The Field

Today is the second anniversary of the start of my adventures with PTSD and I had to go to the regional VA hospital abut 75 minutes from my home.  There are a couple of ways that I know of to get there: using the Pennsylvania Turnpike; or, taking US Route 30 by-pass around York over to Lancaster; then up through a handful of small towns and farming communities; past a few large convenience-store-gas-megaplexes; driving within drooling distance of an outstanding BBQ joint;

then left onto Lincoln Avenue in Lebanon, where you turn to the right down a long, tree-lined lane, past a phalanx of American flags (made in China - I kid you not!) snapping to attention in the breeze; finally, left into the parking lot in front of the building where the decked-out lobby pictured above awaits visitors and patients.

Guess which way I went.  (Hint: I didn't have coins for the turnpike toll.)

The Field.  New Year's Eve, 2013, I had an appointment to have labs done at the VA Outreach clinic in York.  That was my second visit to the clinic for the same thing because they couldn't get blood out of me the first time.  I think I've written before about how it felt like old home week sitting in the waiting room with all the other veterans, that I felt like I was where I belonged.  (Don't have a clue why that was.  It is what it is.)

Chatting with the nurse trying to draw blood again, we talked about my time in service, which branch, where I was stationed, what I did - just chit-chat.  I began to feel sad, began remembering things I hadn't thought about in 45 years.  Felt like crying, sick to my stomach.  I wanted to get out of that room, out of the clinic as fast as I could.

I managed to hold it together until she helped me with my coat, patted me on my back and thanked me for my service.  No one had ever said that to me before.  Tears welled up and I had trouble breathing.  By the time I reached the waiting room door, those tears were running down my face.  By the time I was outside, I was sobbing uncontrollably and couldn't see clearly.

Halfway home, I pulled off the highway next to a field.  I couldn't see well, couldn't focus mentally on driving, was crossing into the opposing lane, driving erratically.  I was terrified, had no idea what was happening to me.  Nothing made any sense.  Between sobs, these animal sounds came out of my mouth - howling, moaning, shrieking - which added to the terror.

There was movement at the passenger side of my car: a woman was walking toward the field, her head turned toward a house on the far side.  I was surprised into silence, watched her step across a shallow ditch and onto the field.  She walked about halfway across, fell to her knees, pulled a gun from her jacket pocket and blew her brains out.  I screamed.

My brain started saying, over and over, "This isn't happening, it isn't real, you aren't seeing this!"

My eyes did not transmit that image to my brain, but I saw it.  I heard the report of the shot, saw the side of her face blow away from her head, saw her fall forward to the ground, her butt in the air.  I screamed again and looked away for a split second.  When I looked back, she was gone.  I understood that I was that woman.  My mind was answering my unspoken plea for someone to stop the grief and confusion, the fear and pain I had been feeling for the last half hour.

"That wasn't you.  That didn't happen, it was not real!"

For two years, every time I had to go to York or Lebanon for treatment and tests, I dreaded passing The Field.  Anxiety began setting in as far as two miles before I got to the field.  My daughter went to Lebanon a couple of times with me and I pointed out the field to her as we went by.  The third time, she said I needed to tell my therapist about the field because it obviously was a trigger and I needed to manage it.  (They don't talk about curing or controlling triggers, just about managing them.  How about teaching me how to eradicate the little SOBs, wipe them off the face of the earth?!)

For two years, I drove past The Field as fast as I could, as fast as traffic would allow.  Sometimes I'd close my field-side eye until I either had passed the airport going east, or could see the Labott Road sign ahead going west.  That way I knew The Field was no longer in my line of sight.

I didn't do that today.  Today, I bearded the lion.  I pulled off the highway at the same place I had two years ago.  I sat quietly until the pain in my chest stopped and the knot in my stomach let go.  After a few more minutes, I grabbed my camera, got out and walked along the side of the road to the spot where that woman had stepped across the ditch.


