Make Way!

Make way! Make way! The new year cometh!

Celebrate! Your life begins anew.

Clear out the old, the burdensome,

that which is no longer true.

Light the way for Health, Good Luck and Prosperity.

Happy New Year, dear friends, to you!

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

There's a Moon Out Tonight

...

Hanover awoke to white skies and white fluff everywhere this morning. If it stays clouded over through evening, the blue moon will not be visible here. That makes me a little blue (just disappointed, actually) because it is rare for a blue moon to occur on New Year's Eve. I will keep my fingers crossed that the clouds lift and the heavens clear so that I may enjoy this rare event.

...

In the meantime, I will enjoy Ella's singing of Rodgers' and Hart's song.

I Shall Try.

Oooh, Pretty Lights! (found here)

I found this at Whiskey River, one of my daily stops in Blogland:

• "Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is really worth the trouble? Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person's face as you pass them on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. Stand up and face the east. Now praise the sky and praise the light within each person under the sky. It's okay to be unsure. But praise, praise, praise."
  - Miranda July
  

And this, too:

• "Don't disregard your life. It is too precious. This moment, right now, is the only life you will ever have. You can't store it up for the ideal time. When you walk, walk with your whole body and mind joining the floor. Place your eyes in the soles of your feet, walking as if the floor were a dear friend. This is intimacy with all things, where the whole world is self, where there is no "outside" or other."
  - Pat Phelan
  

The Stripper

Not that kind of stripper.

Saturday morning brought rain to town, and cold, toe-numbing, dampness into the house, so I decided to put up the foam weather stripping bought a few weeks ago...when it was still relatively warm outside. Package said it was a piece of cake (or words to that effect) to install. I like cake. A lot.

This was not a piece of cake. First I had to remove some pieces of old felt stripping that predated our ownership, probably by thirty years or more. Someone had pounded long tacks into the stuff and the tacks had rusted over the years. Several of the tack heads crumbled when I attempted to remove them. However, I realized (after the fourth tack and two skinned knuckles) that the old stuff had been applied to the wrong face of the door jamb, and the correct one had no felt stripping at all...and no tacks. I like no tacks. Almost as much as I like cake. But not quite.

This foam looks like grey marshmallow. It has sticky stuff on one side that could hold an alligator, in a full death roll, as still as stone. I learned this when I applied a strip to the hinge edge of the door jamb, in the wrong direction - could not close the door. Okay. No problem. I'll just use the carpet cutting blade of my utility pocket knife and scrape the strip off - easy-peasy, puddin' and pie. I like pie, too. A lot.

I don't like humble pie, though, and I had to eat a couple of slices of that after telling the Universe that this job was going to be easy-peasy, puddin' and...well, you know.

As I scraped (and scraped, and scraped) off the marshmallow strip from hell, I gathered it in my other hand, not thinking about the alligator bit. Finished with the removal from the door jamb, I then began the battle to remove it from my hand. Now, given that the wad of stripping was stuck rather firmly to the one hand, wouldn't you think it would occur to me that if I pulled at it with the empty hand that it would stick to that one as well? You're nodding your head, aren't you, amused at my stupidity. Unh-hunh. I can feel the vibrations through the keyboard.

Went into the kitchen for a paper towel to dispose of the mess now in both hands. The adhesive from the weather stripping is stronger than paper, and stronger than my will to remove the strips from my hands, my sight, my house. I now had weather stripping and shreds of paper towels in each hand.

A lock of hair fell across my face and I reached up to brush it aside. Oh. Yes. I. Did.

For nearly ten minutes I contemplated abandoning the house, getting into my truck and leaving the country. I could imagine the conversation at the border when I try to explain to the border guards about the grey worm-like appendages growing from each palm. I just hope they'd try patting me down, because I would return the favor, sticky worms and all. (Actually, that might be a whole lot of fun.)

After I yanked out a dozen or so hairs by the roots (none of them grey), I checked the cupboard in the bathroom for a solvent of some kind. Tried rubbing alcohol - no go. Then hairspray, witch hazel rub, hand cream and lip gloss - none of them worked, and now I was highly flammable as well as sticky. My hands were covered in a low-tech version of napalm.

I wanted to cry, but could only laugh. My hands reeked and were beginning to sting from all the things I used. Stumbled my way into the kitchen and used my elbow to lift the water lever and ran cold water over my hands. The grey marshmallow stuff soaks up water rather well, which shouldn't surprise me, I guess - it is foam, after all. The water made the foam heavy and it started to fall off my hands - well, most of it, anyway. Grabbed more paper towels and was able to pull off more of the stripping. Hurray! This is going to work out just fine.

Looked under the sink where I store all the other household chemicals, like lye, bleach, sulphuric acid and formaldehyde. No, no - only the usual stuff, honest. There used to be a bottle of degreaser gunk, but I used it a couple of years ago, to clean the outside of the stove. Went through my mental list of home remedies for household problems. I know that if bubble gum gets stuck in fabric, you can put it in the freezer and the gum will break off. In my case, my fingers would break off, and that was a tad too extreme a cure.

Then I remembered olive oil. Wonderful multi-purpose olive oil. It can be used to remove the adhesive left behind when you remove the price label from glass, metal and plastic goods. Found my bottle of extra-virgin, poured a little on each palm, and rubbed my hands together as if I were trying to start a fire with two sticks.

Ta-da! It worked!

After cleaning my hands of the oil, I returned to the original task and finished laying the stripping around the door jamb.

Not only is it warmer in the back room now, but it is also quieter - a welcome bonus. Next time I am faced with a sticky situation, I will reach for my bottle of olive oil, and all will be right as rain in no time at all.

I need to write this stuff down, because I'll likely forget it by the time I need it again.

I'll do that, just as soon as I have that piece of cake.
(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

All the Stockings Were Hung

Sofie invited Legs-the-SPIDER to hang her stockings, forgetting that Legs has eight to Sofie's two. What do you put in a SPIDER's stocking, anyway?

Maybe I don't really want to know. Yeah, I don't. Eww-w-w-w!

