"When I think of my mother, I taste desert." Adam Gopnik
When I think of my mother, I taste meatloaf, the kind she baked after a day of work at the bank, mixed with onions, tomato paste, bread crumbs, and cheddar cheese in the middle. When thinking of my father, I smell roasting chestnuts, taste their sweet earthiness on my tongue. For my grandmother, there are those ribbon shaped cookies made by her hands, fried but still soft inside, drenched in honey and powdered sugar. And that sauce, with the thick layer of olive oil sitting on the top that you pierced with fresh Italian bread to meet the tangy tomato underneath. For Nunzio, I taste the grapes that sat in a bowl on the kitchen table, sometimes plump, sometimes wilted, a bit of sweetness after a meal of weighty textures and flavors. For Louie, there are walnuts cracked fresh from their shell and wrapped in dried figs. "Try this," he said offering me the cracked nuts snug in their sticky friends.
Now there is E like a cinnamon sugar donut melting in my mouth and J fava beans soaked in salted water and simmered to oblivion with garlic, stewed tomatoes, rosemary, and oil.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Louie's Lupini Beans
My grandfather Louie like his lupini beans chewy not mushy, with salt and pepper, a little olive oil and lemon drizzled on top. His son, Mikey (my father), made sure to have lupini beans (salted, peppered, and oiled) when Louie came for Christmas Eve dinner. Before Mikey, it would have been Philly (my grandmother) who hosted Christmas Eve dinner. Still, it was probably Mikey who made sure that lupini beans arrived at the table prepared in the way that Louie liked.
Mikey bought lupini beans from a jar(Pastene). Each large yellow bean, soaked in a briny water, was encased in its own waxy sheath. The sheath was removed with the tongue releasing the creamy bean from within. When Amelia (Louie's wife) made Louie lupini, she bought the beans dried, soaked them in salted water for the afternoon, then boiled them on the coal fired stove until they were tender but firm.
After Amelia died, Louie ate lupini only when the neighbors or cousins brought them for Sunday dinner. While he learned to make his own tomato sauce, roasted meat, white bean and escarole soup, Louie didn't have the heart to make lupini.
"Pass the lupini," Louie would call down from the end of the dining room table where he sat next to Philly and Nunzio (my grandfather)_ at Christmas Eve dinner. He would place one bean at a time on his tongue, chewing and talking in Italian with Philly and Nunzio about "the old country," a pile of waxy sheaths growing by the side of his plate.
Mikey bought lupini beans from a jar(Pastene). Each large yellow bean, soaked in a briny water, was encased in its own waxy sheath. The sheath was removed with the tongue releasing the creamy bean from within. When Amelia (Louie's wife) made Louie lupini, she bought the beans dried, soaked them in salted water for the afternoon, then boiled them on the coal fired stove until they were tender but firm.
After Amelia died, Louie ate lupini only when the neighbors or cousins brought them for Sunday dinner. While he learned to make his own tomato sauce, roasted meat, white bean and escarole soup, Louie didn't have the heart to make lupini.
"Pass the lupini," Louie would call down from the end of the dining room table where he sat next to Philly and Nunzio (my grandfather)_ at Christmas Eve dinner. He would place one bean at a time on his tongue, chewing and talking in Italian with Philly and Nunzio about "the old country," a pile of waxy sheaths growing by the side of his plate.
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Fabric of Your Skin
What is the fabric of your skin like today?
Perhaps, like mine, the skin of the elbow is rough like burlap, hungry for moisture and warmth. What about the skin of the throat, the under side of the heal, the palms? Where is it tight, itchy, smooth, glossy, folding over onto itself? Does the skin of the front body drape down like a heavy woolen cape or is it more like spandex, springy, taught, and rising up from the belly?
The skin perceives, embraces, feels what is inside and out. It gives the illusion of separateness and armor but in fact is permeable and as changeable as the atmosphere. The surface of the skin vibrates microscopically when touched, in the presence of beauty, by your baby's tears.