Facing the Labott Road sign, I studied it until the negative image started shimmering around the edge.  I photographed it.  It became an ordinary road sign, had no effect on me.

I turned to The Field and photographed it, too, focusing on the spot where the woman had dropped to her knees.  This year the owner grew soybeans instead of corn.  Maybe next spring he/she will plant timothy or wheat.

See?  It's just an ordinary field.

Umm...Greetings?

Ever wonder what Santa does in the off season?  Here are two possibilities (photo above and video link).

     https://vimeo.com/81979873

Happy holidays, everybody!

(PS: Check out the flag behind Santa.)

Giving Thanks

(Image found here)

There is much for which to be thankful this day, despite (or maybe because of) the misery that surrounds us.

Speaking only for myself, I am grateful for at least these things today:

I awoke this morning.  Always glad to open my eyes and see light streaming through my windows.  

I rolled out of bed without incurring the wrath of the Spasm Monster.  My knees didn't buckle beneath me and I could walk without bracing myself against the wall.

My daughter and grandson are alive and well, and headed out to spend the holiday with her father and his family.  I'm going to their apartment later to cat-sit and make rice pudding.

I hear voices of children playing in the alley next to my house.  These are not children from the neighborhood, but likely visiting relatives nearby for Thanksgiving.  They're tossing around a beat-up old football and yelling with such joy and enthusiasm, it is impossible not to giggle along with them.

Several homes' chimneys are expelling clouds of smoke in columns straight up to the sky.  The scent of burning wood wafts in on the drafts around the doors, cheering me immeasurably.  I love the odors of fall and early winter, especially wood smoke.

There is food in the house (not the usual feast larder, but plenty, nonetheless), heating oil in the tank, enough money in the bank to pay bills, warm clothing, running fresh water, and a secure roof over my head.  I still have a job.  

My health...well, it certainly could be better, but it could be (and has been at other times) worse.

The main thing for which I am thankful this day is that I woke up.  It's all gravy from that point on, no matter what comes.  I am alive up to the moment life leaves me, and it would be disgraceful of me to feel anything else but gratitude.

(I'll try very hard to remember what I just wrote should things take a turn for the worse.)

Standing with France

When I first saw Casablanca, on television late night movie program, I was so caught up in the story that when La Marseillaise was played, I stood and 'sang' the anthem (knew the music but not the lyrics), tears streaming down my face.

I have loved France (or the idea of France, perhaps more accurately) ever since.  Liberty, Equality and Brother(Sister)hood were ideals I naively thought the US was founded on, too.  The intervening years have shown me that we have far to go, as does every other nation on Earth, but tonight I will listen to La Marseillaise and hope for peace and recovery for Paris, for France and for the rest of the world.

I don't know what else to do.

First November Sunset

This evening, as I walked out of my favorite coffee shop/cafe, I glanced skyward and was rewarded with an interesting dance in the clouds above.  At first, the bottoms were covered in mammatus pouches, which usually signal severe weather.  Within a couple of seconds, the pouches began to unfurl like paper streamers, or fat curls of hair released from bobby-pins.  Luckily my point-and-shoot was in my bag and I was able to capture these pictures.  I've never seen anything like this in my entire life!

I walked to the rear of the cafe and found that the winds had smoothed the lumps and bumps and tendrils into smooth streaks.  Breathtaking color and rhythm.  It was like watching an invisible paintbrush laying multi-hued streaks of light across a fathomless canvas.  The show was mesmerizing, spirit-lifting - unforgettable.

Wow!  Isn't this universe amazing?

(I have a thing about numbers, so when I started writing this post at 11:11pm, on 11-1, I thought that was a good sign.  A good sign of what, I couldn't say; just felt it was auspicious.)

Not Much. You?

