Bagel and Lox

For over two months now I have been on the Paleo diet: no grains or gluten have passed my lips. I have not even been tempted to cheat (well, tempted, yes, but I have not succumbed). No pizza, no french bread, no batter fried calamari, no hamburger buns. But I knew when we planned a day in New York for the wedding that the jig was up. I knew it wasn’t even worth fighting. I debated a bit in my mind but it was all just for show. I knew that once we arrived it would be a matter of moments before I went around the corner to Bagel Bob’s. Yes, literally around the corner from my sister-in-law and brother-in-law’s apartment is a little hole in the wall place that has the best bagels in New York, not to mention lox, herring, whitefish and assorted other mouthwatering delectable. To be fair, Tal Bagel is also outstanding, and my son and sister-in-law both swear by Ess-a-Bagel, but Bagel Bob’s is my favorite.

The place is always bustling with a long line squeezed into the narrow space by the glass cases. But there are always 5 or 6 men behind the counter working a gracefully choreographed dance between the cutting board, the toaster and the cash register so that you never have to wait long. You do, however, have to know what you want and speak loud and clear so you don’t hold up the people behind you in line, all on NY time, ready to grab their coffee and breakfast and move on for the day. I spent much of the 4 hour train ride down deciding what exactly I would order, what combination of taste and texture would do justice to this first –and only? – cheat. Would it be an everything bagel or pumpernickel? Regular or flat? What they now call “flagels” are the same amount of dough but flattened out so you get more crisp chewy crust and less breadiness. Nova or the saltier belly lox? Plain cream cheese or scallion? Toasted? On entering Bagel Bob’s, I broke into a light sweat as I realized they were out of my favorite flat bagels and I had to make a quick mental adjustment. When my turn came up I was ready: “Toasted everything, with Nova, cream cheese, tomato and onion, to go”.

And here it is, my friends: a thing of beauty, satisfying to my very core, salty, chewy, indescribable, delicious.

A Spring Day in Manhattan

I have spent quite a bit of time in New York City over the years. Slowly, despite my lack of a navigation gene, I have developed a general sense of the geography, from the Upper Eastside where my husband’s sister and her family live, to the East Village where my son attended college. I am familiar enough to no longer feel intimidated, but still tourist enough to get a thrill out of experiencing Manhattan.

Arriving by train as I did last week, I am thrown right into the melee. Emerging from Penn Station, the assault on the senses is immediate: the clang of horns, cars, people shouting. I always feel off-center here, as if those tall skyscrapers are crooked, towering over me at crazy angles. You have to know where you are going before stepping onto the packed sidewalk: no time to get your bearings, just move. This time I glance quickly up at the street signs at the 7^th Ave exit and walk towards 31^st St, where my son will be picking me up by car. I tuck myself safely out of the flow, between a mailbox and a bus stop, to wait for him. Ninety percent of the cars on 7^th Ave are yellow cabs, and my goodness! I have never felt so attractive in my life. Taxi after taxi swerves over to stop for me but for once I don’t need them.

After that cacophonous welcome, the calm of the Upper Eastside of Manhattan seems practically pastoral. There is a calmer, less aggressive feel to this neighborhood. Everything you could possibly need is available within a block or two: restaurants, nail salons, groceries. Chicken soup from the diner on the corner can be delivered at the first sniffle of a cold. The tall buildings here have doormen to greet you, and can house a hundred or more apartments each. Think of that: that is a lot of people in concrete towers. Not exactly pastoral after all.

There is finally, finally, a taste of spring. It is not truly warm yet, but the air is fresh and the sun is shining, so we decide to take a walk, and of the course the dogs are ecstatic.

In a city so full of people, it seems there is a greater than average desire for canine company. Perhaps it is the unconditional love they offer, or the companionship, or perhaps just the need for an excuse to take a walk outside regularly: a chance to slow down and smell the roses, while your dog is sniffing the sidewalk. My sister-in-law’s dogs are a Mutt’n’Jeff combination: Zelda, a large, sweet Labradoodle and Duke, a diminutive, bossy Bichon Frise. (I am breaking my rule about not using family member names, because as my sister-in-law says,”These guys don’t mind. They are publicity hounds!”) Their personalities are pronounced, and they are easy to love, and quick to love back.

Luckily for Zelda and Duke, and for us, the apartment is half a block from Carl Schurz Park, a gem of a place tucked between East End Ave and the East River. Carl Schurz Park provides a well-designed kind of city wilderness. There is a wide promenade along the river with walkers, runners, and dogs straining at their leashes, but there are also crisscrossing paths up and down to the different levels of the park. There is circular seating around a pretty little statue below a stone bridge, a hillside with dry tufts of winter grass awaiting new spring shoots. There is a huge playground for little children and downhill from it one for big kids: a basketball and kickball court. Likewise, there is a small-dog park (No dogs without people, no people without dogs, says the sign), and a big, dusty fenced in big-dog park. Duke and Zelda can hardly contain themselves, so many smells and other dogs to check out.

