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Category: Sustenance

Five Things Friday

1. Rain and headaches. That was yesterday. I woke up with a headache and the rain started before my first meeting ended. I was completely scatterbrained and drove past my second appointment and was therefore late. It seemed wise to spend the rest of the day quietly at home, where little actually got done, but I'm OK with that. Cold rainy days seem perfect for random laziness. Perhaps the headache was a gift. The pounding eventually subsided around 6 PM, when I had another meeting, but I still felt subdued and unfocused. I can't explain it but all has returned to normal this morning.

2. A building rises from the mud. Yes. Foundations are in place and they started framing the garage. Roofing materials also arrived and perhaps soon there will be a roof on the addition to the house. That period from Thanksgiving to Christmas felt awfully long, as progress was slowed by rain and mud. Waiting can seem interminable, and although necessary underlayment was progressing, I was feeling somewhat subdued about the project. Foundations, HVAC, and electrical wiring, as necessary as they are, don't look like much when they are going in, and I didn't realize how much I yearned to see something, anything, that looked like I might live in it again. Perhaps I just hadn't recovered from the shock of loosing plantings due to the need to replace and expand the buried drainage system, or the shock of the disruption of the backyard when the old garage was excavated and a buried septic tank was discovered, a buried septic tank that had to be removed. Every day it felt like the mud was increasingly exponentially. In December, that sense of having lost control was palpable, and although it is, perhaps, shallow and frivolous, seeing the framing take shape, floors and walls begin to appear, has lifted my spirits considerably.

3. I made chicken stock this week, for the first time since probably before Thanksgiving. The beef stock surplus is dwindling as well, so I will probably be back on a weekly stock-making schedule before spring is well established. With this batch of stock, I also made a pot Attukal Paya, a spicy Indian soup or stew made from mutton legs and/or feet, except that I used lamb because that is what I find at my local Asian Market. I've been making the soup for a few months now, off and on, but this is the first time I started with a base of my own rich chicken stock before extracting the collagen from those lamb bones. I will never go back.

I tend to pull the lamb out once I've extracted all the flavor, and then drink the pureed soup in a mug, but yesterday I had a bowl for lunch along with some baby bok choy I had seared in some smoked chaabani pepper olive oil. It turned out surprisingly well since I wasn't actually sure what to expect from the oil, a new-to-me ingredient and gift from my brother.

4. I also stepped out of my sartorial comfort zone, by branching out of my everyday boots and jeans mode and wearing a skirt and tights with a favorite pair of everyday boots. Actually, perhaps I found my groove because I was very comfortable and very much myself. Perhaps I am also rediscovering a bit of joy in the occasional jolt of black in my wardrobe. That black knit skirt had not been worn for a while, and now I can't wait to wear it again, black leggings and boots and all.

Of course the proportions worked better with the coat than they did with the sweater underneath, but that is something I can work on. It ended up not mattering much on Wednesday, the day I wore that outfit, because I had two meetings at the house, which is always cold given that it is not yet closed up, and otherwise ran errands. I ended up with my coat on for most of the day, the sweater simply acting as an insulating layer. The sweater itself, much as I have loved it in the past (it is 9 years old) may be spending its last winter with me. It no longer seems to just work the way I want it to work with the things I want to wear.

5. A secret garden. I suppose that best describes how I feel about this small collection of artifacts. Granted, they arrived in this spot because I didn't know where else to put them, but this location, the corner of my desk, has proved fortuitous because I see them everyday and they always make me smile. The glass rose is new, a Christmas gift from my brother, Charles. The silver llamas were my grandmother's, and I see I need to polish them, although at the moment I am also fascinated by the way the reflection of light off the rose plays out in a subtle play of colors dancing across the tarnished surface of the llamas. I don't remember the provenance of the small vaseline glass vase but looking at it I am reminded of where it sat in the house, on a windowsill in the sunroom, the play of light and shadow and the green of oak leaf hydrangeas behind it. Those hydrangeas are now gone, but the vase does not make me sad. There will be new plantings, new leaves, new light. For now however, we just wait, remember, and dream.

January 18, 2019
Musings on a Rainy Friday Morning

It is a gray and rainy fall day, but for the moment at least I am enjoying looking out the window at the way the colors fade away in the gray light.

It would probably be a perfect day for a fire if I were in my house and could have a fire, but I am not, so glancing dreamy-eyed out the window will have to do. I have a book and a knitting project to finish, and those things should keep me adequately entertained.

It was also a good morning for a little experimentation in the kitchen. I had wanted to attempt the Sweet Potato and Squash Parathas from Sumayya Usmani's Summers Under the Tamarind Tree since buying the Pakistani cookbook last year. This morning seemed like the perfect time, and I hoped that this recipe would be something that would work as a gluten free option, not at all like traditional parathas or stuffed parathas. Usmani states in the book that these are more like a griddle scone than a traditional paratha, and I hoped the combination of flavors would make something that could be equally comforting even if not at all like its wheaten brethren. There is a copy of the recipe online here. Mine aren't as pretty, and can't be folded over. The gluten-free dough is more friable, and rolling out didn't work as well as patting, making something closer to a Pakistani-spiced scone than a true paratha, but they are good, and I am content.

As I knit, I have been listening to Vivaldi, reminded of how much I adored Vivaldi when I was a young girl by the fabulous chamber concert Wednesday night at the Knoxville Museum of Art, the first performance of this year's concertmaster series. In fact the entire program focused on music of the baroque period and it was both very well programmed to provide breadth and depth of interest and very well performed as well. I don't think I could have imagined a more enjoyable and rewarding evening of baroque music. It felt like a rare treat, although admittedly there were also two separate baroque choral performances in Knoxville during the same week, two performances I missed, although I had planned to attend the Choral Society's concert before I pooped out. It is indeed a treat to live in a place where there is more on offer than I could ever possibly attend.

And speaking of treats, Thursday proved to be another evening of musical indulgence. After doing a bit of Christmas shopping, already light-hearted and bouncy, I proceeded to a concert by the Seraph Brass for another evening of wonderfully programmed and beautifully performed music. I heard some works by new-to-me composers and some fabulous reworking of familiar pieces; music that was both lovely and thought-provoking in how it shed new light on music I might otherwise assume I knew. I also enjoyed the musicality and sensitivity of the playing, even subtlety at times, a word I do not always associate with the brass section, although perhaps I should.