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• Today, I am 68 years and 1 day old.  Seems like only a couple of days ago that I was 67 - my, how time flies.  July 25 is, according to ancient Mayan culture, the Day Out of Time:  "The day of Kin, which is outside of time, is...July 25th, also called Green Day.  Green Day was considered by the Maya as a special day to prepare the soul, creating a space for play, art, magic and creativity."  This year, the day passed with hardly any notice, for me, anyway.  Is it a sign of aging that birthdays don't matter as much as when we were younger?
• I have a new therapist, one I think will help me work through the PTSD crap.  I am hopeful, at least.
• Lightning bugs are here later than usual this summer.  Most years they are here the last half of June into the first week or so of July.  This year they didn't show up until the middle of this month.  However, there seem to be a great many more than usual.  Their tiny bodies fill the evenings with luminescent acid green light, rising just after the sun disappears from the horizon, in that space between twilight and nightfall.  What joy!
• I am nearing that age when I'll probably have to retake the state's driver's license test - or, at least, have to go through an eye and reflex test.  Two more years of degenerating vision and slowing reflexes and I'm screwed.  Time to get a bus pass and learn to leave the driving to someone else, I guess.
• There is a new, young cat visiting my property.  Pretty little grey-and-black-tiger, half-grown kitten; very friendly, likes being petted and held.  He curls his rather prehensile tail around my wrist when I pet him.  I thought it was sweet, until I realized poison ivy rash now encircles my wrist.  Despite my wishes, Donovan has named the cat: Georgie Junior, after a cat he lost to feline distemper a few years ago.  Well, you know what they say about naming an animal - it's yours forever - so I guess I'll feed it, too.  But this is absolutely the last one!
• After so many wet weeks, we are in a dry and hot spell.  Not too bad, but I find myself longing for the cooler weather of late September, early October - as if time weren't flying by fast enough already.  As my mother used to tell me, "Martha, you'd complain if they hung you with a new rope!"  Probably, but if the sky was as blue as a Dutchman's britches and full of fluffy white clouds, with a cool breeze and low humidity, at least I wouldn't mind the weather.
• That's about all that's on my mind this evening.  How are things your way? 

Lazy Sunday Afternoon

This is one of those days when the Sunday-lazies take over and I don't do a damned thing but guzzle iced tea, sitting on the front steps - well, hardly anything else.  I did spend some time reading the mail I set aside earlier in the week, downloaded a photo of grandson in his first-job uniform, cruised the interwebs to see what y'all were up to this morning, fed the cat and watered the plants I should have put in the ground a few weeks ago.  On that last item, it would appear I have the Sunday-lazies other days of the week, as well.

First, I want to tell you about this web site that Michael linked to at the bottom of today's post, where I found this!  Went through half a gallon of tea reading SWPD - so eye-opening.

I've written many times about my grandson Donovan.  (Donovan is on the autism spectrum, with Asperger's Syndrome.)  When he was about 8-years-old, the counselor at the grade school he attended in Gettysburg told his mother that because he was autistic, with serious physical development disorders, he likely wouldn't live to be 12-years-old, but if he did he certainly wouldn't make it to high school.  If he somehow beat those astronomical odds, he absolutely wouldn't finish with grades good enough to get to college.  Furthermore, he would be better off if she placed him in a residential facility where professionals would know how to care for him until the end of his days.

Well, it took Donovan longer than neuro-typical kids to get through high school, graduating when he was 21, having been on the honor roll seven out of the previous twelve marking periods (three of those on the high-honors-roll).  When he graduated and walked across the carpet (outdoors ceremony) to accept his diploma, almost the entire senior class stood and applauded him.  (Oh, yeah - Mom was also told he'd never have friends, either, because he lacked communication skills.)

He is attending summer session at the local community college, with plans to continue there for the next two years, before transferring to more technologically advanced college or university.  Donovan wants to become a video-games programmer/designer, with the aim of writing programs to help other kids on the spectrum develop social and academic skills, tools that would have helped him accelerate his learning had they been available.  (Interactive video presentations of academic material have proved successful with people on the spectrum.)