All I Want for Christmas

Winter Scene Here

I was thinking earlier about Santa and when I stopped believing in the possibility such a person existed. I was fourteen. What can I say, I'm a late-comer to most of life's Big Truths. It was three days before Christmas and my aunt was taking us home after having dinner with her and her family. Christmas in the New Orleans area can be cold, but it rarely ever snows there. I looked out the rear window of the station wagon at the full moon against a midnight-blue sky. A few long pale clouds sailed in front of the moon, darkening the earth below. Then they passed and the moonlight brightened everything almost as if the sun had come out. I thought of Clement Moore's poem about the night before Christmas and started to recite it. My youngest cousin was maybe seven years old, but he turned to me with a worldly smile and asked the question I'd tried to avoid ever since I was ten.

"You don't still believe in Santa Claus, do you?"

"Don't you?" I asked, trying not to answer his question.

That was the wrong thing to say.

"Hey, you guys," he yelled gleefully. "Guess who still believes in Santa! MARTHA!"

It wasn't that I didn't know who provided all the gifts under the tree each year. It was just that I didn't want to stop believing there was someone out there who knew what I wanted and, if I were good, really, really good, would see that I got my heart's desire.

What sealed it for me was when, instead of the record player I wanted, there was a 20-inch fashion doll (this was before Barbie, but the doll was a giant version of that) sitting under the tree with my name on it. Somewhere in my stash of old photos, there is one of me sitting in front of that horrendous aluminum, slice-and-dice, Christmas tree holding the doll in my lap. The smile on my face belies the disappointment inside. (Such an ungrateful wretch - probably shouldn't have received anything.)

Over the years whenever I've read the poem, or told little kids, "Yes, there really is a Santa Claus," I cringed inside at the memory. Now I say that many people believe in Santa, but I've not seen him yet.

Even so, this post was going to be a mock-serious letter to Santa, in which I was going to ask for selfish things like a magic heating-oil tank that refilled itself automatically, or money to pay the taxes so I can keep my home, or - I am chagrined to admit this - please, just let me win the big lottery. It was to be an attempt at humor to cover up or mask my whining - again.

Before I could get in the mood for writing such drivel, I stopped at the Whiskey River blog and found the following prayer, which humbled me and snapped me out of my pity-party. As I am now entering the winter of my life, these few words, laden with such meaning, are better than any letter to Santa, better than there being a Santa in the first place. And I have been good this year, and this is my heart's most secret desire.

• God, give us a long winter
  and quiet music, and patient mouths,
  and a little pride - before
  our age ends.
  Give us astonishment
  and a flame, high, bright.
  - Adam Zagajewski

If I don't get back here before Friday, let me wish you all a long winter filled with bright lights, songs and much love from those you hold dear.

(c)2009 Martha McLemore

For Good Cooks Everywhere

Image found here

Just a bit of whimsy, especially for Plutarch, but for soup-makers everywhere.

I Miss My Camera.

This morning dawned bright and sunny, with sunbeams bouncing off all the snow at a myriad angles - no need for lights on in the house yet. Everything in the yard is wearing a 12-inch, or higher, cap of snow, like the chimes in my drawing. (Wish I had a camera. My drawing doesn't do the chimes justice.)

...

Don't know if you remember my neighbor, Mike, whom I sometimes refer to as the "Butcher (of trees) from Pittsburgh." Well, I may have to reconsider my unkindness toward him. Several times during the storm yesterday and last evening, Mike got out his brand-new snow blower and cleared the alley between our properties. Granted, he did it because he has to go to work and didn't want to be plowed in by the borough plows, as we usually are each winter, but he blew snow away from where I pull out into the alley, as well. Thank you, Mike. (Perhaps I'll make a fruitcake for him. But, you might be thinking - especially if you're from the US - isn't that worse than calling him the Butcher from Pittsburgh? Okay, okay...I'll make snickerdoodles.)

...

Watched two crows frolicking in the snow on the carport roof earlier this morning. They were so comical, flinging snow about with their bills, almost as if having a snowball fight. Then they took turns, while one stood watch, rolling in the fluffy stuff like I've seen kids and dogs do, their birdy feet flailing in the air. Their snow-fun was arrested when a Cooper's hawk flew over, but then the chase-the-hawk fun began. Yelling for their compatriots to join them, the two snow-flingers lit out after the Cooper's with determination and great speed. That poor hawk had to dodge seven or eight crows around the neighborhood, until he lighted in one of the tall larches down the alley and hunkered down to wait them out.

...

The Kids were over last night. We had turkey-brown rice soup (not so adventurous after all, Plutarch) then sorted out Christmas decorations. In the midst of giving over to Kareema all the decorations I'd collected and used over the forty years I've been "doing" Christmas, I was overcome with a slight melancholy, very slight. (Perhaps melancholy is too strong.) I realized that I was passing the baton, so to speak, to the next generation, because she will be doing Christmas from now on. I mentioned this to Kareema as I passed to her some of the old homemade decorations we've always used.

...

She said she understood.

...

"You're not the Christmas-mommy, anymore," she said.

...

I am now the Matriarch, with all the weightiness that title carries with it, but no longer the focus of family holiday activities.

...

I kept a few items that have deep sentimental value to me, such as the long rubber Chinese-style dragon and the stuffed California-raisin guy. Most important were the pieces she, my brother Don and I made of salt-dough almost 37 years ago, the year after my mother died and Don (17 at the time, same age as grandson Donovan is now) came to live with me in California. If I ever get a tree again, those few pieces will decorate it, but I'm not buying any new decorations.

...

Sigh...oh, the things the snow brings.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

SNOW!

It started sometime after midnight and is still coming down, though not quite so hard. Quack, quack; waddle-waddle.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Brrr-r-r-r-Grump!

It's cold, dadgummit! If I put on any more layers of clothing, I'll start to waddle. I'll have to change my name to Sofie One Duck.

...

Quack.

...

I'm still here.

...

Quack-quack.

......

(The cartoon above tells you why I dare not give up my day job to become an artist.)

