Yesterday was a whirlwind of weird and wonderful moments.
It all started with being a panelist for a discussion about how the faiths of three different women led us to social justice work. I was truly inspired by the other women on the panel. It also felt good to say out loud what brings me to my work, what fills my heart and soul, and how I am unable to do anything else as successfully without compromising my happiness and fulfillment. That was from 7am-9am.
At 9am I started my journey to Memphis for meetings for one of my jobs. I had four people scheduled in three meetings (12:30pm, 2pm and potentially 4pm). Through a series of unforeseen circumstances, some of which are detailed below, I didn't actually make it to my first meeting (with a revamped line-up of who I was meeting with) until 1:50pm.
The circumstances included such gems as: stop and go traffic due to lane closures for pot hole repairs on a major interstate midday, and getting pulled over by a state trooper...and taking the longest route to get to my destination once I entered Shelby County. The trooper was in an unmarked blue car that I saw as I crested a rolling hill. I slowed down as I passed him and thought I was in the clear, but I noticed the car pull up alongside me...carefully avoiding making eye contact as he was matching my below-the-limit speed...until he turned on the blue lights and we both pulled off the road.
He carefully exited his vehicle and walked to the shoulder, where I had my passenger window open and my wallet on my lap with my license in my right hand. "Do you know why I pulled you over?" "I have an idea." "Do you know how fast you were going?" "No ma'a...no sir." "78, in a 70. Where are you headed?" "Memphis for meetings with pastors." "What church do you go to?" "Oh, I don't work at a church, I work for _______." "What does _____ want with churches? Is there a problem we should know about?" "No sir, ______ is interested in working with congregations and their social action committees on everything from voter rights and student rights to free speech and more." "What does ________ think about (this conservative guy I know about) and what he says about gay marriage?" "I don't know who he is. What does he think about gay marriage?" "He is against it." "______ supports freedom of speech, and would defend his right to voice his opinions. __________ also supports the rights of gay couples to marry."
The trooper then told me about his plans to study criminal law and go to Nashville School of Law. I wished him luck. He handed me back my license and told me to remember that driving is a privilege and not a right. Did I mention that he was leaning intimidatingly into my car this whole time? There was more to the conversation, but it just got weirder. Oh, and I shook his hand before he left...after asking his name and giving him mine, not that I'd like to see him again.
The meetings all went well, and continued to get shuffled. One to this morning. Two others were combined.
After the meetings, I checked into my hotel in Midtown. Your typical low-end hotel with clean sheets, a bed, a tv, and a bathroom.
I'm pretty sure the guy who checked me in was checking me out. He also put me in a room at the very end of the hall on my floor, next to the emergency stairs. I feel like I'm in outer space, or at the very least pretty far away from anyone else. If I were with other people, or knew other people in the hotel, that would be fine. I'd love a quiet room at the end of the hall. As a single woman traveling, it creeps me out more than reassures me that I'll have a peaceful night.
After depositing my bags in the room--yes, I am staying for a single night and I have multiple bags (smallest suitcase in my collection, bag for meetings, purse and bag with car snacks and tunes)--I went back downstairs to get another pillow or two. The only guy at registration had a long winded, oblivious customer who managed to assemble a line of four people behind him. The clerk directed me to a workman down the hall and told me to ask him for the pillows, and to get them from the housekeeping room. As I walked down the hall, I hear a man behind me say, "I'm with her." Um, nope. No one is with me. That is why I'm not comfortable here. G-reat.
Turned out, he was looking for an extra pillow, too. The workman turned out to be a contractor pulling wires through the ceiling and was vacuuming up popcorn from the hallway that, presumably, he dropped earlier. The three of us ended up rummaging through the housekeeping supplies, first unable to open the linen closet, then unable to locate the pillowcases. The clerk eventually found us and gave us what we sought.
It was totally bizarre, but I was happier to go through that than have to anyone knock on my door. After finishing some work emails, I headed out to dinner, which was lovely.
What was not lovely, but was further unsettling was that when I returned from dinner, there was a patrol car in front of the hotel entrance and the officer belonging to the car was parked in the lobby.
Sweet dreams are made of these.
February 6, 2014
February 5, 2014
For the birds
Over the weekend I was doing laundry, like a typical exciting weekend at my house, which involves walking from my kitchen door (under the carport) to the detached garage 10' away.
It's not a long walk, but in wind, rain or snow it's unpleasant...and gets my heart pumping a bit faster with my quickened pace.
This weekend, however, my pace was faster due to the potential for another substance raining down on me: poop from 200 or so starlings.
Yup, the trees around and on my property were reminiscent of a scene from "The Birds." It was eerie and awesome all at the same time. Half of me wanted to be Weezer from "Steel Magnolias" or was it the dad or the brothers that tried to scare away the birds with a shotgun from the wedding? Anyway, the other half of me just wanted to protect my laundry and myself from a shower of uncomposted crap.
I know, logically, that these birds eat bugs and spread seeds and probably do other important and ecologically important things, but they are also a total nuisance. Have you ever awoken to the cacophony of a flock of starlings? Have you ever walked through a neighborhood lousy with them? They are creepy and disgusting. They are also the product of a misguided attempt to populate the Americas with Shakespearean birds.
I'm over the starlings. I don't want them over me.
It's not a long walk, but in wind, rain or snow it's unpleasant...and gets my heart pumping a bit faster with my quickened pace.
This weekend, however, my pace was faster due to the potential for another substance raining down on me: poop from 200 or so starlings.
Yup, the trees around and on my property were reminiscent of a scene from "The Birds." It was eerie and awesome all at the same time. Half of me wanted to be Weezer from "Steel Magnolias" or was it the dad or the brothers that tried to scare away the birds with a shotgun from the wedding? Anyway, the other half of me just wanted to protect my laundry and myself from a shower of uncomposted crap.
I know, logically, that these birds eat bugs and spread seeds and probably do other important and ecologically important things, but they are also a total nuisance. Have you ever awoken to the cacophony of a flock of starlings? Have you ever walked through a neighborhood lousy with them? They are creepy and disgusting. They are also the product of a misguided attempt to populate the Americas with Shakespearean birds.
I'm over the starlings. I don't want them over me.
February 4, 2014
Checking (account) in
You know things are looking up when you realize that the paycheck you just received will not immediately get redistributed to utilities, wireless provider, internet provider, credit card companies and mortgage company.
I frequently review my bank statements and account information, and even though I keep steady track of what goes in and what comes out, I have somehow managed to maintain an unaccounted for surplus in my checking account. Last year I went through 1.5 years of statements with my banker, and neither of us could figure it out. I'm not complaining. I am totally cool with having a cash cushion, I just wish I knew why.
I mean, has someone failed to cash my check(s)? Did I accidentally send in an extra mortgage payment when it was switched to a third provider? Is someone secretly sneaking funds into my account without them showing up on my statements?
The whole thing actually reminds me of the first year I lived in my house. I didn't have a lawn mower for the first month, and it was spring. May, to be exact. That means rain in Nashville. Lots and lots of rain. And that means the grass grew to knee-length.
I managed to get a 2nd hand mower for $30 from a neighbor's yard sale and got the suburban savannah down to nubs, but I was working crazy hours and didn't get a chance to do it very often. The grass grew more quickly than I could get to it, and I started to feel like that neighbor who is bringing down home values due to yard neglect.
Living across the street from Richland Creek, I knew that the odds of finding a literal snake in the grass would grow with said grass, so I had incentive, although not availability, to keep it short. Thankfully, one of my neighbors did have the availability.
I would come home from long days and nights to a mowed lawn. Just the front, but still...it was something! It kept up for a little over a year. I never knew how did it, so I started referring to the kind soul as the Lawnmowing Fairy.
It was only after a driveway conversation with one of my elderly next door neighbors that it was revealed that her husband was the Lawnmowing Fairy. He had been out on his riding mower and decided that since he was already on it, he might as well take care of my yard, too.
Like the experience with my neighbor, I just say a quiet, but heartfelt thank you. Regardless of how the money got into my account, I am grateful. I'm grateful not only for the extra I didn't intend, but for the extra I am able to put aside for when I need it.
I'm grateful for that extra so that I can surprise Grandma with flowers, treat my niece to a yoga class or plan a trip to see some friends. Let's hope it lasts that long.
I frequently review my bank statements and account information, and even though I keep steady track of what goes in and what comes out, I have somehow managed to maintain an unaccounted for surplus in my checking account. Last year I went through 1.5 years of statements with my banker, and neither of us could figure it out. I'm not complaining. I am totally cool with having a cash cushion, I just wish I knew why.
I mean, has someone failed to cash my check(s)? Did I accidentally send in an extra mortgage payment when it was switched to a third provider? Is someone secretly sneaking funds into my account without them showing up on my statements?
The whole thing actually reminds me of the first year I lived in my house. I didn't have a lawn mower for the first month, and it was spring. May, to be exact. That means rain in Nashville. Lots and lots of rain. And that means the grass grew to knee-length.
I managed to get a 2nd hand mower for $30 from a neighbor's yard sale and got the suburban savannah down to nubs, but I was working crazy hours and didn't get a chance to do it very often. The grass grew more quickly than I could get to it, and I started to feel like that neighbor who is bringing down home values due to yard neglect.
Living across the street from Richland Creek, I knew that the odds of finding a literal snake in the grass would grow with said grass, so I had incentive, although not availability, to keep it short. Thankfully, one of my neighbors did have the availability.
I would come home from long days and nights to a mowed lawn. Just the front, but still...it was something! It kept up for a little over a year. I never knew how did it, so I started referring to the kind soul as the Lawnmowing Fairy.
It was only after a driveway conversation with one of my elderly next door neighbors that it was revealed that her husband was the Lawnmowing Fairy. He had been out on his riding mower and decided that since he was already on it, he might as well take care of my yard, too.
Like the experience with my neighbor, I just say a quiet, but heartfelt thank you. Regardless of how the money got into my account, I am grateful. I'm grateful not only for the extra I didn't intend, but for the extra I am able to put aside for when I need it.
I'm grateful for that extra so that I can surprise Grandma with flowers, treat my niece to a yoga class or plan a trip to see some friends. Let's hope it lasts that long.
February 3, 2014
Professor Longhair(cut)
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| Just before the tresses got trimmed. |
It's not that I didn't want it cut. There have been days when I looked in the mirror and thought, I do not want long hair. I do not want medium length hair. I want short hair!
You may be wondering, "But Miriam, the photo you have here IS with short hair." Yes. That's true. It's also from Spring 2011. I was also the thinnest I've been since the year 2000, when I had mono. Things change.
When I got that haircut, it was the shortest of three or four I got from a great hairdresser who was recommended to me by a handful of other girls with curls. As someone who has received completely unflattering haircuts in the past from scissor-wielding hair care professionals who didn't have the first clue about curly cut etiquette, I tend to stick with the person who frames my face and allows me to pull my hair off of it when necessary.
As it's gotten longer, my hair has become what my mother used to deem it: the Wreck of the Hesperus. Not sure that was the most appropriate analogy for her to draw a line between, but it was frequently tangled, as it is so often now. Each day is a struggle to turn it from a matted clump into the pleasant spirals I know it can be.
And so, I have made an appointment to have it taken care of. One of my coworkers at my main job (the one with the most hours and benefits) is a hairdresser who has been itching to get her mitts on my noggin for many moons. Last week, I relented. I'm ready.
I am ready to release my bum-length tresses that, when removed from a ponytail, cause me pain. I am ready to reduce my conditioner and finishing product budgets each month. I am ready to wear my hair down all the time, without reaching to plait it into braids or pull it off my face and neck and into a foot-long mane dangling past my shoulders within an hour or two.
I am ready to feel the breeze on the back of my neck, to turn over in bed without being strangled by my hair, to put on a shirt or dress or coat without having to remove a layer of locks stuck inside of it. I am ready for a haircut.
What's funny, is that the men in my life love my hair long. I see it as a lifeless mass of unmanageable fluff. I'm not sure what they see in it. It is definitely not my most feminine feature.
The women in my life know that if I don't like it, it will grow back. It's just hair. My mom and sister have both had short hair for at least 20 years. Grandma, too. Of course, my hair is curlier. I don't dye it. Half of it is definitively turning white, and soon I will look more like Cruella Deville than a brunette, but hey, it's all part of looking more distinguished. Right?
I told my coworker/hairdresser, that I don't mind if she needs to cut it short, as long as it is healthy again, and it looks good. Otherwise, I'm not that picky. I mean, I like my hair. I play with it when I'm bored, like a few weeks ago when I made a full beard and mustache with it. I like the way it looks in two braids. I like to wear it long. I also like to run my fingers through it, which cannot happen when it is long.
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| Newly shorn and showing off. |
February 2, 2014
All trick(ling)ed out
Last week was cold. I mean, I know it was late January, and that means winter, but this is Nashville, known more for rainy winters and miserably humid and horrendously hot summers. This winter has everyone in Nashville up on arms, declaring this to be the worst winter they've ever seen. Really? This is the worst?
I mean, it's cold. Yes. But, remember, it is winter. Single digit temperatures aside, I'm a little bit glad it's been freezing for several days in a row. The colder it is, the better it is for the plants in the spring and summer. These temperatures kill off bad bugs that eat my vegetables, the beetles that kill the pine trees and hopefully any diseases lurking in the soil.
One of the things I do worry about in this kind of weather is frozen pipes. As a homeowner, I have to deal with any number of home repairs, some of which I can do on my own, many of which I'd rather call a professional. Carpentry, major plumbing and electrical are the top three.
While in the shower one particularly cold morning last week, the water pressure dropped dramatically. It was still coming out, just as a drizzle rather than a deluge. Having just put a large amount of conditioner in my hair, in my daily attempt to untangle my tresses, I was a bit concerned I'd be stuck that way for the day. I managed to finish the shower with creative maneuvering, quickly dressed, grabbed the flashlight my brother gave me for Hanukkah, and headed outside to check out the situation in my crawl space.
Stepping outside, I heard the rumble of large truck engines, I looked to the right and saw several Metro Water Services trucks and an unnatural spring welling up from the bottom of a neighbor's yard 1/2 a block away. I gave a silent cheer and headed back inside, grateful for not having to 1) crawl under my house and 2) not having to be late for work or deal with a plumber for the second time in a month.
Sometimes the little things make all the difference.
I mean, it's cold. Yes. But, remember, it is winter. Single digit temperatures aside, I'm a little bit glad it's been freezing for several days in a row. The colder it is, the better it is for the plants in the spring and summer. These temperatures kill off bad bugs that eat my vegetables, the beetles that kill the pine trees and hopefully any diseases lurking in the soil.
One of the things I do worry about in this kind of weather is frozen pipes. As a homeowner, I have to deal with any number of home repairs, some of which I can do on my own, many of which I'd rather call a professional. Carpentry, major plumbing and electrical are the top three.
While in the shower one particularly cold morning last week, the water pressure dropped dramatically. It was still coming out, just as a drizzle rather than a deluge. Having just put a large amount of conditioner in my hair, in my daily attempt to untangle my tresses, I was a bit concerned I'd be stuck that way for the day. I managed to finish the shower with creative maneuvering, quickly dressed, grabbed the flashlight my brother gave me for Hanukkah, and headed outside to check out the situation in my crawl space.
Stepping outside, I heard the rumble of large truck engines, I looked to the right and saw several Metro Water Services trucks and an unnatural spring welling up from the bottom of a neighbor's yard 1/2 a block away. I gave a silent cheer and headed back inside, grateful for not having to 1) crawl under my house and 2) not having to be late for work or deal with a plumber for the second time in a month.
Sometimes the little things make all the difference.
February 1, 2014
Surprise visit(or)
Friday afternoon I had a handful of errands to run in Green Hills.
Deposit at the bank, a few things to pick up at Whole Foods and Trader Joe's, changing my employer discount at Verizon, stocking up on stamps for Valentine's cards, and a drop-in to see Grandma.
I picked up flowers for Grandma at Trader Joe's. It wasn't the biggest bouquet, but it had two kinds of roses and alstroemeria in variations on pink and white. There were some gorgeous calla lilies for sale, too, but I just couldn't bring myself to carry lilies into an assisted living facility. Too close to the funeral home for that there.
It's been a few weeks since I saw Grandma. She, and the entire facility, were sick. Not a little bit sick, they had a raging stomach bug that had the place under quarantine. I cannot get sick. I only have the ability to take off from one of my three jobs, and while I am solvent, I don't have much of a cushion and cannot afford to miss a day, or cash in the time I've banked at the one job that offers benefits.
All visitors (and residents) have to sign in and out, and I was thrilled to see that my oldest niece was already visiting with Grandma. I hadn't see my niece since December, when she turned 18. Hard to believe it had been that long!
The grin on my face so big it was starting to hurt, I knocked on Grandma's door, and niece opened it, greeting me with a giant hug! Several hugs later, a kiss for Grandma, a search for a vase and trimming and arranging the flowers...we all sat down for a chat.
We caught up on all the big news. Grandma complained about the fuss being done to celebrate her 95th birthday in March, and she dropped several hints about how much she'd done all day. I took the hint and made noises about more errands to run and laundry to do. Niece followed my lead, and we left Grandma to her nap, and niece met me at my house for a cooking lesson and some long-time-coming bonding time.
If every day off was like today, I'd be in heaven. Especially because of all the hugs.
Deposit at the bank, a few things to pick up at Whole Foods and Trader Joe's, changing my employer discount at Verizon, stocking up on stamps for Valentine's cards, and a drop-in to see Grandma.
I picked up flowers for Grandma at Trader Joe's. It wasn't the biggest bouquet, but it had two kinds of roses and alstroemeria in variations on pink and white. There were some gorgeous calla lilies for sale, too, but I just couldn't bring myself to carry lilies into an assisted living facility. Too close to the funeral home for that there.
It's been a few weeks since I saw Grandma. She, and the entire facility, were sick. Not a little bit sick, they had a raging stomach bug that had the place under quarantine. I cannot get sick. I only have the ability to take off from one of my three jobs, and while I am solvent, I don't have much of a cushion and cannot afford to miss a day, or cash in the time I've banked at the one job that offers benefits.
All visitors (and residents) have to sign in and out, and I was thrilled to see that my oldest niece was already visiting with Grandma. I hadn't see my niece since December, when she turned 18. Hard to believe it had been that long!
The grin on my face so big it was starting to hurt, I knocked on Grandma's door, and niece opened it, greeting me with a giant hug! Several hugs later, a kiss for Grandma, a search for a vase and trimming and arranging the flowers...we all sat down for a chat.
We caught up on all the big news. Grandma complained about the fuss being done to celebrate her 95th birthday in March, and she dropped several hints about how much she'd done all day. I took the hint and made noises about more errands to run and laundry to do. Niece followed my lead, and we left Grandma to her nap, and niece met me at my house for a cooking lesson and some long-time-coming bonding time.
If every day off was like today, I'd be in heaven. Especially because of all the hugs.
January 31, 2014
Cutting it close
There's nothing like a good dose of procrastination.
I am very, very good at it. It's not that I like the adrenaline rush of getting an assignment in at the last minute, it's usually that I'd rather do something else and know I can get both accomplished. Either that, or I never really wanted to do the initial thing at all.
That's the joy of being an adult. You can make choices not to do things if you just don't feel like it. Okay, not everything. Well, actually...you don't have to do things, but you do have to live with the consequences.
Take for instance, if you fail to pay your mortgage on time, eventually, you will lose your house or have your credit score lowered. If you fail to clean your home, you may be embarrassed to have people over for social occasions. If you fail to show up for work, you will hear about it from your employer and put your income at risk. If you fail to wash the dishes, you may not have enough pots and pans to cook your next meal.
I'm more of a leave the clean, folded laundry on the couch kind of gal. I also have a bad habit of not getting to the dishes until there are enough to fill the dishwasher. Not the best habit, I admit, but I'd rather sit down after being on my feet all day than spend another 20 minutes emptying and refilling the dishwasher when I get home.
Here's the thing. I know, logically, that I feel better when my laundry and dishes are put away. I like having a clean sink and countertop and enough room to stretch out on the couch without fear of knocking over a stack of t-shirts or wiggling my feet under three pairs of neatly folded flannel pajamas.
Luckily, I do put my things away when I need or want to. No one is forcing me to keep a spotless home. I don't feel pressure to do so. That said, the sense of accomplishment when surfaces are cleared, when closets and drawers are full (and not my sofa), and I can think about something other than the things I need to put away.
Welcome to days off, when lists get written and crossed off, when errands supplant household chores, and when juggling both brings in Shabbat with a sense of pride and calm, peace of mind that is allowed when you can focus your mind on creative pursuits, on the next book to read, on being with friends and family, on planning that trip or garden.
I look forward to that calm this Shabbat, once I figure out how to prioritize my list.
I am very, very good at it. It's not that I like the adrenaline rush of getting an assignment in at the last minute, it's usually that I'd rather do something else and know I can get both accomplished. Either that, or I never really wanted to do the initial thing at all.
That's the joy of being an adult. You can make choices not to do things if you just don't feel like it. Okay, not everything. Well, actually...you don't have to do things, but you do have to live with the consequences.
Take for instance, if you fail to pay your mortgage on time, eventually, you will lose your house or have your credit score lowered. If you fail to clean your home, you may be embarrassed to have people over for social occasions. If you fail to show up for work, you will hear about it from your employer and put your income at risk. If you fail to wash the dishes, you may not have enough pots and pans to cook your next meal.
I'm more of a leave the clean, folded laundry on the couch kind of gal. I also have a bad habit of not getting to the dishes until there are enough to fill the dishwasher. Not the best habit, I admit, but I'd rather sit down after being on my feet all day than spend another 20 minutes emptying and refilling the dishwasher when I get home.
Here's the thing. I know, logically, that I feel better when my laundry and dishes are put away. I like having a clean sink and countertop and enough room to stretch out on the couch without fear of knocking over a stack of t-shirts or wiggling my feet under three pairs of neatly folded flannel pajamas.
Luckily, I do put my things away when I need or want to. No one is forcing me to keep a spotless home. I don't feel pressure to do so. That said, the sense of accomplishment when surfaces are cleared, when closets and drawers are full (and not my sofa), and I can think about something other than the things I need to put away.
Welcome to days off, when lists get written and crossed off, when errands supplant household chores, and when juggling both brings in Shabbat with a sense of pride and calm, peace of mind that is allowed when you can focus your mind on creative pursuits, on the next book to read, on being with friends and family, on planning that trip or garden.
I look forward to that calm this Shabbat, once I figure out how to prioritize my list.
January 30, 2014
Having a ball
A couple of years ago I went on a cooking jag of sorts. All I wanted to make was round food. It was a personal challenge, and I got pretty adept at it.
As a longtime vegetarian, there are only so many round foods to make without owning a deep fryer. If I did, I'm pretty sure I'd be as big as my house from gorging myself on hush puppies, falafel and arancini.
Instead, my round foods mostly came out oblong, sort of football shaped, with a flat side from baking most of them.
I made matzah balls, tofu "meat"balls, eggplant "meat"balls, ginger-fig truffles, kubbeh. Wow, I guess I didn't make that many round foods. I did talk about them an awful lot, though.
For a while I thought I'd end up writing a cookbook: Saucy Balls; Sweet & Spicy Balls; Baked & Buttery Balls; Mouth Full of Balls. I'd giggle for hours and call my friends in far away places with similar middle school senses of humor. I thought I was totally hilarious. Making up inappropriate cookbook titles was almost as fun as cooking and eating those tasty balls. Ooh! Tasty Balls: Getting a Round.
Last night I made sweet and sour tofu balls for the first time. The recipe is a little fussy, and while it says to cook them for a total of 40 minutes, I'm pretty sure mine were in the oven for almost 2 hours. They must be done, right? They look crispy and browned.
My personal philosophy with tofu is: if it's crunchy it's done. Actually, I like most of my food well-done. Guess that's why I'm a vegetarian. Meat didn't taste great when it was cooked beyond recognition, but I couldn't handle bloody juices. Totally freaked me out. I would burst into tears if there was any meat liquid on my plate. Runny eggs are the same way. If you want to see me cry, bring on underdone eggs. Actually, I'll just send them back until they're right. Ask my parents. They cringe every time we go out for breakfast.
After several unhappy restaurant experiences with omelets, I just order scrambled over well at this point. It's easier for everyone that way.
Back to the balls. I've always wanted to make popcorn balls. Maybe someday. Maybe that will be part of my continuing cookbook development. Now, who's coming over for dinner?!
As a longtime vegetarian, there are only so many round foods to make without owning a deep fryer. If I did, I'm pretty sure I'd be as big as my house from gorging myself on hush puppies, falafel and arancini.
Instead, my round foods mostly came out oblong, sort of football shaped, with a flat side from baking most of them.
I made matzah balls, tofu "meat"balls, eggplant "meat"balls, ginger-fig truffles, kubbeh. Wow, I guess I didn't make that many round foods. I did talk about them an awful lot, though.
For a while I thought I'd end up writing a cookbook: Saucy Balls; Sweet & Spicy Balls; Baked & Buttery Balls; Mouth Full of Balls. I'd giggle for hours and call my friends in far away places with similar middle school senses of humor. I thought I was totally hilarious. Making up inappropriate cookbook titles was almost as fun as cooking and eating those tasty balls. Ooh! Tasty Balls: Getting a Round.
Last night I made sweet and sour tofu balls for the first time. The recipe is a little fussy, and while it says to cook them for a total of 40 minutes, I'm pretty sure mine were in the oven for almost 2 hours. They must be done, right? They look crispy and browned.
My personal philosophy with tofu is: if it's crunchy it's done. Actually, I like most of my food well-done. Guess that's why I'm a vegetarian. Meat didn't taste great when it was cooked beyond recognition, but I couldn't handle bloody juices. Totally freaked me out. I would burst into tears if there was any meat liquid on my plate. Runny eggs are the same way. If you want to see me cry, bring on underdone eggs. Actually, I'll just send them back until they're right. Ask my parents. They cringe every time we go out for breakfast.
After several unhappy restaurant experiences with omelets, I just order scrambled over well at this point. It's easier for everyone that way.
Back to the balls. I've always wanted to make popcorn balls. Maybe someday. Maybe that will be part of my continuing cookbook development. Now, who's coming over for dinner?!
January 29, 2014
"The stars at night are big and bright..."
I have always loved stargazing.
My dad used to point out the constellations in the night sky, especially on winter nights.
There's something about a winter night, the lack of humidity allowing cloudless clarity and bringing brilliance to the stars. When I got home from work tonight, I walked to the mailbox and noticed the stars seeming to hover above me. I wanted to stay outside and search for my favorites, but it is crazy cold out there!
Last week, I managed to stay out for about 10 minutes, finding the dippers, Orion...known best by his bedazzled belt and his dog star, Caseopia, Scorpio. At least I think that's what I was looking at. I mean, I was pretty young when Dad taught me about the stars.
As a teenager, my friends and I used to go camping whenever we could. Now that I'm thinking about it, we spent more time drinking around the campfire (and some of them making out in the woods) than looking at the stars.
At summer camp I used to sneak out to see the Northern Lights. The counselors knew I wasn't interested in anything else and let me lie in the grass with whomever I convinced to come with me. I was such an innocent. Still am half the time.
I love the simple things, or, like the stars, complex things that seem simple.
One of my favorite classes in college was astronomy. Stars became something more to me than pretty twinkling lights in the sky then. White dwarfs and black holes, red giants and supergiants. They sounds like characters in Chaucer.
Of course, after college, I learned about "Red Dwarf," which is about space, but that's about as close as it gets to being about stars.
I may not be dripping with jewels, but I will always have bling in my life...every night that the stars shine for me.
My dad used to point out the constellations in the night sky, especially on winter nights.
There's something about a winter night, the lack of humidity allowing cloudless clarity and bringing brilliance to the stars. When I got home from work tonight, I walked to the mailbox and noticed the stars seeming to hover above me. I wanted to stay outside and search for my favorites, but it is crazy cold out there!
Last week, I managed to stay out for about 10 minutes, finding the dippers, Orion...known best by his bedazzled belt and his dog star, Caseopia, Scorpio. At least I think that's what I was looking at. I mean, I was pretty young when Dad taught me about the stars.
As a teenager, my friends and I used to go camping whenever we could. Now that I'm thinking about it, we spent more time drinking around the campfire (and some of them making out in the woods) than looking at the stars.
At summer camp I used to sneak out to see the Northern Lights. The counselors knew I wasn't interested in anything else and let me lie in the grass with whomever I convinced to come with me. I was such an innocent. Still am half the time.
I love the simple things, or, like the stars, complex things that seem simple.
One of my favorite classes in college was astronomy. Stars became something more to me than pretty twinkling lights in the sky then. White dwarfs and black holes, red giants and supergiants. They sounds like characters in Chaucer.
Of course, after college, I learned about "Red Dwarf," which is about space, but that's about as close as it gets to being about stars.
I may not be dripping with jewels, but I will always have bling in my life...every night that the stars shine for me.
January 28, 2014
Refuse, recycle, replace
Over the past year I've noticed more and more of my things wearing out.
A dish or glass breaks, a pair of jeans develop unseemly holes, so does a pillowcase. It's like my house is trying to clean itself out. Instead of getting upset or replacing the items, I first try to repair it, and if that isn't possible, I chuck it and don't think about it anymore.
I mean really, how many dishes do I need? Even when the dishwasher is full, I have plenty of silverware and glasses and plates and bowls and pots and pans. I can make due with a different pair of pants, or use another pillow on the couch.
The summer of 2012, I got rid of a lot of stuff. I sold books, had a big yard sale and donated several bags of clothes and household items to Goodwill. I still have a lot of stuff. At the time, I wasn't having luck in the Nashville job market and was hoping to sell my house and move to a city with more prospects. That didn't end up happening.
When I moved to Nashville, I had something like 14 boxes of books...for my kitchen. Besides clothes, that was my biggest moving expense. I don't regret it, and I have not thinned my collection of cookbooks much. I enjoy reading the cookbooks, and often do cross referencing for an ingredient I have too much of or haven't used before.
Most of the items that break or come to the end of their usefulness I don't bother replacing. The most recently re-purchased item was my sugar bowl, which I actually use for salt...and use every day. Somehow I've shattered three of them in the last few years.
I'm not sure if this is the most effective way to purge my home. My mom and sister tend to go room by room, ruthlessly ridding them of anything outgrown or unused in the past six months. My dad, brother and I tend to hold onto items a bit longer, like forever.
It's not that we think the bits and pieces of ephemera from our lives are valuable, but they are sentimental. In 1997 I had most of my jewelry stolen from my room in a seven-bedroom home in Brighton, MA. Four room mates had just moved out, and I am still convinced that it was one of them, but could never prove it. The thief managed to grab the ring my parents gave me for my bat mitzvah, the bracelet they gave me for my 18th birthday, and the earrings they gave me for my 21st. I can still picture them all. Thankfully, the pearls must've looked fake, and they were left on the table in my room. The necklace they left was a wedding gift from my dad to my mom, and was given to me on my 16th birthday.
Despite the loss of the baubles, I did not lose the affection my parents were showing me with their gifts. In subsequent years, I have come to appreciate emotional connection more than glittering jewels. A meaningful conversation holds my attention longer than a sparkling gem. Of course, I put my shiny things in safer places now, and I still appreciate them and the intent with which they were given.
I do not mourn the loss of stuff anymore. I embrace what I have, which encompasses much more than material things.
A dish or glass breaks, a pair of jeans develop unseemly holes, so does a pillowcase. It's like my house is trying to clean itself out. Instead of getting upset or replacing the items, I first try to repair it, and if that isn't possible, I chuck it and don't think about it anymore.
I mean really, how many dishes do I need? Even when the dishwasher is full, I have plenty of silverware and glasses and plates and bowls and pots and pans. I can make due with a different pair of pants, or use another pillow on the couch.
The summer of 2012, I got rid of a lot of stuff. I sold books, had a big yard sale and donated several bags of clothes and household items to Goodwill. I still have a lot of stuff. At the time, I wasn't having luck in the Nashville job market and was hoping to sell my house and move to a city with more prospects. That didn't end up happening.
When I moved to Nashville, I had something like 14 boxes of books...for my kitchen. Besides clothes, that was my biggest moving expense. I don't regret it, and I have not thinned my collection of cookbooks much. I enjoy reading the cookbooks, and often do cross referencing for an ingredient I have too much of or haven't used before.
Most of the items that break or come to the end of their usefulness I don't bother replacing. The most recently re-purchased item was my sugar bowl, which I actually use for salt...and use every day. Somehow I've shattered three of them in the last few years.
I'm not sure if this is the most effective way to purge my home. My mom and sister tend to go room by room, ruthlessly ridding them of anything outgrown or unused in the past six months. My dad, brother and I tend to hold onto items a bit longer, like forever.
It's not that we think the bits and pieces of ephemera from our lives are valuable, but they are sentimental. In 1997 I had most of my jewelry stolen from my room in a seven-bedroom home in Brighton, MA. Four room mates had just moved out, and I am still convinced that it was one of them, but could never prove it. The thief managed to grab the ring my parents gave me for my bat mitzvah, the bracelet they gave me for my 18th birthday, and the earrings they gave me for my 21st. I can still picture them all. Thankfully, the pearls must've looked fake, and they were left on the table in my room. The necklace they left was a wedding gift from my dad to my mom, and was given to me on my 16th birthday.
Despite the loss of the baubles, I did not lose the affection my parents were showing me with their gifts. In subsequent years, I have come to appreciate emotional connection more than glittering jewels. A meaningful conversation holds my attention longer than a sparkling gem. Of course, I put my shiny things in safer places now, and I still appreciate them and the intent with which they were given.
I do not mourn the loss of stuff anymore. I embrace what I have, which encompasses much more than material things.
January 27, 2014
No articles, just pictures.
I got my first seed catalog of the year in the mail last week.
I've thumbed through it half a dozen times already, and am sitting on my hands so that I don't buy the whole thing. I mean really, do I NEED seven varieties of cherry tomatoes?! Kind of. At least, I'd really, really like to try growing them.
I found flowers and fruits and veggies that look like they would make my yard into my own homestead. Of course, I would need an industrial strength tiller, or farmhands to have enough turned soil to grow everything I'd like to sow.
As of now, the ground (and air) temperatures forbid me from doing anything in the yard other than adding to the compost heap.
In the meantime, I should inventory my current seed collection and make the lists of what will actually fit in the garden plot I have. I tend towards seed hoarding, or at the very least over-exuberance. For a while, all I had were packets and packets of arugula. No one needs that much. It reseeds in a matter of weeks!
This year, I'm hoping to have more luck with zucchini and heirloom winter squash. I'd love to expand my tomatoes, and more than anything, I'd like to keep the weeds at bay. I think that will take more than a good catalog order. That will take discipline.
I've thumbed through it half a dozen times already, and am sitting on my hands so that I don't buy the whole thing. I mean really, do I NEED seven varieties of cherry tomatoes?! Kind of. At least, I'd really, really like to try growing them.
I found flowers and fruits and veggies that look like they would make my yard into my own homestead. Of course, I would need an industrial strength tiller, or farmhands to have enough turned soil to grow everything I'd like to sow.
As of now, the ground (and air) temperatures forbid me from doing anything in the yard other than adding to the compost heap.
In the meantime, I should inventory my current seed collection and make the lists of what will actually fit in the garden plot I have. I tend towards seed hoarding, or at the very least over-exuberance. For a while, all I had were packets and packets of arugula. No one needs that much. It reseeds in a matter of weeks!
This year, I'm hoping to have more luck with zucchini and heirloom winter squash. I'd love to expand my tomatoes, and more than anything, I'd like to keep the weeds at bay. I think that will take more than a good catalog order. That will take discipline.
January 26, 2014
Vanishing act
Over the summer I went for a check-up and mentioned that although I was eating healthily, swimming and doing yoga that I was gaining weight. A simple blood test found both my insulin and blood sugar levels too high, and I was put on a glucofage (a medication that basically eats blood sugar and helps your insulin do what it should...eat insulin), and my doctor suggested trying a low glycemic index diet, and that I might want to read "Wheat Belly" and try going gluten free. I didn't have diabetes, yet, but was on my way without some adjustments.
I think part of the problem was that I was eating WAY too much fruit. I've always loved fruit, and had developed a particularly bad fruit habit. I was making my way through a case of champagne mangoes and three pineapples a week. And yes, I was eating all of that myself. So, so good!
I had heard from friends about their successes doing either gluten free or paleo diets and I was loathe to cut out more foods from my plate. I've been an ovo-lacto vegetarian for something like 22 years, and cutting out bread and pasta seemed like my version of a nightmare. For years, my version of therapy has been baking. Making challah each Friday of the past year or so was a labor of love. Making cookies, cakes and brownies to share with family, friends and coworkers both filled my home with delicious scents and put me in everyone's good graces.
Thinking back, I probably ate a few too many of those cookies, maybe one or two too many slices of cake, and certainly a few extra squares of brownies. I take full responsibility for those.
I also take responsibility for occasionally becoming a breadandcheesitarian. Rye bread toast and butter was my nightly routine after work. Open-faced melted cheese for breakfast. Cheese sandwich for lunch. Homemade pizza (including dough) once each week. It was just so easy.
I thought that going gluten free was going to be a struggle. Instead, it became a challenge, like the painting assignment I had in college to paint a white egg on a white plate on a white piece of paper. It also brought back my interest in cooking.
Several months later, I have lost nearly 25 lbs. My insulin and blood sugar levels normalized within the first two months, and after that, I noticed that my stomach didn't hurt with each meal anymore. I know, I know, it shouldn't hurt to eat. I'd just been so used to it for so long that it seemed normal. You don't always notice pain until it's missing from your daily life.
The people I see every day are starting to notice the changes to my body. I think that has something to do with my renewed confidence in wearing clothes that fit, rather than baggy, shapeless forms to hide my squishy parts. I don't know that I have had any of the seemingly magical changes that others have touted with their gluten free eating, but I do have more self-confidence. I am excited to find outfits in my closet again. I do not criticize my body as much, and embrace the dropping needle on my scale each morning.
I'm going to try keeping up the gluten free thing for a year and see what happens. Hopefully it's that I lose another 25 lbs and need to go shopping. Maybe I'll learn to embrace that by then, too.
I think part of the problem was that I was eating WAY too much fruit. I've always loved fruit, and had developed a particularly bad fruit habit. I was making my way through a case of champagne mangoes and three pineapples a week. And yes, I was eating all of that myself. So, so good!
I had heard from friends about their successes doing either gluten free or paleo diets and I was loathe to cut out more foods from my plate. I've been an ovo-lacto vegetarian for something like 22 years, and cutting out bread and pasta seemed like my version of a nightmare. For years, my version of therapy has been baking. Making challah each Friday of the past year or so was a labor of love. Making cookies, cakes and brownies to share with family, friends and coworkers both filled my home with delicious scents and put me in everyone's good graces.
Thinking back, I probably ate a few too many of those cookies, maybe one or two too many slices of cake, and certainly a few extra squares of brownies. I take full responsibility for those.
I also take responsibility for occasionally becoming a breadandcheesitarian. Rye bread toast and butter was my nightly routine after work. Open-faced melted cheese for breakfast. Cheese sandwich for lunch. Homemade pizza (including dough) once each week. It was just so easy.
I thought that going gluten free was going to be a struggle. Instead, it became a challenge, like the painting assignment I had in college to paint a white egg on a white plate on a white piece of paper. It also brought back my interest in cooking.
Several months later, I have lost nearly 25 lbs. My insulin and blood sugar levels normalized within the first two months, and after that, I noticed that my stomach didn't hurt with each meal anymore. I know, I know, it shouldn't hurt to eat. I'd just been so used to it for so long that it seemed normal. You don't always notice pain until it's missing from your daily life.
The people I see every day are starting to notice the changes to my body. I think that has something to do with my renewed confidence in wearing clothes that fit, rather than baggy, shapeless forms to hide my squishy parts. I don't know that I have had any of the seemingly magical changes that others have touted with their gluten free eating, but I do have more self-confidence. I am excited to find outfits in my closet again. I do not criticize my body as much, and embrace the dropping needle on my scale each morning.
I'm going to try keeping up the gluten free thing for a year and see what happens. Hopefully it's that I lose another 25 lbs and need to go shopping. Maybe I'll learn to embrace that by then, too.
January 25, 2014
Out of mind/body
In an attempt to squash my continuing middle-of-the-night insomnia, I managed to get a last minute appointment with my acupuncturist last week.
I started seeing him a few years ago because of a similar bought of insomnia, which was actually much worse. The sessions weren't just about getting me to sleep, they were about reducing the pain from a three week muscle spasm in my neck that kept me from turning my head, and about balancing my life so that I took time for myself, something I was oblivious to the need for at the time.
The funny thing is that years ago, 1998/9, I realized that I was doing what all my friends wanted, but not being vocal about what I wanted to do. I had no problems going along with my urban family to shows and parties, but sometimes I just wanted to go to a matinee. So, I started instituting Miriam Day every once in a while. I would take a day off and walk to a theater 40 minutes away, see a film, walk to a favorite restaurant a couple more miles away and then join my friends later on in the evening. It was a way to totally unwind, get some exercise and do a tremendous amount of people watching.
Similarly, when I turned 30, I instituted 30 Days of Birthday. I did one thing I wanted to do for 30 straight days. Anyone who wanted to join me was welcome, but not necessary for my enjoyment. That was a really good birthday month.
These days, most of my week is spent dealing with other peoples' needs. I love it in the moment, but it takes an exorbitant amount of energy that is not always easy to turn off. The same can be said for my other main job, which requires a great deal of strategic planning and research before I have incredibly intense conversations with very busy people whom I'm trying to get involved in controversial public policy issues. Those conversations tend to run on a repeat cycle in my head at 3:00 or 4:00am.
Acupuncture helps me let go of some of that energy and mental clutter. Last week it also helped me have a pretty trippy out-of-body experience.
While lying on my stomach, my back, shoulders and neck chock full of tiny pins, I felt my body become heavy. I don't mean regular heavy, I mean like G-force heavy, like it was trying to separate from itself. There was a duality to this feeling of weight with a feeling of weightlessness. I decided to go with it, embrace it, and see where it took me. What resulted was what can only be described as turning into breath. I was conscious of my body, but it was virtually nonexistent. I was there and not there. It lasted about 10 minutes.
This was not the first such experience I've had while pin cushioned. Given time, I may tell you about others. I can say that I feel a sense of calm afterward. I feel lighter, less burdened by the pressures of the world, the emotional baggage of others, the stresses of work and relationships, responsibilities and self-inflicted guilt.
While I still woke up for a little over an hour or so in the middle of that night, when I went back to sleep I did so for another seven hours...getting out of bed at nearly 1:00pm. Needless to say, I slept. Let's hope it happens when everyone else does soon. If not, I'm looking forward to going back to acupuncture and seeing what happens next.
I started seeing him a few years ago because of a similar bought of insomnia, which was actually much worse. The sessions weren't just about getting me to sleep, they were about reducing the pain from a three week muscle spasm in my neck that kept me from turning my head, and about balancing my life so that I took time for myself, something I was oblivious to the need for at the time.
The funny thing is that years ago, 1998/9, I realized that I was doing what all my friends wanted, but not being vocal about what I wanted to do. I had no problems going along with my urban family to shows and parties, but sometimes I just wanted to go to a matinee. So, I started instituting Miriam Day every once in a while. I would take a day off and walk to a theater 40 minutes away, see a film, walk to a favorite restaurant a couple more miles away and then join my friends later on in the evening. It was a way to totally unwind, get some exercise and do a tremendous amount of people watching.
Similarly, when I turned 30, I instituted 30 Days of Birthday. I did one thing I wanted to do for 30 straight days. Anyone who wanted to join me was welcome, but not necessary for my enjoyment. That was a really good birthday month.
These days, most of my week is spent dealing with other peoples' needs. I love it in the moment, but it takes an exorbitant amount of energy that is not always easy to turn off. The same can be said for my other main job, which requires a great deal of strategic planning and research before I have incredibly intense conversations with very busy people whom I'm trying to get involved in controversial public policy issues. Those conversations tend to run on a repeat cycle in my head at 3:00 or 4:00am.
Acupuncture helps me let go of some of that energy and mental clutter. Last week it also helped me have a pretty trippy out-of-body experience.
While lying on my stomach, my back, shoulders and neck chock full of tiny pins, I felt my body become heavy. I don't mean regular heavy, I mean like G-force heavy, like it was trying to separate from itself. There was a duality to this feeling of weight with a feeling of weightlessness. I decided to go with it, embrace it, and see where it took me. What resulted was what can only be described as turning into breath. I was conscious of my body, but it was virtually nonexistent. I was there and not there. It lasted about 10 minutes.
This was not the first such experience I've had while pin cushioned. Given time, I may tell you about others. I can say that I feel a sense of calm afterward. I feel lighter, less burdened by the pressures of the world, the emotional baggage of others, the stresses of work and relationships, responsibilities and self-inflicted guilt.
While I still woke up for a little over an hour or so in the middle of that night, when I went back to sleep I did so for another seven hours...getting out of bed at nearly 1:00pm. Needless to say, I slept. Let's hope it happens when everyone else does soon. If not, I'm looking forward to going back to acupuncture and seeing what happens next.
January 24, 2014
Eye on the ba(/i)ll
Remember that time I told you that my credit card debt was paid off? Well, I just got my latest statement from said credit card company, only to find that they are charging me a fee of $1.50.
Really? $1.50. Is that even worth the paper, data processing and stamp? $1.50?!
Of course, being the child of two business people who taught me to read the fine print, I called to dispute it.
This is not the first billing charge I've ever disputed. I do it whenever called for, it's my money after all.
I try to remember to be nice. The person on the other end of the line did not make up whatever rule the company has used to charge me extra money. They're just doing their job. As someone who also works in customer service, I wouldn't want to get nasty and risk the bad karma sure to come my way if I pull out all the stops.
In the moment, however, all bets are off, and I occasionally pull out my Boston unintentionally. Yup, I call my most aggressive, forthright, hard-ass tone and attitude my Boston.Obviously, that's where I honed it.
John, the operator who answered my call about the $1.50 charge I received after fully paying off my credit card balance was kind, patient, and answered all my questions in a calm manner, despite my debating the ridiculousness of the new bill. He also, incidentally, wiped the charge from my files.
This was a good interaction. The ones I've had with my cable provider, on the other hand, have resulted in my standing in line at their branch office for over an hour only to have the person at the counter tell me that the people on the phone when I call customer service have no recourse for anything they may promise and to never trust them. G-R-E-A-T. Not sure that qualifies as customer service, maybe something closer to improv.
The moral of this story is: read your bills and pull out your Boston if you have to, it will keep your credit score high and your bank account in the black.
Really? $1.50. Is that even worth the paper, data processing and stamp? $1.50?!
Of course, being the child of two business people who taught me to read the fine print, I called to dispute it.
This is not the first billing charge I've ever disputed. I do it whenever called for, it's my money after all.
I try to remember to be nice. The person on the other end of the line did not make up whatever rule the company has used to charge me extra money. They're just doing their job. As someone who also works in customer service, I wouldn't want to get nasty and risk the bad karma sure to come my way if I pull out all the stops.
In the moment, however, all bets are off, and I occasionally pull out my Boston unintentionally. Yup, I call my most aggressive, forthright, hard-ass tone and attitude my Boston.Obviously, that's where I honed it.
John, the operator who answered my call about the $1.50 charge I received after fully paying off my credit card balance was kind, patient, and answered all my questions in a calm manner, despite my debating the ridiculousness of the new bill. He also, incidentally, wiped the charge from my files.
This was a good interaction. The ones I've had with my cable provider, on the other hand, have resulted in my standing in line at their branch office for over an hour only to have the person at the counter tell me that the people on the phone when I call customer service have no recourse for anything they may promise and to never trust them. G-R-E-A-T. Not sure that qualifies as customer service, maybe something closer to improv.
The moral of this story is: read your bills and pull out your Boston if you have to, it will keep your credit score high and your bank account in the black.
January 23, 2014
Off and on (my couch)
I started both of my days off last week with twelve hours of sleep. Yup. I slept!
The funny thing about getting that much sleep is that it is almost as disruptive to your brain and body as not getting enough sleep.
After so many days and weeks of not getting enough rest, however, I am not complaining. I relish the opportunity to shut off for a couple of days.
That's not to say that I merely lounge around. I get up. I shower. I cook. I clean (a little bit). I even managed to do three loads of laundry, three loads of dishes, cook up three recipes of beans, cleaned out the fridge, and ran errands for and spent quality time with Grandma.
For those who know me, you know I cannot stay still for long. A few years ago, I had a low-grade fever that lasted for weeks. My doctor never quite figured out what it was, but to make sure I didn't give whatever it was to anyone else, I worked from home. It was miserable. Finally, I just stopped taking my temperature and eventually it went away, most of the time. Around that time, there was also a storm that shut down the city for four or five days. After three days of not leaving my modest suburban homestead, all 1/5 acre of it, I had a raging case of cabin fever.
Despite warnings, I managed to maneuver my AWD Suburu up steep hills to venture to a Michael's craft store across town for whatever it was I just had to get that day. Several icy patches later, I made it there and back and decided to stay put in order to avoid any further near collisions with untested winter drivers.
I cherish my time off. I rarely feel like I'm missing out if I don't go to a show or a party. My daily life is full of people, full of being on, full of maintaining an emotional high, a smile and a friendly word. In my downtime, I feel confident in curling up, taking a nap, putting on a pot of something comforting to simmer on the stove and sliding my feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers.
I used to be horrified by my mom's nightly routine when she came home from work. She would go directly to she and Dad's bedroom, put on her slippers and robe and commence with putting dinner on the table. I didn't understand then the importance of shedding evidence of the day, of the need to physically change your clothes to signify the mental shift to home life from work life.
I get it now. I embrace it. I also embrace my worn out yoga pants I've been wearing since 2003, especially when I have no intention of doing yoga while donning them.
The funny thing about getting that much sleep is that it is almost as disruptive to your brain and body as not getting enough sleep.
After so many days and weeks of not getting enough rest, however, I am not complaining. I relish the opportunity to shut off for a couple of days.
That's not to say that I merely lounge around. I get up. I shower. I cook. I clean (a little bit). I even managed to do three loads of laundry, three loads of dishes, cook up three recipes of beans, cleaned out the fridge, and ran errands for and spent quality time with Grandma.
For those who know me, you know I cannot stay still for long. A few years ago, I had a low-grade fever that lasted for weeks. My doctor never quite figured out what it was, but to make sure I didn't give whatever it was to anyone else, I worked from home. It was miserable. Finally, I just stopped taking my temperature and eventually it went away, most of the time. Around that time, there was also a storm that shut down the city for four or five days. After three days of not leaving my modest suburban homestead, all 1/5 acre of it, I had a raging case of cabin fever.
Despite warnings, I managed to maneuver my AWD Suburu up steep hills to venture to a Michael's craft store across town for whatever it was I just had to get that day. Several icy patches later, I made it there and back and decided to stay put in order to avoid any further near collisions with untested winter drivers.
I cherish my time off. I rarely feel like I'm missing out if I don't go to a show or a party. My daily life is full of people, full of being on, full of maintaining an emotional high, a smile and a friendly word. In my downtime, I feel confident in curling up, taking a nap, putting on a pot of something comforting to simmer on the stove and sliding my feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers.
I used to be horrified by my mom's nightly routine when she came home from work. She would go directly to she and Dad's bedroom, put on her slippers and robe and commence with putting dinner on the table. I didn't understand then the importance of shedding evidence of the day, of the need to physically change your clothes to signify the mental shift to home life from work life.
I get it now. I embrace it. I also embrace my worn out yoga pants I've been wearing since 2003, especially when I have no intention of doing yoga while donning them.
January 22, 2014
(Roe v) Wad(e)ing knee deep
Today marks the 41st anniversary of Roe v Wade, the 1973 US Supreme Court decision that set the stage for safe and legal abortion access for women around our country.
I spend part of each week working to protect that freedom. It is often heartbreaking work, especially the testimonials I come across about what life was like for women who could not carry their pregnancies to term, for whatever reason.
When I started this work, nearly a year ago, I had a conversation about it with Grandma and her friends at dinner one night. One woman told me about her work with battered women and children in Washington, DC, and how she could never oppose abortion because she could not imagine forcing a woman to bring a child into an abusive home. Another woman could not stop shouting that abortion is murder. Thus began my work.
I support safe and legal access to contraceptives, sex education and abortion services as part of a comprehensive approach to reproductive health care. As a form of health care, I believe that such a personal decision should not be barred by legislative action, but that it should be a made in conversation with whomsoever the woman making that decision chooses, be that her doctor, faith leader or family.
This week, I saw a short film that focuses on four adult children of women who lost their lives due to unsafe abortions. Before 1973, women had few choices and if they could not find a doctor willing to help them, they resorted to using objects, like knitting needles, that could puncture not only the uterus, but the abdominal wall and colon, causing lethal infections. Poisonous chemicals were another alternative. The chemicals would cause an abortion, but they could also burn holes through the woman's uterus and again, death.
There were wards in hospitals dedicated to women who were ravaged by these attempts, often they were women with other children.
We cannot allow these conditions to exist again. Women in desperation will find a way to end a pregnancy, regardless of the law. Let's make sure that desperation is no longer a factor. By funding sex education in public schools (instead of abstinence only education), by making contraceptives free and widely available, we will see a drop in abortions rates, and teen pregnancy rates.
Let's work on that. I am. Will you?
I spend part of each week working to protect that freedom. It is often heartbreaking work, especially the testimonials I come across about what life was like for women who could not carry their pregnancies to term, for whatever reason.
When I started this work, nearly a year ago, I had a conversation about it with Grandma and her friends at dinner one night. One woman told me about her work with battered women and children in Washington, DC, and how she could never oppose abortion because she could not imagine forcing a woman to bring a child into an abusive home. Another woman could not stop shouting that abortion is murder. Thus began my work.
I support safe and legal access to contraceptives, sex education and abortion services as part of a comprehensive approach to reproductive health care. As a form of health care, I believe that such a personal decision should not be barred by legislative action, but that it should be a made in conversation with whomsoever the woman making that decision chooses, be that her doctor, faith leader or family.
This week, I saw a short film that focuses on four adult children of women who lost their lives due to unsafe abortions. Before 1973, women had few choices and if they could not find a doctor willing to help them, they resorted to using objects, like knitting needles, that could puncture not only the uterus, but the abdominal wall and colon, causing lethal infections. Poisonous chemicals were another alternative. The chemicals would cause an abortion, but they could also burn holes through the woman's uterus and again, death.
There were wards in hospitals dedicated to women who were ravaged by these attempts, often they were women with other children.
We cannot allow these conditions to exist again. Women in desperation will find a way to end a pregnancy, regardless of the law. Let's make sure that desperation is no longer a factor. By funding sex education in public schools (instead of abstinence only education), by making contraceptives free and widely available, we will see a drop in abortions rates, and teen pregnancy rates.
Let's work on that. I am. Will you?
January 21, 2014
The little (old lady) things
Friday afternoon I ran a few errands for Grandma and had the opportunity to visit with her for a little while.
She was in good spirits, having slept until 10am that morning. I could relate, having slept until noon.
She'd asked me to pick up some pills and some juice, and I surprised her with one of her favorite by-request cookies, Keebler chocolate covered graham crackers. I also brought a box of four frozen creme brulee's. She was thrilled when I arrived.
I unpacked the groceries upon entering her apartment, and rearranged several other snacks in her cabinet so that she could reach them...and opened the pills so that she didn't have to struggle with the bottle cap.
She reported that she'd called Parnassus Books to have them deliver another book in a series she's reading, and I could see that she'd managed to read at least 50 pages already that day.
We talked about every day things, about her tummy ache the day before, about her excitement to eat the 2nd 1/2 of her tongue sandwich from lunch, and the fact that the vegetable soup they were serving in the dining room was actually edible.
Even though I didn't have much time to spend with her that day, having Grandma argue with me about her swollen ankles (she didn't want to put them up) made me happy, too. I'd rather have her feisty and telling me to call her a stubborn old woman (which I gladly did) than lethargic and cooperative.
I hope I'm a pain in the ass when I get old, and that I have family stopping by to pester me about my health and well-being, too.
She was in good spirits, having slept until 10am that morning. I could relate, having slept until noon.
She'd asked me to pick up some pills and some juice, and I surprised her with one of her favorite by-request cookies, Keebler chocolate covered graham crackers. I also brought a box of four frozen creme brulee's. She was thrilled when I arrived.
I unpacked the groceries upon entering her apartment, and rearranged several other snacks in her cabinet so that she could reach them...and opened the pills so that she didn't have to struggle with the bottle cap.
She reported that she'd called Parnassus Books to have them deliver another book in a series she's reading, and I could see that she'd managed to read at least 50 pages already that day.
We talked about every day things, about her tummy ache the day before, about her excitement to eat the 2nd 1/2 of her tongue sandwich from lunch, and the fact that the vegetable soup they were serving in the dining room was actually edible.
Even though I didn't have much time to spend with her that day, having Grandma argue with me about her swollen ankles (she didn't want to put them up) made me happy, too. I'd rather have her feisty and telling me to call her a stubborn old woman (which I gladly did) than lethargic and cooperative.
I hope I'm a pain in the ass when I get old, and that I have family stopping by to pester me about my health and well-being, too.
January 20, 2014
Walking the walk
This morning I was lucky to be able to attend the annual march from Jefferson Street to Tennessee State University, in honor of those who marched in the 1960s for civil rights in Nashville, as part of the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day celebrations.
I arrived early at Jefferson Street Missionary Baptist Church to find my rabbi, whom I marched with last year, and see friends from the neighborhood and my community organizing work, and to meet new people. It's funny, although my jobs involve being overly extroverted, I often find myself shy to introduce myself, not wanting to impose on anyone.
To be honest, I had a great time meeting new people this morning! As the march was about to start, I was looking for the rabbi, walking alongside the gathering crowd, and a woman with a red hat and cane commented on my skirt. She warned me that with a skirt like that, I was looking to "get jacked for it." Of course, I had to introduce myself and make friends.
Delores and I walked together with another friend of hers, a man about my age. We took our time, stopping twice to rest her knee and catch our breath. We talked about her life and careers, my organizing work, and met more friends of all of ours along the way.
Thinking of Dr. King, I can imagine he would smile at our easy acquaintance, at the conversation we had, and at the multi-generational connection we made.
I don't always think of Dr. King when working on social justice issues, but I do think of people like Delores, who has marched for each of the last 44 years, including in rain and snow. I think of all those who lost their lives working for peace and equality, of everyone who has struggled and those who continue to struggle for a fair chance.
It wasn't just a walk in the sunshine this morning, although that was nice, too. It was a walk towards freedom and justice, together.
I arrived early at Jefferson Street Missionary Baptist Church to find my rabbi, whom I marched with last year, and see friends from the neighborhood and my community organizing work, and to meet new people. It's funny, although my jobs involve being overly extroverted, I often find myself shy to introduce myself, not wanting to impose on anyone.
To be honest, I had a great time meeting new people this morning! As the march was about to start, I was looking for the rabbi, walking alongside the gathering crowd, and a woman with a red hat and cane commented on my skirt. She warned me that with a skirt like that, I was looking to "get jacked for it." Of course, I had to introduce myself and make friends.
Delores and I walked together with another friend of hers, a man about my age. We took our time, stopping twice to rest her knee and catch our breath. We talked about her life and careers, my organizing work, and met more friends of all of ours along the way.
Thinking of Dr. King, I can imagine he would smile at our easy acquaintance, at the conversation we had, and at the multi-generational connection we made.
I don't always think of Dr. King when working on social justice issues, but I do think of people like Delores, who has marched for each of the last 44 years, including in rain and snow. I think of all those who lost their lives working for peace and equality, of everyone who has struggled and those who continue to struggle for a fair chance.
It wasn't just a walk in the sunshine this morning, although that was nice, too. It was a walk towards freedom and justice, together.
January 19, 2014
A light in the darkness
Each Friday night, I light Shabbat candles.
Generally, they burn for three to four hours, giving me pause from the workweek, and the ability to focus on what it means to stop, to relax, to step away from the hustle bustle of every day and to give my brain and body a break from the norm.
I started this tradition a dozen years ago, while I was a fellow with the Jewish Organizing Initiative (now JOIN for Justice). We had a retreat focusing on the importance of Shabbat and stepping back in order to step forward.
My senior year in high school, I performed the havdallah service each Saturday night, marking the end of Shabbat. I had grown used to doing it as part of my high school in Israel experience and found it to be a profound and beautiful tradition marking the return to every day life. Upon going to college, where lighting candles was forbidden in the dorms, I was forced to end this tradition and have yet to pick it back up again.
Several years after graduating college, and having searched for a meaningful Jewish connection, lighting candles each Friday night became a beacon of sorts, lighting my way to reflection and reconnection.
There is a Roald Dahl novel that I read in high school called "The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More." One of the stories was about a man who could tell the future by staring at a candle. Of course, I tried, but it didn't work.
My candles simply burn. They burn away stress, anxiety, fear and self-recrimination and replace these feelings with a sense of calm, of looking forward to the last puff of smoke from the candlesticks, usually marking the time I should be in bed.
I light candles each Shabbat not out of a sense of religiosity, but as an obligation to myself to remember to take time out for self care, for meditation, for relaxation. Also, candles are pretty. There's always that.
Generally, they burn for three to four hours, giving me pause from the workweek, and the ability to focus on what it means to stop, to relax, to step away from the hustle bustle of every day and to give my brain and body a break from the norm.
I started this tradition a dozen years ago, while I was a fellow with the Jewish Organizing Initiative (now JOIN for Justice). We had a retreat focusing on the importance of Shabbat and stepping back in order to step forward.
My senior year in high school, I performed the havdallah service each Saturday night, marking the end of Shabbat. I had grown used to doing it as part of my high school in Israel experience and found it to be a profound and beautiful tradition marking the return to every day life. Upon going to college, where lighting candles was forbidden in the dorms, I was forced to end this tradition and have yet to pick it back up again.
Several years after graduating college, and having searched for a meaningful Jewish connection, lighting candles each Friday night became a beacon of sorts, lighting my way to reflection and reconnection.
There is a Roald Dahl novel that I read in high school called "The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More." One of the stories was about a man who could tell the future by staring at a candle. Of course, I tried, but it didn't work.
My candles simply burn. They burn away stress, anxiety, fear and self-recrimination and replace these feelings with a sense of calm, of looking forward to the last puff of smoke from the candlesticks, usually marking the time I should be in bed.
I light candles each Shabbat not out of a sense of religiosity, but as an obligation to myself to remember to take time out for self care, for meditation, for relaxation. Also, candles are pretty. There's always that.
January 18, 2014
Fruity and delicious
On Thursday I did something a little crazy. Okay, it's not that crazy, and it really started before Thursday.
Last week I bought a bag of tangelos. They're pretty good, but not as tart as I like my citrus. So far, I've only eaten one and juiced one for a sauce. Slightly disappointed, they remain on my kitchen cart looking lovely and round in their orange mesh bag.
Wednesday, I decided I needed something more satisfying, so I bought a pineapple and the last organic pink lady in the store.
The next day, while at the store, I saw a great deal on grapefruits and minneolas, which are both favorites, so of course I had to pick those up, too. I also bought four or five more pink ladies and four organic bananas (I find bananas repulsive, but find that I feel better as a result of eating them).
And then I realized that I live alone and that I don't need to eat only fruit for the next week. Maybe I was just subconsciously celebrating Tu B'Shvat!
For those of you who don't know, Tu B'Shvat is the Jewish celebration of trees, specifically fruit trees. If you've ever been to Israel, it's like fruit tree heaven.
December 2006/January 2007 I was in Israel and bore witness to the overwhelming amount of fruit trees. There are grapefruit, orange, lemon, lime and pommelo trees lining the winding drive to Ben Gurion Airport. Every home and apartment building has fruit trees. The streets are lined with olive and almond trees.
I even saw a landscaping crew dragging a tarp loaded with fruit that had fallen in someone's yard to the curb. The bounty is everywhere, but it is seemingly invisible to the residents.
Here in Nashville there are cherry trees lining one street on the east side of town. The fruit of the pervasive hackberry trees is actually sweet, like dates. I've tasted persimmons shaken loose from one of the trees at Long Hungry Creek Farm (which also supplies my farm share and keeps me in veggies year round). There are blackberry bushes in Shelby Park, and I'm sure my forager friend could tell me all of the things I could eat from my lawn that I think are just weeds.
The point is, there is food everywhere, and we should all be able to access it. We should all be able to plant a garden, share with our friends and neighbors, grow enough to supplement what we can't.
One of my greatest joys is using the canned goods I put up over the summer. Each time I open a jar of jam or tomato sauce I think of the heat and sweat and time on my feet in front of the counter, juices dripping down my arms, seeds and skins piled in a bowl, waiting to be chucked into the compost. I savor those dishes. I eat every last bite. I don't want to waste the hours of energy I put into those jars, the planning and forethought, the late nights simmering sauces, the scalded fingertips from screwing on the lids.
Despite the time I spend making meals, making ingredients for meals, I simply enjoy food. I also think it is important to know where your food is from, who is growing it, and what your body needs.
Apparently, my body needs a LOT of fruit salad.
Last week I bought a bag of tangelos. They're pretty good, but not as tart as I like my citrus. So far, I've only eaten one and juiced one for a sauce. Slightly disappointed, they remain on my kitchen cart looking lovely and round in their orange mesh bag.
Wednesday, I decided I needed something more satisfying, so I bought a pineapple and the last organic pink lady in the store.
The next day, while at the store, I saw a great deal on grapefruits and minneolas, which are both favorites, so of course I had to pick those up, too. I also bought four or five more pink ladies and four organic bananas (I find bananas repulsive, but find that I feel better as a result of eating them).
And then I realized that I live alone and that I don't need to eat only fruit for the next week. Maybe I was just subconsciously celebrating Tu B'Shvat!
For those of you who don't know, Tu B'Shvat is the Jewish celebration of trees, specifically fruit trees. If you've ever been to Israel, it's like fruit tree heaven.
December 2006/January 2007 I was in Israel and bore witness to the overwhelming amount of fruit trees. There are grapefruit, orange, lemon, lime and pommelo trees lining the winding drive to Ben Gurion Airport. Every home and apartment building has fruit trees. The streets are lined with olive and almond trees.
I even saw a landscaping crew dragging a tarp loaded with fruit that had fallen in someone's yard to the curb. The bounty is everywhere, but it is seemingly invisible to the residents.
Here in Nashville there are cherry trees lining one street on the east side of town. The fruit of the pervasive hackberry trees is actually sweet, like dates. I've tasted persimmons shaken loose from one of the trees at Long Hungry Creek Farm (which also supplies my farm share and keeps me in veggies year round). There are blackberry bushes in Shelby Park, and I'm sure my forager friend could tell me all of the things I could eat from my lawn that I think are just weeds.
The point is, there is food everywhere, and we should all be able to access it. We should all be able to plant a garden, share with our friends and neighbors, grow enough to supplement what we can't.
One of my greatest joys is using the canned goods I put up over the summer. Each time I open a jar of jam or tomato sauce I think of the heat and sweat and time on my feet in front of the counter, juices dripping down my arms, seeds and skins piled in a bowl, waiting to be chucked into the compost. I savor those dishes. I eat every last bite. I don't want to waste the hours of energy I put into those jars, the planning and forethought, the late nights simmering sauces, the scalded fingertips from screwing on the lids.
Despite the time I spend making meals, making ingredients for meals, I simply enjoy food. I also think it is important to know where your food is from, who is growing it, and what your body needs.
Apparently, my body needs a LOT of fruit salad.
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