Last week, he was hired to work part-time, working around his class schedules, at a local fast-food restaurant (no, not McD's). The first two days were supposed to be spent on video-training, but he finished that in one afternoon, so they moved him to the counter the first couple of hours the next day, but put him on one of the food prep stations when another kid called in sick.  His managers are astounded that he learned the machines and the menu preps in the remaining four hours of that second day, especially because - when the late afternoon-evening rush came on - he was in the kitchen by himself.  (Am I bragging too much?  Can't help it - he amazes me everyday with what he can do, how far he has come from when he was 8-years-old, how wicked intelligent he is, how kind and compassionate.  Okay, I'll stop.  For today.)

Taken with his mother's cell phone.

The mail was nothing much, except for a billing summary from the local hospital.  (Had to visit the emergency room two weeks ago, thought I was having a stroke.  Only a TIA, fortunately.)  I was in for four days, on the CVA floor.  The bill came to almost twenty-three-thousand (yep, 23,000) dollars.  Medicare will take care of most of that for me, but what do people without health care do?  How do people manage this sort of expense without insurance?!  Mr. President, you haven't lived up to your promise on this one.  I'm taking your campaign bumper stickers off my car -- in futile protest, not because I think it will make any difference now.  

The Cat...sigh.  Cat no longer lives in the house.  She seems to think my legs are a Cat Olympics slalom drill, which is not good for someone with vision and balance problems.  She climbs the furniture and curtains as if they were rock walls, knocking obstacles (books, pictures, computer monitor and other peripherals that weigh less than she) to the floor.  In addition, she likes to play ninja-commando cat, where in she leaps upon me when my back is turned (forget about sitting at the computer when she's in the house), or swats my ankles while in deep cover between the refrigerator and the baker's rack.  In order to feed her, I have to pick up the bowl and turn away from her to put food in it.  Otherwise, she pushes her head in the way and food spills all around the bowl, not in it.  I  like that she wants to go for walks with me, though.  Long walks, as if she were a dog.  Trots about five feet ahead of me, meows bitterly if I stop to smell the neighbor's roses or pause to chat with anyone.  Plus the crows are beginning to associate me with her and make menacing fly-bys even when I'm alone.  I keep telling her she is free to go find a new home, just like she did this one a couple of Octobers ago.  The look she gives me in return says that I'm free to leave, too.  Any time.  Like now.  What's holding you up, old woman?  

Time to refill the pitcher, maybe get those plants in the ground before it rains this afternoon.

HAPPY, HAPPY!

Photo by Cindy Tucey (www.sharetheexperience.org)

 

Hope today is a good day for everyone!  Happy Birthday, America, flawed beauty that you are.  I love you, anyway.

I Won't Turn Back

Pastor Charles Jenkins

Last evening, I attended a memorial service and candlelight vigil for the Charleston Nine at St. Paul's A.M.E. Zion in neighboring Gettysburg.  I was gratified and filled with hope to see that half the people who packed the church were white.  All of us, regardless of color or ethnicity, were there to grieve together and offer support to the congregation of Emanuel A.M.E. in Charleston, South Carolina.

Worship service at St. Paul's is vastly different from services at Menallen Friends Meeting, where I am a member - though more in name only over the last couple of years.  We Quakers sit in silence, awaiting God/the Light Within to speak to our souls.  At St. Paul's, they call out loud for God to enter the House, to fill their hearts and souls with His presence.  They offer praise with prayer, with songs, with their bodies.  I felt at home there last night, unlike I have felt at my meeting for a very long time.

One thing I found interesting, and understandable considering the small size of St. Paul's, is that they use recorded music, to which they sing along.  Joy spills out of the mouths of the congregation, their voices raised to a level that makes it seem the rafters are shaking.  Which they might be, given the age of the church.