On this barely spring day Carl Schurz Park is like a magnet, drawing people out of their towers and into the sunlight. There are old couples huddled together on benches, and a few people in wheelchairs. Someone sits on the ground picking out a tune on his guitar. A group of cyclists stops for a photo with a view of the river behind them. Men jostle each other on the basketball court and squeals of joy come from the children’s playground.

I am struck by how our faces look in the clear sunlight, skin papery and brittle, pale as chalk, our eyes blinking after this long winter we have had. This day has come not a moment too soon. We are ready: ready for spring, ready for warmth, ready to come to life again. I am used to the wide open skies of Oregon, but today I am loving this New York version of open space, the tall buildings visible through the trees, and how people, and their dogs, are drawn to it to revel, to relax and to recharge.

For more photos, click here for the Photo Gallery.

The Wedding

Always undone by my displays of emotion, my daughter begged me in vain: “Promise you won’t cry, Mom.” But that was a promise I knew I could not make. I always cry at weddings.

I held it together through Pachelbel’s Canon while the groomsmen and bridesmaids made their entrance, and I laughed and smiled at the adorable ring bearer and flower girl. It was when the groom, a young cousin on my husband’s side, appeared with his beaming parents, lovely people who have seen more than their fair share of hardships, that the tears began. These are happy tears of course: weddings are a celebration, a time of joy. What makes me emotional at weddings is the display of raw courage, the stripping away of doubts and fears, the unabashed faith required for two people to stand before the world and commit themselves to one another. No one can reach adulthood without realizing that bad stuff happens in the world. It happens at a personal level, it happens on a global level; life is rarely fair and trouble free. But at a wedding, two people come together to declare to God and the world that they believe their love is strong enough to survive a lifetime, not knowing what that lifetime will hold. They declare their belief that facing life together will make all that comes their way a little better.

It is a beautiful declaration, and everyone in the room sits with their own thoughts, listening to the words of the officiants, and the babies crying. They sit there holding the hand of a spouse, remembering, or a boyfriend or girlfriend, wondering. They sit alone, some missing someone, some wondering who could ever make them do this themselves. The young husband sits with his newly pregnant wife, and they smile. And the tired parents try to sit, while their children wriggle in their seats.

By declaring their love, the bride and groom take charge, for that moment, of all of us. They lead us, daring us to stand with them in the face of all we know – yes, in the face of all we know – and applaud their hope, their commitment, their raw courage. It is a truly uplifting victory for all that is good.

At this particular wedding, the groom is Jewish and the bride is Chinese. The ceremony is a beautifully orchestrated balance of Christian and Jewish traditions, translated sentence by sentence into Chinese. The combination of cultures and religions necessitates an even greater kind of courage, and even greater level of support from all of us. The newlyweds will face challenges as they weave a life together from two rich traditions, requiring them to be ever curious, ever tolerant, ever accommodating. Those of us standing behind them in life must raise ourselves to a higher level too, a higher level of understanding that in a changing world it is the shared values of love, respect and inclusion that must win out over divisiveness and exclusion.

That room was filled with people who have faced hardships and sadness. But every one of us put on our best clothes and our biggest smiles and came to the wedding. We came to eat and drink, we came to dance, and we came to tell the young couple that if they believe in each other, then we believe in them. It is a message we should repeat every day to every one we love.

The bride was glowing, the groom’s smile lit up his face. They faced each other, holding hands and whispering words of support to each other. They declared their love for one another, and their commitment to journey through life at each other’s side. The pastor and the cantor gave them words of wisdom to guide them, and prayers to bless them, in front of God and all who love them, and we cheered at their courage, and yes, I cried.

Friday Night Cocktails

So sometimes, having a cocktail just seems like the right thing to do: Friday night with the mother-in-law and (drinking age) son was definitely the right time! A blast from the past with Old Fashions and White Russians on the menu, and presto! We are having a impromptu intergenerational party. Sometimes a festive moment is just what you need – enough said!

I do not claim to know anything about mixing drinks, despite the fact that one of my college roommates was a bartender. So the proportions are really up to you but here are some guidelines:

For a White Russian, mix 2 parts Vodka, 1 part Kahlua, 2 parts Half&Half over ice cubes.

For an Old Fashioned, mix 1 shot of Bourbon, a few dashes of Angostura Bitters. One sugar cube and a few dashes of water over ice with a couple of maraschino cherries.

Add a bowl of salty peanuts and an old movie, and the weekend is off to a good start. Cheers!

