A WordPress Site

Author: 459856pwpadmin

A Nerd in the Kitchen

I've been cooking again this year. There was a period where I stopped; well there was a period where a lot of things stopped. But I am cooking, and cooking for others, although not yet entertaining. Because I have been cooking for others though, I have also been cooking for myself, and rediscovering my joy at playing in the kitchen, entertaining will come as I pull out of my self-imposed sabbatical.

It was time to make some chicken stock, and remembering my frustration over finding chickens fo stock last Thanksgiving, my frustration over the "thinness" of the stock I made, and my general interest in the quality and sustainability of food, I decided to experiment.

For this experiment I made two small batches of stock in dueling slow cookers. The ingredients in each slow cooker were identical: Chicken, chicken feet, carrots, celery, onion, parsley, bay leaves, peppercorns, salt, nutmeg, white wine and water. I was careful that the weights and quantities were identical as well. The only difference was in the actual chickens. In the first slow cooker (left above) I used a 3 1/2 pound heritage breed pastured chicken, and in the slow cooker on the right above I used a 3 1/2 pound organic but commercially raised chicken.

I also made a third batch of stock, this one in the oven. It was not really a direct comparison, stock for stock, but a kind of benchmark comparison. I've made chicken stock in the slow cooker for a long time, but in the last year or two I've also started making an oven stock, originally inspired by Aki Kamozawa and H Alexander Talbot at the blog Ideas In Food. Like their stock, mine includes cabbage and sliced ginger, but it has evolved over time, inspired by classic French stocks and Barbara Tropp. I use this stock on its own, but also inspired by Kamozawa and Talbot, I have experimented with using it as a foundation for other stocks, making a double stock (chicken and beef) and a triple stock (chicken, beef, and pork) that has become my basic ramen broth.

When the stocks were done, I made a simple comparison in terms of how the stocks looked, and tasted. The stock on the far right is the oven broth. As you can see it is darker than the others, this is because the chicken and vegetables roast partially in a 350º F oven before I turn the oven down to 200º F. The roasting adds flavor and the cabbage rounds out the flavor and adds sweetness. This is a good rich stock, full of intense flavor and that rich mouthfeel from gelatinized cartilage. It is a wonderful stock for sauces and some soups, but it is too rich and intense for some delicate soups. I need to thin it with water. It is probably not as rich however as a classic French brown chicken stock, a future opportunity for comparison.

Hence the other stocks. I've made slow cooker stock for a long time. Quanities in the slow cooker are smaller than in a stock pot, but so is the time requirement; it is easier to walk away from a slow cooker than a simmering 16 or 20 quart stockpot. But the question was not ease but flavor. Was there enough of a discernible difference in the quality and flavor of the stock to warrant the extra expense of buying the best quality chicken you can find?

The answer was a resounding yes. In the photo above the stock made from the heritage chicken is darker than the middle stock, the one made from the conventional organic chicken. That is partially misleading, as there was more particulate matter in that stock. After a second straining the color was lighter, but still slightly richer looking than the middle stock, light enough to use in a lightly colored soup, cauliflower, for example, without seriously altering the color.

In terms of flavor however the difference was quite noticeable. The pastured bird produced a stock that had a rich mouthfeel, not thick, not as rich as the oven stock, but still with a sense of pleasant substance on the tongue. The flavor was well rounded, noticably chicken broth but with a subtle but well rounded flavor profile. This broth was so good I wanted to drink a cup of it, and it would be fabulous in a delicate clear broth, and subtle enough to use in other dishes, to enhance without overpowering other flavors.

The organic chicken broth did not fair so well. Yes, it was identifiable as chicken stock, but really only barely so, and the presence of the vegetable flavors were also more noticeable as separate notes, even though the same proportion of vegetable to chicken had been used in both broths. It tasted weak. It is probably fine for use in a soup, but, having tasted the other broth, I had no interest in drinking this as bouillon. Although it was a good broth, better than purchased broth, the broth from the pastured chicken was so clearly superior that I would think that anything prepared with it would be improved.

All the stocks were packaged in several sizes of containers: quart bags, 2T, 1/3 cup and 1/2 cup cubes. I may compare a simple vegetable soup with the two basic chicken broths, but it probably doesn't really matter. It seems that the answer is already clear, and quality matters, at least if you are a person like me, a seeker of flavor, a person who prefers less but better, or if you are simply a nerd in the kitchen.

I still think any homemade stock is superior to what you can buy in the store, and economical, more so if you save chicken bones and carcasses and trimmings from good quality vegetables, and if you have a slow cooker, where you can toss it in and forget it while you go to work or to sleep. I still think quality matters, even in basic foundational blocks like stock, perhaps even more so, since flavor is a process of layering. But quality, like everything in life is a matter of choices and compromise. I usually buy pastured chicken, heritage pastured chicken when I can get it, so using this for my stocks is not a problem, using a mix of bones, wings, feet and an occasional chicken. This experiment confirmed my suspicion that it is not worth buying something of lesser quality than my usual standard, just because it is cheap, or I can't get what I want. Better to change the menu, change the plan, change my expectations, wait. Our real lives are the things we do every moment of every day, every choice we make, in what we do, what we eat, what we say. Why take that for granted?