The gospel song that was playing when I arrived, that the congregation was singing with great fervor, rocked my soul last night, long after the vigil ended and I drove back home.  It is my anthem for the rest of my life.  One phrase, especially, is my new motto (and the title of this post).

I will not turn away this time.  I can't.  How about you?

Marvels

 In the wake of yet another heinous slaughter of innocents in this country, I am too depressed to think clearly right now.  I need to think what to do next.  Tonight, I let Pablo Casals speak for me.

The Can Alone

I came home from a long, exhausting day on the road and dealing with elements of my past I wish I could have left along the wayside.  Somewhere between leaving the parking lot of the V. A. Clinic in Camp Hill and pulling into the carport at home, a depression as cold and grey as the rain clouds spilling over the mountains settled around my shoulders, dampening my spirits.  I was tired and hungry, but didn't feel like cooking.  Neither did I want to spend money to eat in a restaurant full of people.

I fed Cat then went to get the mail - my evening routine.  This time, though, retrieving the mail was anything but routine.

There was a mermaid in my box.

This mermaid came from Thailand, by way of New Jersey and Illinois, through the kindness of blogging friend and fellow sardinista, Michael Leddy, at Orange Crate Art.  What a wonderful surprise!  (Thank you, Michael.)

In his accompanying note, Michael wrote that he'd never tasted this brand, didn't know if they were any good, "but the can alone was worth it."  

Yes, the label is lovely.  Even better (and so totally delicious!) are were the little fish inside.  This brand is probably the best I've had since starting my recent search for the sardine taste of my youthful memories.

The flesh is tender, the skin silky on the tongue, the tiny bones a crunchy delight.  Two things I think add to the enjoyment of these fish are the light flavor and scent of the oil (soybean) in which they were packed, and the barest hint of smoke. 

My supper was a simple, but satisfying one: the sardines, with slices of cucumber and a sweet red pepper with a homemade herb-yogurt sauce, plus some garbanzos.  These sardines are perfect as they come from the can, which is how I ate half of them.  Lemon juice added a nice touch to the rest of them, but was unnecessary.

Michael, I hope you get to try them.  I think you'll like them.

And thank you for brightening the remains of my day.

Food of the Gods, of Lucky Cats and of Hungry Old Women

(Poster for Lisbon's 2011 Annual Sardines Festival, a week-long event.  The Portuguese love their sardinhas!)

Michael Leddy, at Orange Crate Art, reawakened a longing in me for sardines, something I used to eat regularly in my youth, but not for over forty-plus years of late.  My mother used to buy them for when my step-father came home from his trips abroad.  Pop was a Master chief bosun's mate and sailed with the Merchant Marine fleets all over the world.  We knew he'd be home soon when the cabinets were stocked with pasta of all shapes and sizes; cans of crushed tomatoes with basil and garlic and whole plum tomatoes; globes of aged provolone slung, melon-shaped, in twine, small wheels or larger wedges of Parmesan; raffia-wrapped bottles of Chianti and tissue-papered bottles of port; tall bottles of anchovy-stuffed green olives, tins of smoked oysters and of sardines.  

Ah, the sardines!  What stinky, delicious memories!  There were smoked sardines in olive oil, plain sardines in mustard sauce, in tomato sauce with garlic, in red wine and olive oil.  Oh, and larger dry, salted sardines with heads still attached.  Those were wrapped in brown, heavily-waxed paper, which smelled more like the sea than did the fish.  (He liked the whole ones poached in a bit of Chianti with some of the pomodores, lots of garlic, parsley and red pepper flakes, served with a side of cavatini napped with the poaching sauce.  Yum - except for the sardine heads; couldn't look the fish in the eye, you know?)

Anyway, several weeks ago I started searching for sardines in the local groceries and fish markets.  I was disappointed that no one around here had fresh or dried sardines, with or without their heads.  Almost every vendor told me to go to the Italian markets in either Phillie or Baltimore.  That will have to be a road trip (Road Trip!) after the weather settles down.