Every year I seem to marvel that both concert season and autumn go hand in hand, my favorite season accompanied by some of my favorite things. I love the fall colors, the cool mornings and evenings, the music, the ability to add layers again, to indulge in softer colors. In fact, it seems that, having given away half of my already reduced wardrobe I am rediscovering old favorites, even while adding a few new things, like the sparkly gray and blue necklace above.

In fact I've made a couple of discoveries about myself, one of which is that I like a bit of sparkle more than I had thought. It is not the glitter I object to, but the brightness. I don't like bright sparkle — too much jangly color or white put me on edge. Too much bright feels too forward, and therefore more formal and less like myself; even when I am most dressed, I don't like feeling formal if that makes any sense. Suddenly I know why certain things are never worn, and it not what I had thought. Through this new sense of understanding I am thinking I may finally be ready to start seriously sewing for myself again, sewing regularly that is, because I may finally be ready to ask a couple of critical questions. The two questions that have always been at odds in my creative life are: "Is this something I want to make just to make it?" and "Is this something I actually want to wear." Each has their place, but I haven't always been successful in sussing out the distinctions.

After all, I am the woman who once, when asked to introduce oneself to a group with a fact about oneself, chose "I love fog". I love rainy days and crisp cool mornings. Yes I love color too, but I love the way a gray day makes colors shine in a way completely differently from the bright sunshine. I love color the way I love music, the way the many layers of subtlety and technique and shading make a greater whole. I don't want to be hit in the face with the obvious, I want to find the subtleties. It is true. I love fog.

November 9, 2018
Home Is For Sharing and Other Random Thoughts

You know, there are moments when I sit down to write this blog and I wonder why. I don't wonder why I write, that suits me, but it seems so random lately, like my life, increasingly without structure, and I wonder what that says. But maybe I am also just wondering what it is about structure, about defining myself by some external structure and standard, that makes it seem so important. Isn't just life enough? Yes, probably, for living. I'm still not so sure about blogging. Perhaps blogging itself requires a structure. And yet I see that the blogging serves its own purpose in my own process, and so here I am.

But perhaps it is that same process of structure and releasing oneself from the constraints of structure that continues to wend its way through my own psyche. For example I have rearranged and resettled in the apartment, making small changes really but important ones that make it feel more like home. And I realize that part of that sense of home has always revolved around my conflicting needs for order and organization as opposed to my tendency to make a mess. I need to get what I want in the middle of creative burst, and I need to be able to restore it to order when that burst has exhausted itself.

I am also learning to increasingly let go of control. Enter the dinner party, my first for friends. Family has been here a couple of times already. The table is set. The main course is ready. We were having Chicken Tikka Masala and Jeera Rice. And then I partially relinquished control. My usual mode is to have as much done as possible in advance, so I can sit back, enjoy the company, and not worry about burning something. Once people arrive, I'm all about having fun, rather than slaving away in the kitchen, and over the decades I've refined my techniques to meet that end. But it usually all about control, control, control, and a moment of release.

This time I let go a bit. I did the advance prep, slicing radishes on a mandolin, meticulously cutting tomatoes into tiny cubes, for after all, who wants people drinking and chatting while using sharp instruments? Then I grouped together the cumin, lemon, cilantro, ginger for a radish salad, but did not assemble said salad. The same with the tomatoes. When everyone arrived, we greeted each other, hugged and moved into the kitchen. Rather than siting and chatting and waiting for the food to miraculously appear, we all took a station, one person making radish salad, one assembling the kachumbar, one cooking the Gujarati green beans, one gathering the nibbles. Then we adjourned to talk while the flavors of the vegetables took their time to meld. I thought it was fun. Advance prep was still required, but it felt less pressured. Everyone made something. The ingredients were suggested but not required, so each dish varied according to its creator. I relinquished control and we each made our own contributions to the flavors of the meal. Then we talked and ate for hours.

At the end of the meal my guests offered to help clean up, and I said yes. This is in direct opposition to my older control-driven self, who would have sent everyone home and had my own contemplative cleaning session. We all piled back into the kitchen. We washed and dried and put things away and chatted. I had so much fun; it seemed like everyone else did as well. Everything came full circle. At the end of the evening, I dried a few last dishes, started the dishwasher and sat back with a cat on my lap, filled with joy and contentment.

This morning my apartment feels like home, more so than it did yesterday. It is a place for me, a sanctuary from the world, but also a haven of companionship. My friends and I blessed this place with laughter, conversation, and shared activities; there will only be more laughter, more conversation, more sharing in the future. Most importantly, I learned something more about letting down walls. Sunday felt like the perfect mix of my enjoyment of playing in the kitchen, blending spices, creating the setting and then sharing with friends and letting other voices, other views help shape the meal. It was is if my understanding of sharing food had come to a new level. I love having people over, and I love feeding people, but the food is only the medium. For me cooking is like play, it is my joy and my gift. but I have to let others in. It would have probably been just as much fun if we'd had hot dogs and beans. Except that I probably wouldn't, well maybe hot dog goulash, which has been one of my favorite comfort foods since a college friend made it for me oh so many decades ago. In short it doesn't matter what the food is, just that it is shared.

Two of the pictures in this post were posted on Instagram yesterday. I'm not convinced I like cross-publishing, but I haven't worked out the details yet. I like the Instagram format, with photos as short snippets of life, combined with wordier posts here, but I also feel I need photos on the blog, so there is overlap. But there may or may not be overlap in audience, I'm not sure. I may never work that out. It seems life is often not as easily categorized as I might like.

November 5, 2018
Four Good Things, And A Minor Upset

I was a little under the weather last week. A close encounter with gluten, a cat bite, achy joints and muscle fog, a course of antibiotics, and the confirmation that I will be in the apartment another six months. Everything piled up on me and I took it a little harder than I would have expected. I was not really surprised by the delay. I knew that the original schedule could not be maintained, was not being maintained, but even then, it was an idea that I acknowledged only partially. And so, although not a shock, actual acknowledgement still felt like a minor upset, perhaps because I was already slightly out of sorts. The extended timeline came smack up with my own sense of what can be tolerated temporarily and what needs to be changed in order for me to be comfortable for the long haul.