Sometimes You Just Need Your Mom

Children develop independence during their high school years, pushing their parents away, learning to stand on their own, which is exactly as it should be. By the time they are in college, they have learned to separate their darks and lights and juggle a busy schedule, and they are making decisions and mistakes of which we are mostly, blissfully, unaware. But, every once in awhile, something like a stomach bug hits and, well, a person just needs their mom. Actually, if mom is squeamish, a dad is pretty useful too for when you throw up, but that is a topic for a different day. Last week, my daughter needed her mom.

Yes, she needed her mother, but to really do my job right, I found myself channeling my own mom. Wandering the grocery aisles I tried to remember what my mother fed me when I was sick: chicken soup of course, toast with jam, jello, canned peaches. Ah, canned peaches. With each memory I felt a spark, a little happy feeling, the memory of feeling safe, that my mom knew what to do, of being in good hands, an “everything is going to be alright” feeling. All of that seemed to be contained in the sweet taste of canned peaches.

I remember too, though, that same sweetness would become cloying after a few days, and I would want something else. I would get cranky, push my way back onto my feet and be out the door, leaving my mom behind to clean up the crumbs and wash the dirty sheets. (Sorry, Mom)

For us moms, I think the hardest part is knowing when to let go, again, and how not to overstep. Just because your child wants you to put a cold compress on her forehead doesn’t mean she wants you to advise her about her love life. We all know a mom’s love can be a double-edged sword. (Sorry kids) I know moms: I am one. We come with baggage. We often have trouble knowing when to hold our tongues. We can be intrusive, critical and offer endless unwanted advice, all out of love for you. Too often we don’t even have to open our mouth and we are still the voice in your head getting in the way of making your own decisions. I understand: I have a mom too.

Certainly it is important for all of us to learn how to take care of ourselves, to carry the burdens of life in our own strong arms. That is what mature, responsible adults do. But honestly there are times in life when we just can’t do it, physically, emotionally, for a day or for a week: times when we have to put the burden down. That is when moms come in so handy.

As a mom, I have done a lot of thinking about what happens when a mom needs a mom. Last year I was very sick over a period of about 6 weeks. My husband and daughter helped as much as they could, but as I lay on the couch I really wanted my mom. She would know what to do, she would read my every shade of pale, she would appear with tea when I needed it. I would have been able to Let Go. My mom actually wanted to come, driven by that deep need to be with a child in distress. But, mother that I am, I wasn’t about to let my 86 year old mother fly across the country to take care of me. My sister and friends would have been there for me if I had asked – indeed many wonderful people did help me – but everyone has other priorities in their life. Only your mom, if you have a good one, makes you feel, whether it is true or not, that there is nothing else they need to do but be there for you.

There is something of the super-hero to that role a mom plays. My nephew and some friends recently started a band and in true rock band form they picked a name that no one really understands. They call themselves “nightmom.” I am from the wrong generation and target market to have any success figuring out how they picked the name, but I liked the explanation my nephew gave as to what a nightmom is:

“A nightmom is a super hero. She wears a nightgown and walks around the house. She is always there for you. She loves you. She’s great.”

That pretty much sums it up. How great to go through life knowing nightmom has got your back.

Thanks, Mom.

D’Amelio’s Off The Boat Italian & Seafood Restaurant

I found myself at the airport at 6 am this morning on my way to visit my poor flu-stricken daughter in DC. My stomach wasn’t up for more than a banana at that hour but usually I try to time my visits to Logan Airport around dinner time. Our favorite Italian restaurant is 5 minutes from the airport, tucked away on a tiny street right outside the tunnel to East Boston. It is like a quick trip the Italian seaside, even before you get on a plane. Fresh seafood-baked, broiled, fried,or grilled- along with delicious pastas, Italian specialties and a little To-Go market attached: there is something for everyone. The proprietors are friendly and welcoming and the tiny room with painted mural wall is inviting. But really the best part is the food. Recently I ordered the special for that evening: a grilled swordfish “chop”, which looked like a 3″ pork chop but was in fact the most tender, mild and delicious swordfish I have ever tasted. Spectacular.

Next time you are coming to or leaving from Boston’s Logan airport schedule your flight around dinner time so you can stop at D’Amelio’s Off the Boat, or just take a drive through the tunnel. It is worth the trip! www.offtheboatseafood.com

Kundalini and Creativity

I am the least athletic person in the world and yet I am prone to athletic injuries. I tore my meniscus just getting out of bed. I sprained my ankle walking home from a particularly lovely dinner out. So, as you might imagine, I am not very successful at sticking to my frequently renewed vows to go to the gym. There is, however, one exercise class I do my best to get to every week. As soon as my knee improves or my ankle heals, I find myself yearning for my Kundalini Yoga class.

