I'm Glad to See You; or, It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood Redux

Dear reader, when I began this blog as a means of practicing my relationship with language, and how this relationship with language manifested itself in the written word, I had no idea that I would soon meet such truly wry, intelligent, good-hearted, laugh-out-loud, lovely people.

A happy surprise indeed!

(My good friends AFKAPW and Lots Of, I expected: they are extremely good-natured and curious people. )

And indeed, words fail me when I think of this. For as one who was isolated as in times past as I, now: now, I can meet and speak with you at any given moment; and I do so love to hear and know what you have to say. I feel as if I am a kid again, and they just opened up the proverbial candy store.

I'm pleased and honored to be given this by Swampwitch:

Dear Swampy, thank you. Frida would have painted you, that's for sure.

And dear reader, thanks for visiting. I'm glad to see you, whenever you stop by!

Come back soon. I can't wait to see you.

http://www.allposters.com/-sp/Welcome-Mat-on-Forest-Trail-Posters_i1119571_.htm

Is There Such a Thing as Too Happy?; or, The Things I Find Out When I Read More Than One Newspaper

http://www.abcgallery.com/K/kahlo/kahlo16.html

(Frida as she appeared the last time we were face-to-face)

She's coming. I am counting the days; I am excited beyond words!

http://www.philamuseum.org/exhibitions/278.html

Hugo Cabret, What Have You Done?; or Why Neroli Should Not Stay Up Late Watching Serious Movies

http://bccb.lis.uiuc.edu/0407sml.jpg

Insomnia nags because I endeavored to have some time with BG, who wanted to watch a Serious Movie (Spielberg's A.I.) that began Very Late. Though we did not finish all of it, it was enough to make me think thoughts not conducive to sleep.
So I turned to the aforementioned book, and finished reading it. It is completely marvelous! Wishing to keep these lighter, happier thoughts in my brain, I began to search the web for information about Georges Melies; and to make a long story short, I came to this:

http://www.cabaret.co.uk/start.htm

please don't miss the virtual exhibition at:

http://www.cabaret.co.uk/vrexs.htm

How fun is that?

It's A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood; or, The Votes are In

http://www.muttscomics.com


I present today a comic in honor of Wolfbaby's win over at Swampy's place, and in honor of you, dear reader: how pleased I am whenever you visit---you all are good company.

How Wonderfully You're Growing; or, What We Do For Love

http://www.peterrabbit.com/vote/images/popup_characters/squirrel_nutkin.gif

Little Guy has been most enamored of the Discovery Channel program, Man vs. Wild. Some things stand out for him (and consequently us) more than others, such as the time the host Bear Grylls ate a rather large spider after plucking it from its web in the recent Autralian Outback episode: LG, the image of this fixed in his mind, resolutely refused to eat the following day, ostensibly because of the "gross factor;" though he did allow that should I manage to obtain some bacon for him, he was fairly certain that he could eat that.
We now have a platform in 0ur apple tree thanks to the Everglades episode. It was from this platform that LG announced to me as I hung wash on the line that he had prepared a stick, and with this stick, he intended to hunt a squirrel or a rabbit by hurling the stick at the quarry's head, much as Mr. Grylls did to a rabbit in the Wile E. Coyote episode. (Sorry, no one remembers where that happened: only that it did happen.)

Before you ask me the obvious---yes, I am. But LG has to develop his own sense of ahimsa in order to completely own it; and I have to allow him the freedom to do so. It is a difficult kind of love, but it is mine as these children grow. You know how it is.

Back to the conversation as it unfolds:
Hopefully, a squirrel.
Hmm. Then what happens when you have hit the squirrel with the stick?
Then Dad and Big Guy and maybe I will eat it.
Okay. So you are just going to pick it up, and start eating?
No. BG or Dad will use a knife and cut its skin off, and then cook it and then eat it.
Oh. Okay.

I go into the house to break the news to Snowy and BG: LG is out on the platform. He has a stick, and he wants to hunt a squirrel with it, just like Bear Grylls.
Snowy and BG chuckle.
He expects one of you all to skin it and cook it.
Immediately BG says, If LG gets a squirrel, then I'm eating it.

Is It Only a Paper Moon?; or, Black and White Becomes You

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Trip_to_the_Moon
I'm in love.
With a book.
With these initial pages, I was abjectly delighted, and totally, completely-swooning in love.
You can find out more about the book here.

And the fact that the author cites the glorious Le Voyage dans la lune as something that informed some aspects of the book makes me incredibly happy. It is that strange, ethereal, stop-motion-so-fast-image of that space-ship, that moon, that is one of the first visuals I ever remember being aware of seeing. I do not know in what context I saw it, only that I remember it: and in some fashion, that wavering, silvery surreal image has been informing my sensibilites ever since.

And while toodling on the site about the book linked above, I found that the author was also an enthusiast of Edison...well, I will let you discover your own happy thoughts should you go there, dear reader.
I will leave you with another link, and this one is especially for my paper-folding pals.
And how 'bout if we made this one for Swampy?
This one I've chosen for myself preparing to do the Ego-Eradicator posture in a certain kundalini kriya...or wait, how about this one: I'm just pretending that the caveman is a giant gulab jamun.
It's a beautiful, brilliant moon out tonight: same as it ever was.
I'll take my beauty when I find it, be it past or present.
I wish the same for you.

And if you can't see the moon from where you are, please click here.
(Just like a riff on a koan---we've avoided the middle-man!)
(or finger, pointing)

Why Is This Girl Smiling?; or, Something's in the Mailbox

http://www.flickr.com/photos/stereoblog/484684974/in/set-72157600178676617/
(Thanks, Bibi, for the reference!)

Dear reader, a package did arrive in my mailbox today, via what magical means, I am uncertain. (See the Tin Man? He's puzzling out the logistics of it all. That's why he's the brains of the outfit.)

Dear Generous Person, many thanks: you have gone above and beyond, and then some! I do sincerely thank you.

PS--How did you know Little Guy has been trying to juggle the little green apples from our backyard tree?

Southern-Fried Chaat; or What Do You Get When You Cross a Watermelon with a Papad?

