Now, I may be revealing a bit too much about myself by commenting on eHarmony. But they have some things going right for them and their clientele. One being the question, “What are three of your best life skills?” The question yanks our narrow hyper focus from “what do I want?” to “what do I bring to the table?”
Responsibility is carefully woven into this question. As I was pondering gratitude and contentment this morning, my thoughts moved swiftly from those tangible objects for which I’m grateful (and this includes people) to a sense that I have something to offer the world around me and that I am solely responsible for the sharing.
“Do you remember that girl from high school?” I asked a friend this morning.
“Of course- check her out on my FB friends list,” he retorted.
I did, and sent her a message of thanks. Because, whenever I think of a confident woman, I remember her. She once shared with me that she’d taken self-assertiveness class and that it taught her to be sure of herself and what she had to offer people. It showed, and I’ve never forgotten her example. She unabashedly shared her creativity through her avant-garde wardrobe and wildly changing hairstyles, and the look of self-ease in her eyes was unbeatable.
Moving in and out among people is something we do on a daily basis. Crowds on the sidewalk, a meeting room full of co workers, the line at the restaurant, those people we see at home if we’re really lucky. Many speeches have been made reminding us not to be so self-focused that we don’t even notice passers-by. I think many of us are moving past the “not-noticing.” We look at faces, we observe, we imagine what it might be like to know that stranger. But what I want to say today is that, instead of looking around for someone who has something to offer us, it is good to be self-focused enough to contemplate what we have to offer those in our midst. This is life-giving, depression-busting, and a great way to overcome insecurities so many of us are plagued with.
So, what are your three best life skills? Making people laugh? Helping around the house? Managing finances? Making art to inspire? Write them down. Keep them on your desktop. Remember what you have to offer. Imbue your holiday gift-giving with gifts of yourself, your time, your attention and your love. We will all be richer for it.
So, do tell me: What *are* your three best life skills?
Share
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Top Five Reasons to Live in Community
Top Five Reasons to Live in Community
Are you living in community today? Something odd is happening to me lately. Everywhere I turn, and in everything I read, I hear more about “community.” On this growing-up path since my painfully shy childhood, I’m reminded repeatedly to check my sense of the word.
Though I’ve always yearned to be a thread in the tight-knit fabric of friends and family in life, that expansive closeness has always evaded me. Not to slight my dearest friends (and you three know who you are) or my family (and beyond my fabulous daughters this group is oddly less defined), let me clarify what I mean by tight-knit fabric. I mean not just yards and yards, but miles and miles of beautifully-patterned fabric spread not only throughout my soul and life but that reaches across the U.S and to other countries as well and involves at least fifty very dear friends.
My heart simply hungers for deeply forged friendships in many corners of the world, and warming the remotest parts of my spirit; friends who not only know my middle name, e-address and Twitter i.d., but also ponder my whereabouts at least once a month as I do theirs, questioning when we might have the pleasure of embrace or hearing the soothing sound of one another’s voices. The bottom line is this: that I’ve made such an impact on their hearts that I become woven into their lives, and vice versa.
The difficult truth is that a shy (oh and let’s face it- insecure) little girl has a very trying time making an impact on anyone since she tries everything to maintain invisibility and not bother anyone with the sound of her voice. Certainly my forty-two years have removed me from little-girl status and yanked me from the utter solitude of shyness, but I never lose the sense that I’m light-years behind the average adult in being able to impact others’ lives and forge deep and lasting friendships. Is this truer of me than any other person? Do we all experience this hunger-and-doubt scenario? Regardless of how wide-spread (or not) the sensation, I propose humans thrive best in close-knit community.
Top five reasons why I believe living in community is so important:
1. There’s safety in numbers
2. There’s perspective in numbers
3. There’s bigger love in numbers
4. More people can build a bigger fire
5. There’s identity in numbers
1. There’s safety in numbers: Community can help us stay alive.
Having worked with refugees from many parts of the world, I’ve had reality checks as to my true priorities. Staying alive must not be overlooked as one of them. I’ve often thought, when threats of H1N1 and economic collapse arise, that I’d do best to surround myself with my refugee friends as they know survival. I’ve heard many stories of their survival, and seen first-hand the loving, protective nature of their communities. Consider the Lost Boys of Sudan, many of whom who survived by literally running together through terrorizing and deadly circumstances. From small children to early teens, many survived by sticking together, looking after one another, even carrying one another through alligator-infested waters. The morbid details are unnecessary to making the point that refugees, people who’ve faced terrific tragedy, know how to stick together to survive the most unbelievable circumstances.