Too Long for the Comment Box

(Google rejected this response to Barrett Bonden that I tried to make in the previous post's comment box, so I have turned it into a separate post. I hope that doing so does not make my response more important or weighty than it is intended. I am too long-winded for my own good, at times, and this might be one of those times.)

BB, my dear friend,

I take issue, Friend, with your use of the word antipathy in describing my comments to you. I don't dislike you (- yet - and there is a big, teasing grin attached to that. I'm wise-cracking, BB.) I made my comments in teasing friendship, though in the one case, I likely misunderstood what you meant, that regarding squashes. (In my ignorance and misunderstanding, I didn't know if you were saying you couldn't eat them [for health reasons], or if they were unavailable to you [some squashes have a long growing season and need hotter summers than I thought England might have]. It didn't come across to me that your comment might mean you simply didn't like to eat them.) For me to continue on about squashes, at this point, though, would be like beating the proverbial dead horse.

So let's move on to the other two issues: the tongue-in-cheek remarks I made about the Irish-Americans in New Orleans on St. Patrick's Day, and your bread-crumb comment from an earlier posting about being of two minds regarding the independence of the American colony.

First, let me say that I believe American Irish are as different from Irish nationals as American Africans are from African nationals. We are Americans, who wear the trappings of our motherlands: trappings, burdens, prejudices and third- and fourth-generation memories. Both groups have romanticized views of what it means to be Irish and African, respectively, that are based not on first-hand experience gained from living in those countries (for the most part - always dangerous to speak in generalities, isn't it?) but on the biases of our cultures and the not-always-objective histories handed down to us. Make no mistake, however; we all are Americans, whether one sees that as a blessing or a curse. I think it's pretty cool, myself.

My understanding of the impact of the hostilities (civil war, really) between the Irish and the English in Northern Ireland is, obviously, not going to be the same as it would be for you. So let me apologize if my off-hand, meant-to-be-funny, remarks about Irish-Americans and their social ecumenicism - which lasts for the twenty-four hours of one day out of the year and is meant to be a sharing of fun and the joy of being Irish in a land where it is okay to be proud of your ancestral nationality - might have touched a heretofore unrecognized-by-me source of discomfort within your heart. I wrote that part of my post with a few people in mind, one of whom is you. The other intended targets who read this blog and are of Irish descent or from New Orleans would recognize the self-deprecating humor in the comments about what the Catholic Irish descendants in New Orleans might give thanks for and what the non-Irish Catholics might give thanks for. I had hoped you would take up the gauntlet, but I didn't know my remarks would be interpreted as antipathetic.

One of the things I most enjoy about our correspondences is that you, perhaps unintentionally, perhaps purposefully, drop little sparklies that catch my crow’s eye, leading me to investigate further. One such splinter of brightness was your reference to Barbara Tuchman’s history of the American Revolution. I quote: “Just reading a Barbara Tuchman account of how Britain lost that particular colony and, you know what?, it's left me in two minds.”

What a curious thing to say, I thought at the time, in response to a post about soup. I'm guessing that what triggered your comment was your expressed thought that you didn’t think anything could be bought for 32-cents anymore in the US, but still, it was the leap from discussing soup to political history that I found intriguing. Hence, my pursuit of that leap with you, which led, I think, to your second response above.

I think you do Americans a disservice in the paragraph which begins, "There is one further matter that needs clarification for US readers." Not every American is as ignorant as am I, BB, and - therefore - needful of clarification. But even I know the accepted view is that the British Empire began to unravel not with America's triumphant war of independence, but with the loss of its crown jewel, India, in the 30s and 40s of the past century. However, if Edmund Burke(*) is to be believed, it can be argued that the first snags in the cloth of the Empire actually began with the imperialism of the East India Company in the mid-1700s, which manifested in its heavy-handed dealings with the peoples of that nation. Certainly, the EIC's oppressive actions sowed the seeds of discontent that were, 200 years later, to bear fruit in India's fight for independence.

So, my dear friend, have I made my muddled thinking clearer, or have I made things worse? Have I misunderstood your intentions, your thoughts, again? And, finally, would you prefer we take any further discussions along these lines to email?

(*) I like to think it was Burke's education in a Quaker school that helped form his democratic – egalitarian, really - views of how to deal with one's citizenry. Too bad King George didn't listen. Too bad His Majesty's "star chamber" of advisors had taken control of the king. Any truth to the rumors that King George's mind was being systematically destroyed by poisons fed to him in his meals and wine, by members of his own family?

Martha

Oh, Woe (PS: or not)

Good luck charms.

(Post-publication caution: This was written tongue-in-cheek, and possibly should not have been posted in the first place, but I'll leave it up...for now.)

>..

I have lost my fava.

Say what? you ask.

I have lost my blessed fava bean, and now shall be penniless forever.

(You know there’s a story behind this, so grab a cuppa and I’ll tell you. I do have a fava stone, but it isn’t the same. Besides, that’s a story for another time; not much of one, but a family joke.)

When I was a young teen, in New Orleans, there were two pre-Easter “holy” days in the city: March 17th and March 19th, St. Patrick’s Day and St. Joseph’s Day, respectively. These celebrations were held (no surprises here) at St. Patrick’s on Camp Street, and St. Joseph Church on Tulane. These celebrations were not like Mardi Gras, by any means, but were something to see, for sure.

Participants in the St. Paddy’s parade frequently started the day with Mass at St. Pat’s where they expressed their gratitude for being, one, Catholic, and, two, Irish. They then went out and consumed huge quantities of fermented beverages to sustain them during the long march in the parade. Lots of good Irish fun and frivolity, and ecumenism – for on St. Patrick’s Day, not only was everyone Irish, they all were Catholic, too.

Two days later, at St. Joe’s on Tulane, the Italian segment of New Orleans had their own day of thanksgiving, when they praised God that they were, firstly, Catholic, and, secondly, not Irish.