It seems here of late that certain themes present themselves, and stay awhile, and then leave as quietly as they came; much as when one swirls and stirs the water in the pot, and that which is cooking within swirls up to the surface, and swirls, just so, back below.
First, it was the puppets. Then, it was Frida, inexorably linked in this month of birthdays with watermelon: watermelon, which evokes, by its very nature, for it is so sweetly-large and juicy- sweet, images of sharing. And come to think of it, that sharing in and of itself has been another theme that has laced these days here: recent times at table with loved ones; more distant past times with friends.

This particular post brings to mind two specific memories of sharing a table with two friends. The first? When I first met AFKAPW in person. We attended the same retreat, and one night the entire group went to an Indian restaurant. I had no experience with this cuisine, and faced with the prospect of splitting and sharing dishes that I wasn't certain that I would like, she graciously guided me through the menu, explaining and teaching as only she can do. We had a tremendously great meal because of her savvy and good company. Not only is she directly responsible for my serious obsession with gulab jamun (and Indian sweets in general), but by her introduction, she gave me a culinary "home base," so to speak, when my dietary requirements turned to vegetarianism. (Artist, should you ever show up on my doorstep, I would cook you a feast!)
The second was going out to dinner with a friend and colleague who had never before had Indian food. We ate a lot of good things that night, and had a great time talking, talking, talking, but the food we loved the best at the table that night was the papri chaat, one of the inspirations for the particular recipe that follows.
I look to so many Desi food bloggers to help me learn more about their cuisine. I am most grateful their generousity in allowing strangers into their kitchens and to their tables, so to speak, and so wonderfully say to a stranger like me, "This is the picture; this is how you do it; this is how you enjoy it."

It's a beautiful thing.

So when I saw the announcement for the A-Fruit-A-Month for July over at Jugalbandi, I was excited: watermelon! And then I was a little deflated, for I felt that as a newcomer to the blog world, and one who is not even a food blogger, I felt that maybe I wouldn't have much to offer to these people I admire so much. But then I remembered my grandmother, my Almeda-of-the pie-crust, who never went anywhere without a pie, a trifle, a cake or a dozen-or-so cookies in hand, to give to the one who was at the place where she was going, to say, thank you, I'm glad to be here. (Side note, dear reader: I've wanted to post my grandmother's recipe for pie dough, with her words and organization. It took me this time to find the paper, hiding beneath Yamuna Devi's beautiful Art of Indian Vegetarian Cooking, on my kitchen shelf. If you've followed the link in her name, you'll find the amended post, in which her kitchen influence first appeared here in this blog.) It is in that spirit that I offer to you a recipe that is an Indian/American hybrid: one that results from living so long in the American South, where watermelon, bacon, peanuts, cola, and black-eyed peas are often considered essential food groups in their own right, and from learning to cook from a unique culinary home by the light of the computer screen, the warmth of graciousness---past and present, and the feeling of childhood, with Almeda looking over my shoulder. An uncommon, strange hearth, so to speak: but it is my own.

I'm glad to be here.

Southern-Fried Chaat

Dear reader, please accept my apologies as to the format of the recipe: Blogger and I seem to have varying opinions as to how it should be spaced. I opted for vertical lists of ingredients at each stage, Blogger keeps giving me horizontal ones. So I've inserted semi-colons between each ingredient in the lists, hoping for at least some measure clarity. Many thanks in advance for your kind indulgence.

1 cup black-eyed peas, dried ; 1 black cardamon ; 1 red pepper pod ; 1/2 teaspoon turmeric

Sort and wash the black-eyed peas. You may use canned if you wish, but the sorting and washing of the dry peas is very pleasingly tactile and relaxing, so if you have the time, I would encourage it; otherwise, 1 cup of canned peas, rinsed and drained, will happily do instead. Soak the peas overnight. Drain the soaking water, and add the peas to the cookpot. To this, add the cardamom, pepper pod, and turmeric, and about 2 1/2-3 cups of water; it will depend on the freshness of the peas. Bring to a boil; then turn to a simmer, and simmer until peas are tender, but not soft. If there is liquid remaining in the pot, please drain from the peas, and discard the pepper pod and the cardamom. As the people in the region in the South where I lived enjoyed themselves some sassafrass tea, I've evoked that fresh, herbaceous resinous quality with the black cardamom. If you're fortunate enought to have access to fresh sassafrass root to make the tea, I would strongly recommend the cooking of the peas in that tea, rather than the water. Just do remember that in that instance, you will not require the black cardamom; I would use one pod of the green in its staid. To the hot peas, add:

the juice of 1/2 lemon; 1/2 teaspoon of black (or kosher) salt; 1/4-1/2 teaspoon chili powder (or to taste); a drizzle of molasses, about 1/2 teaspoon (maple syrup or jaggery will also be happy here)

Divide the quantity of peas into two equal halves; there will be approximately a generous 2 cups in total. Immediately put one of these halves aside for later use in other dishes. (I always try to work ahead when taking the extra time in working with dry beans. If you do not need or wish to do so, then please divide the above quantities in two.) If you would like the contrast between hot and cool temperatures, please proceed with the making of the rest of the recipe; if not, please chill the peas, and then proceed.

To the generous 1 cup of peas, add: 1/4 cup finely diced (to black-eyed pea size) white onion; 1/4 cup packed, torn mint 1 cup finely diced (to black-eyed pea size) watermelon; 1 green chile, halved and thinly sliced into slivers; 3 anise hyssop flower bracts, the individual tiny flowers removed (discard the stem portion) or leaves from one sprig of tarragon, finely sliced + a drop or two of honey

Blend together gently with your favorite wooden utensil. The chaat is almost complete. For the accompaniment, blend together with a whisk:

1/4 cup thick yogurt; 1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon cola; 1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar; 1/4 teaspoon chili powder; 2 tablespoons smooth-style natural peanut butter

To serve, top the chaat mixture with: 1/4 cup smoked almonds (Playing the role of bacon in this performance). Pour the yogurt mixture to taste over the chaat and scoop up with crisp shards of green chile papad.

Due to no working digital camera, a paper illustration of my dish. I'm rather pleased that the scan of the original paper rendering resembles a children's book illustration!


