Thought Revolution

by

Independence Day looked a bit different this year. The ultimate mid-summer holiday, the 4th of July is officially the day we celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence, our liberation from British rule: the birth of our own nation. Those fireworks we set off represent the guns and cannons that got us here through grassroots revolution. Our national anthem too refers to our flag flying over the ramparts, lit up by the light of rockets and bombs bursting as our enemy attacked our fortress. Our country was born out of the fight against oppression and the shackles of an authority that limited our freedom.

The celebrations in our neighborhood were quieter this year, the beaches closed to revelers, the firework displays canceled due to the continued spread of the COVID-19 virus. The stay-at-home orders over the past few months, like the grounding of a willful teenager, have given us time and clarity to look past our distractions and see the real problems at home. As people fired up their barbecues, I believe this Independence Day found many of us thoughtful about the way we have let ourselves down as a nation. Thoughtful reflection is indeed what we need as we continue to fight the battle for freedom within our own borders. We don’t have an outside threat to rally against: we must look inside ourselves to find both the cause and the solution.

In a country that fought for the right to worship and live freely we must recognize our responsibility to ensure those freedoms for one another. We must not dishonor those who sacrificed their lives for those ideals, nor those who have died because the nation has lost its way. The battle we must fight now will not be won by cannons and rockets but by recognition of the many freedoms denied our own people, and by changing laws, policies and institutions that allow those wrongs to continue.

Instead of shooting at an outside enemy, let us listen to the voices we have shut out, and learn the best way forward. Let us be mindful in our reflections and let our flag be illuminated not by rockets, but by truth and by the passion for justice and equality we want it to reflect. Let us not hide behind ramparts that stop us from creating a country safe for all of our people. Let us be brave in a new way, to ensure that our flag will soon fly over the land of the truly free.

Leaps of Faith

by

Coming in from my daily walk, I shut the door behind me a little harder than intended. Somewhat frantically I peel off my Hawaiian-print mask and drop it in the bag of contaminated-clothes, destined to be washed in hot soapy water later tonight. I take a deep barrier-free breath. My shoes come off next and then I scrub my hands before touching anything else in the house. Home has always been a refuge to me, but these days it is even more so. The world outside feels surreal. With the beach closed, neighbors walk briskly in the streets and on the sidewalks, taking a wide berth around one another. In a matter of weeks, wearing masks has become the socially acceptable look, communicating respect for the rules and an effort to protect each other from whatever unknown germs we may be carrying. As a result, I surprise myself with sudden flares of anger at those who walk unmasked, and those who cross the invisible barrier to the sand, flaunting restrictions designed to protect the public health.

It is all so unsettling. I make sure to get out in the fresh air for my sanity and health but am always very relieved to get home. Re-entering the comfort of my little house pulls me back from the alarm I feel when I am outside: the alarm triggered by the obvious reminders that a virus has single handedly brought our man-made world to its knees.

We like to believe we have control over our lives, over the future. We like to believe we have tamed nature, but this virus has reminded us all of our vulnerability. The world is humbled by the ferocity of nature’s sheer disregard for humanity, and our plans and visions for the future have been forced to change.

 As we step back to weather this storm, by necessity our focus has shifted to meeting the basic needs of society. Our efforts have turned to making sure our children are fed, our neighbors are safe, our work force is paid, our essential workers protected. While children and pets revel in bonus time with their families, no one minimizes what a stay-at-home mom does anymore, teachers are seen for the superheroes they are, and hairdressers are missed with a fierce passion. A light is now shining on the value of so much that had been taken for granted before.

While nature flexes its muscle outside, when I walk through that door I come home to a place where I can focus on what’s important.  I don’t have the energy for those big projects that we all thought we would be tackling when stuck at home. I haven’t written my book or finished my quilt. In the midst of this global pandemic I find that there is little energy for anything that is not critical to our basic needs right now: cooking, communication, caring, community. These were always my strengths while bringing up my family, but I tried to fit them in around doing something “more important.” Now they take a central role. I am in almost constant communication with those I love, near and far, as we support each other. I make masks for friends and family so they can get out safely. I have learned an astonishing amount of technology to be able to do tai chi and play mah jong online with my 93 year-old mom, confined to her room, and to provide essentials and kindle books to my equally sequestered mother-in-law. I care for myself and the world through meditation and laughter and those daily walks.

But mainly, I cook.

Creating comfort in the kitchen is not new to me: having grown up with a mom who taught me well I went on to hone my skills at a French cooking school in my 20’s. Offering fresh baked goods and a warm meal is how I express myself, and how I process life. It makes me happy that with so many of us confined to our homes the kitchen is having a Moment. Kitchens are a lovely source of nurturing and sustenance.

The kitchen is also my favorite place to harness the beauty and wonder of nature. This has taken on new importance in the face of nature’s more recent fearful manifestations. Cooking is my answer to the dark side of what we cannot control; it is a cooperative venture with the natural world. My kitchen has always been a meeting place of science and love: nutrients provided by farm grown vegetables, the chemistry as heat transforms batters into cakes and raw meats into tender stews, and the remarkable magic of fermentation when good bacteria create gifts for the body. On any given day in my kitchen – not just now, but always – there is a linen covered bowl of sourdough bread rising in a warm corner, or milk culturing in my yogurt maker. There are jars of amethyst sauerkraut fermenting, made from red cabbage and radishes and garlic and salt, and a tray of seeds sprouting into bundles of goodness to supplement our diets.

These ultimately delicious nature-harnessing projects require more than just counter space: they call for patience and a leap of faith. Patience, because time is the most essential ingredient. Time is critical, allowing the raw materials to transform into something entirely new, with nutrients, flavors and textures that feed our bodies and spirits.

The need for a leap of faith is perhaps a bit more complex. It is not obvious that the smelly sticky mixture of flour, water and wild yeast I feed every day will eventually become a crusty fragrant loaf of bread. It requires a leap of faith. Faith too is required to trust that the milk in the yogurt-maker won’t spoil but will instead become tangy and delicious. We need faith to believe that the vegetables and salt I packed into jars will transform over 3 weeks into pickled goodness, a version of which virtually every culture in the world claims as a sustaining part of their diet. And faith to believe the tray of tiny seeds will sprout and reach up to the light, bursting with vitamins. In each case, it feels like a little miracle that time and nature create something that is more delicious, more nutrient packed and more digestible than the original ingredients.

The true leap of faith though, during this time of fear and uncertainty, is the faith required to believe that we will be here tomorrow to enjoy the fruits of today’s labor. The truth is that we never really know, and the daily headlines make that clearer still.  I remind myself daily to live in the present so as not to waste the beauty or pain of any given moment. Yet there is a kind of magic in the glorious blind leap of faith we take when we plant seeds today that will flourish sometime in the future. There is a life affirming imperative that drives us to invest energy in a goodness yet to come. 

Today I think about how humanity is stepping back to allow a powerful force of nature have its way. This latest reminder of nature’s dominance over our own imagined sense of control leaves us in no doubt as to the limitations of our role in the natural world. When the virus moves on, spent, leaving us to pick up the pieces, we don’t know what the aftermath will be. As we grieve our tremendous losses we will face challenges in industry, social structures and how we organize our lives.

In the midst of these unknowns, I come back to the little beacons of hope on my kitchen counter, reminders of the ways we quietly put our energies toward future good. I marvel at nature’s continued gifts: the inevitability of spring, the birdsong outside my window and limes ripening on my tree, the sandpipers and seagulls that gather at the beach whether we are there to watch or not. I remember how in the face of hardship we have tended to one another, we have turned towards each other. I think of how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly in the hidden confines of his cocoon, and I wonder what changes our humbled humanity is undergoing within our own. I allow myself a leap of faith that after this time we will emerge transformed, somehow enriched; that we will have evolved throughout this experience of nature in her most terrifying and most beautiful forms.

Becoming Unstuck

by

Stuck at home in early December with a cold, I found myself too cranky and restless to just curl up with a good book and get better. When my eye fell on that overflowing underwear drawer I’d been telling myself I’d clean out one of these days, I dumped the contents on my bed and impatiently sorted through the jumble. Half of it went into a bag to go, and half went back into the drawer, which glided closed easily now. Inside my chest, a little space cracked open and I took a deep breath. My irritation only slightly diminished, I grabbed the next drawer. Then I opened my computer and with a sense of reckless abandon I deleted hundreds of emails with sales and promo-codes I had saved “just in case.” My crankiness had not yet abated but now it had a focus. All the clutter that had accumulated while I was out living life had to go. I turned my agitation to the daunting piles on my desk: a paper trail documenting a year that had come out swinging and hadn’t let up until December.