2. There’s perspective in numbers: Community helps us avoid painful extremes and mistakes.
Depending on how tenacious and independent you are, of course. The more people you’re close to, the more access you have to a large collection of personal stories- lessons of downfall and success. We look to those with whom we’re close for our stories, those lessons that help us avoid making some of the same mistakes. Isn’t it when we take off on an adventure without the blessing of anyone that we can really lose our way? Certainly we don’t have to have everyone’s agreement to succeed, but I propose that when all our people are strangely silent, or we’ve run from their critique, is territory ripe for expensive mistakes. At my age, I’m no longer interested in gathering mistakes from which to learn; I’m into maximizing the time I have left for success.
3. There’s bigger love in numbers:
Community surrounds you with love. Recently I found myself keeping the company of one person a bit too much of the time. When that person hit a rough patch, my feelings followed. Thankfully I had the sense to head to a group gathering at my church, where the importance of community is somewhat of a mandate we are pleased to pursue. My tears were met with strong arms, sweet concern, love, and a better perspective. For me, this often occurs in my church home. For others, this may be a social group, amidst workplace friends, or at the gym. The point is that a bigger group of friends is more apt to provide you with a consistent blanket of love, while at the same time more capable of consistently receiving your love than when it is only focused on one or two people in your life.
4. More people can build a bigger fire.
OK so I’m out of my rhythm here, but it’s a great word picture. Simply put, communities have more resources to offer one another. Think of those communities who use a common wood-fired oven in the center of their village. I’d love to meet my neighbors every night as I prepared my dinner over a bigger, better oven than I could have in my own home. Ever been out of commission for a week due to illness or surgery? Lost a job? Had a baby? Communities like my church group are quick to pull together to fill in for a person in need. This should not be taken lightly, as it is, of course, reciprocal. We often forget that, leaving a group of consistent servants to carry the load. I’ve received meals, home visits, a little extra cash, job leads, a borrowed car, a ride to the airport, a visit from friend of a friend in another state when I was hospitalized. What have you received from your community when you most needed it? What have you offered others? I venture to add that when you’re most down in the mouth, the quickest way to find joy is to help someone else in need.
5. There’s identity in numbers.
No, we don’t all need to be the same person. In fact, I suggest that community is more like a human body than a group of all the same parts. One person is the hands, one the eyes, one the ears, and so on. But another crucial part of community is that they remind you of who you are when you forget. One of my favorite quotes says something like this: “A friend is the person who knows the song of my heart and sings it to me when I forget.” How beautiful is that? How often do we become jaded or depressed by life and forget our own song, our uniqueness, our successes, our path? Community of family and friends will surround us and remind us, over time, how valuable we are as a unique but imperative part of our world. When others surround us, we remember that we don’t have to be everything, do everything; we just fit in like a puzzle piece with others and help create a more beautiful whole.
What can you do to strengthen your sense of community today? If yours is strong and vibrant, I applaud you. But if you’re like me, it will be a work of love. Reach past yourself today and enjoy the results. Where will you start? Share
Are you living in community today? Something odd is happening to me lately. Everywhere I turn, and in everything I read, I hear more about “community.” On this growing-up path since my painfully shy childhood, I’m reminded repeatedly to check my sense of the word.
Though I’ve always yearned to be a thread in the tight-knit fabric of friends and family in life, that expansive closeness has always evaded me. Not to slight my dearest friends (and you three know who you are) or my family (and beyond my fabulous daughters this group is oddly less defined), let me clarify what I mean by tight-knit fabric. I mean not just yards and yards, but miles and miles of beautifully-patterned fabric spread not only throughout my soul and life but that reaches across the U.S and to other countries as well and involves at least fifty very dear friends.
My heart simply hungers for deeply forged friendships in many corners of the world, and warming the remotest parts of my spirit; friends who not only know my middle name, e-address and Twitter i.d., but also ponder my whereabouts at least once a month as I do theirs, questioning when we might have the pleasure of embrace or hearing the soothing sound of one another’s voices. The bottom line is this: that I’ve made such an impact on their hearts that I become woven into their lives, and vice versa.
The difficult truth is that a shy (oh and let’s face it- insecure) little girl has a very trying time making an impact on anyone since she tries everything to maintain invisibility and not bother anyone with the sound of her voice. Certainly my forty-two years have removed me from little-girl status and yanked me from the utter solitude of shyness, but I never lose the sense that I’m light-years behind the average adult in being able to impact others’ lives and forge deep and lasting friendships. Is this truer of me than any other person? Do we all experience this hunger-and-doubt scenario? Regardless of how wide-spread (or not) the sensation, I propose humans thrive best in close-knit community.