February 22, 2018
Letting in the Light

I came home from New York to the glory of hellebores.

The first couple of days after my return it was raining but warm. It seems Spring is springing in East Tennessee. Perhaps it is early; I worry a bit about that, but perhaps also we just had a condensed cold winter. Anyway, I am happy for the flowers and the light, although I cannot say that I am looking forward to when the leaves on the trees come out, and the large tree outside my office window blocks the light. I suppose this means I need to seriously consider future plans for the yard and make a decision as to whether that tree will stay or go. The time is now, or very soon anyway.

In the meantime I am reveling in the light.

Sunday afternoon a friend came over and we tackled the windows. We removed all the screens and storms from the windows that have them (mostly upstairs) except for two windows which are painted closed. That is a problem that needs to be rectified, but it can wait until other work is done in that same room. Several were jammed and it took two of us to get them out; I broke one in the effort, although I am not particularly upset about it. I wrote previously about how I hate both storms and screens, and yet I accept that I may need them. At the moment I am of mixed minds. Whatever I decide, they needed to be unstuck and come out for cleaning. In the future I should be able to put them in and out without assistance, should I decide to do so.

There are only three windows downstairs that had screens, and they are mostly in the shade sheltered by greenery, so it may not matter at all. In the upstairs rooms it has made a tremendous difference in the amount of light in my office (second photo) in my bedroom and even in the hall, where the mirror resides. As I sit here, writing this post, the office windows are open and I am caressed by a gentle warm breeze. There is contentment in a job completed, in the light, the soft spring, in the flower out the window, even the sound of the cars passing on the street below, a contentment in being in one's own place, accepting the act of living and breathing and just living one's own life, and knowing that that, alone, is enough.

February 20, 2018
Five Things Friday

I arrived home yesterday afternoon to find the Amaryllis bulb that I had been given for Christmas had finally taken off, growing long and leggy during the five days of my absence. With the cold that followed Christmas in Knoxville, it had been frozen in a state of what felt like permanent waiting. Of course I could have turned the heat up in my house, up into the 70s, but frankly I am rarely all that cold, and I relished he idea of actually wearing my wool sweaters. I am now excited to see this Lenten Amaryllis indoors at a time when the yard is rich with lenten roses and I see the tender leaves of bulbs massing everywhere around: daffodils, hyacinths, tulips, irises, the occasional daylily. The bulbs are not so much in my yard, as I haven't really planted bulbs yet, trying mightily to stick to my one year moratorium on new plants, but the neighborhood is flush with new growth.

This morning I carted my coffee upstairs to my desk in one of the silver coffeepots I have inherited from various grandparents and aunts. This one is silver-plate, and I am using it simply because it is the first one that I pulled out of the cupboard. I've been using it for my morning coffee for a couple of weeks now. Surprisingly, it makes me happy, and has made me realize that I should really pull those silver services out of the cupboard and consider using them, perhaps even make a decision about which services and sizes and shapes would be useful in my life. It does not keep the coffee warm for hours, like the stainless carafe that is in the kitchen, but I don't really need hours, and I am thinking that a similar pot, perhaps combined with the silver samovar, which has a burner, could even be used for entertaining. Well, idle thoughts anyway.

While my mind is revolving around food and kitchens, I thought I'd also post this photo I took at French Ranges when I was in New York. One of the things I did, since I was in a city with a large selection of showrooms, was look at options for kitchens and baths, both appliances and hardware and hard surfaces. The LaCanche is my dream stove, and although this is not my model of choice, this is my color. it is still early, and there are still options and budgets, and compromises to be considered, but I think the LaCanche will remain the centerpiece of my new kitchen, however that will evolve.

After a morning talking stoves, and wandering around showrooms at 200 Lex we were tired and ready for a rest. We found our way down to Union Square Cafe, where we snagged a table at the bar and settled in for a cocktail and a leisurely lunch. I had scallop crudo and a tuna burger, ending with an espresso, although Liana, brave soul the she is, tried the new dessert on the menu. I've realized that although I love good food and nice restaurants, it was George who was more the white tablecloth, formal presentation person. I'm usually happy in the bar, where everything feels more casual but the food is just as good.

And finally, Tuesday night we went to Jacob Scharfman's recital at Juilliard. Jacob is George's cousin twice-removed, and his father, Dan, was a dear friend, whom I had been happy to get to know in our younger days, even though we had not seen each other often enough as the years passed. Jacob sang one of George's favorite songs, and I am certain he and Dan were both smiling down on this concert. which was incredible. With each work, especially the operatic selections, but also for the broadway song, I felt bereft that I couldn't hear the entire work right then, with this brilliant young man singing. I think Jacob is a young man to follow and I wish him great success. After the concert, Liana and I went for a late bite at Bar Boulud, heads and hearts still swimming with the music. Photo above courtesy of Liana Sandin.