Clearing out the kind of debris left behind from a year like this one is a messy, dangerous endeavor. The contents erupt like volcanos from the tight spaces where they had been stashed. To-do lists, notes preparing for events long over, urgent tasks since passed, plane tickets from trips taken: little minefields of memories and emotions. No one likes to go there: it takes courage to face the mess. I would rather go for a walk, please. But I was sick, stuck at home and it was time to let go and clear some space on my desk and in my heart.

There at the bottom of one pile was a To-Do list that gave me pause: detailed work ideas, goals, plans I hardly recognized. Though definitely penned by my own hand, it was as if some other person had written the words. I stared at that scrap of paper a long time. I am no longer that person. The year I envisioned in that list would have molded me a certain way, yet who I am today was created by some other plan.

It seems that 2019 was the year I was going to run my first 5K in a powerful comeback from breast cancer, the year I was going to build a business and take control of my life. Instead, 2019 was bookended by the loss of two deeply loved friends, and filled with navigating the rough waters of grief, my own and others’. A year when so many people I love lost people they love. 2019 was the year I wrote a eulogy for a woman who died too young and a farewell letter to a man who taught us all to live more fiercely by his example. 2019 was a year of balancing my own persistent health challenges with showing up for last visits and finding joy and making baked macaroni and cheese to feed the body when the soul was hurting. 2019 was about doing what I could when there was really nothing anyone could do.

There was an urgency to this year that kept me focused. When that urgency was over and the time to act had passed, I stopped and there I was, home with a cold, amongst the papers and the emotional gridlock. Nowhere to hide. My energy was spent, and the armor I had donned to stay strong for battle weighed heavy, the emotions I had put aside trapped underneath. With each drawer I emptied and each pile I sorted through, I could feel some space opening up, some of the armor cracking. I began to breathe into the cracks, letting in light and air, giving room for emotions to show up.

Grief is patient. It waits until you are ready to give it room to move through. Until then it stays stuck inside, gumming up the works. The only way to get unstuck is to empty the drawers and make space. It is a messy uncomfortable process that entails falling apart before we put ourselves back together in a new way, and that’s why no one really wants to do it or talk about it. If life is a rom-com, this is the montage of scenes between the breakup and the reconciliation. If life is a book, this is the space between the end of one chapter and the beginning of the next. I am between the period and the paragraph.  It is where the healing and integration prepare the heroine for the next adventure. It happens on the inside so there is not much to see: just a few drawers that close more easily, and a clean desk top, but we are not the same when we emerge from the process.

While I sort through the detritus of this year, I find myself confused by the losses, not just of 2019 but of the past few years when I also lost my nephew and faced cancer. I am confused, because despite my strong belief that our spirits remain connected after death, and my determination to find joy even in darkness, sometimes I find myself shocked and wonder what happened? How is it that I am here, and they are not? The bottom line is that they have vanished and in their place is Life Without Them. And I am here still, still me but different without them. I miss my friends, I miss my nephew, I miss my breasts. I miss the way I used to feel before I felt such loss. That’s why this part is usually a montage with emotional music: it hurts to look too closely, but really it is the only way to get to the next part of the story.

This is the time of year, for some reason, people feel the need to make resolutions about how they will change in the new year and things they will strive to accomplish. Perhaps instead, we could be kinder to ourselves, accepting where we are and who we are in this very moment. Perhaps we allow ourselves the understanding that we can’t know what will come in the next year, but trust that we will know how to respond and that we will grow exactly as we are meant to grow by doing so. Perhaps, as we enter the new year, we can be content to love ourselves and our people just exactly as we are.  

Sisters of the Tiles

by

The sound of mah jongg tiles clacking against each other is one of my earliest memories, yet I had no idea at the time what those tiles would come to mean to me. Having grown up watching my mother play mah jongg, I started playing myself as a young mom in New Jersey. When we both ended up in Portland, Oregon back in 2005 we started a group together. 

There was something truly special about that group. We came together over the mah jongg table, all different ages and backgrounds, and we bonded over those clacking tiles. When my mom and I moved away, the game continued with new women in our place, but we remained honorary members. The friendships we had forged had knitted our hearts together and extended far beyond the game. We called ourselves the Sisters of the Tiles and every trip back to Portland or to visit me in LA always included a mah jongg game.

This March was a cruel month. One by one, three of our Sisters were taken from us. Kathy. Amy. Jessie. Three different generations. Three different reasons. Three painful holes in our hearts. 

In honor of my dear lost friends, I am posting a piece I wrote a ten years ago about that wonderful group of women. They inspired me to believe in the possibility of world peace, and I will play on, carrying their spirits with me always. 

With much love to all my mah jongg sisters:

World Peace through Mah Jongg

Don’t bother me with headlines. War, hatred, intolerance: it looks hopeless, but I know better. Lately I have become quite optimistic. In fact, I have evidence that world peace is not as unobtainable as those headlines would have you think. I have discovered a prototype for global harmony, believe it or not, right here in my kitchen – around the mah jongg table.

The women I see around my table every week are a beautiful jumble of contrasts: we are liberal, conservative, retired, working, single, married and widowed. From 40 to 82, we have old children, young children, adopted children, no children, grandchildren. They attend public schools and private schools, and we go to traditional and alternative doctors. We are Jewish American, Lutheran, Korean American Protestant, Irish Catholic, Italian Catholic, and Indian Muslim. But I think these women would be upset to read this irrelevant list of our differences, because we think of ourselves truly in terms of what we have in common: we are women, we are friends, and we are here to play mah jongg.

Mah jongg, the ancient Chinese tile game still played in the gambling rooms of China, was modified and brought to America in the 1920’s. While Chinese players scoff at their game’s American offspring, it is played all over the U.S. with fervor and devotion. There are mah jongg groups that last longer than marriages, and some that are more satisfying.

I know whereof I speak. The clicking of the mah jongg tiles is one of my earliest memories. My mother has played her entire adult life. It was a heady moment for me, having grown up under the mah jongg table, so to speak, when she invited me to form a new group with her. To be offered a permanent place at the table with my mom – well, I was playing in the big leagues now.

The task of choosing the other players to join us every week was not taken lightly. Our group was destined to be different simply by starting with two generations instead of one.  Once that norm was thrown out the window, why not form a group outside all the usual conventions? As our multi-age, culturally varied group came together I heard the walls of convention come tumbling down.

This is where hope for world peace began. Objectively speaking, the faces around the table come from populations that have been at war with one another – some recently.  Religious conflict, economic clashes, political animosity: we represent a world of warring factions. Yet we have played amicably through wars and elections. In spite of our cultural and religious differences we have developed deep bonds of friendship. What secrets lurk among the tiles that have caused this amazing harmony?

First of all, to be played well, mah jongg requires concentration, and we are here to play. A shared goal is a powerful distraction from one’s differences. The learning curve is steep, and my mother, our fearless leader, is a stickler for the rules. She cracks the whip to keep us on task as the acknowledged representative of the greater authority: the National Mah Jongg League. They make the rules and it is the League that we curse and rail against. Why can’t we use a Joker in a pair? Why? Why? 

So we focus and work, too busy playing to label or judge. Instead, respect and regard for one another build with each tile played. Snippets of conversation slip between moments of concentration and we hear interesting things. We learn about each other, and from each other. We hear about travel to places we’ve never been, ideas we never considered, traditions that are new to us.

The discipline of the game is also a great equalizer. It is no fun unless everyone is playing well, and we are all expected to pull our own weight. So, menopausal migraine slowing you down? Light headed from Ramadan fasting? Recovering from surgery? Buck up, sister and play on! 

We are pared down to our essentials. We recognize each other: we are women. Our first questions are always about our loved ones and our health. What else is there that matters more? We have seen each other through problems big and small over the years. We have lost a husband and a father, and nursed parents and friends through illness. We have helped each other through health scares and concerns about the children. We have commiserated over traveling husbands, departed husbands and lack of husbands. We have celebrated milestones and cried tears of joy and sorrow together. There are no political or religious or cultural differences big enough to stop women from understanding what fills each other’s heart every day.

The last secret of the tiles lies on the kitchen counter nearby. Every game day we are treated to delicious food, and a world of good and understanding are found in every bite. We have tasted new foods, offered the others our own traditional favorites, and shared recipes, the universal offering of friendship. 

In a world where the headlines are as depressing as they are today, my mah jongg group gives me hope. Every week I see consensus and accommodation blossoming from mutual respect.

When we set up the game, I look with reverence at the beautiful hands mixing the tiles: dark, light, smooth, wrinkled, with rings and without, and I smile. We have chosen to come together, we have chosen to nurture what we have in common and be enriched by our differences. We have chosen to play mah jongg and to be friends. Such are the choices that can lead to world peace.

Hineni

by

 

I was ten years old when I walked down the gray corridors of the hospital to visit my mother, as she sat in a wheelchair, wrapped in a pale blue hospital gown. Three days earlier she had found a lump in her breast, had it biopsied, and the doctors performed a mastectomy on the spot. She was forty-four.  

I was thirty-five years old when I sat next to my mother as she got a phone call informing her that a new cancer had been found in her other breast. They gave her options this time, but she insisted on another mastectomy.

I was fifty-seven years old when I received my own call with that news a few weeks ago, while my 24 year old daughter sat next to me, and we held each other, crying. Despite the other options available, given my family history I am choosing to have a bi-lateral mastectomy in a few weeks. My 92 year-old mother is still with us. I may have inherited some cancer producing genes from her but I hope I inherited her longevity genes as well.

One might assume that I have always feared receiving that phone call; that I would have felt it was inevitable that I would get cancer. That is not the case. My sister and I always knew it was a possibility but didn’t really feel any more at risk than anyone else. We were vigilant about mammograms and never used any kinds of hormones, as we were warned from early on that these would increase our risk. But living in fear? Never.

I have pondered that in recent days: why wasn’t I afraid? The answer is clear. I didn’t live in fear because my mother wasn’t always sick. She had cancer. She treated it and then she just lived. We moved to Portugal for 5 years. She watched her three children grow up. She lived her life. When it happened again, she treated it and kept living. Whatever dark fears she and my father harbored – and it doesn’t take too much effort to imagine what they may have been – didn’t overshadow the brightness of our lives. I am so grateful for that.

That doesn’t change the fear I feel now. I don’t need to list all my fears: use your imagination and you will no doubt cover most of them. However, after the first rush of emotion on hearing the diagnosis, something interesting happened. I looked at Fear head on and it just settled down and took its place beside everything else going on inside me. And there is a lot going on: anger for one thing, gratitude for another; the need to learn as much as I can, and the desire to enjoy every minute;  the deep recognition that to really take care of myself I will have to make some changes in my life; the belief that it is ok to let go, to make room for something new; the determination to walk this path with an open heart; the clarity that moving through this and moving forward is all I can do.

At my sister’s suggestion I read a story in Pema Chodron’s book When Things Fall Apart in which a Buddhist leader comes across a snarling, vicious dog. When the dog comes charging at them, everyone in his group runs away, but the leader runs towards the dog as fast as he can. The dog cowers back and stops his attack. Like that dog, my fear lost its power when I turned to face it. It hasn’t gone away. I feel we will just live together from now on. Perhaps that is how my mother and father managed to keep fear from dominating our family over the years: it just trotted along beside them, tamed, sometimes frisky, sometimes snarling, but always on a leash.

I have faced some very painful challenges over the years. Sometimes I wonder if the Universe is trying to break me, that if I just give up and let it crush me, these things will stop. Yet with each blow to my heart, I have risen up, stronger, with gifts that I carry forward in my life; gifts that serve me well, though I never wanted them; gifts that allow me to find joy again and carry on.

The timing of this newest challenge is meaningful to me. I am Jewish and I got the news right before the High Holy days. This is the time of year when we reflect on the past year and atone for ways we have strayed from being the people we want to be. It is a time to make amends for our transgressions against others and against G-d, as well as pray for mercy and kindness in the year ahead. It is a profound process, because in looking both to ourselves and to G-d we recognize that we are at the mercy of something greater than ourselves, and yet we do have some power: the power of our own actions. We have the ability and the choice to show up, to be present with whatever Life, G-d, the Universe, hands out. How we respond when we are called is the only form of expression we have, the only way to grow and be who we aspire to be. It is humbling and frightening to know that we can control so little in life, and yet it is the work of a lifetime to embrace that fact.

Other than the basic prayers, the only Hebrew words I know are “Hineni,” pronounced Hee-Nay-Nee. They mean “Here I Am.” In the Torah, Abraham and Moses both say those words when G-d calls them to do what seems to be too much to ask. They show up, they stand before G-d and say “Hineni.” My husband taught them to me when we first fell in love. Such simple words, they have always been a special lighthearted communication between us, but he has shown me their deeper meaning throughout the harder moments of our life together. What could be more powerful for someone feeling lost than to hear a voice in the darkness saying, “here I am?” What greater gift can one offer someone they love than to say “here I am” when they are called to lift a heavy burden. Now my husband has shown up yet again, turning to face and run toward the snarling dog, as have my children, my family, my friends, and even strangers willing to help.

I am not alone.

So, with that grace, with that gift, humbled, I hear my name called and I answer:

“Hineni, G-d, Hineni.”

 

Lessons from the Loaf

by

I have always wanted to learn to bake bread. In the long dark days after losing Nicky I decided it was time to start, without really understanding why. I suppose it seemed comforting, life affirming, nurturing for all of us. It was something to do at a time when, in fact, there was nothing any of us could do to make things better.

 

I wanted to make naturally leavened bread, like the artisan loaves we ate growing up in Portugal. The long fermentation of natural sourdough breaks down the hard-to-digest parts of the grain, adding flavor and nutrients to each loaf. I bought a sourdough starter from King Arthur Flour, and learned to feed and care for it like a new pet. Then came the search for a recipe. I had an ideal oven, a ceramic breadpot, an active starter, and no idea what to do with them.

 

One night at 2 a.m. I found myself in bed, my computer perched on my lap, certain that if I read just one more article about sourdough, I would be ready to bake the perfect loaf. For a solid two weeks I had been diving into cyberspace trying to figure out how to begin. I discovered an entire underworld of sourdough bakers sharing their precise, exact formulas, posting pictures of mouthwatering loaves, close up shots of breads with varying densities and holes. It was bewildering. I watched videos over and over to see how the baker’s hands move, the way the dough gets flipped, stretched and folded. I tried to decipher the meaning of a whole new vocabulary: proofing, bulking, hydration, levain, crumb. What? That night as I sat in the eerie pool of blue light I was overwhelmed and defeated before I had even opened a bag of flour. I closed the screen and went to sleep.

 

With the morning light I could see more clearly what was going on: I wanted to master it before I even began. It is so hard to be a beginner. It is uncomfortable. I may be an experienced cook, but bread baking is a specialty and I needed to start from the beginning. “Back up,” I told myself. “You can’t know everything all at once.” I determined I would allow myself to be a beginner, to make mistakes and try again. To learn by doing. Ugh. I hate that.

 

I ignored all the complicated articles, picked the simplest recipe with the clearest instructions and jumped in. When I pulled those first loaves, hot and crusty, from the oven I re-discovered the joy and sense of accomplishment that are a beginner’s special reward. Those loaves, a little flat, a little dense, made me ridiculously proud. I was hooked.

 

Soon I was baking a couple of loaves a week and experimenting with different recipes. I began to notice a remarkable phenomenon. Regardless of the details of the recipes, it wasn’t so much what I did with the ingredients, but rather what happened when I left them alone, that made the flour, water and salt into bread.

 

All those articles that had intimidated me listed precise percentages of flour to water and starter. They controlled water temperature to the exact degree. Each baker had their own method, each attempting to control every detail of the process to ensure “success.” But they all differed from one another. Bafflingly, it seems there is no ONE perfect formula.

 

I recognize that impulse to nail down every detail, to control it all: that illusion that if we do everything “just so”, we will get the perfect outcome we envision. I recognize it in the way I recognize my younger self in photos from the 70’s, a former version of me with bad hair and glasses I used to think were fashionable. The memory makes me cringe and smile indulgently, with bittersweet gratitude that I have changed. Yes, I too used to think I could control everything if I was just vigilant enough and worked hard enough. And then I had children and the Gods chuckled up in the heavens. I used to think I had some semblance of control until I realized that everyone I loved had their own plans and their own path. I used to think I could control life and the shape of the future and then tragedy stripped that last folly away. I can safely say that thinking I can control outcomes is now a thing of the past. All I control now is my own response to what life hands me, and the choice to step away.

 

Accepting this is one thing, but embracing the results is another. It has taken learning to bake bread to actually open my eyes to the deep value of what happens when you step back. When baking bread, there is a certain amount of hands-on doing, but the real magic happens when the dough is left alone. In the long periods between mixing, stretching, folding and shaping, the dough sits covered in a bowl all by itself, fermenting, changing, growing and evolving. That doesn’t happen if the baker keeps messing with it. In fact, if the baker is smart she will go do something to take care of herself while the dough does what it needs to do, so that she is ready when it is time to jump back in.

 

The basic fact of bread fermentation has taught me a profound truth about so much of life. While we like to believe that the more we DO – the more we CONTROL – the better, in fact, the good stuff happens when we step away. Here is a formula that works: Show up, act when required, and then step back and take care of yourself. When we put together good ingredients and then let them sit, we allow magic to happen. It happens with bread. It happens with wine. With pickles, with yogurt and with planting seeds. It happens with children, with relationships, with grief. It happens with life. The magic happens when the Doing stops. The magic happens when we step back and let it Be. Stepping back allows all the hidden, messy, mysterious changes to occur under the surface. Doing Nothing is doing Something Very Important.

 

Lest you think that is the end of the story, rest assured there is always another round of Doing. The dough has to go into a hot oven and be removed in time to cool. Life is a constant ebb and flow of engaging and letting go. Knowing when to act and when to step back is all part of the learning I am still working on. There is no article to look up on the internet that will teach us that. That will come by allowing ourselves to be beginners, by making mistakes and trying again. Trusting ourselves eventually to know when to take the next step is all part of the process.

I have learned enough now to understand the vocabulary of those complicated recipes, but I still prefer to be more relaxed with my baking. Some days the starter is more active and sour. Some days the kitchen is warmer than others. Some days I use more rye, or add spelt instead of whole wheat. Each loaf that comes out of my oven is a gift. Seriously: a gift, with its own perfect combination of texture and flavor. A gift that brings a blissful smile with the first warm butter-slathered bite. It turns out, if we allow it, there are an infinite number of ways for a loaf of bread to be perfect.

For Nick

by

Last Wednesday had been a crummy day but I made a valiant effort to shake off the gloomy mantle weighing me down as I prepared to see my favorite band in concert: Portland home town favorites Pink Martini. I had been so excited when I bought the tickets, vowing to pretend to be young and carefree, off to a concert at the Ace Hotel, on a week night, no less!  So I tried to ignore the bad Mexican food sabotaging my stomach, and the immoveable LA traffic, but there was no way to lighten the heavy weight in my chest. My heart felt like it was tied up, bound by those plastic straps used on particularly heavy shipping cartons: no give, no room to breathe.

One year ago this week, my beautiful, talented, loving nephew died in a fire that took 36 souls at a warehouse concert. In only a matter of minutes they were gone. This past year has been one long slog through a strange world where we learn to live with an inconceivable reality we want to reject but cannot. Among Nick’s circle of loved family and friends, many of the younger generation now live each day with a fierceness born of bewilderment, completely unmoored from all they knew in the world. Many of us struggle to seek answers where there are none; all of us looking for ways to carry on without really losing our boy, ways to keep him with us.

I have found comfort in sensing Nicky’s continued ethereal presence in our lives, believing we are more than just our bodies. Even if those beliefs are not true, my memories of him alone bring him back to life, with his remarkable ability to be completely present in conversation, his body calm and listening. His silly laugh, his quiet voice. His intense competitiveness as a small child that turned into passion, introspection and thoughtfulness as a young adult. His fragility. His magnetic draw, bringing endless friends and love into his orbit. His music. Yes, his music.

Nicky knew a thing or two about music. He didn’t just play it, he embodied it, from the violin as a small child, to his computerized sounds to his ever present guitar. He was never completely at ease without a guitar in his arms, as if the fingers touching the strings completed his circuit, allowing the electricity to flow. When he came to visit he always sought out our guitar first thing and then would make quiet music while we talked. His mouth barely moved when he spoke but his fingers were never still on the strings.

In the first moments of the concert, China Forbes belted out the opening notes of Amado Mio, and I felt the plastic straps around my heart snap. The music flowed right into me, into the bound up, swollen hurting parts. Like a river released from its dam, emotions flooded through me, joy, sadness, pain, elation. I couldn’t keep up. Yet even in tears, I was soaring. I couldn’t stay in my seat, my spirit just lifted my body up. My tired overburdened heart cracked wide open to welcome the sounds. I kept thinking of Nicky, how music must have felt for him, and how much I miss him and how I felt close to him with every song and how the emotions kept changing from happy to sad as if they were all the same.

Ever since he was born I had felt connected to him in some way, unspoken, precious. I loved him of course, but it was the way he loved me that made me feel special. It turns out everyone he loved felt that way. What a gift: he valued each of us so much. You could feel it in his hugs, as if his soul had arms that could hold us close.

I guess both the pain of losing him and the joy of loving him will never go away. And I guess that is something we will each have to accept over and over as more people we love leave us, since, I’ve been told, everyone dies eventually. But we must keep living while we are here and I believe Pablo Neruda’s words would be what Nick would say to us:

If I die, survive me with such sheer force

that you waken the furies of the pallid and the cold,

from south to south lift your indelible eyes,

from sun to sun dream through your singing mouth.

I don’t want your laughter or your steps to waver,

I don’t want my heritage of joy to die.

Don’t call up my person. I am absent.

Live in my absence as if in a house.

Absence is a house so vast

that inside you will pass through its walls

and hang pictures on the air

Absence is a house so transparent

that I, lifeless, will see you, living,

and if you suffer, my love, I will die again.

— Sonnet XCIV by Pablo Neruda

Sometimes I think Nick was in this world to show all of us what really matters in life: love, friendship, natural beauty and music. It was as if he came from a different time with his old pick up truck, Goodwill clothes and LP records. Like he just came back to enjoy it all again and share it with us.

I promise you, Nicky, I will do my best to live with force in your absence. I will not let your heritage of joy die, and when I miss you, I will remember your hugs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One Day, Not Day One

by

By now I should know to laugh at myself when I make plans. I am famous in my family for my detailed “To-Do Lists,” but in recent months – years even – the quiet moment in which I actually write the list is followed by a storm which blows the ambitious slip of paper right out of my hand. The most important tasks do end up getting done somehow in stolen moments, but my grand plans become outdated before they ever start. I am tired of saying, “when life settles down;” tired of starting “Day One” of a new plan; tired, in general.



We, as a family, have weathered some terrible storms. In the face of the tragic loss of my beloved nephew we have had to learn how to take each day as it comes, one day at a time. Each day has its own challenges. We have had medical crises, emotional abysses, physical challenges. Through it all we have learned to nurture ourselves and each other, even to laugh again, and we have received loving support from everyone we know.


 


In the quiet moments between the storms, though, it is sometimes hard to move.


 


It turns out that I am good in a crisis. In an emergency I am good at focusing on what needs to be done. In hospitals, ERs, doctors’ offices, during moves and mourning, I am 100% there. But in those days and months after the storms I sit surrounded by the debris of life and I cannot move. That is when I make those To-Do Lists, and then listlessly pick up the TV remote, or curl up with a book.


 


Today could have been one of those days, but recent health scares have gotten my attention: I need to exercise. So today I made a promise to do one active thing for myself first, before doing anything else. Today I would go for a swim.


 


I did it. I got myself to the gym. I remembered to bring my swimsuit. I asked to share a lane with the least intimidating swimmer. I slowly, steadily went from one end of the pool to the other. I reminded myself that the first six lengths are the hardest. I promised myself to do twenty. I kept going. I stopped at thirty when I remembered that I had forgotten to put sunscreen on my face. Two steps forward and one step back in the “taking care of myself” journey. But I did it and I felt good. I even felt good enough to write, a goal that had fluttered away on a To-Do List long ago.


 


I am not making plans to swim every day or to write every day. I know to laugh at those kinds of plans. I do promise to do what I can, when I can, to take care of myself so that I can weather the storms.


 


Today is not Day One of a new plan. Today is just One Day, one good day.


 




 

						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Garlic and Gooseberries: A Deep Well of Goodness

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
We have a new system in the garden: we now have pretty red flags on little sticks to put in our garden plots when we are away. The flags alert fellow gardeners that our plots may need watering. When we are tending our own gardens we can easily spend a few minutes spraying our neighbor’s plants – a few minutes that make a big difference for a neighbor in need. What a relief to know the vegetables will be cared for until we are back in town.


The concept of waving a red flag when we need help is so appealing, and depends on the belief that there is a well of goodness in people, a deep quiet well of goodwill, waiting to be tapped. I truly do believe most people are happy to help if they are but asked. It doesn’t take much to water a neighbor’s plot when we are already there with the hose in our hand, but we don’t know it is necessary unless we see the flag.


In some cases we know in advance we will need help, and can put the flag out for all to see, but the goodness of people truly shines when we need help unexpectedly. The other day I took a long, meandering walk to the community garden with my 88 year old mother. I held her arm tightly while navigating the uneven sidewalks, and she took in the charming houses and beautiful spring blossoms along the way. But on the way home, one block from my house, one tiny misstep caused her to fall, in slow motion, pitching forward and breaking her right arm. One moment we were discussing what to make for dinner and the next we were surrounded by the kindness of strangers. In the blur that followed I remember a small crowd of passers-by who offered help, called my daughter for me, and comforted us. Suddenly I heard “Do you need a doctor?” and our band of helpers cried in unison, “Yes!” Riding by on her bike with her small son in tow, a young woman who turned out to be the head of Geriatric Medicine at a large medical practice pulled over to tend to my mom, still laying on the ground. Then there were the EMTs Ron and Matt, and firemen and policemen, one of whom yelled at some irate motorists to “grow up and be civil to one another – there is a medical emergency going on here!”


While there is no denying the physical pain my mom is now enduring, my whole family remains a bit in awe of the kindness we encountered throughout the whole process of arranging her care and getting her home to California. Even the geriatric doctor who stopped to help continued to check in with us over the next few weeks. I lost track of the people we need to thank and I wouldn’t even know how to reach them. I hope somehow they can feel our gratitude.


A few days later, my daughter and I wandered into Harvard Square right after graduation ceremonies had let out. While eating ice cream cones on a crowded sidewalk we spotted a boy of about 10 eyeing our ice cream, and realized he was conspicuously alone amongst the revelers. He approached us and my daughter was the first to understand the situation: this young man was autistic, he was lost and he wanted ice cream. We kept an eye on him as he dove into the packed J.P. Licks ice cream shop; we alerted the people working there, found a policeman who got on his radio, and within minutes saw his terrified aunt, accompanied by another policeman, running towards us. As she arrived, he was being kindly handed a dish of chocolate ice cream, surrounded by a line full of concerned fellow customers. Relieved, we carried on our way, thinking of all those people who had suddenly appeared when my mom fell, and I saluted them. Perhaps paying it forward is the only way to repay such a debt.


Preparing to travel back to California the next week to help care for my mom, I had one more red flag to fly, this time to my husband. In the flurry of activity since the accident I hadn’t been able to plant the seed potatoes I had bought for the garden. They were sprouting and long overdue for planting. They had to get into the ground soon if we ever hoped to harvest them. As I waited to board my flight, not more than an hour after my husband left me at the airport, he sent me a text message. My phone lit up with pictures of the beautiful planting bags filled with dirt, seed potatoes nestled inside, watered and ready to grow, and some zucchini plants newly planted, for good measure.


A well of goodness, deeds of kindness: they are everywhere I look.


FullSizeRender (4)


FullSizeRender (5)

						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Garlic and Gooseberries: New Spring, New Plan

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
FullSizeRender (1)Spring, summer, fall, winter, and then back to spring. The rhythm of a year is both reassuring and haunting. When you are going through a new experience – a job, a new school or city, or any life change – the first year is unfamiliar and every season is unexplored territory. Then suddenly, you are back to a time of year you remember and something shifts. For better or for worse, you have been here before and you know more or less what to expect. “Here we go again,” you think, with your heart singing over the good stuff and sinking over memories of the bad.


I approached this spring and summer with some trepidation as I remembered some tough times the year before. Once I realized what was happening I gave myself a good shake. I needed to remind myself that each day dawns fresh, full of possibilities, unburdened by the past. I had to get clear on the idea that, while the seasons repeat themselves, the events of history do not have to. The seasons may be familiar but we are each, in fact, quite different than we were the year before, precisely because of those events. All the experiences and lessons offered throughout the previous 12 months are alive within us and ready to guide us through the new year if we but take the time to listen. The year rolls through its cycle and, like magic, we get another chance with each revolution to apply our new knowledge.


With that thought in mind as I planned my garden for this year, I decided to see what I could learn from last year’s efforts and do things a bit differently this time around. Remembering the bugs that ruined the arugula and broccoli, the spinach that never even sprouted, the overgrowth and powdery mildew, and of course the unforgettable crowding and subsequent jailbreak of the pumpkins, I knew there was lots of learning to be done. A good look at my favorite gardening book Vegetable Gardening in the Northeast by Marie Iannotti gave me some insight into how to avoid these problems and I soon had a plan.


First of all, this year I planted a whole month earlier, spending Mother’s Day with my hands in the dirt. That early start should produce some tender salad greens. I also did not put any plants in the same part of the garden they were in last year, as rotating them keeps the soil from getting depleted by the nutrient needs of each type of plant. In keeping with the desire to keep the soil full of good nutrients for the hungry plants, I (or rather my husband – thank you!) amended it with lots of good compost before anything went into the ground. I also sprinkled scoops of New England fish fertilizer around. Not sure that will do anything but I figured, “How can it hurt?”


FullSizeRender


Perhaps the biggest challenged I faced was to not over plant, remembering how big those tiny plants eventually became. No broccoli, pumpkins or eggplant this time, and fewer zucchini, but I did add 2 tomato plants this year. Kind of excited about that, as there is just nothing quite as tasty as a sun warmed, ripe tomato right off the vine. To deter the bugs I interspersed herbs and flowers among the vegetables. Last year the herbs struggled in their shady corner of the garden so we will see how happy they are peeking out from in and around the other vegetables.


When we lived in Oregon, one of our greatest garden surprises was the delectable taste of home grown potatoes. This year I ordered seed potatoes and gardening bags from Wood Prairie Farm in Bridgewater Maine. Check out their website: http://www.woodprairie.com/category/certified-organic-seed-potatoes. I am really looking forward to seeing how those work out and tasting those taters in a couple of months.


The last change is in how I laid out the garden. Last year, everything was a bit haphazard, so I never knew if the little green shoots coming up were weeds or something I had planted. This year I planted the greens in mounded rectangular planting beds, and the root vegetables in wide rows, so it should be more obvious what to weed and what to leave. Already we are off to a good start, with the leeks getting fat and sturdy, and the lovely green garlic shoots from Gilroy marching in two straight roes. Who knows how it all will grow this year? I know there will be lessons in the seasons ahead, but it is reassuring to know there has been much learned already. I will welcome each dawn, ready for whatever comes next.FullSizeRender (2)


FullSizeRender (3)

						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Garlic and Gooseberries: Light Streams In

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
I walked out the door without a jacket this weekend. An unfamiliar warmth and exhilaration swept over me, quickly followed by a wave of distrust. Not sure if I could really believe that our long winter is finally over, I went back inside and got an extra layer, just in case. The plants and blossoms are also tentative in their reentry, making their appearance timidly, unsure of their welcome, but persevering nonetheless.


By all counts it was a long dark winter here in Boston, record breaking snowfall and frigid temperatures stretching into a slow, chilly spring. It wore people down, it really did. FullSizeRender-10Everyone was demoralized and dazed by the time winter finally eased its icy grip. But I feel it has not only been a hard time here in Boston: it seems a lot of people I know are struggling in some way. Friends who pay attention to astrology tell me the stars have something to say about this and I am inclined to believe them. Or perhaps it is because most of my friends and I are over fifty now. We are at a time of life when our parents are aging, our children are facing adult problems and we ourselves are experiencing health challenges. There is suffering, death, addiction, anxiety and depression everywhere. Unrest and tragedies in the world beyond my own circles, too, seep into our consciousness. How can we not feel the pain of the world’s suffering at some level?


To help me navigate these challenging times I have been reading Miriam Greenspan’s compelling book, Healing Through The Dark Emotions: The Wisdom of Grief, Fear and Despair. IMG_3725



An insightful psychotherapist, Greenspan explains how it is only through allowing the dark emotions of grief, despair and fear to flow through us, to be felt and acknowledged, that we can find the gifts they offer: gratitude, faith and joy. Running from the pain, as tempting as it is, causes all sorts of emotional and physical damage, including addiction, violence, depression, illness and anger. She writes, “Painful emotions challenge us to know the sacred in the broken; to develop an enlarged sense of Self beyond the suffering ego, an awareness that comes from being mindful of life’s difficulties rather than disengaging from them; to arrive at a wider and deeper perspective not limited by our pain but expanded by it.”(p. 27)


Her words have struck a chord with me. My own painful experiences of the past few years forced me to face those demons of grief, fear and despair and, while there was nothing pleasant about it, I have to admit there have been gifts along the way. Greenspan is right: gratitude, faith and joy are indeed the unlikely offspring of some pretty dark emotions. Like childbirth, agonizing, messy and uncontrollable, the journey through hard times can result in new life.


Through the humbling experience of breaking down and rebuilding, I discovered another beautiful truth that Greenspan discusses in her book: the way to healing is through connection with others. In Greenspan’s words: “As we become more aware of our own dark emotions and able to tolerate them, we become more aware of the suffering of others and more empathic. We loosen the constriction of isolated pain. We open our hearts to the world. We grow in compassion.” (p. 240)


Ah yes, “…the constriction of isolated pain.” Isolation is the enemy and it can be a tough one to fight. When we are in pain, we can feel so alone. Depending on what we are struggling with, we can be paralyzed by shame, physical limitations, anxiety or any number of obstacles to seeking connection. Like being shut-in during this endless winter, when just walking outside required backbreaking shoveling, and getting anywhere was a merciless slog, reaching out can feel overwhelming. But once you find the courage to open up, you will find, like the crowds of people waiting for overdue trains, that you are not alone. We are connected beyond what we could have imagined. As Greenspan so beautifully puts it, “Look into the pain of the world and you find your own private path writ large. Look into your heart and you find the broken heart of the world.” (p. 212)


Once you can speak up, putting a voice to your pain, the worst is over and the healing can begin. Connection can be found in unlikely places. People show up to listen and you may be surprised who else has been where you are. This community connection can be the crack through which light streams into the inky darkness. I am talking about the life affirming joy that can be found in being seen, heard and understood, in knowing others have stood where you now stand, the relief of knowing you are not alone. You and the world around you benefit, as compassion breaks through the isolation.


I suppose it is not a surprise to realize the importance of human connection. We spend much of our lives in a variety of communities: family, friends, classmates, religious groups, neighbors. In fact it is not uncommon to feel alienated from some of these groups over time, as we grow and develop our unique selves. We don’t always get along, or agree with one another. In troubled times though, the deep value of community becomes clear, and we need to find ways to develop the support network – new or old – that we need. Whether it is a sorority or club amongst a sea of new faces in college, a table of lunch buddies we see every day, a recovery support group, or the familiar faces of your family and friends, the support of community can provide a sense of belonging that can carry you through. Those people provide motivation and accountability. They are a witness to your journey. They are there to notice when you stumble and listen to your pain. They are proof you are not alone.


IMG_3675This weekend I will plant vegetables in my community garden plot. The people there don’t know my particular struggles, nor I theirs, but we recognize each other’s humanity and pale faces after a harsh and brutal winter. This group doesn’t usually interact much but this spring is different: we have already had a planning meeting and two work parties to weed paths and sort out some communal issues. Already we are sending more emails, hoping to share plant purchases and future harvests. We are chipping in to improve our garden, letting each other know that we are not alone. As the garlic shoots and leeks rev up their growth after the long winter under snow, I feel the stirrings of hope: the gifts of gratitude, faith and joy are taking root.IMG_3676



						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Food Friday: Sweet Freedom and Passover Treats

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
cake 2


I have always loved Passover: the chaos, the rituals, the food. I love the reclining, the storytelling and the matzo-ball soup. I love the charosis – apples, walnuts, wine and cinnamon – layered into matzo sandwiches with horseradish that makes my eyes burn. I love the parsley dipped in salt water and the gefilte fish, yes, even the gefilte fish. I gorge on matzo and hardboiled eggs all week until my insides turn into cement. I love how the spotlight turns on the youngest child who asks the 4 questions and how all the children hunt for matzo and get prizes. I love opening the door for Elijah, and seeing the wine in his cup disappear, the Seder Plate full of symbolism, and the way we read the Haggadah around the table and bless everything we eat and drink. And how about those 4 glasses of wine? What Jewish pre-teen hasn’t felt their first drunken giddiness from parent-sanctioned Manischewitz at a Passover Seder?


The tradition of welcoming strangers to the table is one that is especially close to my heart. When I lived in Portugal as a child, our family hosted the only Seder in the area and wandering Jews always somehow found their way to our table. There were a handful of Jews in our expat community, and everyone brought their own traditions, loudly over-riding each other, insisting on their favorite tune or prayer. My memories of Seders past will always be accompanied by the grating sound of small, compact, red-haired Sophie Goldenblum belting out Chad Gadya with her New York accent.


This year we are the wanderers, as we drive to New Jersey for my husband’s family gathering. Every year his brave cousin hosts Seder for 4 generations of 25 raucous aunts, uncles, cousins and children, but we have often lived too far away to attend. Unlike my own family’s speedy service, this group reads every word and observes every rule, going late into the night. I will bring Orange Almond cake, Chocolate Biscotti, and a roasted artichoke tomato salad for our contribution, as the regulars will be providing my favorite staples of charosis and gefilte fish.


The youngest may ask the questions at Seders, but as an adult I have begun to ponder the meaning of the oft told story of the Jews’ exodus from Egypt. Yes, we were slaves and we celebrate our escape from bondage, but then we wandered in the desert for 40 years. I never really thought much about that part of the story until now. We wandered and sometimes we lost our way. We struggled and made mistakes. To be released from bondage sounds like a good thing, but once freed we must figure out what is next. When the shackles come off, we can then decide who we want to be, how we will live. In the unknowing, in the wilderness, that is where we have the space to grow, to learn, to develop. It is work but, unlike slavery, it is work we do for ourselves.


This Passover I would love to wish for freedom from pain and worry and bad times, but that is, in truth, not even desirable: from those dark times come light. When my father died at this time 7 years ago, our rabbi compared the grief we felt to this wandering in the wilderness. There was a comfort in that, in the idea that we would wander through this hard time and that we would eventually come through it whole.


So this Passover as I look at the world and the struggles we have with one another, I pray instead  for freedom from a different sort of bondage: I pray for us to be free from judgment – of ourselves and others, free from hatred, unkindness and cruelty. And in my wandering I will look for manna wherever I can find it, manna in the form of compassion, love, tolerance and peace.


Happy Passover, one and all.


cake 1


Orange Almond Cake  (A colleague shared this with my back in the 80’s – I hope she doesn’t mind me sharing it with you now!)


Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Line a 9 inch spring-form pan with parchment paper.


Boil 2 naval oranges in water just to cover until soft (about 30 minutes) Allow to cool, then puree in a food processor.


Beat 6 eggs until thick and pale yellow. Beat in 1 cup sugar, 1.5 cups ground almond flour, a pinch of salt, and the pureed oranges.


Pour into prepared pan and bake one hour. Allow to cool completely before removing from pan. Decorate with slivered almonds.


biscotti 2


The recipe for the amazingly delicious Chocolate Biscotti I made comes from this Boston Globe article:


http://www.bostonglobe.com/lifestyle/food-dining/2015/03/31/recipe-for-passover-triple-chocolate-biscotti/h96tanKbiWBmGe0HKTOnkM/story.html


A great source of gluten and grain free Passover recipes is Elana’s Pantry. Her gluten free matzo balls are wonderful!


http://elanaspantry.com/passover-recipes/


A light and delicious salad for any occasion is my Roasted Artichoke and Tomato Salad:


Rinse and thaw two bags of artichoke hearts (I get them at Trader Joe’s). Place in one layer on a roasting pan. Sprinkle with 1 tsp coarse salt and 2 TBSP vegetable oil. Roast, turning occasionally in a 400 degree oven until slightly browned. Cool.


In a large salad bowl, combine 2 pints of cherry tomatoes, one sweet onion chopped and rinsed to remove the bite, one finely chopped red pepper and one chopped fennel bulb.