Top five reasons why I believe living in community is so important:
1. There’s safety in numbers
2. There’s perspective in numbers
3. There’s bigger love in numbers
4. More people can build a bigger fire
5. There’s identity in numbers
1. There’s safety in numbers: Community can help us stay alive.
Having worked with refugees from many parts of the world, I’ve had reality checks as to my true priorities. Staying alive must not be overlooked as one of them. I’ve often thought, when threats of H1N1 and economic collapse arise, that I’d do best to surround myself with my refugee friends as they know survival. I’ve heard many stories of their survival, and seen first-hand the loving, protective nature of their communities. Consider the Lost Boys of Sudan, many of whom who survived by literally running together through terrorizing and deadly circumstances. From small children to early teens, many survived by sticking together, looking after one another, even carrying one another through alligator-infested waters. The morbid details are unnecessary to making the point that refugees, people who’ve faced terrific tragedy, know how to stick together to survive the most unbelievable circumstances.
2. There’s perspective in numbers: Community helps us avoid painful extremes and mistakes.
Depending on how tenacious and independent you are, of course. The more people you’re close to, the more access you have to a large collection of personal stories- lessons of downfall and success. We look to those with whom we’re close for our stories, those lessons that help us avoid making some of the same mistakes. Isn’t it when we take off on an adventure without the blessing of anyone that we can really lose our way? Certainly we don’t have to have everyone’s agreement to succeed, but I propose that when all our people are strangely silent, or we’ve run from their critique, is territory ripe for expensive mistakes. At my age, I’m no longer interested in gathering mistakes from which to learn; I’m into maximizing the time I have left for success.
3. There’s bigger love in numbers:
Community surrounds you with love. Recently I found myself keeping the company of one person a bit too much of the time. When that person hit a rough patch, my feelings followed. Thankfully I had the sense to head to a group gathering at my church, where the importance of community is somewhat of a mandate we are pleased to pursue. My tears were met with strong arms, sweet concern, love, and a better perspective. For me, this often occurs in my church home. For others, this may be a social group, amidst workplace friends, or at the gym. The point is that a bigger group of friends is more apt to provide you with a consistent blanket of love, while at the same time more capable of consistently receiving your love than when it is only focused on one or two people in your life.
4. More people can build a bigger fire.
OK so I’m out of my rhythm here, but it’s a great word picture. Simply put, communities have more resources to offer one another. Think of those communities who use a common wood-fired oven in the center of their village. I’d love to meet my neighbors every night as I prepared my dinner over a bigger, better oven than I could have in my own home. Ever been out of commission for a week due to illness or surgery? Lost a job? Had a baby? Communities like my church group are quick to pull together to fill in for a person in need. This should not be taken lightly, as it is, of course, reciprocal. We often forget that, leaving a group of consistent servants to carry the load. I’ve received meals, home visits, a little extra cash, job leads, a borrowed car, a ride to the airport, a visit from friend of a friend in another state when I was hospitalized. What have you received from your community when you most needed it? What have you offered others? I venture to add that when you’re most down in the mouth, the quickest way to find joy is to help someone else in need.
5. There’s identity in numbers.
No, we don’t all need to be the same person. In fact, I suggest that community is more like a human body than a group of all the same parts. One person is the hands, one the eyes, one the ears, and so on. But another crucial part of community is that they remind you of who you are when you forget. One of my favorite quotes says something like this: “A friend is the person who knows the song of my heart and sings it to me when I forget.” How beautiful is that? How often do we become jaded or depressed by life and forget our own song, our uniqueness, our successes, our path? Community of family and friends will surround us and remind us, over time, how valuable we are as a unique but imperative part of our world. When others surround us, we remember that we don’t have to be everything, do everything; we just fit in like a puzzle piece with others and help create a more beautiful whole.
What can you do to strengthen your sense of community today? If yours is strong and vibrant, I applaud you. But if you’re like me, it will be a work of love. Reach past yourself today and enjoy the results. Where will you start? Share
Friday, September 25, 2009
Waiting for Sunshine
It’s no wonder so many wonderful people in my circle or friends and acquaintances are feeling a bit blue- or worse. The hue of their visualized emotion roughly matches that of the wet world around us. Rain. It has been raining for a seeming record number of days here in Nashvegas, dimming the fluorescent lights of the honkey-tonks on Lower Broadway as it does the inner light of many a creative soul. Rain. When will it stop?
The maintenance man told me he was going to have a talk with Noah. Coworkers tell of families in other cities with flooded homes. Rescue stories flood in from other states. But rain, rain, rain is all we get here in this seamless bubble of gray earth and sky.