However, I have found numerous brands of processed sardines from as far away as Thailand, Poland, Portugal, Spain, Morocco, France, Canada (which isn't all that far away), and China.  (The ones from China glow in the dark and smell of kerosene.  Okay, I lied.  I didn't buy those, as a matter of principle, so I have no idea whether they glow or not.  Kerosene odor emanating from the paper wrapper, yes.  Didn't have to buy them to know that!)

Sardines are amazingly inexpensive, unless you have no money at all, and then everything is outrageously priced.  I bought three tins: King Oscar Mediterranean style, Bar Harbor skinless boneless, and Season Brand kosher sardines, certified by Rabbi S. Z. Revach of Israel to be parasite free.  I must admit that I'd never given the health of the sardines I've eaten any thought - except I won't ever buy canned foods from China, no matter what it is.  Unless a Rabbi certifies it, but even then...maybe not.

The sauce on the King Oscar sardines smelled strongly of fish, but I reminded myself that it has been forty-something years since my last can of sardines, so maybe this was to be expected.  The sauce was a light mixture of a fruity olive oil, a couple of black olives and a pesto-like blend of herbes-de-Provence and red bell peppers.  I ate half the sardines as they were, which was surprisingly tasty, but lacking something.  I added aged Modena balsamic* vinegar and a few capers, the tiny ones.  I like the combination.  Next time, I'll drain off as much oil as possible, then dress them with the vinegar and capers.

The second can (didn't eat all these brands at one seating, mind, in case you are wondering; a few days between), the Bar Harbor brand, was okay but I ended up giving about a third of it to Cat Who Overran My House.  First of all, I've discovered I prefer sardines to have their skin and their bones, especially the bones.  That's why I like salmon, mackerel and sardines in the can - love the crunchy bones.  Secondly, the fish were broken, almost chopped in appearance, and packed in oil that didn't look or smell like olive oil.  The first helping was straight from the can, nothing added, not even pepper, which goes on almost everything I eat, even ice cream - and in chai.  Very bland flavor, dry fish - fibrous.  Was not impressed.  For the second third, I made a mustard sauce, using the baby-crap-yellow hot dog mustard, a little bit of kosher dill pickle juice and chopped fresh dill.  Flavor improved, but the texture remained the same.  Dumped the last, unadorned, into the cat's bowl.  Cat, who is very finicky about what she eats (like Mikey - starts at 10 secs), scarfed them down as if she'd had nothing to eat for weeks.

Today, I had the Season Brand (certified by Rabbi Revach) for lunch.  This can held whole fillets, in a little bit of olive oil.  The fish were surrounded by a gelatin, probably of their own making, slightly salty, but no overwhelming fishy odor.  They were tender, soft-bodied: very good, I thought.  I pulled one from the can to taste, decided to add a couple of things.  I squeezed the juice from a Meyer lemon onto the sardines and sprinkled a good amount of red pepper flakes on top.  We have a winner.  Despite the lack of bones, these are good fish, good sardines.  I will not be sharing these with Cat.

(*) Is Modena and balsamic redundant?

(Disclaimer: I am not being paid to review any of these.  I wrote this for Michael, with thanks.)

Courting Cardinals and Counting Crows

Spring has arrived in Hanover!

How do I know this?  Because the sun is turning the snow into small streams of icy cold water?  Because the thermometer at the back door reads 58F and rising?  Because I feel the dark cloud that has shadowed me for the last few weeks is lifting?  Because the air is so warm I have the back door to my office open to air out the room?

No.  While all of those things are otherwise good clues, they are not dependable indicators that Spring is here.  The one clue I put great store in is birdsong.  I awoke this morning before dawn to the sound of neighborhood crows flying northwest to meet up with the rest of the roost.  Such chattering, croaking and cawing!