Make the dressing: Soften one garlic clove in the microwave for 5 seconds. Smash with a fork and mix with 1 tsp coarse salt, freshly ground pepper, 1/2 tsp oregano, 2 TBSP lemon juice, 1/2 tsp Dijon mustard and  5-6 TBSP walnut oil (or olive oil). Mix well and toss into salad.


salad picture


 

						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Garlic and Gooseberries: Lessons from the Garden

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
 


The inevitable darkness of winter has arrived. In November I cleaned up our tired garden in preparation for its long rest, pulling up and composting the yellowed vines and spent plants, and removing the buggy broccoli stalks. The cilantro and arugula had shot up, flowered and gone to seed, so I scattered the little pods in the hopes they will grow again next spring. The last of the calendula flowers were dried on the kitchen table, and infused into almond oil to be made into healing salves. The turnips were harvested, the herbs trimmed and the tenacious morning glory ripped from the fencing and uprooted. The sage, gooseberry and currant plants that had grown in the garden long before it was mine stood brave and strong, ready for the cold months ahead. I left the leeks and new garlic shoots with some trepidation, not quite believing what I know to be true: the upcoming freeze would sweeten and nourish the white bulbs underground so they would be flavorful and ready for us to eat later.


Now the dear patch of ground that brought me so much solace last summer lies under more than three feet of snow. All I can do is hope that nature knows what it is doing, for certainly there is no sign that anything will ever grow there again. If I learned anything from a year of gardening through life’s hard times, it is this: we cannot ever know what will happen, no matter how well we plan, nor how good our intentions. Despite the white and gray of January’s snowy landscape, however, I do believe that nature will deliver and that spring will arrive, bursting with color and life. This faith that dark times will turn to light is tempered by the knowledge that the light will also return to dark, but the faith brings comfort none the less. It also brings the courage to engage in life as it unfolds, and to embrace the lessons that are offered from the weeds as well as the flowers.


Here are some of the lessons my garden taught me this year:


    

  • A little struggle is good for everyone: Roots grow deeper when your plants are not over-watered.
    • 

  • Consume life with gusto: The more you harvest, the more will grow. Cut off the lettuce heads and new life grows from the stalks, pick the zucchini and more blossoms come forth, snip the herbs and fresh sprigs appear.
    • 

  • Sometimes maturity can only be obtained by letting go: Some produce will only ripen and sweeten off the vine or in someone else’s garden.
    • 

  • Be open to change: When something isn’t working dig it up, pull it out, get your hands dirty, try something new.
    • 

  • Don’t let bullies push you around: Trim them back and hem them in neatly. They will thrive happily within their boundaries and everyone else will have a chance to blossom.
    • 

  • Avoid unnecessary irritants or Don’t stand on ant hills: The ants may be harmless but you really don’t want them crawling up your legs.
    • 

  • And lastly, perfection is not required: There is always a little room for weeds.
    • 


						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Garlic & Gooseberries/Wednesday Wandering: Gilroy Garlic

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
When I was a child in California, my family often went camping. So many images are woven into the memories of those early days, our car pulling a trailer over miles of highways, the scent of pine trees in the campgrounds, the barren, dry hills of southern California. Somewhere in the basic vocabulary lessons of those years, I learned about Gilroy, the Garlic Capital of the World. Perhaps there are other places in the world that grow more or better garlic, but in my heart Gilroy will always be the capital.


On a recent trip to California, after a week of family togetherness and the momentous joy of attending my nephew’s wedding, my mother, my cousin and I took off on a road trip back in time. My parents always loved road trips, and for my 88-year old mother this was a chance to recapture the suspension of time and sense of adventure of those trips. We traveled the same highways and winding roads down the coast of California I remembered as a child. IMG_2565IMG_2561For every beach and town name on road signs my mother had a story to tell, a trip we had taken, a person who had lived there, a place we had camped. We stopped at 3 houses my family had lived in, including the first house my parents owned. I was born around the time they moved in there, and we stayed there 9 years. The names of my sister, brother and myself are still carved into the cement sidewalk outside.

 IMG_2604  IMG_2605IMG_2606

We found the house we had lived in for only 1 ½ years, where my mom found out she had breast cancer and we decided to move to Portugal, both events changing our lives forever. We stayed at a lodge in Big Sur where my cousin and I had camped with our families, the redwoods and scented air transporting us all to past camping adventures. My dad would have loved it all.IMG_2483


One of our first stops, before heading west to the coast was at the Garlic Shoppe in Gilroy, right off the freeway among miles of dry, flat fields of garlic. There we tasted garlic ice cream, which was surprisingly delicious despite repeating on us over the next several miles. I also bought a braided rope of 10 plump and pungent bulbs of garlic that accompanied me all the way back to Boston.Gilroy garlic


I separated two of those bulbs into about 30 cloves, and on an unusually warm October day I tucked them into the rich dirt of my garden, marking the rows with sticks. Infused and enriched as they are with all those good memories, they will hopefully grow big and strong by next summer.garlic cloves for planting


 


Garlic nestled in the dirt

						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Garlic & Gooseberries: My Runaway Pumpkin

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
As I was leaving the community garden the other day, I happen to glance back and I gasped. From where I was standing on the path I could see into my neighbors’ plot, and there, on their side of the fence between our gardens, was a sweet little pumpkin. MY sweet little pumpkin.IMG_2729


A vine from my garden, the renegade that had saved itself from the zucchinis by leaping over the brick path, had forged ahead right through the chicken-wire fence, on its way to freedom. There, in celebration, it produced a pumpkin, perfect in every way.


I choked up, I couldn’t breath, I sputtered: “But that’s MY pumpkin!”


On further inspection, it looks like the neighbors have built up a platform of blocks for it to rest on and ripen, knowing it wouldn’t have survived dangling from the fence. How kind.Runaway pumpkin


I have mixed feelings.


It looks so happy there, my little runaway pumpkin. It has its own platform on which to catch the fall sun, away from powdery mildew and aggressive zucchini, yet sheltered by the nearby protective sage leaves. I admit to feeling a bit rejected, but for heaven’s sake: it’s a pumpkin. Really, the vine was very clever in figuring out how to save itself and provide a better life for its offspring, though it still has one little pumpkin hanging out in the kale and cilantro patch.


I check on it every time I go, but I am not sure what else to do. So,  I guess I will be happy, and grateful for my neighbors. It takes a village to raise a pumpkin, after all.IMG_2730

						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Garlic & Gooseberries/Food Friday: Saving Sage

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
All summer I have been drying herbs to keep for cooking during the year. My kitchen table always seems to have oregano or sage, tarragon or thyme laid out on paper towels. The lemon balm, lemon verbena and chamomile never got too robust, but I did get a bit of them dried and put away in the cabinet. There are medicinal uses for many of these herbs and I look forward to experimenting with them over the coming month for help with colds, coughs, and digestive upsets.


My huge sage plant inspired me to see if there were more ways I could access its medicinal qualities. A perfect post appeared on a blog I follow called And Here We Are, written by an American expat living in England. Ariana Mullins writes engagingly about food, travel and life overseas, and recently posted What To Do With (Way Too Much) Sage. Her post gives information on the uses of sage, which seem to include just about every ailment and skin condition, and links to recipes and other articles. This is one good herb to have around.


I followed Ariana’s directions to make this Sage and Honey Cough Syrup and Sage Tincture.


 


IMG_2757


 


IMG_2761


 


IMG_2758


 


 


 


IMG_2770


I will have to investigate specific uses and dosages as I use these remedies because like all herbal concoctions they are medicines and can have negative as well as positive effects, but I hope they will come in handy. I hope to use the tincture for an anti-fungal and anti-bacterial skin toner, oral rinses for gum health and battling cold sores, and even as an anti-perspirant. The sage honey is so delicious I am almost looking forward to my first sore throat of the winter.


Now that I have gotten my feet wet, so to speak, with sage, I have calendula flowers drying on the kitchen table in anticipation of making healing calendula infused oil and balms.


IMG_2741

						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Garlic & Gooseberries: Flowers, Flowers, Everywhere

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
The calendula has arrived!


IMG_2250I planted seeds early on, but never knew if they had taken hold, not quite sure how to distinguish their green sprouts from weeds. Suddenly though, there are beautiful orange and yellow flowers everywhere. It makes me happy to see them, bright and cheerful spots of color. Soon I will be turning them into oils and tincture, harnessing their wonderful healing properties.IMG_2722


IMG_2719


I finally gave in to the seductive charm of the morning glories, allowing them to have their way with the garden. They have wound their grasping vines up and down the fences, and onto every plant, but oh, my little garden looks like a Monet painting now. Monet painting


IMG_2246


IMG_2247The heart shaped green leaves and the vibrant purple flowers are everywhere, and the colors are accented by the little white flowers of the cilantro, chives, arugula and mint. I am letting them all flower and go to seed, allowing nature to do what it is meant to do. I hope some of them will reseed and come back next year. Even if that is not how it works, I love watching the bees go from flower to flower, knowing my plants are contributing to some luscious honey somewhere.IMG_2187


IMG_2191


IMG_2203


I am letting the broccoli plants flower too, as the florets are covered in tiny little bugs and bug eggs. IMG_2168When I first discovered the sesame seed-like eggs under every leaf I thought of a friend of mine who rescues butterflies. I swallowed my squeamishness in the hopes that perhaps these eggs were the beginning of something beautiful. My kind and gentle friend hunts for eggs and caterpillars on wild milkweed, feeding them and keeping them in safe enclosures until they become adult butterflies. Then she sets them free.  She told me she and her friend started to do the three R’s of Monarch work (rescue, raise and release) when they learned that only 1 Monarch in 100 survives to become an adult butterfly in the wild.  What a beautiful gift to offer the world: saving butterflies.


My bug eggs turned out to be aphids that ruined my broccoli.


I am ok with that. Aphids must be beautiful to someone in the natural world. Perhaps the lady bugs who love to eat them?IMG_2712

						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Garlic and Gooseberries: Benign Neglect

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
A month or so ago, I was already feeling the melancholy of fall approaching but my garden ignored my dark cloud and just continued growing. I visited a bit less often as I was out of town and other tasks were calling for my attention. Somehow I felt the garden was winding down but it seems there was plenty to keep my little patch of nature busy while I was otherwise engaged. In fact it seems there was quite a ruckus going on!


The battle between the overcrowded squash, pumpkin and zucchini plants was won by the zucchini, leaving most of the squash vines withered and defeated. However, one triumphant, renegade pumpkin vine leaped over the brick pathway taking over the barren failed spinach area. It looks quite happy there, canoodling with the kale and cilantro and I have high hopes for a baby pumpkin I spotted nestled under the leaves.


IMG_2164


Baby pumpkin in cilantro patch


It looks like that section is getting all kinds of new life. The stalk left over after I harvested the kohlrabi has sprouted three new bulbs. A second harvest – such luck!IMG_2249


A mutant purple eggplant specimen appeared recently, along with a couple of massive zucchinis. Undaunted by stories of woody, tasteless giant zucchinis, I promptly stuffed those monsters with a delicious mixture of veggies and smoked sausage, turning them into an awesome dinner.


IMG_2714


 


IMG_2267


 


IMG_2272


In its quiet corner, the trusty Swiss chard grows and grows, shiny, healthy and colorful. I cut leaves every time I visit and add them to whatever is cooking, along with the ever-present herbs.


IMG_2789


And the transplanted garlic has finally taken root. Just look at those tender shoots.


IMG_2196


Lastly, there was great excitement when I confirmed that the jagged, slightly bug-eaten leaves under the sage plant are indeed the turnips I planted back in June. Lovely purple bulbs are peaking out from the dirt, and I will wait till cooler weather to pull them up.


IMG_2720


 


IMG_2721

						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Red Sox and Black Quilts

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
I was at a Red Sox game this summer, thinking about quilting.


It wasn’t my fault. I was trying very hard to concentrate. I like baseball, in theory. I have been a Red Sox fan for almost 30 years since my husband brought home a Red Sox T-shirt for me from a business trip. Now, of course, we live here which makes me doubly happy to root for them, but the details of the game have never been my strong suit.


That night it was very confusing. They were playing the Yankees, and one of the players who had been on the Red Sox earlier that week was suddenly playing for the Yankees, due to a rash of last minute trades. A player I liked from Oregon, my home state, who had once been on our team, was also now a Yankee along with an old Mariners favorite. I didn’t know who to cheer for. As someone who is vague on the details of sports rules – did you know you can’t strike out on a foul? – I often follow the lead of the crowd to know when to cheer, but this crowd had a higher than usual density of loud Yankees fans. So, for someone who likes things to be black or white, it was requiring a lot of attention to keep track of who was on first, so to speak. I thanked my husband for answering all my questions, and he made some comment about how many questions he would be asking if we were at a quilting convention, and well, the next thing I knew, I was thinking about quilting.


My yearning for black and white brought to mind the quilt I am making for my son, who is in his twenties. Back when he left for college, I decided to make him a quilt. Not wanting to offend me, but also not being partial to traditional quilts, he asked if it could be black. Undaunted, I bought fabrics in black, grey and white and began to design an appropriately male quilt. I love the process of planning a quilt. I live with it in my head, I daydream, and sketch and scribble ideas on graph paper for a long time before I cut and sew. Quilting is an unusual craft in that whole fabrics must be cut up and then put back together in a completely new way. It is unclear how the small pieces will end up looking in their new configuration and sometimes designs have to be reworked. The entire process is one of discovery. Since my son left for college, the black quilt has taken on a life of its own and I tinker with it endlessly. We have moved across country, my son has graduated, moved home and left again, and still the quilt lingers. It has morphed in size and design to something that fits who he is now far better. The pieces have been cut and placed and are ready to be sewn together. Yet it has been so long in the making, I hardly know how to sew up the edges and hand it over.


The fans at the game became steadily drunker, louder, happier, and I thought how dangerous it would be to quilt drunk, how easily I could hurt myself and ruin the quilt. I started to see how draining that intense concentration has been. Perhaps it is time to relax. I am sure my son has no idea how much effort I have put into that quilt. Once it is done, only I will see the missed stitches, and the crooked seams, and they won’t really matter. It will be beautiful. It will be just the way it is supposed to be.


Sitting there in an historic ballpark on a balmy night I wondered, does it really matter who got traded, who retired, who is playing for which team? It is time to sit back and enjoy the game. It is time to finish the quilt.

IMG_2777

						    
 
						
						    

						    
 
					
					    
 
					    	
					
				    						
					    

							
						    

							
								

								
Garlic and Gooseberries: Melancholy

								
by 

							    
						
						    
 
					
						    

							    
When I came home from the garden the other day and started to make dinner, I found myself overcome with sadness. I stopped washing the zucchini – from Trader Joe’s, not the garden, since only one has been harvested from my enthusiastic plants – and let the melancholy wash over me. Why was I sad? After a week away I had found that much of the squash and pumpkin plants had withered away, taking the promise of a fall harvest with them. One of the green eggplants had turned bright yellow, which I believe means it is over ripe and bitter, only good for seeds now. Not remembering which variety of eggplants I planted, I realize now that those sweet little green orbs are not supposed to get much bigger than they already are, and I should have picked that yellow one long ago.IMG_2073


But really, what were those waves of sadness about? My husband gave me a hug, and I felt a little silly. Was it a sense of failure that I have not turned out to be a very good plant mama after all? Should I have fertilized more, or planted less? Was it the dirt, the sun exposure, the bugs and powdery mildew, or was it, as my daughter said, just the cycle of life?


My husband reminded me that it has never been about the end result, but only about the process. This little garden gave me hope and purpose and a giddy sense of joy when I was shaky in all those areas. I am so grateful. So perhaps those withered squash vines scared me a little with their reminder of the end of the growing season. Yes, the chard is still gorgeous, and the broccoli and turnips are just beginning their moment of glory, but let’s not fool ourselves: the summer is waning. IMG_2062I have always deeply loved the warmth and light of summer, so letting it go is hard. But this summer has had its ups and downs, no question about it. Sitting with my sadness is a good way to recognize that, and then to let it go. Isn’t it better that life does not unfold exactly as planned? If it all went smoothly we would not know what to appreciate, and what to value, how to be flexible or how to seek out answers and get help. We would not know how strong we are or when it is okay to fall apart. Hidden gifts. IMG_2068


I woke up the next morning forgiving the garden its less than perfect outcomes. I will take my cue from the leeks and turnips that dig down deep as fall comes, gathering strength and substance in the quiet and darkness of the cooler seasons.