Hence the past week also became a week of sorting. Of resettling, but also of reacquaintance with favorite things.

I have been in the apartment long enough to know what is not really working. The "not" was hitting hard last week, and, being an over thinker and an over-organizer, I suppose this is not surprising. I hadn't fully gotten myself settled before life got in the way and I allowed myself to get over-busy. What is over-busy after all, when you are already an over-thinker, and perhaps an over-organizer? Well, for someone like me, who tends toward too-muchness, who is often all in, or all out, they go hand in hand, busyness and organization, and when one is out of whack with the other, I flounder. Last week, already feeling under the weather, I was flopping around a bit, like a fish out of water, gasping for air. I often walk a fine line between my need for creativity and its attendant mess and my need for simplicity and organization. Last week a line broke and needed to be restrung.

There were good things too of course.

1. I've been cooking. I revisited a recipe from last spring, stuffed egg crepes, a kind of omelet filled with savory pork, topped here with some Acar Timun, a Javanese fresh pickle/salad. The pickle was left over from the night before, the first time I'd had people over for dinner. The brightness went well with the savoriness of the omelet, a kind of happy accident, a reminder of conversations and the sometimes surprising intersections of life.

2. I went to the symphony last weekend. I'll write more about that later. I will go to the opera this weekend and I need to thank a friend for egging me on. I love going to opera, the spectacle of it, the combination of staging plus music, but I don't often think to go. I don't think of opera in terms of music, but I do enjoy the experience itself, and perhaps that is something I need to think about more.

3. I read Donal Ryan's novel, From a Low and Quiet Sea, and it too, was about empathy (a theme this year in my Booker reading? Are there themes in Booker selections?). In this case the reader is drawn into the thoughts and experiments of three men, three men who are very different from each other, and very different from anything in my experience. The writing is beautifully evocative, and I felt a sense of kindness toward these men, and a beginning of understanding of something that I would once have found off-putting. Ryan brings connects us to the humanity of his characters through what is really a rather subtle, and often not particularly clear exploration. Perhaps because there is but one author, although I think this is actually more intentional, there is a commonality amid the differences in the voices, as if delineating a thread of commonality that exists in all humanity, despite the often radical differences in the ways our lives take shape. In the end the three lives are brought together in an intersection that leaves as many questions as it does answers, and yet it feels complete.

4. I have started taking Tikka back to our neighborhood in the late afternoons. It started as a happy accident, she was out with me for a ride while I picked up mail, and I noted how excited she was, leaping out of the car and dancing around her yard, eager to reacquaint herself with her neighborhood. We started making a habit of it, and now she dances at the door when it becomes time for our afternoon car ride and walk. Once we arrive, she sets the direction and the pace. I simply let her walk as much or as little as she desires. I am finding that I enjoy these afternoon strolls, short or long, as much as I enjoy my own morning walks. There is no agenda, no goal, simply time and place.

These are important things: Friends, family, place, food, music. But although my house, and my neighborhood are home, this place has to be home as well, not just a packing container on the road of life. And so it is time to finish settling in. I remember moving in with George, oh so many decades ago, and asking him why a particular thing was stored a particular way even though it was, to my way of thinking at least, incredibly inconvenient. His answer? "That's where we put it the day we moved in, and so it just stayed there". Nearly 35 years later I remain incredulous. I can happily never rearrange things once they work, but until then it is a process. Or perhaps I just see my relationship with space as just that, a relationship; a relationship to space, to time, and perhaps just to life and where I am in that life in any given moment. It is about not living your life waiting for the next stage but about being in this one.

October 25, 2018
Pity the Poor Missionaries — a September Review

Somehow my September felt a bit fractured.

I am not completely settled in the apartment even though I have been here two months. I am mostly unpacked, but things don't work the way I want, and there is still tweaking to be done. The work on the house got started and then stopped, mostly my own fault, as I made a change that halted progress in the short-run but makes far more sense for the long run. That decision also made more work for me, project work, not creative work, and ate heavily into my time and energy. But progress has resumed. The foundation for the addition went in last week. Hopefully the weather will cooperate and framing will begin this week.

September felt fractured not because of extra work, but because I decided to break some habits, to say no to the part of myself that is happy to take on everyone else projects at the expense of my own dreams. I thought it would be easier than it has in fact proven to be. It seems that relinquishing structure, although necessary, proved difficult. After all, decades of career choices have honed those organizational and managerial skills. One would think that, a decade into "retirement" I would be ready to follow my dreams; instead I was blindsided by how entrenched this instinct has become, this urge to take on projects, any project, rather than trust my inner self. I didn't really retire, I just took on other projects: acting general contractor at the old house, supervising George's care, serving on church vestry. I am the kind of person that, when I say yes to something, say it whole-heartedly, who gives 110% to the task at hand, who will take on everything that is needed.

But there is a toll, and I have come to the point where the price is too high. In this last project I also got burned, and my heart was broken. I realize that much of that pain has stemmed from my own crumbling walls, my own inability to separate my own personal "church and state", or my inner life from my involvement in worldly things. I realize that the last decade (or more actually) has involved a lot of soul searching, a lot of forgiveness and reconciliation, a lot of inner growth. The time had come to say no, not to my own dreams, but to all the obstacles I place in front of achieving them. Tackling projects, solving problems, organizing things, although all good and easily justified, also prove to be a very effective technique for avoiding self-doubt about my own dreams. After all, I have had decades to practice those avoidance techniques, and all under socially accepted guises. I am good at organizing things. I am good at solving problems. I don't know if I am any good at creative stuff. In fact I might suck at creativity; all the decades of avoidance may have seriously atrophied those creative muscles. The thought of finding out is kind of terrifying. But I have placed myself on this particular ledge, and there is no other choice but to step into the precipice. It should come as no surprise that the process of letting go might engender fear, and perhaps even a casual flirtation with depression.