(What is it about us Irish that makes others glad not to be us? It’s the same here in Hanover, where the German settlers pushed the Irish to the edge of town, to what is now McSherrystown, enclave of the Irish and their multitude of descendents. However, in the almost 200 years since the founding of this town, everyone lives pretty much where the heck they want, Catholic or not, and Irish or not. Besides, at least once a year, everyone is Catholic, and Irish. But, I digress.)

I don’t recall much about the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations at his namesake church, but I have strong, vivid memories of the Saint Joseph Altars on the steps of his namesake church. They were beautiful; feasts not only for the nose and mouth, but for the eyes, as well. (My gosh, I am drooling just thinking about them.) But that doesn’t even begin to explain their hold on me. Their magic had to do with living in poverty circumstances, when food was scarce, and not much to shout about when we did have it. Don’t get me wrong; my entire life has not been one of unrelenting deprivation, but when those times came, they were harsh and left scars I carry to this day.

The first time I passed St. Joseph’s Altar, I thought I must have died and gone to heaven. I was riding in the back of my Aunt Geraldine’s car, and I yelled out, “Look! Look at all that food!” After she recovered from the fright I caused, she explained that on St. Joseph’s Day, the parishioners made an altar to the saint on the steps of the church and laid out all kinds of foods which were blessed by the priest, then divided among the parishioners and given to the poor. The altar was their way of remembering a time of prolonged drought and severe famine in Sicily, when it seemed the drought would last forever, and the townsfolk were on the verge of starving. They had gone through all their stored foods and most of their livestock. The situation was so dire, they had begun to eat the same foods they fed their cattle and pigs.

When it seemed there was no hope left, they gathered to pray to Saint Joseph for mercy and a blessing. (St. Joseph, the step-father - so to speak - of Christ, is the patron saint of fathers everywhere, the protector of the family providers.) The rains came, the crops flourished and the peoples of Sicily – none of whom were Irish, I’m betting – gave thanks to St. Joseph by building an altar of thanksgiving to him, laying upon it some of the bounty of their harvests.

What does this have to do with fava beans? The food the Sicilians fed to their livestock was fava beans, not normally considered food for humans. At almost every St. Joseph Altar, in addition to the breads shaped like a ladder and hammers (St. Joseph was a carpenter, you know), you will find dried fava beans. They, too, are blessed with the rest of the feast, and are much prized and sought out by those who celebrate the miracle of Saint Joseph’s day.

The story goes that if you keep one of the beans with you at all times, in pocket or purse/wallet, your pocket/purse/wallet will never be empty. Another version is that you will never be hungry again. Either one works for me, but I stick with the first version because it is the one I heard when I attended my first altar, finally, five years ago.

I am neither Italian, nor Sicilian, nor Catholic. I am just an aging little Irish kid who treasured her fava bean for the story it carried with it, and the promise that I would never be broke or hungry again.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

PS: Well, baa-a-a-a-a, do I ever feel sheepish. I found my fava bean right where I put it several weeks ago, in the other change section of my same old wallet. I'm so embarrassed. What in the world is the matter with my brain today? BAA-A-A-A, indeed.

5:37pm

Snowman Humor

www.tundracomics.com

Not-Too-Bad Soup - a Recipe, of Sorts

Yummy Squash

I am a pretty good cook, not to toot my own horn, or anything. I think I became a pretty good cook because I like to experiment with recipes and ingredients. Nothing pleases me more than to go to my cupboard, a'la Mother Hubbard, and try to fix something edible from what I find there. I grew up cutting my culinary teeth, so to speak, in the gumbo pot of cooking that is New Orleans, where home cooks are famous for not measuring ingredients (except for baking, which is different from cooking), but just throwing stuff in a kettle and adding a pinch of this or a dollop of that, and sometimes using their cupped palms to measure things. I learned to be fearless in my cooking experimentations. This worked out very well, usually. (My family would be only too eager to regale you with horror stories of my "mishaps," given the chance, however.)

...

In the previous post, I mentioned that I had intended to blog about making tomato soup, inspired by Plutarch's recipe. I didn't have exactly the list of ingredients that Joe used, but the soup I made was tasty and nourishing. I used canned (tinned) tomatoes, boxed chicken broth, garlic and pepper. I didn't have any cardamom on hand, but I did have a jar of a very good pesto in the refrigerator, so I used a healthy dollop of that. The basil in the pesto was a beautiful complement to the tomatoes, with the pine nuts adding an unusual, but delightful, uh...je nais se quoi in both aroma and flavor. (Yes, I had to Google the French. I can say it, but I didn't know how to spell it. Hope I picked the correct spelling.)

...

Today I went grocery shopping. My food budget is extremely low, so I was looking for inexpensive things to use for my supper tonight. It's soup weather here in south-central Pennsylvania; rather cold out. (As my dear old daddy used to say, "It's colder than a well-digger's butt in Idaho out there!")

...

One of my favorite soups is a bean and sausage concoction I learned to make from watching one of the cooking shows on television. It calls for chicken broth, white beans, Italian-style fresh sausage, spinach or rabe, onions, garlic, diced tomatoes and oregano. I was on the prowl for sausage and the rabe. Couldn't afford either of them, but I found some dandelion greens and half a butternut squash as inexpensive substitutes. I've never used dandelion greens in anything but salad or mixed with other greens in a "mess o' greens," so this was going to be one of those 'mad-scientist-in-the-la-BOR-atory' cooking sessions. (Try to imagine you hear Boris Karloff saying that - sounds so much better in my head than when I say it aloud.)

......

Back to tonight's repast. I think one of the reasons the dandelion greens were so cheap (32-cents for about a pound of them) is because the grocer figures you're going to have to spend an hour washing all the sand from the leaves, so he dare not charge more for them. I mean, nothing is worth that much effort, and I wouldn't have bothered, except I wasn't going to throw away thirty-two cents! I could have bought a stale cookie from the bakery for that thirty-two cents, for heaven's sake, so I was going to wash those leaves if it took all afternoon to get them clean.

...

The squash had been peeled in the grocery, so all I had to do was cut it into chunks. Ever try cutting a butternut with a paring knife? Doesn't work too well. I speared it with the fork I use for lifting the turkey onto a platter, then went in search of my kitchen-grade chainsaw. Of course, I kidding. No one has invented one of those chainsaws yet.