While checking emails and the blogs I follow, I was serenaded by a song I think I recognize: "phreet-phreet-phreet, birdie-birdie-birdie."  A male cardinal is staking his claim to the dogwood right outside the back door.  Later, when I take my cup of coffee out to the top step, looking for a sunbeam to sit in, I find him midway up the ironwood beech by the carport.  His song has changed, is softer, the notes almost slurred, in a longer string.  Then I see the female, in her khaki-green-brown feathers, with the bitter orange top knot.  They touch beaks, lower their top-knots and move closer together.  He strokes the top of her head with his chin, she bows, placing her head near his.  Facing each other now, he regurgitates something into her beak.  Again, they rub beaks and cuddle closer.  Some other bird flies overhead (I see only its shadow) and the cardinals snap to attention, sitting back to back, feathers fluffed and top-knots lifted as high as they can make them, like red shark fins atop their tiny heads.  Bird-love at its finest.

Another sure sign winter is leaving is that the crow roost which meets morning and evening in the trees across the street from the post office is more vocal, and wide-ranging.  When I first started watching the crows in my neighborhood, there were three or four separate flocks, widely scattered across the width of town.  These few families hadn't formed roosts, per se, but would occasionally cross into another's territory, for whatever reason crows do such things.  These groups weren't cohesive enough to form a large roost, yet, but maybe that's what the fly-overs were about - checking out the competition (maybe), looking for potential mates (likely), and testing the families' reaction to determine if they might be good crows to invite to roost.  All I know is that we now have a roost in my neighborhood (roughly 10 blocks square) of between 250 and 300 birds.

They were congregated in the trees of St. Matthew's Lutheran church yard at the corner of High and West Chestnut streets (the post office is on High Street) last Friday afternoon when I went to collect the mail for the historical society.  I was thrilled to see we now have at least one roost in the downtown area that meets within a couple of blocks from my house.  They soon will break up their roost as spring becomes more entrenched.  Each family will begin spending most of their time in their own territories, nesting, mating, bringing new crows into the world.  Some of the older 'teenagers' will begin visiting the other families, seeking mates, testing their territorial defense skills, and - in general - getting into trouble with their elders.  You know, typical teenager behavior.

www.massaudubon.org flock of crows

 Robins have been spotted, but I think these are from regions to our north, the ones that fly south from Canada to winter here.  When the backyard is so full of robins (next month or so) I lose count, I'll know our native flocks have returned.

By then, though, Spring will have settled in nicely, and the robins will be playing catch-up with the early birds.  

Just realized that the birdsong brings more than Spring.  They bring Hope.  That's probably why that dark cloud is lifting, allowing the metaphorical sun to shine light into my soul.

Thanks, birds.  I needed that!

The Bad-Breath, Salt-Mine Pizza Disaster

Michael Leddy, at Orange Crate Art, posted about food supplies for waiting out snow storms, this time including anchovies.  His post reminded me of anchovy pizza, which I first had while stationed at Great Lakes Naval Hospital while attending hospital Corps school. The enlisted hang-out was called the Rathskeller.  They served great pizza and passable beer.

I'd never heard of anchovy pizza but I was game to try anything once in those days.  The anchovies looked a little like tiny strips of bacon, were as salty as the salt pork we used to put in a pot of beans back home and stunk to the high heavens.

Michael's post triggered a good food memory and prompted me to try making the anchovy pizza from long ago.  That gave me an excuse to use all the favorite toppings I like, the ones that made my grandson gag when I told him about it.

"You can have it all, Nanny," he said.  (Good!)

I started by putting some garlic cloves to roast in the oven.   Garlic is another thing Donovan can't stand.  (Excellent!)

While they were roasting, I sliced the veggies, grated the cheese and chopped the rest of the toppings.  Toppings  included parsley, broccoli rabe, mushrooms, red bell pepper and julienne strips of oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes.  Capers, chopped artichoke hearts, anchovies and sliced olives rounded out the tangy flavors.  Finely grated Asiago cheese and a home-style pizza sauce finished the list of ingredients.