February 16, 2018
Weekend in NY

I'm a little scattered this morning, and the post I was planning on posting this morning, that I had started writing and then abandoned is just that, abandoned. I took photos in a rush, which is always a mistake, and now I am unhappy with myself because I must go back to the source and take new photos.

I'm not too unhappy however, because I am having a wonderful time in New York City. I flew in Saturday, and went to the Ballet that evening. Walking up the stairs to the balcony lobby in he David Koch theater and seeing that space filled with colorful balloons, creating a buoyant wonderland of color floating through the room, was a magical moment in and of itself. The installation is by Jihan Zencirli and I felt like a child playing with bubbles as we walked around it, as did many others apparently, wonder on their faces, people pulling their friends over and snapping selfies with balloons during intermissions. Young, and old alike smiling, momentary glimpses of childish glee on the most carefully composed of faces. And yes, the ballet was stunning as well, an all Balanchine program, beautifully performed. I haven't been to the ballet, to a really good ballet in years, and I don't have the words for it, except to say that magic happened all around.

Sunday it rained, quite heavily at times, but we were out in the morning, exploring, wandering, Trying to stay dry, not always successfully. We had thought we would go someplace and be promptly indoors, but it didn't quite work out that way. By 1PM, tired, hungry, and also a bit wet, we decided to retire to the hotel, where we could while away the hours with a drink and a nibble.

We had tickets again that evening, again at Lincoln Center, but this time at Alice Tully Hall, a part of the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center's series. Somehow, out of pure dumb luck, I think we may have gotten some of the best seats in the house. We were up in the balcony, so not close, but the sound was marvelous. We could hear every note, separately and also as a part of the whole, combining, and blending, merging into the conversation of the music. The music was just that, a conversation between the performers, exactly what chamber music should be, something I had not been aware I had really been missing (I had not gotten tickets to one small venue in Knoxville this year, a decision that might have been a mistake). Best of all, in the final piece, the Dvorak quintet #2 in G major, for two violins, viola, cello, and double bass, they performed the original scoring, with five movements, and it was just stunning. The two slow movements add a balance and a depth to the piece that is not as evident in the four-movement version. The soft notes of the double bass, played by Edgar Meyer, in the second movement were breath-taking, as in fact was the entire, stunning, performance.

The rain was finally lifting so we decided to walk. We stopped at the same restaurant we had eaten in the night before, Remi, just a couple of blocks from our hotel, but this time we were seated by the window, looking into he courtyard/pedestrian walkway. I was entranced by the view of the courtyard and the play of light through the window, the reflections, and shadows. I'm not sure I captured it here, but I hope you get a little bit of the feel of the place.

We walked back to the hotel through a series of pedestrian walkways, stopping to take some photos, then stopping for a grand mariner in lieu of dessert at the hotel bar. I was entranced once again by the really rather mundane view out the window, the play of light and color, shadow and shape of the lights and the buildings, Applebees and all. Greater America and New York combined, high and low and everything in between, melting together.

February 13, 2018
Books Read 2017
A little late to this, but mostly late to my own realization that I need this list and the process of going through last years books, has been cathartic. I did better than I thought I did, at least in mentioning reading, although there are books I wish I had said more about.

But it also struck me that this was a useful memory exercise, and I recalled more about the books than I would have thought, at least as compared to a few years ago, when I felt unfocused. Looking at the list and my blog posts, my notes and/or lack of them, helped me to focus on what I wanted to take from each book, and perhaps to see them from a different angle, the same way sometimes I marvel at things in my own neighborhood when Tikka and I walk but we go start off in the opposite direction from our normal route. We see the same things, but they are also subtly different.