As an adult, I’m a bold kind of girl. As a painter, I fill my canvases with bright, bold color. I prefer hard black lines to vagueness, and intense primary colors to olive, peach and mauve. In my home, I far prefer motion to stillness, noise to silence, and excitement to peace. In the same way, I’ve always preferred loud, passionate rainstorms to endless gray drear. There is something so numbing about being in the gray bubble of endless cloud cover; sound is dulled, absorbed into some unknown place. Even the sound of my own voice loses its crisp edge. Black lines in the landscapes around me become fuzzied and colors muted, making the shortening days of autumn even less colorful.
Somehow, the drear of this gray weather translates to my soul. I begin to question how I define myself, the lines that define foundational truths are fuzzied, I begin to doubt what I thought I knew for sure, the sparkles in my eyes that made the world look happy quickly fade, and I put on my gray glasses when I survey my personality and accomplishments. Sometimes even my body takes a toll and the clean, rested, happy feeling transforms into aches and pains and fatigue.
It can be scary to feel so numbed by gray dreary days, one after another. Scarier than when we face a clearly-defined storm and can see that there is blue sky and sun rays beyond it. Definition- those clear lines that delineate shape from shape, sound from sound, idea from idea, and demark our moments of time passing-definition is something we unknowingly depend on for peace of mind.
When definition evades us, as in these endless days of Nashville rain, we have some tools we can use to break the bleakness and reawaken our peace of mind. I find myself looking for ways to imbue my day with definition in color, warmth, sound, excitement, people. I take a walk. I phone a friend. I shift gears at work more frequently and to tasks that require more creative thought. I try to find something colorful and intensely flavorful to eat. I move- doing a little yoga in my cubicle or taking a walk. I breathe deeply.
But I propose today trying another approach- and I’m speaking to myself as well here; learn to embrace the uncertainty, the UNdefinition, the dullness. I’m no expert, I’m an explorer in this territory. What is familiar to me is my garden. I’m familiar with digging in the soil, turning in the compost, watching the seedlings pop out of the earth in bright greens, observing the unfurling of curly leaves under the sunshine, the burst of each opening flower or purple baby eggplant. Not so familiar to me is what is happening beneath the surface of the soil. What’s happening under there for days, weeks, sometimes months on end in the darkness is the crucial nurturing of the seed or bulb. Are we not unlike these seeds?
There are equally critical times of growth we must go through when we as humans are entombed in a dark, sometimes lonely place where sound is diffused and clarifying lines are fuzzied and we can’t see beyond the tips of our noses. Sometimes we are enshrouded in ambiguity, but we don’t realize that “this place” is like a protective womb nurturing our growth. These endless days of rain, we can recognize logically, are supplying our fresh water reserves and nourishing food-bearing land. Why is it so much harder to recognize our own need for such times?
My pastor’s wife, for those of you familiar with the Christian faith, likens these times to that during which Jesus was entombed, just prior to his resurrection. Three days came and went, during which his friends agonized that the dream of his becoming king had apparently crashed down, but down in the depths of the dark tomb, Jesus was ultimately transformed into the savior of the world. Whether you espouse this story as truth or not, this picture of the tomb evokes an agonizingly long time of what, death? What could be worse? Isn’t that our ultimate fear? Absence of light, of life, of others, of any joy, color, peace, or remaining purpose. That describes so accurately how I feel during dreary times in life like these endless days of rain. Nonetheless, we can embrace those times as moments of growth to be followed by far brighter days, as symbolized by the resurrection of Jesus from the tomb. We simply can’t rely on our sense to feed us truth about these times, so perhaps we can learn to remind ourselves of the impermanency of the darker times. One simple thought, the one that says “this is only temporary,” can brighten our outlook for hours and sometimes days on end.
I was just interrupted by the sound of my pager beeping. Talk about a delineating sound! That one tiny sound led to some interesting and highly defined bright moments in my day. Returning the page led me to meet some unexpected visitors downstairs, getting me up and moving which was nice enough. But as I awaited the visitors outside the hospital I met with more defined sound- that of a young girl throwing up. Now, I apologize for any shock, disgust or nausea you’re now experiencing. But turn your thoughts to this young girl- who was quite obviously a cancer victim leaving the hospital after treatment. I was instantly transformed by gratitude that my own daughters are healthy. The sight of this young lady’s smooth, hairless head instantly changed my mind about my daughter’s long hair that so often covers the bathroom floor. My thoughts were jerked from their stale, dreary outlook to a more realistic view. And when my visitors arrived, they came bearing brightest mylar balloons and bags of chocolate candy for our patients. My vision was instantly changed not only by the bright shininess of the balloons, the smiles on the faces of my visitors, my imagination of the taste of chocolate, but also by gratitude.
So what can you do to jumpstart another dreary day? I recommend a little gratitude first. It is a much more potent healer for the blues and blahs than anything else I know. Think of and express three things for which you are grateful. Secondly, try a little color, a little motion, crank up some music, see the faces of friends, amp up your day by dressing in bright colors, eating an interesting meal. Anything that tempts your senses makes you feel just a little better by reminding you that yes, you are alive. You may be experiencing the dull quietness of waiting under the soil like a seed being nourished, or in a sort of “tomb” where something in your life that needs to change is, indeed, being transformed. Either way, the bright hope is that while you are alive you still have choices, this is only temporary, and yes, the sun will shine on us again. Share
The maintenance man told me he was going to have a talk with Noah. Coworkers tell of families in other cities with flooded homes. Rescue stories flood in from other states. But rain, rain, rain is all we get here in this seamless bubble of gray earth and sky.
As an adult, I’m a bold kind of girl. As a painter, I fill my canvases with bright, bold color. I prefer hard black lines to vagueness, and intense primary colors to olive, peach and mauve. In my home, I far prefer motion to stillness, noise to silence, and excitement to peace. In the same way, I’ve always preferred loud, passionate rainstorms to endless gray drear. There is something so numbing about being in the gray bubble of endless cloud cover; sound is dulled, absorbed into some unknown place. Even the sound of my own voice loses its crisp edge. Black lines in the landscapes around me become fuzzied and colors muted, making the shortening days of autumn even less colorful.
Somehow, the drear of this gray weather translates to my soul. I begin to question how I define myself, the lines that define foundational truths are fuzzied, I begin to doubt what I thought I knew for sure, the sparkles in my eyes that made the world look happy quickly fade, and I put on my gray glasses when I survey my personality and accomplishments. Sometimes even my body takes a toll and the clean, rested, happy feeling transforms into aches and pains and fatigue.
It can be scary to feel so numbed by gray dreary days, one after another. Scarier than when we face a clearly-defined storm and can see that there is blue sky and sun rays beyond it. Definition- those clear lines that delineate shape from shape, sound from sound, idea from idea, and demark our moments of time passing-definition is something we unknowingly depend on for peace of mind.
When definition evades us, as in these endless days of Nashville rain, we have some tools we can use to break the bleakness and reawaken our peace of mind. I find myself looking for ways to imbue my day with definition in color, warmth, sound, excitement, people. I take a walk. I phone a friend. I shift gears at work more frequently and to tasks that require more creative thought. I try to find something colorful and intensely flavorful to eat. I move- doing a little yoga in my cubicle or taking a walk. I breathe deeply.
But I propose today trying another approach- and I’m speaking to myself as well here; learn to embrace the uncertainty, the UNdefinition, the dullness. I’m no expert, I’m an explorer in this territory. What is familiar to me is my garden. I’m familiar with digging in the soil, turning in the compost, watching the seedlings pop out of the earth in bright greens, observing the unfurling of curly leaves under the sunshine, the burst of each opening flower or purple baby eggplant. Not so familiar to me is what is happening beneath the surface of the soil. What’s happening under there for days, weeks, sometimes months on end in the darkness is the crucial nurturing of the seed or bulb. Are we not unlike these seeds?
There are equally critical times of growth we must go through when we as humans are entombed in a dark, sometimes lonely place where sound is diffused and clarifying lines are fuzzied and we can’t see beyond the tips of our noses. Sometimes we are enshrouded in ambiguity, but we don’t realize that “this place” is like a protective womb nurturing our growth. These endless days of rain, we can recognize logically, are supplying our fresh water reserves and nourishing food-bearing land. Why is it so much harder to recognize our own need for such times?
My pastor’s wife, for those of you familiar with the Christian faith, likens these times to that during which Jesus was entombed, just prior to his resurrection. Three days came and went, during which his friends agonized that the dream of his becoming king had apparently crashed down, but down in the depths of the dark tomb, Jesus was ultimately transformed into the savior of the world. Whether you espouse this story as truth or not, this picture of the tomb evokes an agonizingly long time of what, death? What could be worse? Isn’t that our ultimate fear? Absence of light, of life, of others, of any joy, color, peace, or remaining purpose. That describes so accurately how I feel during dreary times in life like these endless days of rain. Nonetheless, we can embrace those times as moments of growth to be followed by far brighter days, as symbolized by the resurrection of Jesus from the tomb. We simply can’t rely on our sense to feed us truth about these times, so perhaps we can learn to remind ourselves of the impermanency of the darker times. One simple thought, the one that says “this is only temporary,” can brighten our outlook for hours and sometimes days on end.
I was just interrupted by the sound of my pager beeping. Talk about a delineating sound! That one tiny sound led to some interesting and highly defined bright moments in my day. Returning the page led me to meet some unexpected visitors downstairs, getting me up and moving which was nice enough. But as I awaited the visitors outside the hospital I met with more defined sound- that of a young girl throwing up. Now, I apologize for any shock, disgust or nausea you’re now experiencing. But turn your thoughts to this young girl- who was quite obviously a cancer victim leaving the hospital after treatment. I was instantly transformed by gratitude that my own daughters are healthy. The sight of this young lady’s smooth, hairless head instantly changed my mind about my daughter’s long hair that so often covers the bathroom floor. My thoughts were jerked from their stale, dreary outlook to a more realistic view. And when my visitors arrived, they came bearing brightest mylar balloons and bags of chocolate candy for our patients. My vision was instantly changed not only by the bright shininess of the balloons, the smiles on the faces of my visitors, my imagination of the taste of chocolate, but also by gratitude.
So what can you do to jumpstart another dreary day? I recommend a little gratitude first. It is a much more potent healer for the blues and blahs than anything else I know. Think of and express three things for which you are grateful. Secondly, try a little color, a little motion, crank up some music, see the faces of friends, amp up your day by dressing in bright colors, eating an interesting meal. Anything that tempts your senses makes you feel just a little better by reminding you that yes, you are alive. You may be experiencing the dull quietness of waiting under the soil like a seed being nourished, or in a sort of “tomb” where something in your life that needs to change is, indeed, being transformed. Either way, the bright hope is that while you are alive you still have choices, this is only temporary, and yes, the sun will shine on us again. Share
Friday, September 4, 2009
Why I Love Nutmeg
When I consider nutmeg, the sound of the word elicits luscious memories of the most creamy sensation between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Nutmeg, of course, isn’t creamy but rather grainy-dusty in both its grated and ground form, but what showcases the slightly metallic, peppery-sweet nutmeg better than the subtly savory, uber-creamy béchamel atop Mediterranean pastitsio? Or a chilled glass full to the brim with my favorite Caribbean cocktail, the creamy, coconut-pineapple-rum-laden Painkiller with just a smidgen of the grated seed atop?
Sure, nutmeg brings to mind everybody’s grandmother’s pumpkin bread, but I find it is lost there amidst cinnamon and clove. Nutmeg is feisty enough to stand up to alcohol, cloyingly sweet fruit, and fatty meat. I love its independence; its potency; its snap. Nutmeg likes to be shown off as a dark-sprinkled contrast to food and drink that otherwise appears plain and boring. Nutmeg may well be the very essence of mystery and intrigue that draws us in closer for a taste.
If you're among those who have never cared for the tinny taste of the pre-ground spice, I heartily recommend picking up whole nutmeg at your local grocery or international market next time you're in the spice section. Keep the seed in an airtight container and simply grate a sprinkling on your next sweet potato, fresh peach, or coconut-based summer cocktail. The fresh, round, earthy flavor will be less metallic and more heady than the canned ground stuff and, perhaps, you too will fall in love. Be sure to let me know what you think. Share
Sure, nutmeg brings to mind everybody’s grandmother’s pumpkin bread, but I find it is lost there amidst cinnamon and clove. Nutmeg is feisty enough to stand up to alcohol, cloyingly sweet fruit, and fatty meat. I love its independence; its potency; its snap. Nutmeg likes to be shown off as a dark-sprinkled contrast to food and drink that otherwise appears plain and boring. Nutmeg may well be the very essence of mystery and intrigue that draws us in closer for a taste.
If you're among those who have never cared for the tinny taste of the pre-ground spice, I heartily recommend picking up whole nutmeg at your local grocery or international market next time you're in the spice section. Keep the seed in an airtight container and simply grate a sprinkling on your next sweet potato, fresh peach, or coconut-based summer cocktail. The fresh, round, earthy flavor will be less metallic and more heady than the canned ground stuff and, perhaps, you too will fall in love. Be sure to let me know what you think. Share
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
An Omelette: Behold the Fork
Ridiculous.
I call myself a foodie and I've never perfected the omelette. I have just one thing to say:
Behold, the fork.
I have applied spatulae of various shapes and sizes with tortuous twists and turns of the wrist to pools of whisked eggs in skillets of countless and varied materials. Omelette shame had met me face to face so many times that I simply gave up and have avoided the dish among my breakfast offerings. But today, this glorious morning, I rediscovered the beauty of the fork.
Perhaps the commonness of a kitchen tool deceives us; I have so many forks in my kitchen that they simply cannot be the key to any particular dish. One KitchenAid professional mixer is the key to many a light-textured cake; one potato masher is the answer for soft, fluffy mashed potatoes; one fork simply can't make the difference, I contemplated at 6:00 this morning, rubbing my bleary eyes as I perused the directions for a "plain omelette" in LaRousse's Gastronomique. But I was determined and gathered my muster, fork in one hand, bowl of eggs in the other, and my favorite, simple cast iron skillet before me over medium-high heat, bubbling with a mere two teaspoons of melted butter.
"I really can't believe I'm going to fork these eggs to death and expect a smooth omelette," I mumbled. I went for it, rubbing my eyes with one wrist. Hurriedly pouring the eggs into the skillet I made quick work of whisking them continously with my simple dinner fork. Once about half-set in a curdled, wet disk, I tempted the cohesed eggs to move from the surface of the skillet on the side closest to me. They lifted in such a heavenly, easy fashion I was, frankly, stunned.
Now I love my cast iron skillet for its non-stick properties, but eggs are normally the curmudgeon that defies me, sticking with a crust, ruining my breakfast, leaving me with a mess to scrub, and possibly lifting years of my Grandmother's precious seasoning from the iron. But lift they did without a spot, and I folded the near side of the disk over onto the middle. Pushing the fluffy, folded edge away from me towards the opposite side of the skillet, I gently nudged with my fork until the entire omelette moved up the sides and folded over on itself.
"I'm done. I can't believe I'm done," I thought. Here in my sleepy stupor I had finally mastered a simple omelette. The omelette possessed that delicate fluffy sponginess I'd sought to capture for so long; it was light and delicious, with a hint of kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper (I was out of the traditional white). And it was beautiful. Without a hitch, in the blink of an eye, and with only a fork in my hand. No fancy tools, no spatula, nothing but me and the fork. Well, and Grandma's cast iron.
Sadly, I forgot to take a snapshot before I scarfed down my masterpiece. Oh well.
Next, the lovely souffle.....
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I call myself a foodie and I've never perfected the omelette. I have just one thing to say:
Behold, the fork.
I have applied spatulae of various shapes and sizes with tortuous twists and turns of the wrist to pools of whisked eggs in skillets of countless and varied materials. Omelette shame had met me face to face so many times that I simply gave up and have avoided the dish among my breakfast offerings. But today, this glorious morning, I rediscovered the beauty of the fork.
Perhaps the commonness of a kitchen tool deceives us; I have so many forks in my kitchen that they simply cannot be the key to any particular dish. One KitchenAid professional mixer is the key to many a light-textured cake; one potato masher is the answer for soft, fluffy mashed potatoes; one fork simply can't make the difference, I contemplated at 6:00 this morning, rubbing my bleary eyes as I perused the directions for a "plain omelette" in LaRousse's Gastronomique. But I was determined and gathered my muster, fork in one hand, bowl of eggs in the other, and my favorite, simple cast iron skillet before me over medium-high heat, bubbling with a mere two teaspoons of melted butter.
"I really can't believe I'm going to fork these eggs to death and expect a smooth omelette," I mumbled. I went for it, rubbing my eyes with one wrist. Hurriedly pouring the eggs into the skillet I made quick work of whisking them continously with my simple dinner fork. Once about half-set in a curdled, wet disk, I tempted the cohesed eggs to move from the surface of the skillet on the side closest to me. They lifted in such a heavenly, easy fashion I was, frankly, stunned.
Now I love my cast iron skillet for its non-stick properties, but eggs are normally the curmudgeon that defies me, sticking with a crust, ruining my breakfast, leaving me with a mess to scrub, and possibly lifting years of my Grandmother's precious seasoning from the iron. But lift they did without a spot, and I folded the near side of the disk over onto the middle. Pushing the fluffy, folded edge away from me towards the opposite side of the skillet, I gently nudged with my fork until the entire omelette moved up the sides and folded over on itself.
"I'm done. I can't believe I'm done," I thought. Here in my sleepy stupor I had finally mastered a simple omelette. The omelette possessed that delicate fluffy sponginess I'd sought to capture for so long; it was light and delicious, with a hint of kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper (I was out of the traditional white). And it was beautiful. Without a hitch, in the blink of an eye, and with only a fork in my hand. No fancy tools, no spatula, nothing but me and the fork. Well, and Grandma's cast iron.
Sadly, I forgot to take a snapshot before I scarfed down my masterpiece. Oh well.
Next, the lovely souffle.....
Share
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Where All the Baby Socks Go
I'm not sure where to begin. There's that old adage to begin at the beginning:
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For me, it happened back in 1989, when my college graduation trip fund became my washer & dryer fund. The generous gift from my maternal grandparents was now to be transformed into something exceedingly practical. I say exceedingly as I'd had no desire to be practical at 22 years of age. I'd long dreamt of the trip I'd make to Europe, what I'd do differently from my sister who'd graduated, received the gift, and gone off to Europe with a group wrangled by Mrs. Ruth Gay, (whom we appropriately called Ruthless Gay), God rest her soul.
I'd do it differently, I was certain; I'd run off from the trip leader for more than just one afternoon. It was quite the daydream, as here I was already married and graduating from college. The reality of life and marriage to someone parading around as a nice guy had come to roost, and I felt the lifeblood slowing in my arteries even as I felt my first child beginning to gain substance in my belly. Running off to Europe no longer a possibility, I slapped all my trip fund into the hands of the Whirlpool man and made room for two shiny white machines that somehow managed to fit in my tiny apartment kitchen. I'd need, them, I thought, what with all those baby socks and onesies.
That's where the mystery began. Only a few months later as Baby Kelli made her appearance did I begin to sprinkle my conversation with the phrase, "...where all the baby socks go." For those of you who for whatever reason do not have children of your own and have never baby-sat a small child overnight, I'll fill you in on something: Tiny socks disappear. They vanish, inexplicably, into the universe. Statistically, new moms spend at least an hour a week searching for vanished baby socks with no satisfaction.
I developed the theory then that my new Whirlpool washer and dryer had swallowed them. Now, at this point, I've had a few repairs done on each machine. And I assure you, I've leaned over the shoulder of the Whirlpool repairman (yes, he does exist), breathing down his neck but no baby socks have ever been discovered in the belly of either one. My updated theory? One of these machines is a portal. A portal into the universe. A portal to all things inexplicable. A portal to mystery, to life's deepest, darkest secrets, and to mountains and mountains of lost socks.
Fast forward twenty years. Baby Kelli will reach her landmark birthday in November, and has just driven herself to college for the first time. She's in her third year, but never before has she loaded up her own car with her worldly goods, hopped in behind the wheel and taken off. {Sniffle, sniffle}. And here the magic begins.
I'm packing my bags for a road trip next weekend. I've patiently waited for all loads of laundry to be clean and dry to complete my weekend wardrobe which, for the most part, is casual. I plan to wear tennis shoes or hikers. With socks. I find only a singleton in my drawer which had held the three old and three brand new pairs of the cushioned wicking ones I'm so fond of I head to the dryer where I assume I'll find the dregs of the white load still resting deep within, amidst two or three well-worn dryer sheets. Enter Katherine, my 14-year old. She's getting ready for her first day of eighth grade: "Mom!!! I have no socks!!!"
You can only imagine the expletives aimed at the universe. The dryer. The black hole. And then the realization. It was, indeed, human hands that removed all those socks from our home. The same hands that once were so tiny, clapping as baby Kelli sat on top of the rumbling dryer in our old apartment kitchen had pilfered our sock collections directly from the wash. What now?
Aside from a trip to Target for new stock, I've only to reassess my theory. The one I've held so dear to my heart since 1989. No longer can I answer anyone's plea, "Where did _X_ go?" with my favorite phrase, "It went where all the baby socks go." For me, the answer must be this simple credo: Kelli ate them. Now I know. No more mystery, no more black hole theory, nor more speculation or intrigue. Everyone else will simply have to find their own answer to the universe.
Friday, August 14, 2009
It's Real Simple: Growing Up
"But, why do I have to grow up?"
I still reflect on that bittersweet moment long ago . I sat on my father's lap as he sat on the dark vinyl Danish modern recliner in our living room on Sheri Drive.
"But I don't want to!"was my protest, so often repeated in the most difficult moments of my life.
What I hadn't latched onto then but would some 35 years later, is that I wouldn't have to go this road alone. Adulthood, I had suspected, required a great and glamorous solo flight, the sort that would wow the world as they watched my wings spread within my own sinewy strength. Growing up, I now understand, is a weaving together of those elements of experiences and people in life that bind us in commonality rather than exclusivity. It takes a village to raise a child, and certainly a village to launch an adult. And for that I'm grateful. Share
I still reflect on that bittersweet moment long ago . I sat on my father's lap as he sat on the dark vinyl Danish modern recliner in our living room on Sheri Drive.
"But I don't want to!"was my protest, so often repeated in the most difficult moments of my life.
What I hadn't latched onto then but would some 35 years later, is that I wouldn't have to go this road alone. Adulthood, I had suspected, required a great and glamorous solo flight, the sort that would wow the world as they watched my wings spread within my own sinewy strength. Growing up, I now understand, is a weaving together of those elements of experiences and people in life that bind us in commonality rather than exclusivity. It takes a village to raise a child, and certainly a village to launch an adult. And for that I'm grateful. Share
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