...

Once I had the greens, squash, onion, garlic and broth simmering, I rummaged through the spice rack for things to dress up the soup. I used thyme, cumin (yeah, I know - odd pot-fellows, aren't they?), black pepper and the slightest pinch of salt. Then my eyes befell the bottle of chipotle chile (that's how it is spelled on the label, so blame McCormick) on the shelf with all my other peppers. Chipotle is a stealthy assassin, in that it doesn't take much of it to set your mouth afire, but I do love its smokey-sweet, almost bitter, taste. Reminds me of burnt sugar, the odor that used to waft upriver from the sugar refinery near our house in Chalmette, Louisiana.

...

I pulled what I thought was a small pinch from the bottle and dropped it into the simmering broth. Immediately, the heat released by the broth climbed out of the pot on the back of the steam and torched my nose hairs. I made the mistake of rubbing my nose with the same hand that owned the pepper-laden fingers, used to extract the deadly pinch. Well, duh, Martha! Aren't you glad you weren't scratching your tender bits with that hand?

...

I tasted the broth and was surprised at the level of heat from so small a pinch. Yet, it was good. I let the soup simmer for several more minutes and tasted it again. The chipotle dominated the pot, which is not what makes a good soup. My lips were hot from tasting the liquid, almost painful. I had read somewhere that sugar tames the heat in chili peppers, so I added about half a teaspoonful to the soup, let it simmer a couple of minutes, then tasted it again. That worked, or else the heat had already dissipated on its own.

...

When the squash was about half tender, I added the beans and diced tomatoes. Because the soup was thin, I added a potato, diced small, thinking it would soften to mush and help thicken the broth. Now my soup was becoming a vegetable stew, and it was becoming more complex in flavor. The cumin needed something to balance it, so I added a couple of tablespoons of green mole to two cups of the stew and pulsed all in the food processor until a smooth paste formed, which was added to the pot. A few minutes more and soup was on. I ended up with a couple of gallons of yummy experimental stuff, creamy without adding cream or roux, very low salt (my blood-pressure likes that), and a new flavor combination that I like very much.

...

Wish I had written down exactly what the heck I did!

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

So Far Today

• Awoke with a gushing nosebleed - thought I'd struck oil, or something
• Stepped on cat's tail as he was herding me away from the bathroom and toward his food dish. Serves him right that I dripped blood all over his head. After five or so minutes, nose stops bleeding. Cleaned up all the red drips. Fed the cat.
• Couldn't find my glasses, but didn't need them to fix tea and breakfast, so didn't worry about it.
• Sat at computer desk to eat (probably not a good idea) my breakfast of dippy eggs and toast soldiers. Noticed that a large-ish crumb of toast had landed on the keyboard. Thank goodness there was no egg on it. Picked it up and dropped it onto my plate, to be brushed into trash with other crumbs after I finished. It rolled over a couple of times...then unfolded its legs and tried to scurry away. Did I mention I couldn't find my glasses? When the leg count reached seven, I freaked. Glasses or no glasses, I knew it was a SPIDER!!!! Hopped up, screeching "Get away! Get away!"
• Startled the cat, who (unbeknownst to me) was stretched out behind my chair. In my haste to get away from the SPIDER, I rolled the desk chair across the cat's paw. He bit my left big toe in self defense. More of a warning bite, really. Didn't draw blood. Spilled my tea all over him and my jammies. He ran into the living room, I think. Found him in the chimney.
• Spent the next fifteen minutes trying to coax the cat down from the chimney ledge, my body wedged between the fireplace wall and the fire dog which toppled over when my butt hit it. Note to self: gotta lose a few pounds before I try this again.
• Cat tires of my attempts to smooth things over and leaps down, using my head as a step to the floor. Right behind him, a soot-covered mummified bird falls from the ledge into my lap. Yuck.
• Nose starts to bleed again. My once white t-shirt is now dotted with bright red blood and streaked with soot from the bird mummy. I crawl out of the fireplace, trying not to touch any of the furniture. Ran to the bathroom for a tissue to shove up my nose. I look like I've been mugged on my way home from Hell.
• I found my glasses. They were on the keyboard, at the dark end, away from the lamp.
• The SPIDER was sitting on them.

So, how has your day been so far?

PS: Why the picture of tomatoes, you ask? I was going to blog about making soup today, using Plutarch's recipe, but I got sidetracked.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Home, Sweet Home

Because I burdened all who visit here with tales of woe regarding my daughter and grandson, I thought it only right to let you know their lives have taken a turn for the better. They have found a home in a wonderful apartment building (pictured above) here in town, just a few blocks from my house.

...

The apartment building's "life" story has elements that echo my daughter's life. Both were at one time vibrant, busy and active. Both fell on hard times that led to decline and apathy, plus depression in my daughter's case. Both were rescued, rehabilitated and brought back to life after a period of decay.

...

The apartment building started life as a factory, where Hanover Shoes were made. This was one of the industries that helped make Hanover a bustling manufacturing town for about fifty years. It had been sitting empty, windows broken out, graffiti-marked, when we first moved to town over 24 years ago. The building was vandalized, stripped of anything valuable, and became an abandoned derelict that cost the town thousands of dollars in lost revenue. The out-of-state owner refused to sell it or let it be torn down, and had no interest in restoring it for any purpose. I don't know how many years back-taxes he owed, but it was significant. The building became home to vagrants and thousands of pigeons and rats, feral dogs and cats. In fact, the place had fallen into such a shabby state that the local fire department, housed just down the block, went on record that should the building catch fire, they would push the walls in rather than try to save it.

...

After many years wrangling with different redevelopers, the owner was persuaded (some say forcefully persuaded) to sell to the current owners. There has long been a need for low-income housing in our town, but plans for building such accommodations were always met with strong resistance. However, the current owners presented plans which overcame area residents' fears of public housing (read ghetto - their perception), and we now have a beautifully redesigned, repurposed apartment complex available to low-to-moderate income families and seniors. Enough about the apartment building.