Roughly in order read:
1. Mark McIntosh, Mysteries of Faith.
2. Fredrik Backman, A Man Called Ove. Ultimately forgettable but I wanted to read it before seeing the movie with a friend. The book, as usual, was better than the movie.
3. Cynthia Crysdale, Transformed Lives, Making Sense of Atonement Today
4. Paulette Jiles, News of the World. This book was mentioned in the post, but not discussed. A year later I realize that I remember more about this novel than about the Ferrante. Although I discussed the Ferrante at the time, ultimately it has not stuck with me as much as News of the World.
5. Elena Ferrante, My Brilliant Friend. And again, here.
6. Eimear McBride, The Lesser Bohemians.
7. Tana French, In the Woods.
8. Jan Werner Muller, What is Populism.
9. Ann Patchett, Commonwealth.
10. Brian Freemn, The Nightbird.
11. Aravind Adiga, Selection Day: A Novel.
12. Oliver Sacks, Grattitude.
13. Jess Walter, The Financial Lives of the Poets.
14. Ronald C. White, American Ulysses.
15. Michael Dirda, Browsings: A Year of Reading, Collecting, and Living with Books.
16. A. S. Byatt, Peacock and Vine.
17. Dodie Smith, I capture the Castle.
18. Paulette Jiles, The Color of Lightening
19. Amor Towles, The Rules of Civility.
20. Alan Roxburgh, Joining God, Remaking Church, Changing the World. Actually, I mentioned this book but said nothing about it. The book was read for the Episcopal Diocese of East Tennessee's Diocesan Convention. Interesting enough. Ultimately forgettable.
21. Emma Donoghue, The Wonder.
22. Nicole Mones, Lost in Translation.
23. Gary Taubes, The Case Against Sugar.
24. John Reed, Insurgent Mexico.
25. John Reed, Ten Days that Shook the World.
26. Eric Ripert, 32 Yolks.
27. Fredrick Backman, And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer
28. Paul Eckman, Why Kids Lie.
29. Walter Isaacson, Einstein, His Life and Universe,
30. Elizabeth Kostova, The Swan Thieves.
31. Rachel Cusk, Outline: A Novel.
32. Nujeen Mustafa, Nujeen, One Girl's Incredible Journey
33. Claire-Louise Bennett, Pond.
34. Adam Johnson, The Orphan Master's Son.
35. George R. R. Martin, A Game of Thrones.
36. Stephen King, Mr. Mercedes.
37. Jimin Han, A Small Revolution.
38. Rachel Cusk, Transit: A Novel.
39. Ilia Delio, Care for Creation.
40. Stephen King, On Writing.
41. Tyler Cowan, The Complacent Class.
42. Betty Halbreich, I'll Drink to That.
43. Tyler Cowan, An Economist Gets Lunch.
44. Haruki Murakami, Men Without Women: Stories.
45. Susan Hermann Loomis, On Rue Tatin.
46. Domenico Starnone, Ties.
47. Michael Connelly, The Lincoln Lawyer.
48. Lior Lev Sercarz, The Spice Companion.
49. David Foster Wallace, Consider the Lobster and Other Essays
50. Julie Iromuanya, Mr. and Mrs. Doctor. and again, briefly, here.
51. Timothy Sedgwick, The Christian Moral Life.
52. Jennifer Howe Peace, My Neighbor's Faith.
53. Laura Hillenbrand, Unbroken.
54. George Saunders, Lincoln in the Bardo.
55. Upton Sinclair, World's End.
56. Michael Connelly, The Reversal. I am "reading" most of these Michael Connelly books through Audible, so I am listening to them. They have proven to be good novels to listen to on long car trips. I recognize that I might not enjoy them as much in a different context.
57. Brenda Kinsel, Brenda Kinsel's Fashion Makeover.
58. Knut Hamsen, Pan.
59. Brenda Kinsel, Brenda's Wardrobe Companion.
60. Amor Towles, A Gentleman in Moscow.
61. Tressie McMillan Cottom, Lower Ed.
62. Eula Biss, On Immunity: An Innoculation.
63. Robert Gieselmann, The Episcopal Call to Love.
64. Eula Biss, Notes from No Man's Land.
65. Yuval Noah Harari, Sapiens.
66. Gunnar Staalesen, Where Roses Never Die.
67. Marcy Dermansky, The Red Car.
68. George R. R. Martin, A Clash of Kings and more here.
69. Michael Connelly, The Late Show.
70. Elisabeth Luard, Squirrel Pie.
71. Owen David, Where the Water Goes: Life and Death Along the Colorado River.
72. Paul Beatty, The Sellout.
73. Cathy Barrow, Mrs. Wheelbarrow's Practical Pantry
74. Emily Fridlund, History of Wolves: A Novel.
75. Manjit Kumar, Quantum: Einstein, Bohr and the Great Debate About the Nature of Reality.
76. Fiona Mosley, Elmet.
77. Richard Adams, Watership Down.
78. Christopher Hayes, Twilight of the Elites.
79. Karin Slaughter, The Good Daughter.
80. Danielle Steele, The Award.
81. Francine Prose, Reading Like a Writer.
82. Sebastian Barry, Days Without End.
83. Zadie Smith, Swing Time.
84. Ali Smith, Autumn.. More here.
85. Felicia Yap, Yesterday.
86. Alyson Walsh, Know Your Style.
87. Arundhati Roy, Ministry of Utmost Happiness. I simply stated that I did not like the book, which is true. The writing is brilliant but I found it terribly difficult emotionally, worse because I found no enlightenment or redeeming sense of understanding in the book. I don't really regret reading it, but I won't read it again, and really can't recommend it. Although beautiful, it could have been more effective and memorable if there were somehow more mercy.
88. Louise Penny, Glass Houses: A Novel.
89. J.D. Vance, Hillbilly Elegy. This book is best at pointing out the incredible opportunistic and culture differences that divide the country, and not so good in politics or answers. I read it again as part of a church related study, but I was disappointed that we did not delve deeper into the entire "us vs them" mentality that we displayed in class, and which Vance points out very clearly. There is a lot of room for growth here, especially when combined with some other books about economic and cultural mores in today's American society.
90. Louise Penny, Still Life.
91. Debbie Macomber, If Not for You.
92. Dennis R. Maynard, When Sheep Attack.
93. Elizabeth Currid-Hackett, The Sum of Small Things. This really got under my skin, at least in forcing me to think about how much I am a part fo my educational and economic cohort. Disconcerting. I'd like to read it again, along with Hillbilly Elegy, The Complacent Class, Twilight o the Elites and perhaps other book, as a part of a serious questioning of what we take for granted.
94. Elizabeth Peters, Night Train to Memphis.
95. Elizabeth Peters, Street of the Five Moons.
96. Louise Penny, A Fatal Grace.
97. Joshua Applestone, The Butcher's Guide to Well-Raised Meat.
98. Cormac McCarthy, Suttree.
99. Louise Penny, The Cruelest Month.
100. Louise Penny, A Rule Against Murder.
101. Louise Penny, The Brutal Telling.
102. Mohsin Hamid, Exit West.
103. Lee Child, Night School.
104. Maryn McKenna, Big Chicken.
105. Louise Penny, Bury Your Dead.
106. David Ford: Theology: A Very Short Introduction.
107. Paul Tillich, The Courage to Be.
108. Holly Fitzgerald, Ruthless River: Love and Survival by Raft on the Amazon's Relentless Madre de Dios. Tragedy averted (barely). Truthfully I look at this and wonder about how naive, or outright stupid, people can be. But then, I shouldn't say anything because I've done lots of things in my life that would give people ammunition to say exactly the same things. It is a powerful story of love and survival, despite all odds.
109. Rowan Williams, Being Christian. I felt this was a light fluff piece from someone who can be quite wise, theologically. Hence I was somewhat disappointed.
110. Atul Gawande, Being Mortal.
So there you have it, the list. I'm not sure what it says about me, but books, the books people keep, and the books people read, tend to say a lot about those people. At the same time lists, like surfaces and first impressions are often misleading. Make of it what you will.
February 10, 2018
Drought