But here I am, still standing. A little worse for wear perhaps, still kind of a newbie at trusting my creative instincts, but I also accept that I cannot, at this point go back, to do so would be to give in to fear. "Fear is the mind killer" is the mantra in Frank Herbert's novel, Dune. What, after all, is there to lose? Myself? Well perhaps that is a greater prize than all worldly definitions of success the world can throw at any one of us..

I might not have gotten as much done in September as I had hoped, but that is just fine. I need to remind myself that life is not about accomplishments checked off in the great ledger book in the sky. I didn't blog much, but well, we all have days when we have fewer words than others. I also didn't read much and that was a bit more of a surprise. I wrote briefly about The Mars Room here, and Candide here. Midwinter of the Spirit is the second in the Merrily Watkins series, and if Merrily flounders a bit, and struggles with her own head vs heart issues, I am in no position to judge.

I did spend quite a bit of time knitting. I don't have anything to show yet, but knitting is the one activity I am perfectly content not to rush through. The act of knitting itself is enough, and eventually progress happens. I am nearly finished knitting a shawl to match the red sweater I blocked in September, which is still not completed, but more about that later. And I started a prayer shawl one day when I simply needed something different. This prayer shawls simple repetition is more mindless than the red, which is not difficult, but does require balancing two yarns. Together, the two shawls, one for me and one to give away, have kept me entertained and calm.

And here it is, October already. I made keema matar last night, a dish teeming with childhood memories. My mom made keema matar for us when we were children, although we knew it as missionary curry. Apparently we refused to eat it the first time she made it so the next time she told us the peas were Missionary heads and missionary curry was born. How I loved missionary curry. How I loved gobbling up those peas, pretending I was a cannibal and devouring those missionary heads in the savory meat sauce. I was not particularly fond of peas in any other guise. Of course there was also the spectacle of the thing itself at my mother's table, the rice, the curry, the bowls of condiments. But the spectacle is best for sharing; alone I took a simpler approach, equally delicious.

My approach to the curry has also evolved. My keema matar today no longer tastes quite like the memory of my mother's, although that was my initial goal. I also no longer need to reimagine the peas as missionary heads, although the memory does make me smile. Those warm memories are a good thing — memories of family meals yes, but also memories of imagination and play, dreams of exotic places, and terrible things made safe and familiar, warm and nourishing.

October 2, 2018
Making Soup with Mom

Mom wants to try my carrot-greens soup. I made a batch at home recently and had it for lunch with some ground pork sautéed with chili powder. Apparently I sloshed the soup carrying it to the table.

I told her that I would make it if we could find good carrot greens, and we did find carrots with nice greens. I pretty much dismantled the entire carrot display at her local Sprouts finding the best two bunches, those with nice looking carrots and nice looking greens. But I did put everything back once I had retrieved my prize.

Yesterday we made the soup.

First we sautéed onion and the minced carrot stems.

While the onions softened, mom grated two carrots and minced some garlic. We let everything soften in a bit of dairy-free butter, although I sometimes use chicken fat, ghee, or olive oil at home, depending on my mood,

Then we added the chicken stock and the chopped carrot leaves. I've learned from years of experience that it takes a lot of washing and spinning to get all the grit out of carrot leaves.

When the soup was done and had cooled, we tried pureeing it, which was an adventure, as mom does not have a blender. She does have a food processor, but its highest setting is chop, and it does not seal tightly. It is not meant for pureeing soup. My first attempt was a bit of. mess, with green soup leaking out everywhere. But I figured it out. The soup was more of finely minced bits of vegetable in broth than a pureed soup, and greens are a bit stringier than I like to crunch on. Pureed is better.

Mom wasn't sure what she thought. Frankly neither was I. She thought we should buy a blender, but I was reluctant to have her buy a blender for a soup she might not even like, a blender she would otherwise never use, so we slept on it. We were going to my brother's for dinner anyway.

This morning I found mom's magic bullet and pureed a cup of soup in that, which worked very well, and the soup was vastly improved. Mom thought the magic bullet wasn't working, but really, only something was jammed in it, and it now works fine. I recognize that the flavor is very much something I think of as "green", a rich savory green, but green nonetheless, and it may not be her thing. I also recognize that the boxed stock we used does not contribute the mouthfeel of my own collagen-rich homemade chicken broth. That can be solved by cooking the soup with unflavored gelatin, or pureeing it with a bit of unflavored collagen protein powder I suppose. But I also admit that although my morning cup of soup was good, I like the soup far better with the added pork as it adds complexity and rich contrast of flavors and texture.

We will reheat the soup for dinner tonight with the added pork and I'll see what mom thinks,

August 28, 2018
Endless Reconfigurations: the kitchen chronicles.

While I am not yet fully settled, everything is unpacked except for the sewing room. The apartment is functional and livable even, although there is still art to be hung on the wall and a couple of corners where things are piled up, waiting for me to figure out the best storage/use options. But the kitchen is operational, and increasingly more efficiently so.

I was cooking the day after I moved in, jumping right in and filling the space with fragrances that speak to me of comfort and home. I started with the idea of my grandmother's tomato sauce swirling in my thoughts, but I modified it to fit current circumstances. Rather than simmering it for hours on the stovetop and adding meatballs, I made it in the slow cooker with a lovely chuck roast that had been kicked out of its previous freezer allotment. This required a slight modification of the fluid ratios, as slow cookers do not concentrate the liquid in the same way as a pan simmer would. Rather than cooking it for 4 hours, I started with 12, and ended up cooking everything for 18 hours. I had three quarts of sauce, two of which were frozen, and a wonderful pile of meat which saw me through several meals, including in a wonderful Sunday brunch of pot-roast hash with eggs.

I've also been to the farmer's market twice, which means I have been cooking, or at least eating in, because there have been a few meals built around salads and simple soups. Although I mostly ate out during the two weeks I was packing and preparing to move, I did make 20 quarts of beef stock, in 3 quart batches in the slow cooker, simply because I had a batch of bones in the freezer, and it is more efficient to store the stock. I had ambitiously purchased a bulk package of beef bones in the late winter because I tend to use 3 -4 quarts of stock a week, but I'll probably stick to smaller packages in the future. I don't have space in the freezer while I am in the apartment, so that makes sense. Even when I return home however, I may forgo the bulk package and buy smaller packs, at least as long as I have a local supplier of grass-fed bones. It makes sense to save freezer space for things that must be procured seasonally or ordered in, hence making larger quantities feasible. I will have to think it through as I am definitely the kind of person who would weigh the options: considering any savings from buying in bulk rather than small packages; the cost of an additional freezer; as well as a cost in time and effort for procuring supplies. But that is months away and not worth fretting over now.