The gym I go to, Healthworks for Women, is one block from my house in Cambridge, across the street from the Porter Square “T” stop (that is what we call subways here). I love going to an all women’s gym. The low testosterone level keeps the whole place feeling safe, comfortable and angst-free for all of us, and at least during the hours I frequent it, most of us are a bit on the older side. Consequently, there are no feats of physical prowess on display in our Kundalini yoga class. It can be strenuous, and I am often sore afterwards, but our teacher Amarjit knows her audience. She leads us through exercise sets designed to clear out negative energy, boost our immune system, protect us from hostility or massage our inner organs. Each time I hear what that day’s set is for, I think, “How did Amarjit know that is what I needed today?”

Sometimes I get to the room early or linger afterwards and from the snippets of conversation I overhear I realize there is something special about the women in this class. They reflect the best of the vibrant local Cambridge community. They all look somewhat unassuming but several of them are accomplished writers, artists and healers – my kind of people! When I went to hear one of them at what I thought was going to be a small reading of her memoir, I entered a packed hall of people and discovered she is a professor at a local MFA program and was reading her work along with other well known authors.

There was an electric moment before class recently when a young art student mentioned she was studying public art. Amarjit turned and sought out a woman on a yoga mat across the room, who turned out to be the public artist responsible for the beloved bronze glove art installation in the Porter Square ‘T” station – an installation the student had studied. We were all a bit star-struck at that revelation: how many hundreds of times have we all passed those charming mittens and gloves? They are part of an effort back in the 70’s and 80’s to add art to the subway stations, called Arts on the Line, a model for similar programs around the country. You can see more of our classmate’s artwork here. I am having a little trouble with my Photo Gallery but if you click on it and look around a bit you will see more photos of the gloves.

So yes, there are some wonderfully accomplished creative folks in this class, but during class we are all the same, in stretchy pants and baggy t-shirts, egos and accomplishments tucked away in the lockers downstairs.

We all come to energize ourselves, to breathe out our worries and breathe in healing and strength. We pump our navels to Breath of Fire and awaken the Kundalini energy coiled at the base of our spines, our hands pointed to the sky, eyes closed. I am pretty sure my Kundalini energy remains secure in its well-padded home, but I have learned to love the feeling of expansion that comes with the breathing and exercises of the class. I have learned to meditate and focus on mantras about being one with the universe:

Sat Nam, I Am.

I Am Good.

I Am Strong.

I Am One.

No wonder our class is full of creative women. What better way to nurture the creative in each of us than to breathe in deeply and acknowledge our deep connections. We end each class with the Sunshine Song and I leave you with it here so you can carry some of the benefit of the class away with you.

Now breathe in deep, close your eyes, breathe out:

May the long time sun shine upon you, all love surround you, and the pure light within you guide your way on, guide your way on, guide your way on. Sat Nam.

An Ode to Knitting

I am so excited. I just finished knitting this beautiful chocolate brown camel and merino cardigan (notice the perfect buttons from Windsor Button) and although it is March, it is still cold enough for me to wear it. Everyone is wondering why it is still snowing here in the Northeast, but I take full responsibility: I needed it to stay cold until I finished this sweater. Now it can start warming up. Please.

I have not always been such a knitting fiend. I used to think of it as my mom’s thing, or my grandmother’s thing, for that matter. When I was growing up, my grandmother knitted beautiful sweaters for us, and in time-honored tradition my mother took up knitting at some point and started knitting for my sister’s and my babies when they made their appearance. Eventually even my daughter learned to knit at her Montessori school and bonded with her grandmother over the needles.

No, I didn’t learn to knit until my good friend offered to teach a knitting class as a fundraiser for our children’s school and I signed up to support the cause. We met at our local knitting store (shout out to the wonderful Knitting Bee – love you guys!) that donated supplies for the fundraiser, and awkwardly learned to cast on and knit. I progressed slowly and painstakingly, and eventually I finished a scarf.

It was around this time that my father’s health declined and my family and I suddenly found ourselves spending many hours in the hospital and by his bed at home. It was a hard, hard time. To pass some of those painful hours, I decided to knit a blanket made of 12 individual squares, each a different pattern and color. I struggled over each one, and ripped 10 rows for every one I got right. It took a year and a half to complete, about the same amount of time my dad was in hospice. My mom contributed a square or two and my daughter knitted up some rows too. It was not unlike the crossword puzzles that my mom and sister and brother and I shared at my dad’s bedside, with the occasional correct word thrown in by my dad, eyes closed but ears open… what is a four letter word for family bonding? L-O-V-E.

The pride I felt in finishing that blanket was immense, but nothing compared to the peace it brought me with each stitch: the focus on those two needles and a bit of yarn, the quiet that descended on my ragged nervous system, the comfort of the knitted squares on my lap. Even as I cursed at dropped stitches and challenging patterns, there was the satisfaction of knowing that here in my hands was a problem that I could actually solve, a difficulty that I could overcome.

Last weekend marked 6 years since my father passed away. I still feel his presence near me all the time and that blanket is always wrapped around someone on my couch. I don’t think the kids remember a time when the blanket wasn’t there, but they remember their Umpa every day and their memories are part of the fabric – the blanket – of our family life.

Knitting has stayed with me. So many scarves, hats, sweaters, socks, and gloves have come from my needles that I have lost track. But it isn’t the warm fuzzy objects that matter so much as the warm fuzzy bonds. The original knitting class that my friend started grew into a loyal group that still meets at a local coffee shop, though many of our children are in college now. I still buy my yarn from the Knitting Bee, though I live on the other side of the country. And my mother and I still can talk endlessly about what we are knitting, while my sister still laughs at how we swear and curse at our knitting mistakes. My husband, who doesn’t know a knit from a purl, understands what knitting does for me. When life hands me a particularly difficult day, as it has been known to do from time to time, he will say to me: “You look like you need to knit”, and I will sigh, curl up in my blanket, and do just that.

Food Friday Espresso Fudge Brownies

As corny as it sounds, I believe in the power of love, and as unhealthy as it sounds, I believe that food is love. My identity is perilously tied up with food: I went to cooking school in Paris almost 30 years ago and have been enjoying making pastries and other goodies in my own kitchen ever since. My experience has led me to believe, in particular, that there are very few heartaches that cannot be, if not cured, then at least softened, by consuming chocolate, especially when that chocolate is warm from the oven and eaten with someone who cares. So when I recently discovered that some foods were causing me more pains –joint, abdominal and head pains, to be exact – than they were curing, it is no surprise that I was a bit worried about the new “healthier” diet I needed to adopt.

No gluten, grains, refined sugar or legumes. Hmm. But what about treats? What about chocolate? I don’t believe in diets that don’t have treats. A diet of deprivation, a diet without treats, may help the body but would certainly harm the soul. I needn’t have worried. My fearless nutritionist, Carole Hildebrandt, the peerless reference cookbook, Practical Paleo by Diane Sanfilippo, and the inspiring bloggers at Against All Grain and Elana’s Pantry have taught me volumes. After two months on this new regime I feel clearheaded, painfree and – added benefit – several pounds lighter. And I didn’t have to give up treats.

Just wait till you try these brownies. They are decadent, mocha chocolaty, fudgy, rich but high in protein and good fats, easy to digest, and you won’t miss the grains, dairy, gluten or refined sugar. If this is diet food, I want to be on this diet. The recipe comes from Elana’s Pantry and would be a great dessert for Passover, coming up next week. Here is the link to the recipe:

Elana’s Pantry Espresso Fudge Brownies

The recipe calls for a few ingredients that may not yet be in your pantry but are easily found at your grocery store or health food store. Use the best dark chocolate you can find: I use a mixture of Guittard semi sweet and extra dark chocolate chips. I use Spectrum Organic all vegetable non-hydrogenated shortening, Bob’s Red Mill Coconut flour, and Honeyville Almond Flour, which can be ordered online. Although Elana does not recommend using Bob’s Red Mill Almond flour/meal I found that it works fine in this recipe and is quicker than waiting for your mail order to arrive when you need to make these brownies NOW. Coconut sugar has a carmel, brown sugar taste but is not as sweet, and adds a depth of flavor wherever it is used.

Mix up a batch, grab a friend and a cup of tea and soothe some heartache today.

Espresso Fudge Brownies

A Blustery Day on Cambridge Common

After a backbreaking Sunday of quilting – don’t laugh, quilting can be backbreaking! – I decided to take a walk down to Cambridge Common in the late afternoon sun. It was 37 degrees and windy, which of course made it feel colder, but the sky was blue and the sun was bright and my cheeks always look so fetching when they are rosy from the cold. Ah, the pleasures of a New England spring!

Cambridge Common is my favorite walking destination. When you live smack dab in the middle of a city, it is important to be able to get to some green space. About a half mile from my house down busy Mass Ave, this park is my closest wide-open place to breathe. There are tall trees, especially beautiful in the fall, long walkways lined with benches for people-watching and daydreaming, a play park for little ones and grassy expanses filled with college kids playing Frisbee. These same open spaces are said to be where George Washington’s Continental army first camped and trained in July of 1775.

The real draw for me, though, is the big statue of Abraham Lincoln. He stands regally in a Civil War monument, a towering structure with bronze plaques on all sides and a stone statue of Brig. General Charles Russell Lowell on the top. One of the plaques states that the statue was erected in 1870 “to perpetuate the memory of the valor of the patriotism” of the soldiers and sailors of Cambridge who died in the service of their country. 1870 – just a few years after the war ended, a few years after Lincoln was assassinated. I get chills thinking about how personal, how immediate it must have felt for those who walked by it in those days and how this monument still stands 143 years later for people like me to stand and ponder. One of the plaques has the succinct and powerful Gettysburg Address, which moves me every time I read it. If you haven’t read it recently take a look now:

www.abrahamlincolnonline.org/lincoln/speeches/gettysburg.htm

I am inspired each time by the idea that those who have died for a cause that benefits us leave us – the living -with the task of carrying on their work, so that they will not have died in vain. That is how we can honor them. It helps me strengthen my resolve to stand up for what I believe in and support those who fight for what is right.