And overhead, the birds:

chips of bone in the sky, remnants,

fact of the world's brokenness.

You look up, asking to be forgiven for a crime

you're still trying to locate. You know it's out there,

stare toward the edge of the marsh, the welt of bright water

shrinking before your eyes. A sky of pre-worldly clarity

only confirms your guilt, an inherent misalignment

that keeps you from knowing even a fraction of what you see.

You cross the heat-ridden ground, the sweet, brittle scent

of sage rising underfoot. So easy to pretend a single word

will occur to you, and that it will do all the good

anyone could hope. The world is parched and lonely,

relies on dignity to protect it. Each thing

hanging by the thread of itself. Bleating crickets. Rustle of dry stalks.

The silence pushes you toward yourself:

it's a time to walk deep into the heart of what troubles you.

— Sue Sinclair

in Breaker

February 8, 2018
A Book, A Rabbit, And Letting Go

Once up a time there was a boy who fell through a crack in time, but the truth is that he didn't fall all the way. Half of the boy remained there, on either side.

—Oliver Loving page 284

A few nights ago Tikka went crazy barking at the window and running up and down the stairs, barking and barking and barking. I couldn't fathom it. She often barks at people walking by. She wants to go meet them, to go play, but this was different, and although I looked out the window, I didn't see anything that looked like pedestrians or even a car. I calmed her down, shook my head, and put it out of my mind.

In the morning Tikka and I took our walk. We came home; she was desperate to crawl under the bushes at the front of the house, and I puzzled over this briefly, perhaps too briefly. But I had places to be, other thoughts on my mind. You know how it is, and yet you sense there was something else to know, something coming. But it was not yet time.

I have relinquished a lot of responsibilities. Turned them over, not waiting, not acquiescing, not agreeing to serve until a replacement is found, because I've done that before, and I was still there. I am closing a door I've needed to close for a long time in order to step through a new door but I still don't know which door was the hardest. To let go of something that comes easily to me, and that I enjoy because I have a gift for it, even knowing that I needed to change, knowing that I needed to move into new territory, explore other gifts. It is hard to let go of things you do well because the doing of them, even when they are not your heart, are not all of your gift or your passion, still offers security, and a known place in the world. There is comfort in a secure place, even when you know it is the wrong place. Likewise, it is hard to open doors into the unknown, even when we know that doorway leads to where we need to be. Questions abound, and fear: fear of making a mistake, fear of failing, of being laughed at, fear of being forgotten.

In the afternoon, after our walk, I let Tikka go, off her leash. I needed to take the recycle can back to the garage, and Tikka always sits and waits for me at the front door. But when I returned to the door something unexpected occurred. Tikka was there, but she had something in her mouth. It was the lower leg of a rabbit. She was excited, barely able to contain her joy, and it was easy to startle her into relinquishing her prize. Tikka safely ensconced inside, I went back out, gathered up the leg, and peered under the bush, where I found a lot of fluff and fur and signs of a scuffle. The body had been carried away.

There is an eagle in our neighborhood. I see it occasionally perching in a high tree behind the house of my neighbor across the street. It has flown over us more than once; and I always pause in awe. Another neighbor says he sees it, perched in a tree on his property, not 75 feet from his window. I have no doubt that the unfortunate rabbit was making a run for it across my front lawn and didn't quite manage to reach safety. I don't honestly know if a rabbit is too big for an eagle, although perhaps a small rabbit would be just right. Or there was a larger hunter on the loose. I have no doubt that Tikka heard the scuffle. And I am relieved that she was inside, that I did not let her out.