The increased time in the kitchen has not been without its frustrations, however, in that it seems that each time I cook I hit some logistical problem. The kitchen has been configured and reconfigured multiple times. I suppose the kitchen is a microcosm of what is going on the the rest of the apartment, but in overdrive, because cooking is so central to my own sense of home and happiness. I may have finally gotten it right as I've gone several days now with nary a glitch. There are still some things that don't have homes, and I am still in the process of sorting out storage, but at this point we are only talking minor refinements.

Part of that process has been adding over-the-door racks, like the one above, and another in the closet I am using for pantry, bar, and miscellaneous storage. I didn't have enough baskets the first time around, and I was not surprised by that as I needed to see how everything actually worked in the space, so I have ordered more baskets and am now waiting. I admit that I have more cooking stuff than many, and I use my sous-vide set up and my slow cooker multiple times weekly so they need to be accessible, but I have come to a far greater admiration for people who cook complex meals in truly tiny kitchens.

The complex has a grilling area, so I grilled a steak one day. Actually I cooked it sous-vide to perfectly halfway between rare and medium because the thing was nearly two inches thick and it is hard to get a steak that thick just right on the grill. I simply seared it briefly on the grill. The steak was so big that it lasted me for several meals, including another salad.

Another day I made peanut soup, west-african peanut crusted chicken kabobs and a salad, and that prompted a bit of an organizational melt-down, as I was tripping over myself, my pots, and various other equipment. However, the food was good and the experience really helped focus my attention on what works and why, another reason I think I am close to finalizing the kitchen arrangement. As I grow happier in the kitchen, I grow happier in general, and it is a contented kind of settling in.

A more successful, at least in terms of kitchen functionality was a batch of an anglo-Indian style Beet and Tomato soup. I got the recipe from Madhur Jaffrey's World of the East Vegetarian Cookbook, and I've been making it regularly since my 20s. The cookbook is now falling apart and is kept together with rubber bands, and my version is no longer true to Jaffrey's, but I like to think it maintains the same spirit.

I served it in my grandmother's vaseline glass bowl with some seared shrimp.. I am already thinking of what soup I will make next. I procured some fabulous carrots complete with a bounty of greens, so perhaps it is time for carrot greens soup. That tends to be another market-season favorite, mostly because it is the only way to find nice carrot greens.

I am getting hungry already.

As you can see from this past Saturday's market haul, there have been more salads, but also spaghetti squash and zucchini which I turned into zoodles. I've come late to summer cooking, as I was mostly preoccupied with other things in the earlier part of the summer, but I am thoroughly enjoying the process now. The process of cooking connects me to my better self, to family, to youth, to joy, despite the fact that it is often actually work, or is because of that? Spending time in the kitchen reminds me of the girl I once was, and still am, the girl who baked cookies and cakes for her dorm-mates every exam week. Cooking, and baking, although I do less of that now, always reminds me of the good things in life.

August 16, 2018
Self Sufficiency

There are days when being an independent self-sufficient adult is really annoying, days when you just want to roll over and say "Go away world."

(dried fruit for mostarda)

Monday was one of those days although the weekend had started off really well.

I had decided to do some cooking, and although I often make simple meals for myself during the week, I find cooking for one to be far more tedious than I found cooking for two. I love it when I have an excuse to spend a day or two in the kitchen, and this weekend was one such occasion. I needed to make vegetarian chili (yay! feeding people!) , and since I was in the kitchen anyway, I decided to work on several things: a few pantry staples and a few more time-consuming things for myself.

Friday and Saturday were shopping days. Saturday morning is farmer's market time anyway, and what I see in the stands tends to inspire and inform a lot of what happens in the kitchen. Saturday night, inspired to clean out the freezer, I started a batch of chicken stock in the slow cooker and shredded up some leftover cooked chicken to make a Burmese dish, Kyethar Ngayakethee Kyaw, or shredded crispy chicken.

chili paste, frozen in 2 tablespoon portions

I had several projects in mind for Sunday: I toasted whole chiles, simmered them briefly, and left them to soak while I went to church. When I returned home I made chili paste, reserving some for the vegetarian chili and freezing the remainder in 2 tablespoon portions. Then I started on a Mostarda. I had a pile of dried fruit left over from earlier in the month, so I cut that up and simmered it in sweet vermouth, which may not be traditional but was already in the pantry, while I cut up the fresh fruit. After that was out of the way, I started the vegetarian chili, and once everything was in the pot, I boned out a lovely pork shoulder I had found at the farmer's market, salting the meat and putting it in the refrigerator overnight, with the intention of making carnitas on Monday.

Monday's plan was to deliver the chili (I had my share for breakfast with an egg), make the carnitas, make a simple ground beef chili, for those days I was too rushed or tired to cook, and to make a chilled cucumber soup. Hopefully I would also take a bicycle ride.

But then everything fell apart.

It poured Sunday night. I didn't think much about it except that Tikka refused to go outside. I continued working in the kitchen, finding the sound of the rain outside the windows soothing somehow. It proved to be a false sense of peace. I strained the chicken stock and put it in the refrigerator so I could let it sit overnight before removing the fat and packaging it for the freezer, then I went upstairs, thinking I had time to read before bed. I saw a puddle in the doorway to the bedroom, and initially I was annoyed with Tikka, who had refused to go out in the rain. I quickly realized that the puddle extended around half of my bedroom and was far too big for Tikka to have made it. I ran downstairs to the laundry room for extra towels. While I was downstairs I looked in the unfinished half of the basement, where a flooding problem arose over the winter, and which the contractor has not yet come back to fix. Admittedly this is at least partially because we were unsure of the cause, and since there has been little rain, I have had no reason to push. That scenario has now changed.