Bee and Jai, please accept this almost-too-late entry to:

Reading for a Busy Monday

http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/today/today.html

As An Alligator

Weekend recommendation:

Go to
http://www.deannamolinaro.com/Stuff_That_I_Made/Books/BookTitles.html

to fill in the blanks.

http://www.deannamolinaro.com/Stuff_That_I_Made/GalleryBigPics/Unca.html

Sometimes Pie Just Isn't Pie; or, I'll Meet You at King's Anytime, Anywhere

I would like to revisit yesterday's post wherein an apple pie featured most prominently.
In college, I had some difficulties, as we all sometimes do. The nature of the difficulty that causes me to revisit yesterday's post? One that many of us have dealt with: an eating disorder.

So it is the apple pie brings a specific image to mind, the image of one of the best acts of kindness I've ever experienced. During this time of eating disorder, my roommate would take me to a chain restaurant, the kind that one can find all over the US, the family-style, home-style joints. Once a week, she would take me to this establishment and order one of their signature desserts, hot apple pie topped with cinnamon ice cream; and when it came, she would nonchalantly put the plate in the middle of the table, the two forks akimbo on the china plate, and pretend that that pie, that ice cream, didn't, to put it simply, scare me to death. Then we would eat and pretend, and kept at it, until we could simply eat, and enjoy.
I think often about her kindness and generousity of spirit evidenced in that simple weekly act of hers.

In doing so, she taught me how to be with Batman (code name) when he had to eat a bite of ham sandwich from his lunchbox before he could eat his favored food. (His family had consulted a nutritionist because his sensory affinities gave him one-dimensional nutrition, and he was on a schedule to sample new foods; to do this was most frightening to him.)
Whenever I am on the road, and see that franchise, I must stop.
Here, I say to my family, my joy, have some.
And we are all the more happy for it.
Never assume, dear reader, that an act of yours can be too little or too late.
Right, Nae?

The Treachery of Images Redux; or, Let Me Call You Sweetheart

http://www.abcgallery.com/M/magritte/magritte26.html


Yesterday I made an apple pie, a great, gigantic pie. This pie was (and as the writer David Barry would word it), and I Am Not Making This Up, 6 inches high before I placed it into the oven. Just as the sandwich from that famous franchise with a name declaring the weight of its meat also comes with an asterisk to alert one that the frying of the patty will diminish the magnitude of its meat---- the pie did collapse somewhat during the baking, as the apples continued to soften, for I had only partially cooked the filling. All in all, still a pretty and a substantial pie, tagged with that Radiant-Baby-style heart for a steam vent.

As I stretched the top crust of the pie over the mound of apples (smelling of cardamom, smelling of clove and lemon and maple), Little Guy entered the kitchen. I've got this great, beaming grin on my face. I'm happy as I do so love when a pie crust works well: so well that it can stretch over a 6-inch tall mound of apples, and still keep hold to the bottom crust, and hold that seal all along the rim of the tin. I'm happy because this pastry is the other half of the batch I made from Almeda's recipe. I'm just happy because, well, it's apple pie, and I'm going to get some vanilla bean ice cream so that we can all scoop some to eat on top of it, warmed from the oven.

LG looks at the pie-almost-finished; he looks to me. My grin gets wider. I'm happy that he's caught me in the act. Won't he be so happy? What does he say?

I can't believe Devin Hester won over Ryan Howard for Breakthrough Athlete!

Sometimes a pie just is, well, a pie.

And even so, dear reader, I took the silver sliver of a paring knife, and tagged the pie, with that Radiant-Baby-style heart, right into the center of the crust, and slid it into the heat of the oven, so that we might dig into it, cracking the crust, and scoop up its tart-sweetness, and gild the lily, by adding more sweetness on top, and spoon up tart-cold-hot-sweetness all in one bite: I slid the pie into the oven to soften its heart.

All That and a Bag of Chips; or, Gotta Love Someone Who Loves Tarzan Matinees

http://www.filmposters.com/templates/LargeImage.asp?ProdID=9315


As I was just writing in reply to Swampwitch, Frida brought so much to the table that we will really never go hungry.

The fact that she absolutely loved Tarzan films and laughed all the way through them only further endears her to me, so as I still have an entire watermelon in the fridge, we will continue celebrating Frida's Centennial today. She deserves it, yes?



As part of the festivities, do follow the link, leading you to one of my favorite books. I have a Favorite Book Shelf, and I knew this one was going to be placed there before I even picked it up.

When you go there, you might understand why:






http://teacher.scholastic.com/authorsandbooks/events/frida/
Have a wonderful time.
And so it continues: Viva la vida, my friends.

Fibonacci MI-style; or, Late Night Web Surfing

http://pbskids.org/cgi-registry/shareables/retrieve.pl?94a4b04e8f6d7ad9

Please know in advance: if you play too, I would love to see it!
(I'm bookmarking this one. I see this one may come in handy when I am procrastinating--
um--in need of a creative boost!)

Min, Would You Care for a Slice?, and Then Pass It On; or, July is Birthday Month

http://www.elbertprice.com/FridaKahlo/01-PortraitofFridaKahlo.htm

Not only have I been remiss in sharing my lovely surprises with you in a timely manner, I have truly been remiss in celebrating Frida's birthday with you. Had she lived this far, she would have been 100 on July 6th.

So Happy Birthday, dear Frida.

Viva la vida indeed, dear reader.

Thank you for stopping by. Please toss the rinds on the compost heap on your way out; the chipmunks absolutely adore them. As do the butterflies and the bees!

http://www.abcgallery.com/K/kahlo/kahlo72.jpg

My Apologies; or, Procrastination Gives Me Tunnel Vision

I would be most remiss if I did not share with you, my friends, two wonderful things that happened yesterday.
The first:

I was driving to class. My spouse, code name Snowy, called me on my cell phone. (I'll make his dialogue his favorite color.)
Where are you at? he asked.
At the intersection of_____, why?
Oh, I was just out to get some samples, and I thought I might see you go by.
Oh, okay.
Well, okay, see you tonight, bye.
Bye.

Dear reader, I must drive past Snowy's workplace on the way to class. His office building is on the corner of a well-travelled intersection. Snowy works for a world-famous company that generates much tourist traffic, and most of these tourists drive by and/or are stopped at this same intersection.
Imagine my initial surprise when, as I approached the traffic light at this intersection, Snowy jumped out from behind a rather large planter (you know how those urban beautification projects can acquire some rather gargantuan planters for their horticultural crowing), and pulled up one trouser leg to the knee to display his own leg in a shameless wanton display, grinning like a lunatic, grinning like love, and looking directly at me.
Dear reader, I am unsure how I managed to stay on the road, for I was so simply surprised: surprised to see him, and then surprised as to how tourist season and a corporate office don't figure into the hows and whens of things. I was delighted by his gesture.
Snowy saw a chance to express his affection, and he took it.
It's a wonderful thing, surprise.

The second:

Big Guy came in the room and slumped down on the couch as I was finishing a PBS show---Simon Schama's Power of Art. Each episode in the series centers in one one work, putting it into its social and iconographic context. I really appreciate the host's work; but that is beside the point of the story. Last night featured David's Marat. As the previews for next week came on, the show to feature Turner's The Slave Ship, the host commented that some contemporaries of Turner, when viewing the painting, compared it to a "kitchen mess."
Well, BG said, they need to remember that art is a subjective thing.
(Why yes, his favorite color is blue!)
Happy surprise number two: BG, who may very well be in the running for "Most Likely to Date Princess Leia," or so he would have it seem, is in all actuality, a person who listens, thinks, and then articulates his thoughts so succinctly.

Oh happy day!
I wish such surprises for you, dear reader. May you be as delighted as I have been.

Let X=X; or, Preparing for Yet Another Presentation

Our professor informed us last night that we will be responsible for presenting the rest of the chapters from one of our texts. Tomorrow night I must present my chapter.

It has not been the most productive of days: two separate dental appointments (one for me, one for Big Guy) and shuttling BG back and forth to work.

There was of course also some viewing of Bollywood clips.

We speak so much in our classes of what effective learning looks like and what effective learning sounds like.

Can you make a guess as to which model I more resemble today from the choices above?

Good answer!

:-)

Portrait of Emilie Floge by Gustave Klimt and Melancolia by Albrecht Durer make a special appearance here today courtesy of http://www.art.com

Little Guy's birthday was absolutely great. He requested pizza for his birthday meal, and as the pizza joint he loves the most is a few blocks from my parents' house, his entire birthday party became takeout.

My parents furnished a great, green seedless watermelon, one of LG's favorites. Sweet and rosy, just like the Guest of Honor Himself. Sitting at the picnic table, he took it all in and said, I feel like I'm in heaven!, his entire face a grin, one of those smiles that lights up the place.

After we left the party, we continued the celebration by stopping at the store so that he might choose a new fishing rod (bright, candy-apple red). He and Big Guy went fishing together as we sat lakeside and took in the beautiful day.

LG continued his birthday festivities by challenging me to a game of lawn tennis upon our return home. We were just heading into the house after the game for the ritual slice of watermelon when the neighborhood boys came to see if LG wanted to play.

Yes, LG said. It's my birthday today, he said. Well, happy birthday, replied one friend. Let's go over to my house.

LG's birthday ended with my calling to him across the lawns and rising fireflies at dusk.

Our Little Guy is growing up.

Our Big Guy is growing up.

Both are healthy, and happy more often than not. If ever there was a time to stop and smell the roses, this is it. And for this, I am most thankful.

Don't forget to stop for your own roses, dear reader, whatever or whoever they may be.

comic strips courtesy of http://www.mutts.com/

Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose; or Thank You for Stopping to Smell the Roses

http://www.tate.org.uk/britain/exhibitions/artofthegarden/guide_coloured.htm

I am unsure what the weekend will be like---Little Guy's birthday is on Sunday, so I will most likely be busy getting ready for the happy day.
Handfuls of lilies, roses, carnations, and many good thoughts to you, dear reader.
See you again soon.

Like Nacha for Tita; or, Just Do It (Getting Over Yourself)

Those happy days when Nacha was with her seemed so distant now. Nacha! The smells: her noodle soup, her chilaquiles, her champurrado, her molcajete sauce, her bread with cream, all were far away in a distant past. They could never be surpassed, her seasoning, her atole drinks, her teas, her laugh, her herbal remedies, the way she braided her hair and tucked Tita in at night, took care of her when she was sick, and cooked what she craved and whipped the chocolate! If she could bring back a single moment from that time, a little of the happiness from those days, she could prepare the King's Day bread with the same enthusiasm she had felt then!---Laura Esquivel, Like Water for Chocolate




One of the reasons for my procrastination of yesterday's homework was my feeling of intimidation. Or, to put it into behavioral terms: I engaged in procrastinating behavior (form) to avoid my feelings of inadequacy and intimidation (function).
This is a pattern that sometimes emerges for me. It's an old monkey that, though banished, will sometimes attempt to drop out of a a tree, and land squarely on my back. Every now and again, he'll try to keep a hold, but usually slides off and hits the dirt in short order; and by that time, my coordinates have already changed. As monkeys-on-the-back are, he's a lazy sort; so he'll take his time getting back up into the tree. The other side to that particular coin is that one never knows when he'll drop out of the trees again. So being ready for it is essential.

To deal with this particular monkey-on-the-back, I need to employ tactics which will decrease my thoughts of inadequacy and intimidation, and therefore my behavior to avoid the task and the situation triggering these behaviors.
The best tool in the toolkit for me when this occurs is a tandem one: the one-two punch of dedicating the merit of others (the "rejoicing" limb of 7-limb practice) and mudita. Quite simply, I contemplate upon the good qualities in the people that seem to trigger my intimidation. I think about how these qualities are not cause for anxiety, but rather, for real joy and excitement. And just as Gardner's MI theory or Shantideva's Engaging in Boddhisattva Behavior or the New Testament would tell us, that good stuff that we recognize and rejoice in others is also ours. We all have the good stuff: how we manifest it to ourselves and to the world is what matters.