...

If you were here when I wrote about evicting Daughter and Grandson from my home, you'll recall that my beloved daughter had slipped into such a sad state that she had pretty much given up trying to care for herself and her son. It didn't help her for me to continue bailing her out. She became dependent and even more deeply depressed. Her life skills, so to speak, weakened and she was going deeper into debt than she was when she moved in with me the year before.

...

The first three or four weeks they lived at the motel she was in a state of shock. Almost every cent she had coming in went to pay rent for their room. She had little money left over to buy gas or feed herself during the day. She had reached a very low spot and considered giving up all together. Often the only meal she had was the one we shared at my house each evening. (Donovan had breakfast and lunch provided at his school.) It hurt deeply to watch her struggle with their situation, but I knew that if I did more to solve her dilemma, I would only be making things worse for them. Knowing that, however, did nothing to ease my Mom-guilt.

...

My daughter is an intelligent human being, a magnificent problem-solver and organizer, creative and innovative, hard-working and diligent - except when it comes to her personal life when she falls into depression. Yet, something snapped in her, about a month into living in that motel. She took the reins of her life back into her own hands and said, essentially, "Enough of this crap!"

...

For many years, Karie volunteered with a group called Survivors, for victims of emotional and physical abuse. She knew all the social agencies to contact to get help for the women who came to the agency, and was a strong advocate and mentor for women leaving abusive relationships, since she had done the same. Now she became an advocate for herself and for her son. Having to fight for herself and Donovan snapped her out of the decline she was in. She applied to homeless shelters, to several low-income apartment complexes and to privately owned apartments. She sought and obtained a financial counselor for help with her money management problems.

...

One of the results of her new-found strength and determination is that they now have a lovely two-bedroom apartment in a recently remodeled, secure apartment building that has almost everything they need within walking distance of their new home. The apartment is on the top floor of the building, is spacious, bright and airy - very nice. Karie gave me the grand tour this morning. She hopes to finish moving in over the weekend.

...

She is so excited and happy with the way her life is turning around. She has every reason to feel proud of her accomplishments. I am also proud of her, happy for them both and greatly relieved. We all can breathe a little easier now.

...

She informed me that we're having Christmas at her house this year, the first of many, I hope. Thank you, Universe, for helping my daughter find herself again.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

New Mantra

YUM!

I subscribe to a couple of e-mail healthcare newsletters, for info on living with my various maladies, and in one of them this morning was a mantra to combat the doom and gloom of economic and other news. I've added it to the one I borrowed from Mary Tuel. Now, in addition to celebrating each new day with "I'm still here," I also will repeat "Good times are coming!"

...

Indeed they are. Can't help but be so. For one thing, my most favorite holiday/cause for celebration is coming next Thursday - Thanksgiving Day. One of the reasons this last Thursday in every November makes me happier than a dog with a meaty bone is pictured above. Thank you, Universe, for pumpkin pies!

...

Before that arrives, though, this Saturday the Kids and I are going on a day trip down to Washington, DC, to visit National Geographic Museum's Terra Cotta Warriors exhibit. We're so excited. I get to do two - no, three - things I enjoy: road trip (I'm driving down to Rockville, where we'll catch the Metro in to DC), fun time with Kid and Grandkid, and immersing myself in another culture and their art.

...

Today, I'm cooking pinto beans, a reminder of my impoverished childhood in some ways, but (even more important) a reminder that I do, in fact, know how to provide for myself and my family. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in feeling sorry for my current situation, and overcome with fearfulness, that I forget that it was always the tough times in my life that taught me the best lessons in survival...no, more than just survival - how to thrive in spite of hard times. Besides, I love pinto beans, served with brown rice and a thick slab of fresh, hot cornbread that has been slathered in butter.

...

I don't think it gets much better than this. If it does, I'll let you know.

...

PS: For the foodies among us, while looking for good images of pumpkin pies, I fell into a great blog about food: Mixed Greens. I borrowed her pie picture, above.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

About Mary

Mary

One of the things that kept my head above water, so to speak, during my recent bout with deep depression was a sentence, three words long, that I borrowed from another blogger, Mary Tuel, earlier this year. She had written about a young couple just starting life together, then went on about life in general, our passages through it. I am quoting from that post:

• "So you reach this point and look around, and son of a gun, you’re still here. Read it out loud: “I’m still here!” Say it again: “I’m still here.” If you can say that, if you can think that, the party isn’t over, and the music is still playing. "

In my darkest hours, when I began to contemplate the unthinkable, I believe what kept me going was saying, "I'm still here!" each morning when I awoke. Those three words burrowed into my subconscious, where they kept the fires of hope banked, sometimes only embers, but waiting for me to stoke them into flames again. I did that, eventually, with help from all of you who visit here, and other friends who don't read my blog. But enough about that. This post is about Mary, and her husband Rick, who are going through a very rough time right now.

In October, Rick Tuel was hit with a recurrence of bladder cancer, which he had fought several years before. This time, however, his kidneys failed, something he and Mary had not anticipated. Mary started a second blog to chronicle their "adventures." Rick valiantly, and with good humor, is coping about as well as one might expect under these circumstances.

So, why am I telling you about Mary? I owe her, though I'm certain she would disagree. I came to know Mary through my therapist, Beth. At the end of one of my sessions over a year ago, Beth asked me to listen to a song she thought had value for me, if I would pay attention. It was from an album of music written, sung and produced by three women out in Washington state. The track Beth played for me was the album title piece, "I Won't Wait to be Happy," a wry, humorous declaration of independence and personal empowerment. Evidently, Beth thought I needed the message. She was right, of course, as usual.

I sent away to Mary, one of the three, for a copy of the CD, because I liked the way she thought, as evidenced by the song I had heard. We emailed back and forth a couple of times,and I learned about her blog, Spiritual Smart Aleck.

Mary writes with an ease that I envy. She shoots from the hip...or the lip, I guess. I admire her outlook on life, her wonderful sense of humor, and - mostly - her strength.