Perhaps, like mine, the skin of the elbow is rough like burlap, hungry for moisture and warmth. What about the skin of the throat, the under side of the heal, the palms? Where is it tight, itchy, smooth, glossy, folding over onto itself? Does the skin of the front body drape down like a heavy woolen cape or is it more like spandex, springy, taught, and rising up from the belly?
The skin perceives, embraces, feels what is inside and out. It gives the illusion of separateness and armor but in fact is permeable and as changeable as the atmosphere. The surface of the skin vibrates microscopically when touched, in the presence of beauty, by your baby's tears.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Too Old
Now that you are getting older, what are you too old to do?
Fiction writer Barb Johnson published her first book More of This World or Maybe Another when she was 52. (My hero!) Before entering the MFA program at the University of New Orleans at 50 she had worked as a carpenter for 20 years. Her closets filled with scraps of writing (like my own) called out for loving attention but for a long while she was hard of hearing. She writes, "And this is the thing: the almost universal fear that an endeavor will take too long, that we will be way past our primes, our social usefulness, before we get to whatever we long for. And lurking underneath is the larger fear of not being good enough."
What is it you have longed to do but fear it is too late, that you are "past your prime", won't be "good enough"? What obstacles do you place in the way of your soul's deepest desires?
I struggle with deafness to my soul's callings. "Its just too late; there is no time; better to make more money, clean the bathroom, feel badly than do what it is you long to do just for the sheer pleasure of it."
Where I finally find the grace to give my soul what it craves is a mystery; could be sheer misery that finally drives me to try something different, to stop banging that head against that wall.
And the soul is so kind. The more she is loved the more ease I find in my body, the more grace there is to follow her lead. Surprisingly, I do not find grace through effort but in letting go. Letting go is what the soul gently prods me to do, of ever single thing (beauty, strength, money, control, joy, sorrow, love, hate, the breath) things we really don't "have" in the first place even though the mind would tell you this is not so.
Surely, I will drown in this tumultuous river, be drawn under for good, if I don't cling to the raft, the splintered fragment of wood, this shard of a life raft. "Just let go a little," my soul sings to me. There are sharp rocks, falling waters, places that are deep, cold, unfamiliar. How can it be that the more I let go the easier it gets, the less work I need to do? The river moves me away from all that I know to surprising and mysterious places. I survive, thrive even.
I see, in small glimpses, why this is so. I am the river. There are no hands for gripping, no pieces of wood to grab, no being unchanged.
Thanks Barb for your lovely reminder of this!
Fiction writer Barb Johnson published her first book More of This World or Maybe Another when she was 52. (My hero!) Before entering the MFA program at the University of New Orleans at 50 she had worked as a carpenter for 20 years. Her closets filled with scraps of writing (like my own) called out for loving attention but for a long while she was hard of hearing. She writes, "And this is the thing: the almost universal fear that an endeavor will take too long, that we will be way past our primes, our social usefulness, before we get to whatever we long for. And lurking underneath is the larger fear of not being good enough."
What is it you have longed to do but fear it is too late, that you are "past your prime", won't be "good enough"? What obstacles do you place in the way of your soul's deepest desires?
I struggle with deafness to my soul's callings. "Its just too late; there is no time; better to make more money, clean the bathroom, feel badly than do what it is you long to do just for the sheer pleasure of it."
Where I finally find the grace to give my soul what it craves is a mystery; could be sheer misery that finally drives me to try something different, to stop banging that head against that wall.
And the soul is so kind. The more she is loved the more ease I find in my body, the more grace there is to follow her lead. Surprisingly, I do not find grace through effort but in letting go. Letting go is what the soul gently prods me to do, of ever single thing (beauty, strength, money, control, joy, sorrow, love, hate, the breath) things we really don't "have" in the first place even though the mind would tell you this is not so.
Surely, I will drown in this tumultuous river, be drawn under for good, if I don't cling to the raft, the splintered fragment of wood, this shard of a life raft. "Just let go a little," my soul sings to me. There are sharp rocks, falling waters, places that are deep, cold, unfamiliar. How can it be that the more I let go the easier it gets, the less work I need to do? The river moves me away from all that I know to surprising and mysterious places. I survive, thrive even.
I see, in small glimpses, why this is so. I am the river. There are no hands for gripping, no pieces of wood to grab, no being unchanged.
Thanks Barb for your lovely reminder of this!
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Three Women Walk into a Cafe
They came in together, burst through the door with a blast of cold air. Three, friends, that is what they looked like, together out for coffee and breakfast muffins. There was a young woman with a German accent and a white haired one with a tired look in her eyes. Young and Whitey peeled a plaid scarf off of the third woman who had brown dyed hair, high cheeck bones, large brown eyes, a smile.
“There is a couch over there, we can sit,” Young said. Young and Whitey led the third friend over to the couch, by the hand since she was shaky on her feet and looked lost.
Whitey sat next to Shaky, close, thigh touching thigh, like long time companions would. She clasped a paper cup filled with coffee and warmed her hands. Then she took Shaky’s hands in hers to warm them as well.
“Feels good doesn’t it Irene,” Whitey asked Shaky.
“Yes, feels good,” Shaky said back.
Young brought a mug of hot chocolate over along with a thick slice of freshly made coffee cake. There were three forks.
Whitey fed Shaky small pieces from a fork. One for herself, one for Irene.
“Buttery,” Irene said licking her lips.
Young blew on the skin of hot chocolate and tested it with her tongue. When it was cooled she held the mug to Shaky's lips.
"Very nice," Shaky told Young politely.
They didn’t stay long. Shaky had slippers on and didn't take her long purple down coat off. She had forgotten where she was.
“Is it cold out?” she asked.
“Yes, we had that scarf on you when you came in.” Whitey said.
“Oh,” Irene replied.
“I don’t like it on, though,” Irene frowned.
“We won’t put it on tightly, not too tightly,” Young said. “Up we go,” Young helped Shaky to her feet.
“Wo, Wo,” Irene wobbled but there was a soft blue couch behind her to catch her if she fell But she didn't fall. She held tight to Young's hands and Whitey had her back.
“I don’t know where I am going,” Shaky told Whitey and Young.
“It’s okay,” Young said, “We will follow the leader.”
“Okay,” Shakey said. She was laughing and laughing now. The scarf had fallen off her neck and was hanging down towards the floor.
“What is this? What is this?” she asked when Whitey pulled the scarf up from the floor and wrapped it back around Irene's head.
“I won’t do it too tight,” Whitey told her.
“There is a couch over there, we can sit,” Young said. Young and Whitey led the third friend over to the couch, by the hand since she was shaky on her feet and looked lost.
Whitey sat next to Shaky, close, thigh touching thigh, like long time companions would. She clasped a paper cup filled with coffee and warmed her hands. Then she took Shaky’s hands in hers to warm them as well.
“Feels good doesn’t it Irene,” Whitey asked Shaky.
“Yes, feels good,” Shaky said back.
Young brought a mug of hot chocolate over along with a thick slice of freshly made coffee cake. There were three forks.
Whitey fed Shaky small pieces from a fork. One for herself, one for Irene.
“Buttery,” Irene said licking her lips.
Young blew on the skin of hot chocolate and tested it with her tongue. When it was cooled she held the mug to Shaky's lips.
"Very nice," Shaky told Young politely.
They didn’t stay long. Shaky had slippers on and didn't take her long purple down coat off. She had forgotten where she was.
“Is it cold out?” she asked.
“Yes, we had that scarf on you when you came in.” Whitey said.
“Oh,” Irene replied.
“I don’t like it on, though,” Irene frowned.
“We won’t put it on tightly, not too tightly,” Young said. “Up we go,” Young helped Shaky to her feet.
“Wo, Wo,” Irene wobbled but there was a soft blue couch behind her to catch her if she fell But she didn't fall. She held tight to Young's hands and Whitey had her back.
“I don’t know where I am going,” Shaky told Whitey and Young.
“It’s okay,” Young said, “We will follow the leader.”
“Okay,” Shakey said. She was laughing and laughing now. The scarf had fallen off her neck and was hanging down towards the floor.
“What is this? What is this?” she asked when Whitey pulled the scarf up from the floor and wrapped it back around Irene's head.
“I won’t do it too tight,” Whitey told her.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Little Deaths
"Equanimity allows for the mystery of things: the unknowable, uncontrollable nature of things to
be just as they are." Frank Jude Bocco
When the ego (the small I) in desperate need of purpose, of permanence, asserts control, we die, just a little. In these little deaths, silence creeps into the body; there is less tenderness in the heart space, more stiffness in the spine, numbing of the tailbone. In these silences, we loose our connection to God (Soul, Self) which can only be experienced in the body and turn outside of our anesthetized selves for feeling, for the unconditional love we long for. But nothing outside is permanent so anxiety and ambiguity erupts. Still, we can continue to grip even tighter the reins of the wild horse which can't be tamed.
Yoga shows us a different way, to come more fully alive (our birthright afterall). Through the practice of asana (poses), devotedly, steadfastly, with vigor and great compassion, the threads binding the ego to the Soul loosen. We get glimpses of a divine spark deep in the bones, an experience of completeness that remains even as everything we love leaves us. In asana practice, after a long time, there can come (I am told, I am hoping) an effortless effort; movement for the pure experience of movement towards the soul's embrace and guidance that we long for.
Once when I felt quite lost in life a yoga teacher told me, "Just keep doing yoga." How could that possibly help me to figure out where to live, who to love, what kind of work would satisfy? I continued my practice because it felt good to be less anxious and stiff. I noticed, over time, that my body became noisy, louder, more awake. I began to listen, naturally, to my body about what it needed in each moment (for the body, the soul, god speaks to us only in the moment); a nap, a friend, a walk in the woods. Because it hurt not to, I began to follow my body's wishes and make choices that felt deeply nourishing. My life unfolded without so much effort. Not without pain, sadness, loss, and regret, but with less fear, anxiety, anticipation, little deaths.
As yoga guru BKS Iyengar tells it, with a devoted yoga practice we may be able to tie our shoes when we are 85; and more importantly live fully until we die.
When the ego (the small I) in desperate need of purpose, of permanence, asserts control, we die, just a little. In these little deaths, silence creeps into the body; there is less tenderness in the heart space, more stiffness in the spine, numbing of the tailbone. In these silences, we loose our connection to God (Soul, Self) which can only be experienced in the body and turn outside of our anesthetized selves for feeling, for the unconditional love we long for. But nothing outside is permanent so anxiety and ambiguity erupts. Still, we can continue to grip even tighter the reins of the wild horse which can't be tamed.
Yoga shows us a different way, to come more fully alive (our birthright afterall). Through the practice of asana (poses), devotedly, steadfastly, with vigor and great compassion, the threads binding the ego to the Soul loosen. We get glimpses of a divine spark deep in the bones, an experience of completeness that remains even as everything we love leaves us. In asana practice, after a long time, there can come (I am told, I am hoping) an effortless effort; movement for the pure experience of movement towards the soul's embrace and guidance that we long for.
Once when I felt quite lost in life a yoga teacher told me, "Just keep doing yoga." How could that possibly help me to figure out where to live, who to love, what kind of work would satisfy? I continued my practice because it felt good to be less anxious and stiff. I noticed, over time, that my body became noisy, louder, more awake. I began to listen, naturally, to my body about what it needed in each moment (for the body, the soul, god speaks to us only in the moment); a nap, a friend, a walk in the woods. Because it hurt not to, I began to follow my body's wishes and make choices that felt deeply nourishing. My life unfolded without so much effort. Not without pain, sadness, loss, and regret, but with less fear, anxiety, anticipation, little deaths.
As yoga guru BKS Iyengar tells it, with a devoted yoga practice we may be able to tie our shoes when we are 85; and more importantly live fully until we die.
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