I use this tandem tool for all manner of situations. For example, on one of the most hot and humid days of the summer thus far, Little Guy and I picked cherries. Upon returning home, LG asked for a cherry pie. I must tell you that the making of the pastry for pie has always been an undertaking with uncertain results in my hands. Though I have been enjoying more consistent results since using my long-gone grandmother's recipe, hand-written, well-worn, the results are never completely assured. As it should be, I suppose, in life and pastry; and there's some joy to that.
With my love for LG as primary agent, I began to think about my grandmother, my Almeda, and how well she loved us: how she taught us to bake, to do needlework; how she let us fill her bathtub to the brim and soak until we were wrinkled as raisins; how from her hands we received cakes, and pies, those plump cookies pressed together like hands in namaste: how, Almeda, can I make pie dough on such an infernal day?

With clarity, I unfolded her tattered recipe. I placed a metal tray into the freezer to roll the dough out when it was complete; I filled an enamel roaster with ice and placed the mixing bowl into it. Without thinking, I measured out proportions of white cake flour, whole wheat flour, and chappatti flour into the freezing bowl, as we were out of our usual pastry flour.
As I pressed the tines of my pastry fork against the sides of the frosty mixing bowl, smashing the butter into the flour, the gentle insistence, that scritch-scritch-swish sound of the fork, bowl, and mealy-butter-flour-meal that was to become dough was as sweet as if I had heard Almeda speaking to me. The pastry began to come together, just so.
Chill for fifteen minutes, Almeda wrote in her recipe.
After rolling out the pastry and assembling the pie, I took a little paring knife to cut vents into the top crust. I cut a heart-shape in the middle, with lines radiating out from it in all directions, Radiant Baby-style, and put the pie into the oven.
It was so very beautiful and good when it came out, and we devoured every juicy bite.

After my procrastinating behavior yesterday, I finally returned home and seriously turned my mind to work. I thought about the wonderful qualities of the people I've just met. I thought about how LG and BG were so happy that afternoon. I thought about the wonderful qualities of my grandmother, my Almeda, and how they made themselves present for me in the here-and-now in the making of LG's cherry pie. And how we did benefit from the sweetness!
I gathered all these things together, whipped the chocolate in my Chocolate Mainline, and did my homework. And that, dear reader, is How I Got Over Myself.
Thank you so much, dear reader, for your kindness.


Have a wonderful day.

------------------------
Almeda's Pie Crust

Sift together:
3 cups flour
1 tablespoon of sugar
3/4 teaspoon of salt
1/2 teaspoon of baking powder
Cut in:
1 1/4 cup shortening
Combine:
1 beaten egg
5 tablespoons water
1 tablespoon vinegar
Sprinkle:
4 tablespoons of mixture
Mix with fork
add 4 more
continue till
pastry holds
chill 15 minutes

Is Gumbo a Matador? Where Did Brick Get a Trident?; or, Procrastinating with Neroli

Last night I attended the first class of the second summer session of my school. Our instructor discussed her policy with us. We are dismissed earlier than the scheduled time, with one proviso: we are then to follow through to make up the time online by reading and digesting the online resource she provides, write a reflection on the resource, and then post it to a community board. The class is then able to read each other's reflection. Each student must also respond to one other posted reflection, thereby instituting virtual collaborative groups.

Dear reader, I awoke this morning with the Very Best of Intentions. I first replied to your comments. I wanted to write a post, one that addressed my need to cultivate mudita in my approach to this class. (Often when I meet people that I admire, dear reader, for their talents, I feel as if my learning curve will be most steep in order to keep up; in short: I can become intimidated if I am not careful. This is something I would not wish for you, dear reader, so it makes sense that I should work to avoid it for myself.)
I began to read more commentary on mudita. Time passed, as it always does. I resolved to visit the online resource for my class, and so I did. I began to type notes as I read.
Then Little Guy awoke. It was a beautiful morning, so we had breakfast together, and went outside. LG wanted to practice riding his bike without training wheels, and he needed some moral support; a male and female cardinal pair were chatting and flitting back and forth, and in the name of scientific inquiry, LG and I felt it best to take tea on the back porch and observe this charming pair so as to determine possible nesting locations, and therefore, best avoid disturbing the Happy Couple; soon it was time for lunch, and for the prepping of dinner.
One thing led to another, as they say, dear reader, and to make a long story short, we were driving on our way to see the World's Largest Hershey Kiss, Big Guy in tow, as his work shift was complete.
Is it real? LG asked as we approached the Venerated Object, the World's Largest Hershey Kiss.
Dear reader, he was answered by the wall of chocolate aroma we walked into immediately after he uttered the question, several yards away from the Kiss Itself.
Can I tell you in words how wonderful it was to be in the presence of such an object?
To celebrate, I had to buy the boys their chocolate confections of choice at the Artisan Chocolate stand: beautiful miniature chocolate pastries, served on a golden disk, eaten at a table beside the Kiss Itself.
Feeling happy and Good About the World, the boys began a favored activity: riffing on things that make them laugh. Thus, not only was I treated to a bite from each serving of pastry (fudge-filled shorbread, chocolate ganache-coated marble cake), I was a happily captive audience to my boys re-enacting a Mystery Science Theatre clip
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0n0EsHB0JY
and the gang fight scene from Ron Burgundy
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Anchormenweapons.JPG

My homework?
I managed to finally complete and submit it before the writing of this post.

What helped me was chocolate: the World's Largest Kiss-induced happiness, courtesy of LG and BG, and my Chocolate Mainline Happiness, the recipe which follows.

Neroli's Chocolate Mainline Happiness

Bring to a near boil:
1.5 cups water

Add:
1 heaping teaspoon jasmine tea (Earl Grey would also do quite nicely).
2 plump green cardamom pods, crushed.
Steep for 3 minutes. Strain into a deep-walled saucepan, and place the saucepan on a warming burner on the stove.

Chop:
1-1 ounce square of 99% chocolate. I've used Scharffen Berger; it blends ever so nicely.

Add chopped chocolate to the strained hot tea in the deep-walled saucepan.
Whisk vigourously: not only to blend the chocolate, but to whip and froth the chocolate.

Pour into your favored drinking vessel.
Inhale the scent and drink happily, dear reader.

Ten Pounds of Cherries on a Hot Summer Day; or, What the Great Pumpkin and Easter Bunny Left Us

I realize that it is indeed a luxury for me to choose to abstain from eating meat: to be able to say, yes, I want this to some things; no, I don't want that to others.
I am reminded of such things when the boys and I go to pick fruit from local orchards, as Little Guy and I did yesterday. The party of two is new for us, for although Big Guy is an excellent fruit picker, he was at work in his new job at a local restaurant. (More on that happy news in a later post.)
LG is enamored of cherries. I had promised cherry-picking, and had scanned the papers religiously for the orchard that we frequent in the summers to advertise the opening of cherry season, and I had seen none. Yesterday I called the orchard; they told me that their cherries were gone. I had promised cherry-picking, and after some telephoning about, and finding either sellouts or slim pickings, I found an orchard in the next county that had cherries.
LG and I each took a small bucket and set off. I was telling myself that though every other orchard had been well-picked, at least here, at this place, at least we would be able to find enough for one cherry cobbler. Just one, and one is enough; one is just so.
We arrived at the orchard after a half-hour drive. We went into the stand to receive directions to the trees and to have our buckets --- an Easter bucket and a grinning jack-o-lantern from trick-or-treat--- weighed. We drove to the part of the orchard where the cherries were to be found. And then here--- here comes the good stuff, dear reader.
Tree after tree after tree, these beautiful graceful trees, tended just so: not so high, so that one needed no ladder; with branches arching up and out and down from the trunk, so that one could stand beneath the umbrella of the tree, in the shade, and reach out, without stretching, and find fruit; and such fruit. Bright red, cherry-red cherries, shining, glowing, warm-in-the-sun. Everywhere in abundance: literally, just every place one could reach and touch and take. So much abundance, and so one could "cherry-pick:" yes, I'll take this one; no, I'll leave that one.
And so we did.
There's just something to that, dear reader, that is so powerful and so good. To be guests of such abundance, to know that now, here and now, in the beating of the heat and the drone of insects and the shelter of swirls of leaves, that we can simply reach and take and choose: we can simply say yes, I'll take it, it is good.
There's something to that to know in saying yes that now is the time for doing so. It makes the goodness we receive even more sweet when we know that, say, this orchard that is bursting with heat and fruit and life will be dormant and white and cold and silent in Nature's short order. It endears us to the saying of yes, of yes to abundance, when we know we will return again to this place, when the time for giving and taking comes again, in the heat and the green and the humming of insects.
That's the good stuff, dear reader. Reach out for it whenever you see it. Say yes.
Be abundant.
Just so.

Out and About with Neroli; or, Why Johnny Can't Read

On Sunday mornings I have the habit of walking to the store for the Sunday papers, and perhaps some bagels if we are all feeling as if we could use a little smackerel to go with our morning tea.
I picked up four papers: two local, two urban. (No bagels today, thank you.) When scanning the second of the papers at the self-checkout, the lady who manned the self-checkout station said, That one doesn't scan. Just do whatever with it and I'll enter it.
Thank you, I say, all the while thinking amusing thoughts of all that she thinks I might wish to do with the paper while she enters the price into my particular checkout system.
(Look, I might say, I've made a paper hat. A palm tree that expands when you pull on the top of the rolled-paper tube----oops, I need a scissors for that, to cut the fringes for the fronds. Sorry.)
The third paper, dear reader, apparently also does not scan.
How many papers are you buying? my self-checkout friend asks.
When I reply that I am buying four papers, she snorts, dear reader. I like to read differening versions of the same things. That's how I learn. That's how I form ideas and opinions, I say. I'm smiling when I say this because I think that it's a good thing.
You ought to watch Nancy Grace, she says, punching in the price of the third paper.
The fourth paper scanned of its own accord.

Artist FKAPW, This is for You; or, Things That Make Me See a Glass as Half-Full

My friend mentioned in her posting today that she's accentuating the positive, and so inspired this post.

In no particular order, I present eight of many, many things that make me see the proverbial glass as half-full, rather than half-empty.

Friends and family are a given; therefore, they are exempt from the list.

So here goes, my friend!

My faith practice.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wo0U83cvaI4

Costumed characters, be they animals

http://www.pigs4ever.com/PotBellyPigPictures/reno.pignic/costume1.htm

http://www.ownedbypugs.com/index.php/pugblog/more/the_3_little_pigs/

or people

http://milwaukee.brewers.mlb.com/mil/fan_forum/racing_sausages.jsp

(Did you see you can actually book these guys for an event? How fun is that?)

Sen and No Face take tea with Zeniba and we discover No Face is a Really Good Helper---good enough to stay for keeps http://www.nausicaa.net/miyazaki/soundtracks/sen/sen_memorial_postcard.jpg

Dominique Bretodeau gets back his childhood secret box and to feed his grandson with his most special favorite, the "oysters" from a roast chicken. http://www.offoffoff.com/film/2001/amelie.php3

Parathas stuffed with pea filling hot off the iron skillet, eaten with rhubarb chutney.

Special edition Mr. Potato Heads. http://www.hasbrotoyshop.com/ProductsByBrand.htm?DCMP=ILC-TFTL627&adtype=ad140-playskool&BR=496&SBR=506&ID=19670

Hot tea.

The scent of roses.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d1/Rosa_damascena5.jpg

Ebbets Field is Dead; or, That's the Krump

In yesterday's post, I spoke with you about a simple joy that is available to all of us: laughter. That the laughter was considered to be part of bodywork by the kundalini kriya that I referenced was quite a pleasing idea for me, one that I find most welcome.

It is my wish for you, dear reader, to laugh, and laugh really well, mind you, at least once a day. (Did you follow the embedded Darth Vader link from that post? It's a secret vice, looking at those images. But most definitely good for a laugh.)

Dear reader, since I made a resolution here to you and to myself to practice the craft of writing, I feel compelled to write further on the subject of violence that I began earlier; for it is specifically because of the violence that I have received in the past that I have difficulty with words in the present.

The life that was mine in the past of violence was one wherein one of the most oft-cited reasons for the beginning of violence was the extinction of Ebbets Field.

How can one not develop a sense of humor, an appreciation of the finer points of What Is Funny, when such a thing as the loss of that field is the gravity that holds you to that place, that one place, without seeming recourse?

And in that place I was kept in solitary confinement, a party of one; with a maitre d', of course: one who was very taken with all manner of ideas, and the loss of elegaic beauty that was Ebbets Field one of the most consuming of many that consumed. Needless to say, dear reader, I did not have great opportunity to engage with other people; to have conversation about stimulating things, much less the mundane things.

Use it or lose it as the saying goes. So I lost it.

I managed to escape once. I made small talk with the driver of the taxi. I cannot begin to describe to you to this very day, dear reader, the thrill, the joy, the absolute wonder in being able to speak to someone about the weather. The weather.

But as in most of these situations, these engagements between opposing forces (cat and mouse), I made a strategic error, and had to return, in order to win the war; in this case, the safety and custody of my son. Needless to say my return necessitated further isolation, and more strenous treatment to permanently affix my position.

One of the fundamental teachings of Buddhism is that suffering, dukkha, is caused by our attachment to things. We don't always get what we want when we want it, and perhaps we never do get it. It causes us to suffer, and our suffering plays out in inordinate ways: we might seek comfort from our suffering by using alcohol, by becoming a workaholic, by taking what we want by force. Perhaps we might take out our suffering on others without meaning to do so.

Yet again, we might mean exactly that.

And in the receiving end of that situation, words have no currency for your survival. You would be surprised how quickly verbal intelligences fade when they have no validity.

Visualization (backyard tree, running free) and laughter (say what?!?) are, again, a most welcome pair, in most every situation one may imagine.

And so, dear reader, from upstream I can practice non-attachment.

I am no longer attached to Ebbets Field with the same old ropes, with the black, the blue, and the stench of confinement. No, I believe that my dukkha was my silence; my particular brand of samsara was to deny that the range of voice available to each and every one of us as humans was also available for me.

By virtue of my experience, of being cut off from what is considered the average day-to-day, I am practicing non-attachment. In the classroom, I do my best to always see a child as a child, and not as a diagnosis. I am more reminded to meet these students where they are at, and to do so every day: the range of voice available to each and every one of us is no less available to them, and happily so!

I am reminded of the value of other intelligences outside of the linguistic realm, and it is in these places that I can most often look to meet these special students.

Where we go from there is up to them.

Non-attachment seems difficult to practice.

I believe that it is most often a case of seeming more difficult than it truly is. And if it becomes difficult, well, then, I am reminded of a skit from the television show, MadTV. The sketch features a male and female pair of dancers, who perform in a style that is known as krumping. In each of the skits, someone is always put at a disadvantage, to which the rejoinder is: "that's the krump."

So, dear reader, Ebbets Field is gone. People dress up their dog as el luchador. Darfur burns. Kids with autism are kids, first and foremost.

You and I, dear reader, are free.

We can talk about the weather, or not.

We can laugh all day long at whatever we please.

And that's the krump.

Aaaaaaaaaay; or, Kundalini Rising

I have been keeping a yoga practice for some years now. A past injury healed in such a way that my body behaves differently than when I first engaged in practice.
In previous times, the Iyengar and Ashtanga styles were my guide. Now I am drawn to Kundalini.
I appreciate the movement and the rest. The chanting and the silence.
Balance indeed.

And how can you not embrace a set that includes the following instruction?

Lie on your back and laugh at the universe. When laughing, do it as if you are seeing something wonderful happening and you are enjoying it! Laughing is one exercise to raise your consciousness and it is also a comfort to the heart.

Dear reader, I laugh all the more when I come to this part of the kriya, for this is the step that precedes it:

Sit on your heels (Rock Pose). Stretch arms up to 60 degrees, pull shoulders back, fold first knuckle of fingers toward tops of palms, point thumbs straight up, focus at the third eye point. Do vigorous breath of fire, 6 mins. This is called "Ego Eradicator" because you must surrender to your higher strength in order to complete it. To end, imagine a rainbow forming between your thumbs, then inhale deep, gracefully bringing the thumbs together over your head, exhale and stretch, inhale, exhale and let the arms come down, clasped in Venus Lock in your lap.

Dear reader, it is "Ego Eradicator" indeed, in no small part because I can only imagine how I must appear---squatting, signalling with my hands as if I am the Fonz, and breathing as if I am Darth Vader, and trying not to cross my eyes or fall over.

Are you laughing too?
You have to be!

You can find this, the Kriya for the Heart Center, at the following link:
http://www.shaktakaur.com/Kriyas/Chakra%204%20-%20Heart%20Center%20Kriya.htm

Laughter and imagery. This happy couple has been serving people well for a very long time, and will for some time to come.
Thank for laughing with me.
And if you tried the "Ego Eradicator" before you finished reading the post, let me know. We'll have another laugh together all over again.

Independence Day; or, How MI Theory Helped Save My Life

Visual/spatial intelligence
• Capacities to perceive the visual-spatial world accurately and to perform transformations on one’s initial perceptions.
• End states: navigator, sculptor----Gardner, H., & Hatch, T. (1989). Multiple intelligences go to school: Educational implications of the theory of multiple intelligences. Educational Researcher, 18(8), 4-10.

A system that's neat and orderly and hast to keep struggling to fight off randomness, and when randomness inevitably leaks in, the system is thrown off. Being open to a certain level of randomness, on the other hand, allows it to work in your favor.----Abrahamson, E., & Freedman, D. (2006) A Perfect Mess. New York: Little, Brown, and Company

Dear reader, please know that I do so appreciate your visits here. Such seemingly small acts of kindness are most important, and I just wanted to begin here today by thanking you. You do have the power to impact for such good in the world, and limitless opportunities in which to do it.

I've provided a link to an article speaking about the suicide of a young man, David Ritchenson. He was the victim of an extremely hateful and brutally violent act. He testifed before Congress this April during hearings concerning a proposed hate-crimes bill. He jumped to his death from a cruise ship earlier this week.

http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/ap/tx/4941295.html

Mr. Ritchenson's story resonated with me. Simply put, I have been on the receiving end of violence. I express it this way, as it is one of the most apt ways I might convey to you in words what occurred. Violence was put forth, and I received it, completely. And this is the thing about receiving something so completely: you have room for nothing else; this, this becomes what is your sustenance.