I had more water in the basement than I have had before, although the there was very little water in the laundry room itself. At least one leak had been fixed. Back upstairs. After soaking 10 towels and hauling them back down to the laundry, I noticed that there was water at the bedroom windowsill, but it didn't look soaked. My bedroom floor was soaked however, including the carpet and the pad. I hauled a drying rack upstairs to get the curtains off the floor so they could dry, and went back downstairs, where I saw that I also had a flood in the dining room. Luckily there is no carpet there yet, and the floor is polyurethaned. I took towels from the dryer, mopping up that water, put the second load of towels in the dryer, and the third load in the wash. Then I looked around at the basement walls.

The basement is below grade and I noticed that in both rooms, the finished laundry rooms and the unfinished area, the water was not coming in at the windows. They were perfectly dry. It seemed like it was seeping through the cinder block. I had an awful lot of water, but it was contained on a painted cinder block shelf that circumnavigates the perimeter. There was nothing more that could be done right then and I was about to collapse with exhaustion, so I went to bed. It was 2 AM.

Monday morning I awoke at my normal time, still exhausted, and would have much rather stayed in bed, but I couldn't. I realized that although I had mopped up as much water as I could the night before, the floors still felt wet, and the carpet was sodden around the fringes of nearly half the room. It is my house, my choice, and there is no one to fix things except me.

The upstairs floors have not yet been refinished, and the old wood felt like it had just absorbed some of the water. I packed up my sewing project so I could use the cutting table for clothes storage, emptied my dresser, stacking everything on the cuttiing table, and tried to move the dresser out of the corner. It is an incredibly heavy piece, but it was holding the carpet down and the area all around it was heavy with water. I was struggling to get enough purchase to get sliding disks under the legs so I could move it, but it was too close to the corner, the carpet was thick and swollen, and I didn't seem to have the strength. Just as I was about to give up, just as I called a friend to come help me move the dresser, I figured out how to do it, and I got the dresser across the room. I was inordinately proud of myself. It didn't look like there was any water on the bottom of the dresser itself, or underneath it, the water had just spread through the rug with capillary action. I hadn't thought of it previously, but of course a wool rug will hold a tremendous amount of water.

After turning back all the carpets, I went to Target to buy oscillating fans. And then the next stage of my adventure occurred. I was on the road, heading home, when I heard "thwack, thwack, crash, bang, rumble bumble, thud thud and my windshield wiper went flying across the road and hit a car going the opposite direction. Bye-bye windshield wiper. It was raining again, and of course, the flying wiper was from the driver's side of the car.

I assembled three fans and set them up in the bedroom to help dry out the carpet and floor. I also turned the A/C down to 65 upstairs, mostly because I thought the extra air flow could help, and because I wanted to discourage any mold or mildew growth. Tikka seems to think I've made this special place just for her. You can't tell in the picture above, but she is in the sweet spot between two oscillating fans. She looks like she is in pomsky heaven, in a cold room with cold air blowing on her.

Then I went downstairs to start moving stuff and mopping up water from the basement. Or at least that was my intention. When I got to the dryer I saw a snake in the corner. Not a big snake, just a rat snake, but not a tiny snake either, about 1 1/2 times the length of my foot. My foot is 10 inches long, in shoes. Back upstairs, out to the garage for a hoe and perhaps a pitchfork. I didn't want to hurt the snake, but I did want to get him out of the corner and out of the house, and I didn't want to be all that friendly. I'm really not frightened of snakes, but still, sometimes I do have to battle my own princess instincts. Perhaps I was just really tired. None of this is tragic stuff, just annoying. Seeing no prince on the horizon, I coaxed the snake onto my fork and happily settled him outside.

A daylily that decided to bloom on Monday. I don't remember its name.

By that time the rain appeared to have stopped and I needed to deliver the chili. While I drove it started to drizzle again, but luckily my drive was short, only 3 miles or so. I had to stop every couple of blocks to get out and wipe my windshield so I could see, but the rain finally did stop on my way back home, at least temporarily. I am now carless, at least as long as it rains, at least until I can safely get to a shop and get a new windshield wiper.

I tried to take a nap, but couldn't settle down. It made more sense to do something, so I packaged chicken stock and took it to the freezer, then drained the liquid from the fruit, boiled it down to a syrup and returned it to the bowl to macerate for another 24 hours. I went upstairs, but couldn't read. I puttered at my desk, and as I looked up and out, through the condensation filled panes (remember the upstairs is cold) I was somehow captured by the magic of that contrast. The silvery panes of condensation looked like little doorways, some promised reward hidden behind each one. I noticed in the perimeters that the rain had stopped and the sky was beginning to clear. I realized that this is just a hiccup.

I think I know what the problem was. It was just a conflagration of events. We had over 2 inches of rain in a couple of hours, at least according to my trusty 5-inch rain gauge. I think the gutter on that side of the house was overwhelmed. There is obviously a drainage issue, and it may well be underground. I do have the gutters cleaned regularly, but there is a problem in that area of the yard, probably with the buried portion of the drainpipe. The basement walls in that area were wet. Everything that touched them was wet. The rooms are all stacked in a line above that area of wet walls and sodden soil, of a drain pipe that perhaps doesn't drain properly and may well back up. I don't know if something went wrong the last time the gutters were cleaned and cleared, or if there was something happening that just finally gave way recently. I suspect the latter, I suspect there was an issue there before I bought the house, but it was more minor. It is no longer minor. And yet understanding a problem, even just the beginnings of understanding, as I may be wrong, offers hope. With hope comes determination, and with determination a renewal of resolve and energy.

Refreshed and energized, I started cooking the carnitas. I hauled stuff around the basement yet again. I sopped up water and washed towels and sopped up more water. I assembled the last fan and started it running in the basement. I didn't put away my clean clothes. I have no place to put them. I am tired of stuff piled up everywhere. I want to put stuff away and have it stay there. I want everything to work the way I want it to work. But don't we all?