Mixed up a crust made of white whole wheat flour, organic pasty flour, yeast, salt and a so-called Tuscan herb blend, to which was added olive oil and warm water.  Stirred and kneaded well then gathered the dough into a smooth ball.  Poured a little olive oil into the bottom of the bowl, rolled the dough-ball in it before setting the bowl in a warm spot to let the dough double in size - took about an hour.

Punced the dough down, gathered into a ball again.  Spread out on a prepared baking sheet or pizza pan.  Slathered on the sauce.

I sprinkle a little Parmesan cheese on the crust before adding the sauce.  Layered on the toppings, reserving the anchovies and the rest of the cheese until last.  One half of the pizza was anchovy, the other half was artichoke and sun-dried tomatoes.

Put the pizza into a hot oven and set the timer for twenty minutes.  Answered a phone call from my sister in Louisiana, from whom I hadn't heard for several weeks.  Aroma from the kitchen told me the pizza was done.

Overdone, as it turned out.  Also had forgotten to slice the roasted garlic to add to the toppings, but tossed them on the artichoke end anyway.  The anchovies broke apart, sort of dissolved onto the crust.  The pizza was not at all like I remembered, had way too many toppings and the crust was dry.  The flavors were pretty good, but over all, I was disappointed with the results.

Nevertheless, I ate most of it.  Next morning, my face was puffed up like a dead toad because of all the salt.  Some things are better left as good memories and this pizza was one of them.

Straight from the Heart



 

 

 

 “I get all excited like a child when I think

about being with you again — if people could see

into my heart I should almost feel ashamed.”

W. A. M.

 

 

I’m borrowing the words of Mozart,

Words that describe what lives in my heart,

To tell thee - but I won't, ever, have no fear -

Of emotions I have no right to hold in here.

My body begins to shudder - heart, to race -

With cascading desire at the sight of thy face;

Thy shadow – sun-cast against the wall –

Weakens my resolve and I tumble, I fall

 

Like Alice down the rabbit hole.

Thee owns me, Beloved – body and soul.

 

(c) Martha McLemore, 13 February 2015

 

 

Dream Time

Image found here.



Had he known early in his career that his life would have gone the way it did, do you suppose Martin Luther King would have continued down that fearsome road? 

I believe he had no choice.  I believe his destiny was so inextricably bound - predetermined, even - by the yearnings in his heart for equality, freedom and justice that the road he traveled was the only one he saw, the only one his feet could take.  All our lives were made better because he stayed the distance, walked his road in stormy weather, through the darkest woods of America's soul, despite his anger, his fear, his inevitable moments of doubt.  Martin Luther King was a remarkable human being, a beautiful man.  I can't help but wonder where we would be today had he lived.

Shortly after Rev. Dr. King was assassinated, I was introduced to the poetry of Langston Hughes, through this poem.

 

 

A Dream Deferred

by Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes homepage What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up 

like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run? 

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
  Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
  Or does it explode?

Something Else to Think About.

In the aftermath of the attack in Paris, I've been wondering about my reaction to the news after reading Gary Myers' blog post  It was a gut reaction, but unlike reactions to other stories of senseless murders.  The questions have been nagging me relentlessly, this need to understand my response.

To add to the internal deliberations, along comes this from The New Yorker.  Something else to consider.  Thanks to mykwerks.

Two bloggers, Lucy and Gary, alerted followers to this massacre.

I am Charlie.

New Dawn, New Day, New Year

I have been trying for the last 24 or more hours to upload an image (tried different ones) to illustrate this post with no success.


I will give you the URL for the image I like best.  Maybe that will work.


Anyway, what I had to say can just as easily be said another day.  I wish you all a healthier year than the one just past, all the love you can handle, good friends and joy abounding, and sufficient wealth to do at least some of the more important things on your lists!


Happy New Year.


Martha