Perchance, maybe, just maybe, you had digested just enough to make a little room for something different, something good. You can scarcely believe it's there, that little space; it's a secret, you see, like a little life itself within you. Furtively, because, really, it's dubious how long that little space will remain; it's in doubt how long you can keep it, really---you reach for something good, just a little, for there's such a small space, you can only manage a little sliver: and violence hands you your order (but it's not really, it's a dis-order: it's violence's order), and shoves it down to cram that little space full.

It is considered best practice to fill the tea vessel with boiling water before brewing the leaves with fresh, hot water. A hot vessel is considered to bring forth the most fragrant tea.

The method that I eventually deployed to tailor the disorder of violence so that I might stomach it without its poisoning me completely was to visualize other things whilst the violence was active and open. It's not a new method, for many of us in these situations, and indeed, situations far removed and in much happier light, do use visualization techniques.

So whilst, say, I assented to the perpetration of most abjectly humiliating and violent acts lest my-then-toddler child be taken away for the night in a car piloted by one in an alcoholic stupor; or, say, being restrained and used as an ashtray, I would smile, picturing completely in my mind such things as say, the sunlight and shadow coming down on me as I climbed the large tree in my childhood home backyard. Or my grandmother's plump raisin cookies, always wrapped in waxed paper in pairs, flat sides pressed together (like two hands, like namaste) and presented with simple, complete affection. And so I would smile; and so violence would spit in my face or decide to go an extra hour, or light another cigarette.

Who is to say what is a good way to cope with violence and what is not a good way? And does it matter if the violence came suddenly and left, or if the violence was sustained over time? When I wrote in a previous post about wishes that one could communicate with the future in some way, so that the message was, hey, this is the picture---dear reader, I was thinking very much of myself at this time. How I would love to be like Admiral Janeway, and tell that person what will happen. That little boy so fiercely protected is now so grown and smart, so gifted, so himself. That another little boy would come, marvelous himself, with a marriage that is not picture-perfect, but perfectly suited, to someone I saw in my dreams long ago as a child. Summer nights sleeping out with the stars and the crickets and the rain on the tent lulling us all to sleep. That there are classrooms full of lively, funny, wonderful kids. Good friends, great friends. That this person's life will be so different, so good, so full of flavor and sustenance.

Would that have been true for Mr. Ritchenson. I would have loved to have been able to tell him.

I truly believe, my friends, we have infinite chances. We do have infininte possibilities to find what we need, what we love; who we need and who we love: to find home.

"Set a course...for home."

Captain Janeway, Endgame (Star Trek: Voyager)











http://www.wga.hu/support/viewer/z.html

Through a Glass Darkly; or, How I Did On My Presentation

Last Thursday was our last day of our summer session class. We took a final; the professor passed out our grades for our presentations.

Yes anyway, how did that go?

Dear reader, I must begin the account by telling you that I am inordinately excited by the implications one can glean from spending time with Gardner's multiple intelligence theory. Really, really excited. Eight different ways to be intelligent. Eight. (Gardner now cops to 8.5: waiting for more hard data on the intelligence he calls existential)

What else?

The theory posits that each and every one of us possesses each and every intelligence. This isn't up for speculation, it is a given. A given! How beautifully generous is that? Every person has it all. It's hardwired within the brain.

Great, yes! What is even greater is to consider the other part of this axiom: each intelligence operates as a separate modality. Each has its own input that it alone can process; and indeed, it is the presence of the input for which it is wired that activates that particular intelligence.

So of course, I am really, really excited for many reasons.

As I have the pleasure of sharing a classroom with children who are not "neurotypical," this knowledge, this familiarity of the nature of intelligences as laid out by Gardner, in conjunction with the knowledge that all the intelligences can and will be activated in some capacity, given the proper input---it is as if MI theory is the "cash on the barrelhead," the insurance, if you will, that backs up what we as teachers believe about our students: they are smart, they are special, and they will succeed.

Operating with Gardner's theory as home base, our students can believe us when we say that they can and will be great students. We're putting our money where our mouths are when we meet our students "where they are," and provide an environment that allows their unique intelligence profiles the most fitting expression. It's not a matter of speculation or faith; it's a given. There is a lot of relief in that, and in that, a release from pressure: a lot of lovely, lovely room in which to expand and explore.

Operating with Gardner's theory as home base, we have a construct with which to advocate for our students to others who do not know our students in the same ways that we do. Simply put, there are many in public schools who are lacking the confidence to be able to meet our kids where they are. Appy a label to a student, and that label can nag and pick away at our feelings of efficacy in relating to that student. Apply a label of autism, I've found, and this effect is often greatly exacerbated. MI theory is beautifully suited to shifting our thinking from labels and concerns about our abilities to thinking about how a student's intelligences manifest. It shifts our thinking to the student's abilities, not our own.

So of course, when I presented this paper, my heart rate was already up, for I'm just so excited about MI theory. My cello intro was full of vibrato, but it came from my bow hand. Time seemed to go very quickly. I talked, and did my slide presentation on the big screen. I was very excited about the ideas. At one point, and I believe this is what happened, two sentences hybridized themselves in my brain: "we give our students expectations," and "we set expectations for our students," and what I did in fact say was that "we give our students sex."

(Oh, really, Neroli. Way to go. Not.)

I tried to do my best to be articulate. Everyone seemed to regard me with a neutral to bored expression. No one but the professor had comments or questions when I was finished. I didn't feel positively or negatively about the presentation: just empty, as if I had taken such a large breath, and had left it all out slowly. So when my friend the Artist FKAPW asked me about the presentation, I truly didn't know what to say.

So it was with trepidation that I looked at my grade on Thursday night. It was an "A." The professor noted that he liked the use of the cello, the pacing was good, my answers to his questions were well thought out, and he liked the point of MI theory as a way to enable students to have power within the classroom environment.

I was surprised. But glad. And glad to know that I still have some work to do when it comes to perception.

It is another beautiful sunny day here, as it has been for some days. Yesterday as my Little Guy and I went to sit on the back stoop by the apple tree to wait for his brother, the Big Guy, to join us, LG said, well, let's just sit out here and enjoy ourselves.

Yes, I said, let's do. You do, too, dear reader.