By the next morning, when Moises wanted to go out, I was once again filled with doubts and questions, wanting to protect him, wanting to keep him close, but also acknowledging that this desire to hold tightly is ultimately more about me than Moises. Moises is a cat. He needs to be a cat. And yet I worry.

Am I right to worry? I am a cat mom. Is that less than being a person mom? I don't know. I am a step-mom, and although I would never claim that I knew what it was like to be a mom, I too fretted and worried about those children of my heart, fretted when, as new drivers, they returned home late, fretted over boyfriends, marital spats, their hearts. I have experienced that need to protect, that desire to tear someone limb from limb after they have hurt "my" child. Giving birth doesn't make you a mom. Believe me, I know women who have no maternal feeling, who feel the child they birthed was a parasite, sucking away their life; and some of those women were wise enough to give their children to someone who loved them, although some were not. I cry for those children. And as I know that mothering is about more than giving birth, it is also about more than gender, or race, or perhaps even species.

But life is complicated. And as much as we want to treasure and protect, and hold our loved ones close, we must also let them fledge. Just as we must let the ones we love be free, we must also sometimes free ourselves of our preconceptions, our walls, and our understandings. It is human to hold tight, to protect, to avoid pain. And yet growth is, in and of itself a painful process. When we hold tightly we don't actually avoid pain, we cause more pain, although we may not see it that way, for it is easy to blind ourselves to our own motivations, to begin the process of questioning and then return to the comfortable warmth of our own patterns.

I am closer to my 60th birthday than to my 59th. It is time to open new doors. I no longer have to prove myself to the world. If I fall I know how to pick myself back up. But if I don't try, I'll never know what I could have done. So what if Moises has waited until he is 9 to want to go outside. If he doesn't go, how will he ever know what he was looking for? Yes, he may get hit by a car, but he is too big to be snatched by an eagle. Whatever happens he will have been himself, and I will be honored to have known him, and I will mourn him whether he dies in his sleep, or in the jaws of a larger predator. Whatever happens, winter always comes, and spring always follows.

These meditations have been partially fueled by a book I finished reading last week, Oliver Loving by Stefan Morrell Block. I can't say that it is an uplifting book, nor can I say that any of the characters in the book are very likable, but it is an excellent book, beautifully written, a story told with great empathy and humanity. It could have been just another of-the-moment attempt to mess with your emotions, but it has proven to be more: a school shooting, a dysfunctional family further broken by tragedy, in a broken, dysfunctional town. These are not people I have known, and yet they are, although our circumstances have been different. The author wends his way through his characters thoughts, and yes, the story is often repetitive, often mundane, just as our lives and our struggles are often mundane. But I know these people; the father who retreats into his shed, into his alcohol; the mother who holds tightly to her idea of salvation through her children, children she needs to bolster a sense of self she never really developed; children who long to escape, only to learn that though they can distance themselves physically, actual escape involves more tools than they have in their pockets.

The story is about grief, about holding on and letting go, redemption, reconciliation. Block writes complex, beguiling prose filled with humor, empathy and kindness as well clever repetitions of gradually evolving themes and phrases, and skillful use of foreshadowing and metaphor. In all of this he reminds us that no story is ever what it seems, and yet neither is what we make it out to be when we let our fears run wild. All the characters in this book, plunged as they are into their own private hells, are forced, over time, to examine themselves and their motivations, what they could have done differently, and all come up wanting at times, all are filled with remorse at times, and at times they all flee back into the comfort of their delusions. Occasionally however they see beyond their own narrow walls, see themselves for who they are, and try, if for a moment only, to become better than themselves, and in that moment there is hope.

This is also a book about regrets, about assumptions, about the way we think we know the world, think we know what is going on around us, only to learn that we were blind, and that all our assumptions were incorrect. Most of us will never experience the horror and sorrow around which this story is told, and yet we read about something similar almost weekly. Or have we become inured? Have we forgotten? Have we, like Eve, learned we "could narrow the radius of (our) concern to the body before (us)", (page 302), to that which only fits into our own personal world-view?

As I looked out the window this morning, at the tree house at the edge of my backyard and the houses up on the next hill, I was reminded of this. In the summer all of this is hidden by greenery. I can hear the road below but cannot see it. In winter I see through the trees, but the distance is deceiving, and in the photograph the perspective is even further distorted. The house across the street is a long ways away, down into the valley and up a hill again. It reminds me of how much of our judgements and our morals, our hopes and our fears even, are situational and therefore political, are based on the world around us and the way the world in which we live shapes our assumptions, as well as our own need for certainty, our need to believe that we are doing the right thing for the right reasons. Even when we begin to examine our motivations, we may touch on the truth, but we often revert back to comfort.

Every day I get up, I make my bed, and I get dressed. I open the front door and Moises and Tikka go outside for their own morning rituals. Up until that point, the point in which I open that door, I have control, or I am able to convince myself I have control. After that, who knows?

February 7, 2018
The Promise of Spring: A Short Walk in the Garden

Despite the ongoing cycle of cold and more cold, the sudden arrival of a few warm days, and another burst of cold, the garden is slowly working its way toward spring. The warm days are warmer, the days are longer, the sun is stronger, and the garden responds.