This too will pass. Such a cliché, such yet such truth. Would life be happier and more rewarding if nothing ever went wrong? Well, I'd certainly like to imagine it, but I suspect not. I'd grow bored, complacent even; unhappiness would creep in anyway. Happiness grows out of meaningful work, out of connection to others and to the physicalness of life itself. What if life is really like those little fogged-over panes of glass? What if what we think is reality is really just obscured, a story we tell ourselves in order to survive, and the truth is around the edges, mostly unnoticed. What if we only see when we are outside of ourselves, outside of our routines, outside of our perfect little rituals and habits?

I would, however, like to sleep tomorrow.

May 29, 2018
Five Things on a Beautiful May Friday

This week has gotten away from me a bit, and the challenge for today is to see if I can get this "five things" post written and posted before the day is done, and maybe still get a post up tomorrow. It may be wishful thinking, but I've always liked a challenge.

1. I bought a bike. I spent last Saturday trying to ride my old bike and keep air in the tires, neither very successfully. I fell repeatedly and at one point wondered if should even be trying, but I also realized three things: 1). The bike was old and probably not rideable. 2). The gears were stuck somewhere around 8th or 9th gear and I couldn't unstick them enough to get myself up the hill in my driveway. 3). My old, circa 1980 racing style touring bike was probably not the best bike for me to be riding at this particular point in my relearning process. I took the old bike into a shop to see if it could be repaired and came out with a new bike. I realized that my insistence on riding the old bike was actually hampering my progress. The new bike is exactly what I need right now. I've been riding it. At first, I didn't even make it around the block. Apparently riding a bike uses muscles I've neglected for a decade or two. I was terrified of speed because I was still terrified of falling, I couldn't quite figure out the gears so that I was in control of the bike instead of the bike being in control of me, and I wobbled all over the place. At the same time, I was exhilarated and thrilled. I can't remember being so excited about any new project in such a long time. I was out on the bike twice a day every day at the beginning of the week. I didn't go far, but I came home exhausted and happy. As I'd stagger up the steps into my house I was already dreaming of my next ride. Each morning I would go for my normal walk of a couple of miles in length, then get on the bike, mostly because I learned I couldn't walk after riding the bike. This morning however, I went for a whole loop, roughly 2 miles, my first real excursion that I can actually call a ride. I had to get off a couple of time when my legs refused to go further up a hill, and I had to walk the bike up the final stretch of one steeper hill (but still not very steep) after I misjudged my gear shift, lost my footing, and fell into a forced dismount. But I did it. I was terrified coming down the steep hill after the final turn toward my house and I had to fight the urge to ride the breaks, terrified I would have to stop and not be able to, terrified I would kill myself. I can happily report I returned home safely. I climbed the stairs to my office and this computer. I can't wait to ride again tomorrow.

I want to keep riding. I want to fix the old bike and when I get steadier see if I can ride it, see if I want to tackle longer rides. When I was young I thought nothing of going 20 or 30 miles on my bike. I may or may not ever be there again, but I am looking forward to the adventure. Oh, and now that I know I can actually ride even a short loop, perhaps it is time to start alternating walking and riding days.

2. The pink camellia behind the house is doing beautifully since I had the river birch taken down. It bloomed but looked rather sad and I suspected that it was in too much shade. This spring, with the long period of cool weather and the increased sun it has filled out and grown phenomenally. You can see it behind the irises in the photo above. Unfortunately it is right next to the deck, meaning it is right in the middle of the proposed construction site. Finding it a new home, either permanent or temporary, for any plants in this area I want to save (irises and camellias etc) is now becoming a priority.

3. I posted a photo of the Cora Louise peony on Instagram earlier this week. I took another photo this morning, where I thought I captured the color just a little more clearly.

4. Breakfast this morning, or brunch I suppose since it was after 11 by the time I stopped to eat. Avocado, and egg salad topped with hot-smoked salmon on a small, salad sized plate.

5. I went to see the musical Beautiful: The Carole King Story, with a friend last Sunday afternoon and I had an absolutely marvelous time. I love the sets, the colors, the acting, the music, absolutely everything. It was a happy event that made me want to sing and dance and smile for the rest of the day. The show was like sping, something joyous and hopeful and inspiring, just what I needed on a Sunday afternoon. Carole King's album Tapestry came out just before I entered high school, but I didn't really discover her until I was in college, where many of my friends had all her albums. It was a period of great musical discovery for me: Carole King, bluegrass, rock, Talking Heads, King Crimson, early punk, jazz, swing dances, Hindemith and Phillip Glass, and although the musical was about King and her music, not my other explorations, it still reminded me of that time, of that sense of the joy of song of music and the idea that music itself could change the world.

But I also admit that I also struggled afterwards with the fact that I enjoyed Beautiful more than I enjoyed Aida, and in simply writing the above paragraph I have written more about the musical than I did about the opera. I recognize that this struggle reflects some kind of acquired parental, societal, and cultural bias that I don't actually believe has any basis in reality, but which still occasionally raises its ugly head in my consciousness. I did enjoy Aida, but I admittedly didn't love it. I'm not convinced that is the fault of the performance. As I said, the Choral Society gave the best performance I have heard, and the soloists were good as well, but they occasionally were quashed by the poor acoustics of the hall, well all of them except the baritone perhaps. In retrospect it was that problem with acoustics that hampered my experience. I understand why the performance was held in the Civic Auditorium — they needed the space on stage. And I'm not certain my experience of the sound was shared by those around me, as many of my near neighbors seemed very happy with the performance. I felt the performance often sounded muddied, which is more the fault of the venue than the artists themselves, enough so that I am not eager to go to another opera performance in that particular venue. I'd rather hear sparkling sound at the Tennessee Theater than muddied sound waves at the Civic Auditorium. But then again, I know this is my own bias, the same bias that showed up in the early days of my marriage when I was the one that was constantly turning off the radio when static would invade the airwaves. It never bothered George, but it ruined the sound for me, rendering the musical completely unlistenable. Mea culpa

I have no music scheduled this weekend, but the sun is shining and I shall see friends, spend time in the garden and on my bicycle. Grand adventure always awaits. What delights will your weekend bring?

