifully written and is a must read for all who love the kitchen. Several years ago, I featured one of Molly's recipes and I'm reprising that tonight. it will give you a feel for her skill in the kitchen, but you must actually read Molly to see why her blog received the Saveur Award for best written blog in 2015.

Mid-Week Musings

What's In A Name ?

What's in a name? Shakespeare and Stein shared their views. So has William Goldman, who gave us The Princess Bride. I'm sure you remember, ".... my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." Goldman bundled character, intent and clarity in that name, and while I've read and seen a lot in the intervening years, I've never forgotten the name Inigo Montoya. On a more serious note, the New Testament has given us the name Judas, synonymous with treachery and betrayal, and the Old Testament has given us the names Daniel and Samson, which we associate with bravery and strength. My own birth certificate has no given name. I was to have been Mavourneen, but on seeing me, my father decided I needed all the help I could get, and I remained "female" Boyle until my Baptism, when I was christened Mary. Maybe it helped - a little.

Mid-Week Musings

Wild Seeds and Nomads

...and so it happened that one with roots as deep as the wild fig, pulled free and soared up and on towards the seven seas. Others in the grove held tight, whispering farewell in fading light. As I was walking this morning, I came across patch of weeds that, against all odds, took root in a dry and barren soil. I once read that weeds were simply flowers growing where they were not wanted. Looking at the brilliant blue of the flower thrown by the chicory plants that dot our river walk, its absence from modern gardens is as hard to explain as its legend is easy to tell. In one such story, a beautiful maiden refused the advances of the sun and was turned into a chicory flower that had to stare at the sun each day and always faded in the presence of its might. Fortunately, the morning here was overcast, and I was able to capture the brilliance of the flower before it began to fade. I nipped one and carried it with me to the meeting that had me out at such an early hour of the day. I arrived a bit early and watched the group expand as members arrived. It made me smile, because like the chicory, no one in the group was native to this area. We have all pulled free and landed here to rest before continuing on to the sea.