The first snowdrops peeked their heads out this week.

And the hellebores are amassing their blooms, mostly hidden under the protection of winter browned leaves, but increasingly visible. It is early yet to clean the garden too thoroughly, a blanket of fading leaves offers a layer of protection, and there are still a few hard frosts in the immediate forecast.

But there is also new growth, and flowers; flowers which brighten my spirits.

The camellias are also beginning to open. Most of them are the color of the blossom shown above, but perhaps the one I adore the most was this one below, in a photo taken a week ago, the same blossom that partially emerged earlier in January then waited patiently in that half emergent state for weeks. It is faded now, but the memory of its progress, of the colors perhaps tinged by cold and frost, remans still, nature's reminder that life and beauty will endure.

Winter is not quite over, even in Tennessee, nor in Dallas, where it was warmer but still wintery. When I lived in the Hudson Valley, February was the most depressing month, often bitterly cold, plagued with alternating freezes and thaws, and the depressing knowledge that flowers were still months away. Spring is a bit closer at hand here, but this has been most consistently "wintery" winter since I moved to Tennessee. We too can use a bit of February color. And on that note, I'll leave you with this photo of a cyclamen in my kitchen window. I purchased it last night, at a fund-raiser for the local Ronald McDonald House. In these late winter days, when the world is still mostly dreary gray and brown out my kitchen window, these bright pink blossoms will bring a spark of joy and an often needed reminder that light and color will come.

February 3, 2018
January Books

I go back and forth about posting book lists and those of you who have been patient readers have suffered through my angst. But I realized something the other day, and that was that my lists, when I post them, are useful, and this blog, if it is to be maintained must be, among other things, useful. That is, in a way, the reason I started blogging, as a way to keep a searchable record of the scribblings that were on paper and in notebooks, bits of paper that would eventually be discarded because I am very bad at holding on to things. In those days I didn't know there was such as thing as a blogging community, hadn't yet discovered the joys of friendships formed through words in the ether, and although those discoveries are their own reward, the truth is that I still need that more practical aspect of an internet journal as well.

It seems that the struggle then is not about the need for keeping a record, or posting such a record, but whether my random scribbles about the books I read are anything more than private scribbles. In short it is a question of public vs private, and you dear readers get to suffer with me as I figure this out. I know I'm not cut out for reviews, I don't really review books, and often my thoughts are a tangled path that only started with the book I read. Nor am I particularly good at ratings or even "best" lists, even though I posted one in December. What I do know, and apparently it is the only thing I know, is that I find the lists helpful, and I regret those times when my posts have not kept up with my readings. And so I shall resume my bookish mutterings and flights of fancy. Sometime this month, the second month of the year, you will get an accounting of all the books I read last year, not because I have anything to prove but just because it helps me keep my own thoughts in order, and they are disordered enough as it is.

So what did I read in January? January was a difficult month for me in many ways, and that may be reflected in my reading.

There were a couple of frivolous, light books, selected because I was either depressed or had a massive sinus headache and needed mindless escape. Candace Bushnell's Killing Monica made my headache worse, and I probably wouldn't have finished it except that tossing it across the room took too much effort. Laura Stampler's Little Black Dresses, Little White Lies was cute and charming, ultimately forgettable, but still a happy enough way to while away a few hours. Lee Child's The Midnight Line was my New-Year's reading and I enjoyed it thoroughly. After a few disappointing Reacher novels, this one reminded me of what I initially loved about the character, and I am more interested in Reacher's development, and often lack of it, than I am in the story itself. In fact the character is probably someone I wouldn't like, except that I tend to respect anyone who knows their own code and lives by it. Lee Child's Jack Reacher lives by a code far stricter than most of us would tolerate, but it is his code and he sticks to it.

Donn Morgan's Fighting with the Bible was an interlude book for the EFM course I am mentoring, and I enjoyed reading it very much. There were places where I felt his analogies fell a little flat, but overall the book made me think and I always like books that make me think, irregardless of whether or not I agree with the author. I wished perhaps I had read the book earlier, during my own first year of EFM, and I like the way he describes the Bible, especially the Hebrew Bible or Old Testament, as a guidebook for how to live with disagreement and conflict. If you live in a Western Culture, the Bible, in some sense or another has affected your history, your thought, and everything we understand about modern culture, whether you agree with it or not. And we certainly have not used the Bible as a way to resolve conflict — more often we use it to create conflict — but that perhaps that says more about us than either the document itself, or the intentions of its authors, whose actual intentions we will never know. I like the play on words, observed by another member of the group, not me, that we can fight with the Bible, ie. fight with the words trying to resolve some deeper conversation with humanity and human history, and we can also fight, using the Bible as a tool for conflict resolution. We haven't done well with that so far. But I'm a big one for hope.

Corinne Ware's Discover Your Spiritual Type was also read in my capacity as an EFM mentor, although it is not specifically a part of the program. It was part of a display of related interesting books in a training I took, and it related to reading we were doing at the time. I found it very enlightening, and again wished I had read it earlier, it would have helped me during a recent period of difficulty. But then again, perhaps it wouldn't have and I am grasping at straws. Still, it has caused me to make some internal connections, some that did not seem initially obvious. And whether one is religious or not, I continue to believe that all humans are spiritual; this spirituality, this seeking for greater meaning and a way to perpetuate it, is a significant factor in our humanity. We can be spiritual in different ways, just as we come in so many other diverse variations. Why can't we accept the common thread that ties us together and embrace the different expressions of that thread, be they physical, mental, emotional or spiritual? But I digress. The book does not ask that question.

Alan Bennett's Untold Stories is at times incredibly warm and human, especially in the initial section, where he describes his mother's mental illness, the dynamic between his parents, and the way that a young Bennett struggles through this period. It is a great example of how an education can expand horizons and understanding but at the same time hamper empathy across what become major social and situational divides. At other times the book was rather ho-hum and mundane, but I found it worth reading in snippets here and there. It is not a good book to sit down and plow through cover-to-cover, but still I am happy to have requested it from the library, and happy to have returned it as well.

My favorite book of the month was Louise Penny's A Trick of the Light. Yes I still love these Inspector Gamache novels. I love the character development and the way the story revolves around feelings and motives and the utter humanity of all involved. There has been a lot of humanity in the last few novels, this one included. Many of the central characters have been struggling, some more successfully than others, a few having worked their way to a new understanding, others still lost. In some ways this book revolves around the struggles of the human condition, and pain, and whether we rise or succumb; around the nature of revelation or understanding and false hope, or "a trick of the light". It is also about he way we build walls and hold on to small things that we think are the keys to happiness and peace, only to learn that we have mistaken safety for captivity, and that what we were seeking all along depended on our ability to change and grow with the world around us. Or perhaps this was just my thought based on my state of mind.

I leave you with that question to ponder. Do we see things that reflect our mood in the things we read out of serendipity, or divine intervention (I don't believe that), or do we find things around us that enlighten our state of mind simply because we are in that state of mind? And does it matter? Is it the road itself that matters, or the journey?

February 1, 2018
Small Adventures

Mom and I did go off to old Plano. Neither of us had been there in years, a decade or more, perhaps? It is now called the Plano Arts District and I admittedly saw more construction than arts, but remain happy that a few of the old buildings have remained. It is a tiny district, only a few blocks sandwiched between old the old and the new.

One part of the Texas mythology has always been about the possibility of starting over, of remaking oneself, but there is also a danger of plastering over the past, of tearing it down and rebuilding, or relegating it to the forgotten. We all suffer from this tendency, from the grandiosity of human ambition, desire, intent.

But wait, that is not where I am going with this post. I am happy that there is a small bit of the old center of Plano remaining, even as it is, in a small bubble surrounded by offices and condos, at least serviced by a metro stop. Admittedly I didn't go looking for history. I wanted to go to Dude Sweet Chocolate, which, in a twist that made me laugh, was closed. We wandered in some charming gift shops, one with a charming display of construction-paper boxes, which would be a perfect home wrapper for a special gift, another with beautiful rustic antique furniture.

We ate at Urban Rio, which we liked. I liked the urban/rustic blending in the decor and the staff were cheerful and helpful. We started with guacamole, as Mom as is our wont. We are both people who could make a lunch simply of guacamole. The assumption was that we would move on to tacos and/or an enchilada plate, but alas no. We ended both ended up with shrimp-stuffed broiled avocados. Wonderful but a bit of an excess of avocado, even for proclaimed avocado lovers.

I took a picture of our main course as well, but decided that I could't make it look like anything but a hot mess even though the plate was artfully arranged. The avocados were topped with a delicious cloud of fried golden fried onion threads, which were delicious (and gluten-free!) and I was too busy diving into that mess to bother with trying to set up a more attractive picture. In some ways, for me at least, and the way I think, the time spent messing with the photo is time spent missing the experience, leaving a bubble of memory, like the bubble of old Plano. But I know this is not true for everyone. There are talented photographers, people for whom the act of documenting enhances the experience, and their art enhances observation and memory for all of us. But I am not in that league.

My last night in the Dallas area we went south. Plano-Garland-Richardson are north of the city and mom rarely ventures far afield. El Ranchito has been a favorite of my youngest brother's as long as I can remember, perhaps as long as he has been living and working in the Dallas area.

It has been well over 20 years since Nick first brought us here, and it must have been more or less a decade since my last visit. The space of course has expanded and changed over time, but it is also still obviously the same space, with wonderful food that reminds me of the first time I visited. There is still that mix of Mexican and Tex-Mex regional specialties. Mom had a traditional plate, but I longed for food I rarely see and almost ordered the cabrito. Goat meat is available in Tennessee and so, perhaps is cabrito, very young goat roasted whole. I haven't looked. Last night I had the mollejas, I believe the first dish I ever ordered at El Ranchito, and perhaps the same dish I had at my last visit, just as good now as it was then.

If it sounds like I have been eating my way across Dallas, your assumption may be correct. I am stuffed. It is a good thing, perhaps, that I don't like to eat before flying.

January 30, 2018