May 11, 2018
In The Kitchen With Thai

The last week of April, while I was still recovering from my cold/sinus-explosion, I spent some time in the kitchen cooking Thai food. The experiment was prompted by the book Simple Thai Food, which was the April selection for the Food52 Cookbook Club. I wrote about my first foray, simple egg crepes stuffed with pork, here. But I continued trying recipes from the book, just barely squeezing in with four dishes by the end of the month. It was a fun month, and I enjoyed everything I made; not a failure in the bunch, although I did like some things better than others, and I've already made the egg crepes more than once. One advantage of that recipe, if you are cooking for one, is that the filling can be made in advance and simply reheated to add to fresh egg crepes for subsequent meals. That may not be the Thai way of doing things, but it works in my life.

So I recommend Leela Punyaratabandhu's cookbook. Her instructions are clear, and many, if not most, of the recipes are simple and easy to prepare. Nothing I made took as long as half an hour, although one or two things required some advance planning, and everything was, as stated above, very good. I would say that the book is well worth adding to my collection of Thai books, shown above. Of these books, Leela's may well prove to be the one I use the most frequently as her instructions are clear and she makes the process very accessible. I love David Thompson's books, and there are many similarities between Leela's recipes and David's, at least when they overlap, but there are also a lot of recipe variations in Simple Thai Food that are not in my other cookbooks. Besides, although I have cooked from Thompson's books, and will again, his recipes are not always clear to the beginner or cook who is unfamiliar with Thai food. Many recipes are time consuming, although perhaps thoroughly authentic, (I can't really say as I have not yet been to Thailand), and instructions are written for a cook who possesses a pretty high level of skill before he/she even opens the book. Still, Thompson offers the best reference available.

But what did I cook? Apparently a lot of chicken, as it was what I had on hand. Chicken Ginger Stir-Fry, pictured above was fast and excellent. I used dried wood-ear mushrooms, as I keep them on hand, and they did require soaking. You can use fresh mushrooms if you prefer and Leela explains what kinds of mushrooms work and why. I soaked the wood ears while I took Tikka for her walk, but they can probably be soaked while you prep the ingredients, or even earlier in the day and set aside until time to cook. This was the only meal I served with rice, which would be more authentic, but, much as I love rice, I don't eat it very often.

I also made Chicken with Chile Jam, which was very good as well, but it probably ranked 4th of the four meals I made. I loved the combination of flavors, but felt I might have preferred less onion. This could have been simply due to my stove, which doesn't really go to high, difficult for stir-frying, and I felt the onion should be cooked more. But I also think I might prefer to replace some of the onion with bell pepper. I'm not worried if this is what a Thai grandma would do, but it would work for me, and this could be as much because I did not serve it with rice, and most Thai dishes of this sort are served as accompaniment to rice. Anyway, it is a really simple dish with a high flavor profile, that is not necessarily hot, but can be adapted to taste. Leela also includes a recipe for Chili Jam, or Nam Prik Pau. This is available in oriental markets, and there are several varieties in my market, most of which are gluten-free, but her recipe is also good, very similar in terms of content to David Thompson's above, but with simple, clear instructions that make the process understandable to the regular non-Thai cook. I like making my own because I can regulate the quality of the ingredients.

Perhaps my favorite dish, or second-favorite dish (I'm pretty fond of those crepes) was for salmon in red curry. I did plan to serve that dish with rice, but the sauce was so yummy that I ended up just putting my salmon and sauce in a shallow soup plate and eating up my sauce with a spoon. I'm sure my grandmother would be shocked, but hey, it is my kitchen. I served it with a spicy apple salad, that is much like a green mango salad, which I've been making for a few years now. I didn't take a picture of that, but the recipe is from Leela's blog, shesimmers.com.

Simple Thai Food is a good addition to my collection. The other cookbooks shown above all stay, and I would have to say that at this point, a new cookbook would have to offer something noticeably different before I would consider it. Punyaratabandhu offers a unique voice, and truly supplies simple recipes that are big on Thai taste. Unlike a lot of cookbooks that claim to offer simple Thai food for western cooks, this book seems more authentically Thai. Cooking from this book is much like having a Thai sister in the kitchen, one who understands the pressures and stresses of modern Western life, one who takes the time to meld tradition with convenience.

As to the other books, I consider Pok Pok to be unique unto itself, Thai and yet also a chef's cookbook. I didn't like the restaurant much, but I love cooking from the cookbook, although I admit that most things are somewhat adapted due to my own gluten-issues. Still it has changed my way of cooking and my understanding of food. Dancing Shrimp and It Rains Fishes, both by the same author, focus primarily on fish and seafood. It Rains Fishes is really more a story about a culture, lifestyle and an approach to food with a few recipes, than it is a solid cookbook. I don't cook from either one a great deal, but I've learned a great deal from both of them, and can't imagine not having them.

In the spirit of one-in, one-out, I did release one cookbook from captivity in my cabinet. Keo's Thai Cuisine was the first Thai cookbook I ever used, and I've held on to it for a long time. This is where I learned to make Tom Kai Gai, Tom Yam, and chicken lap. But I no longer use Keo's recipes for those dishes and I held on to the book mostly for sentiment's sake. That is no reason, and it's space on the shelf has been relinquished.

The only dish from Keo Sananikone's cookbook that I still make is Evil Jungle Prince, but that too has evolved to the extent that my current version is nothing like the original, although I have retained Keo's name for the dish. Long ago I started adding my shredded cabbage to the dish itself and simmering it together with the sauce and chicken, rather than serving the dish on a bed of cabbage. This makes the dish more of a one plate meal, especially since I increased the quantity of cabbage in lieu of serving this over rice. Then, after I discovered I had celiac disease I could never find a gluten-free version of Thai yellow bean sauce, so I substituted Nam Prik Pau, which completely changes the dish, although it does not make it less Thai. And yet I retain the name. This is somewhat keeping with family tradition. My mom made a Country Captain which is nothing like the original Southern dish called Country Captain. I didn't discover the truth until I was somewhere in my 20's. I still make my family version and think of it as the true "country captain", just as I will always think of Keema Matar as "Missionary Curry", and believe that matzo brei should be cooked in bacon grease. My own Evil Jungle Prince is the version of choice, the prince I want in my kitchen.

I suppose what we all think of as authentic is what our mothers and grandmothers cooked.

May 3, 2018