For better or worse (depending upon your point of view), I am a blogger because of Mary. She, unknowingly, encouraged me to try writing again, and is partly responsible for this blog. (If you think my blogging is a mistake, don't blame her, though. I started this mess.)

I am glad to know Mary and deeply appreciate the help she has given me, although she didn't even know she had done anything. This post is to introduce my blog-friend, Mary Livingston Tuel, to the rest of you.

And to say, "Thank you, Mary. I owe you."

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore Photo of Mary borrowed from her blog, Spiritual Smart Aleck.

What He Said...

The Light Fantastic

Found at Whiskey River this evening:

The Ball
As long as nothing can be known for sure

(no signals have been picked up yet),

as long as Earth is still unlike
the nearer and more distant planets,

as long as there's neither hide nor hair
of other grasses graced by other winds,
of other treetops bearing other crowns,
other animals as well-grounded as our own,

as long as only the local echo
has been known to speak in syllables,

as long as we still haven't heard the word
of better or worse mozarts,

platos, edisons, elsewhere,

as long as our inhuman crimes
are still committed only between humans,

as long as our kindness
is still incomparable,
peerless even in its imperfection,

as long as our heads packed with illusions
still pass for the only heads so packed,

as long as the roofs of our mouths alone
still raise voices to high heavens –

let's act like very special guests of honour
at the district firemen's ball,
dance to the beat of the local oompah band
and pretend that it's the ball
to end all balls.

I can't speak for others –
for me this is misery and happiness enough:

just this sleepy backwater
where even the stars have time to burn
while winking at us
unintentionally.
- Wislawa Szymborska

Have Mercy

Sweet

While visiting BB this morning, I Googled the title of a piece of music he mentioned, Miserere, and found something all together unexpected: a heaven-sent voice paired with a voice that has garlged one too many rocks. I anticipated that I would find a piece of classical, sacred or operatic music. I found Bocelli and Zucchero. (To hear it as Allegri must have intended it, go here, then here. Prepare for goosebumps.)

That led to Pavarotti and Zucchero singing Va Pensiero .

It's like listening to angels singing with a frog. . .or with Dr. John. . .or Joe Cocker. I like the contrast.

Really got into Zucchero's Baila Morena: very New Orleans voodoo-scene.

Now, BB, put that sword away.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

The Way It Was

Several years ago, before the Butcher from Pittsburgh arrived, this is what a fall afternoon looked like, from the vantage point of my barn, looking toward the street where I live.

My house (and trees) are on the right side of the image. At the front of the neighbor's property is one of the two ginkgo trees that used to grace the neighborhood with bright golden yellow leaves each fall/autumn.

Sigh. . .

Post Script (3:36 PM): I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about this, but Mike is out in the alley, raking up all my oak, beech and serviceberry leaves that fell onto his grass. What the hell, and who am I kidding?! I'm chortling inside, all the while typing in a darkened room so that he can't see me sitting here, laughing my considerable - - - off.

God, I am such a mean-spirited so-and-so this afternoon. Please forgive my poor attitude.

Or not!

PPS: As penance for my glee at Mike's burden (they are my leaves, and I should have been the one raking them from against his fence...I guess), I scrubbed the toilet/WC, a job I hate with a passion that rivals my lust for chocolate. I'm not Catholic, but I might as well have been. I've got Catholic guilt. Well, damn, now I have to do penance for that! Will it never stop today?!?

Beats being depressed, though...with a stick!
(c) 2009 Text and images, Martha McLemore

Possum, O Possum!

Pogo?

The night of the Hunter’s Moon (which was late this year – 2 November), I heard a commotion at the back door. Something was rattling around in the recycles-tub where I put discarded glass awaiting collection. Donovan’s cat, Curly Joe, was peering out the bottom window into the dark. He was sitting up like a dog begging for a cookie, one paw on the window pane, the hair at the scruff standing at attention, his tail flailing side to side; was oddly silent, though, for such a vociferous cat.

Hmmm...what has his rapt attention, I wondered. I sneaked over to the door and flipped on the outside light. A huge, snow-white animal, with a big rat-like tail, was sniffing around the outdoor cat dish, looking for spills. Because of the size of this thing, I didn’t immediately recognize that it was a ‘possum. In fact, it wasn’t until it turned and faced the door, and I saw its distinctive pointy face, that I understood what the cat and I were watching.

This beast was easily twice the size of any ‘possum I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen aplenty. This guy was roughly 20” long from shoulder to butt, with another 6 to 8 inches of tail extending from there. Its head was about 8-9 inches long from snout to where the head curves into the crown, and maybe 7-8 inches across at the widest spot.

Its fur was stark white, all over; no brindle grey, as I’m used to seeing. Had jet black eyes about the size of nickels (about 25mm, I’m guessing). The only other color on the ‘possum was rose-pink, in a half-inch-wide scar that ran from its left shoulder diagonally across to its right hip. (Pink nose and toes, too, of course.) Sure would like to hear the story of that scar.

It looked like it weighed 18-25 pounds; could feed a family of four real easy, as some of my (very) distant cousins would say.

I tapped on the pane, trying to get its attention, but it ignored me, kept snuffling around for kitty-kibble. I turned away to grab my camera, only to see its naked tail rounding the gatepost, on its way down the alley toward the street, when I turned back. Without a photo, I knew this was going to become a “Should’ve seen the one that got away” tale when I told the kids about it.

Now I know what’s been eating all the persimmons from my two trees at the front of the house.

In searching for an image to use with this post, I learned a couple of things about ‘possums. They have opposable, clawless “thumbs” on their hind feet, the better to climb with, I guess. (Good guess, Martha, since they don’t throw fastballs.) They live, at most, 2 to 4 years in the wild, though most end up as road-kill long before their second birthday. (They’re like dogs: they don’t look both ways.)

They can’t control their feigning-death response to danger. A ‘possum’s first response is to open its mouth wide, which displays 50 or so needle-like teeth, and hiss to beat the band. Only when the threat doesn’t go away will its body fall into the coma-like state we call “playing possum.” This state can last for a few minutes to 3 or 4 hours. ‘Possums emit an extremely foul smelling green slime from the anus, which is enough – so I’ve heard tell – to make a bear puke for a week. (Such hyperbole, I know.)