I have come to Cambridge Common dozens of times since moving here 2½ years ago, but until this past Sunday I had never noticed another smaller statue a bit further down from Lincoln. It is an Irish Famine Memorial of a family being separated, with the inscription: Never Again Should People Starve in A World of Plenty. How fitting that I should have discovered it on St. Patrick’s Day. I started to clear away some papers at the base, but on closer inspection I saw that what I thought was garbage was actually a small pile of granola bars, left no doubt to ease the hunger some might feel today.

Monuments to a history of hardships and triumphs, mixed with human compassion and the icy wind and blue sky of today: not your everyday walk in the park, unless you are fortunate enough to live down the street from Cambridge Common.

Hop on over to my Photo Gallery for pictures of the Cambridge Common now and in the fall, the Civil War Monument and the Irish Famine Monument.

A Heart Full of Homeopathy

I have spent several weekends over the past couple of years holed up in a classroom with 25 other people dissecting the mysteries of homeopathic medicine. I have used and studied homeopathy for almost 20 years and am continually inspired and encouraged by the depth of its healing potential.

Our teachers, Drs. Amy Rothenberg and Paul Herscu of the New England School of Homeopathy, regularly shepherd groups of budding homeopaths – experienced doctors, naturopaths, nurses and veterinarians as well as housewives and computer engineers with an interest in healing – through an in-depth two year course of study. We learned philosophy, theory, and how to take and manage cases. We studied how to treat men, women, babies, children and teens, patients suffering from depression, autism spectrum disorders,anxiety and trauma. We looked at cases ranging from neurological and cardiovascular issues to hemorrhoids and head injuries, and studied flu epidemics and vaccines.

The simple definition of homeopathy – a form of medicine developed 200 years ago using small amounts of natural substances to jumpstart the immune system to heal itself – does not do justice to the potential of homeopathy’s healing power. A well chosen remedy can gently bring a person back into balance, healing at the mental and emotional levels as well as the physical, going far beyond the ear infection or flu that brought the patient into the doctor’s office.

As homeopaths we are trained to decipher exactly how an individual responds to and interacts with the world, and find the remedy that exactly matches that person. Life is full of stresses, whether it is a virus or an injury or an angry boss, and we each react differently. There is no right or wrong way to react to those strains, and my homeopathic studies have given me a deep tolerance for our many differences. Homeopathy is fundamentally the study of the many facets of human nature, and it has helped me develop a well of compassion for my fellow travellers through life.

At our last class weekend our teachers hosted a farewell dinner at their house, and a wonderful gathering it was: twenty six very different individuals who have come together through an interest in healing and a shared experience of learning together, eating good food and celebrating. I was touched by our teachers’ words as they spoke to us before distributing our diplomas, aware of the overwhelming amount of information we are trying to assimilate and the sense of responsibility we feel towards our patients. Mindful of our nervousness at being “launched”, they reminded us that what we can offer each patient who comes to us will shift that person’s life towards health in some way, small or large, and that we will spread healing one patient at a time. Looking around the room at my fellow classmates, I was uplifted to think of the healing that will come from this group, and so excited that I will be contributing, one patient at a time.

Food Friday Baked Halibut with Fresh Tomato Topping

This is the first of my Food Friday posts. Every Friday I will feature my favorite recipe, restaurant, café, or food treat of the week. Starting on a healthy note (Warning: not all Food Fridays will be healthy!), this recipe is a hit in my family, even with the non-fish lovers.

One of our delicious discoveries on moving to New England was the abundance and varieties of white fish. We even belonged to a Community Supported Fishery for a couple of years, getting 2 pounds of whatever was fresh caught every other week. www.capeannfreshcatch.org

I learned all kinds of ways to prepare the local catch, and this recipe is one of our favorites. I especially like it because it takes only minutes to put together. The amounts are very forgiving, and it is a flexible recipe. Try it on your favorite fish if there is no fresh halibut in your store.

Mild tasting and easy to prepare, cod, halibut and pollock are a great mid week dinner option.

Baked Halibut with Fresh Tomato Topping

4 servings

1 ½ – 2 lb fillet of halibut (cod or pollock can be used too)

1 large tomato, chopped into ½ in. dice

½ onion (or one small), chopped fine

2 garlic cloves, chopped fine

One big handful spinach leaves, sliced in ribbons (can substitute a small handful of parsley, basil or cilantro instead)

3 TBSP ground almonds (or bread crumbs)

3 TBSP olive oil

salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Wash and pat dry the fish and lay in a shallow baking dish or cookie sheet with an edge. (I use my trusty Pampered Chef stoneware baking dish) Mix together all other ingredients in a bowl and then spoon onto to the fish. Gently spread the topping out to cover the whole fish.

Bake for about 30 minutes until the fish flakes and is white, not translucent, in the middle.

I serve it with chopped bok choy, quickly sautéed in olive oil with some chopped ginger.

Windsor Button

Boston is full of all kinds of history. Walking the streets of downtown, you know that the feet of revolutionaries walked there before you, and gathered in pubs nearby. I love the mix of old architecture with new, and the fact that many of the businesses are not chain stores, but small businesses that have been around a long time – maybe not since Paul Revere’s time but longer than Starbucks.

As a knitter and quilter I am often in the market for certain specialty items that non-crafty people have probably never thought about: sewing machine needles, large spools of thread, batting, cutting mats, yarn and, when a project is nearing completion, the perfect buttons. Now when I say perfect, I do not use that word lightly. After spending a number of months knitting costly yarn into a sweater, for example, the project takes on a personality and a value far beyond the basic cardigan you pick up at Macy’s. And there it is, button holes made, waiting for its crowning glory: buttons that will complement the color, texture and style of the pattern, accenting it without upstaging the knitting itself. Yes, crafters can be a bit obsessive about these kinds of things. Many of the big craft stores out in the surrounding towns carry some supplies, but here in Boston there is only one place to buy buttons: Windsor Button. Located in a bustling, somewhat run down shopping district tucked between the Theater District and Boston Common, Windsor Button is heaven to someone like me. It is not a pretty place, but nothing could look more beautiful to my eyes. Utilitarian fixtures carry every kind of “sewing notion” a crafty could ask for, and beautiful yarns are packed into one half of the store, along with binders bulging with patterns. But the true wonder of the place is the entire wall of floor to ceiling shelves lined with cardboard boxes with buttons glued to the front of each one. An entire wall. There are buttons of every size, shape and color, horn buttons, metal buttons, wood, plastic and leather buttons. Buttons to make this knitter cry tears of joy.

I went to Windsor Button today, a ball of brown yarn from my latest creation in my bag. I entered with a heavy heart. After 77 years, Windsor Button is going out of business. The landlord is planning to put a restaurant in that location. A restaurant? Seriously? There are plenty of places to eat, but in my limited experience of the world there are not too many places like Windsor Button left anymore. I realize some of you might think I am getting just a bit too melodramatic when I say this, but one of Boston’s best landmarks – always a stop on my personal tour of Boston’s top ten when visitors come – is closing its doors.

I spent two hours in the store in somewhat of a state, buying buttons for every project I have in the pipeline along with as many other essentials I could justify.

I lingered as long as I could, soaking it all up, watching a long line of customers matching their projects to the perfect buttons, knowing my creations will be just a little less perfect when Windsor Button is no more.

Trident Meet Up

When the kids are back in town, as they both were last week, we try to hit some favorite family haunts together, and Trident Booksellers and Café is always at the top of the list. One of our first discoveries upon moving here, this restaurant within a bookstore would fit right into Portland, so it feels a bit like home to us. Good food and good books – what more could we ask for? When my sister’s youngest son from California was visiting colleges a few years ago we took him there and I think the Lemon Ricotta French Toast with Blueberry Sauce was a deciding factor in his decision to come to college in Boston.

So last week we arranged to meet up with that same nephew at Trident. We hopped on the subway and popped up onto Newbury St. into the beginning of what turned out to be a nasty snowstorm. Undeterred, we soon ducked into the warmth of Trident Booksellers and maneuvered our down-padded bulk in the narrow aisles, unwinding scarves and shaking flakes off fleece hats. Through my steamy glasses I caught a glimpse of my nephew’s big smile and we descended on the tiny table he had snagged. Peeling off our winter layers and piling them up on the seats around us, we wedged ourselves into the wooden booth. I had lots of things I was eager to ask him, but only one question got out – “How was the midterm?” – before the conversation took on a life of its own. The three cousins filled the air with the chatter of young people who have known each other forever: classes, commiserations, concerts and my nephew’s plan to visit his brother in Providence and my daughter in DC, and did my son want to come? It made me smile.

When we moved to Boston from Oregon a few years ago we set up a kind of family outpost for the younger generation who were migrating eastwards for college: my own son in New York, my sister’s son in Rhode Island and eventually his brother here. For my nephews it meant warm meals, willing ears, a refuge from the dorms, and Thanksgiving with my husband’s welcoming family: a sense of home when home was too far to get to easily. For my family and me, for whom our new world still felt disconnected and not quite right, having the boys here made this feel more like home.

My daughter’s senior year of high school was my nephew’s first year of college, 3000 miles from his home but 1 ½ miles from ours. The two cousins got to hang out together, giving my daughter a taste of college life and easing my nephew’s transition. Born 4 months apart, these two were the youngest of the group of 5 cousins: 4 boys and then one girl. My sister and I, children in tow, visited each other and our parents as often as we could so that the cousins would grow up close to each other. In those early years, the babies resented being lumped together and ignored by the older ones, and all of the boys regarded the little girl in their midst as something of a foreign species until, tomboy that she was, she proved she could wrestle and keep up in other such manly pursuits.

Watching the rumble tumble of the kids, my mom and sister and I used to amuse ourselves with dreams of their futures, of the time when the sweet soft faces of the boys would grow beards, when they all would bring home significant others, when they would go off to college. We pictured the two babies at 19 in college, meeting up for coffee, exchanging stories about their friends and siblings and life in general. The picture we painted was so clear, it was as if we could see into the future, to this crowded little booth on Newbury St. in Boston.

There are so many hopes and dreams we have for our children when they are young, and so many we let go of as the children grow up and fulfill dreams of their own. But once in awhile – and I am so grateful for this – life can surprise you with a dream that has become a reality: happy cousins chatting around a small table in a warm café.

Sleepyhead

For the first time in my 52 years I don’t have something that drives me out of bed in the morning. School, work, children to feed, carpools to drive, meetings to get to: there was always some external reason that I had to get going. I am most definitely not a morning person but over the years I figured out a method that worked for me: I set an alarm 15 minutes before I absolutely had to rise and would lay there in a stunned daze bringing myself from my dream world to reality slowly but deliberately. And then, knowing there was something or someone waiting I pushed myself into action. I celebrated when Franny went off to college and I no longer had to get up at 6 am for my one quick and grumpy interaction with her before she left for the day. As much as I would miss her I was thrilled that my mornings, at last, would no longer be dictated by someone else’s schedule.

I work at home, so I have the blessing and curse of making my own schedule and it turns out I am not very good at it. The most defining feature of my routine, my discipline, up until now, has been that it was flexible enough to meet the demands of family, and now I find I don’t know how to be my own driver. It is not that I don’t have things to do: I have so many things to do that once I get started, I find it hard to stop. I am definitely not lazy and once I get started I don’t look up until suddenly I am late getting dinner started, and it is too dark outside for that walk I planned… seems I need a better supervisor than the one I have now. So it is not for lack of things to do that I cannot get myself out of bed. Other people I know use some personal sort of motivation: the promise of a cup of coffee… nope, I don’t drink coffee. My husband rises for the promise of a quiet run before his day starts… but the thought of a run makes me dive deeper under the covers. My dear friends who are morning people hop out of bed in answer to some joyful inner alarm, which – night owl that I am – I imagine sounds much like the one that keeps me up into the wee hours of the morning. For awhile the allure of the Kundalini yoga class at my gym did the trick, but a sprained ankle has given me too easy an excuse to pass on that. The bottom line is, I really, really, love to sleep, and when I wake, instead of thinking of happy things I am flooded with vague anxieties that clench my stomach. I think of my lovely, spiritually minded friends who do yoga and meditate as soon as they get up, but I can’t muster the serenity at that point in the day.

So it turns out that the first lesson of the empty nest is this: after being driven by pint-sized bosses for 20 years, I must now learn to be my own boss. I think I can draw on my years of mothering to help me with this task. If I must be my own boss, I would like to be kind but firm. I will write myself a memo, and tack it to the foot of my bed so that the first thing I see when I open my eyes will be this:

Home Love

In the spirit of making writing a priority, I have been busy signing up for writing classes and The Muse and The Marketplace conference, put on here in Boston by a great writing center called Grub St.

http://www.grubstreet.org/

Looks like a great event with workshops on both the creative and business sides of publishing. I am looking forward to connecting with the local writing community. My writing group back in Portland, Oregon was instrumental in getting me writing and I miss them! It will be helpful to build some of that support here too.

But today, I am putting all that aside, because my daughter is winging her way home from college for spring break! I remember when I was younger and would come home for vacations, it always seemed my parents had just been sitting around waiting for me to arrive. They put everything on hold and all my favorite meals would appear on the table and I would regale them with stories from my other life. Now the shoe is on the other foot. My notebooks are being stashed and the spaghetti sauce is on the stove. The welcome home chocolate cake is ready (so good that no one knows or cares that it is grain and gluten free!) Real life can just hold off for a week while I listen to my daughter’s adventures and refuel her with some home love!

February 9, 2013

Entering the cyber world

This is the year 2013 and it is time! I have been writing for years and have even been published several times, but always in relative obscurity compared to the legions of people who have such a strong public presence on the Web. Well, my last baby has left for college and my Stay at Home Mom job has been eliminated… it is time to take myself seriously as a writer! So on this first day of the Great Blizzard of 2013 in Boston I sit at my computer struggling to build myself a website and a sense of professional identity at the same time. The piles of snow are growing inch by inch, and so are my hopes for my writing future!