My favorite ‘possum, ever, was the comic strip character, Pogo, artist Walt Kelly’s alter ego and best buddy. Pogo is sorely missed. The short-legged, foot-stool-shaped creature at my back door could have been Pogo’s great-Grandpa.

As for Curly Joe, he hesitates now before scooting out the door each morning. I thought it was because it’s colder out now, but maybe it’s because of the ‘possum. Can’t say as I blame him.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Frost

A couple of weeks ago, daughter Kareema took the picture above of the witch hazel blooming in the side yard. You can hear the flower pod pop open if you are standing near the shrub at the right moment.

She took this one today. We had a heavy frost on Sunday morning that caused most of the remaining leaves to fall off their trees. (Neighbor Mike probably is not happy with the winds we've had after that, which blew a good third of my leaves into his yard. Mike cut down all the trees in his yard, including my favorite, a ginkgo, several years ago because he hates leaves. I feel so sorry for the wind-deposit into his yard...not!)

I noticed how brown and withered the leaves are this morning, and was reminded of Robert Frost's poem, "Reluctance," which follows:

Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question “Whither?”

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

...

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

American poet

(c) 2009 photos by Kareema Griest, text Martha McLemore

After the Storm

Stormy Weather

I have battled depression most of my life, and have been caught up in anxiety attacks more times than I want to remember. This latest round was triggered by a couple of things (I think; could be wrong): my daughter's situation, and signing divorce settlement papers.

I don't understand the mechanics of depression/anxiety disorder. While I can't speak to what happens in the brain that causes these bouts, I can tell you how it feels to be in one of them. It's like being in a hurricane.

In September, 1965, Hurricane Betsy hit New Orleans with winds of 125+ MPH. We were living in the Florida Avenue Housing Project at the time, in a second floor apartment. The FAHP is in the infamous (because of Katrina) Ninth Ward, near the Industrial Canal. That section of the city was in the direct path of the storm. In fact, the eye passed overhead. But, the story of Betsy and my family is for some other time. I bring her up because that experience is how I know what it's like to be smack dab in the center of a hurricane, and why being in one is such a good metaphor for the depression/anxiety attack I just climbed out from under.

It starts with a vague discomfort, not anything you can put your finger on really. Maybe it's a change in the brain's chemistry, its barometric pressure, so to speak. If not addressed right away, or if other stressors are added to the heap, the decline continues, becomes more uncomfortable, increasing a sense of uneasiness you can't quite shake, though it hasn't overtaken joy and fun just yet. You can still function fairly normally, but there is a growing dark cloud just over the horizon of consciousness: menacing, foreboding, stalking.

The first winds appear, blowing harder than normal breezes. Anxiety creeps into the picture. "Hey, this isn't right. You can stop this anytime now, God, okay?" You note that you are now officially worried, though you still might not be able to say why, exactly.

The winds become howlers, seriously different from gentle breezes. You notice you are becoming afraid, and decide to go inside and close all the windows, pull the drapes. "This will pass soon," you tell yourself, having completely forgotten other episodes, other storms which didn't pass quickly. Going through this storm is like going through one for the first time, if you don't take protective measures to head off the worst of it, or find better shelter to wait it out.

The first wave of screaming winds and horizontal, needle-sharp raindrops hits your shelter like a mega-ton sledge hammer. The building shakes and shudders, your spirit quakes in fear. Anxiety rises like floodwaters, creeping ever higher, almost out of control.

The storm knocks out electrical power and you are thrown into darkness. You've forgotten the flashlight, can't find it quickly, then realize you have no batteries to replace the ones that have died. Outside, the winds sound like you are standing at the rear of a jet engine running at top speed. You can't hear anyone else's voice, and your own thoughts are drowned out by the noise. You think you might die. You feel alone, despite being in a roomful of other people - friends, family, neighbors - who are experiencing the same storm as you. Survival fears place their frigid hands on your body and you are on the verge of emotional, physical collapse.

You scream at God; "What the fuck, Man?!" And immediately feel guilty for saying such a thing, but that's the least of your worries.

You realize, in the darkness, amid the Winds from Hell, that you have reached your breaking point. You begin to think there is no justifiable reason to continue struggling. The Unthinkable rears its head like the water moccasin that floated in on the rising floodwaters, about to strike.

Fortunately, at that almost-irrevocable moment of desperation, the eye of the storm arrives, and you go outside on your balcony for a breath of fresh air. It is still dark out, but when the clouds break for a few seconds, revealing a near-full moon, you can see just how high the waters have risen. You can hear the screams of neighbors on their rooftops, calling out to God, to anyone, for help. "Save me, save us," they yell. "Over here! We're over here! Please come save us!"

The eye passes and the storm resumes. You retreat back into your darkness, with the pleas of your neighbors louder in your mind, now, than the noise from the Winds of Hell. Their cries become your cry. "Please hear me. I am here. I am afraid. Help me."

Someone hears you. Maybe it is the Universe, maybe it is God, maybe it is the stronger Self that resides within your soul, your spirit. Who knows? Who cares?! Someone has thrown you a rope, given you fresh batteries for your torch.

Although the storm is still with you, the Winds of Hell are no longer the only sound you hear. Hope, at first a faint whisper, becomes the reassuring Voice of Reason, growing louder with every passing hour. You realize, "Hey! I'm still here!" (A big hug and thank you to Mary Tuel for that enlightening mantra/prayer.)

Daylight has banished the Darkness. Hope and Determination have kicked Fear and Desperation down the dungeon steps, back where they belong. By God! it feels good to be alive, to be out of the Storm of Despair.

Now is the time to find all my survival tools and get to work cleaning up the debris, making my shelter stronger for when the next storm comes.

Thank you, everyone, for the ropes you tossed me, the help and encouragement you have provided. I won't ever forget what you've done to help me weather this hurricane.

As blog-friend Joe Spado says, "Peace be with you."

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore