For men in prison doing hard time, they [usually] have their family and friends on the outside, with maybe one or two individuals -- typically women relatives -- staying the course as regular support through the arduous procession of years. These people represent hope; these people are an umbilical to the reality which exists outside of the sub-society which is prison in America.
But to actually SURVIVE prison, these same men must look to those around them, the imprisoned others, the rank and file CDC numbered enduring the same drudgery and hardships. We've all heard and seen the stories about racially-divided gangs. And, that is the commonly accepted path for a majority of these men. But there are smaller groups, often guys who fall on the periphery of the status quo (yes, it exists even within prison), who must scramble to make it across the mine fields of chow time, shower time, yard time, long, long, lo-o-ng time. Some get through as loners with reputations, constantly looking over their own shoulders as a solo act, while others align with fellow inmates exhibiting similar outlooks -- they create often unusual alliances in order to see the sun rise on yet another stretch of twenty-four hours.
Gary holds onto a tight handful of brothers from the inside who have his back . . . and he's had theirs a time or two . . . or hundred. As with siblings growing up in the unique environment of their parental household, these men also exist in a singular environment. They share experiences which forge intense bonds that can never be duplicated with people on the outside, not even close blood family and friends. It is something very akin to those who risk their lives on the front lines of war for one another. Only those in the group, caught up in those moments, can fully comprehend the accompanying agonies, humiliations, and losses which are attached to such extreme living.
One man stands out in this limited band of brothers -- we'll call him 'T.' He probably knows our family, our small circle of immediate siblings and the children, as well as many: countless days and nights spent in a 10 x 12 cell with Gary, falling asleep amidst the angry sounds of desperate men in desperate circumstances, swapping stories to remove themselves for a time from their setting. Over the years, my mother and I have sent 'T' all manner of holiday cards and short greetings. In turn, 'T' has penned grateful handmade cards and short messages, thanking us for remembering him in the great big world and encouraging us where Gary's life was concerned.
Last year, I made a personal decision to accept 'T' as a friend and not just as an acquaintance, to trust this California State Prison inmate whom I have never met in person,after receiving a surprisingly lengthy and revealing letter in which he outlined a personal and puzzling encounter with the Lord while in solitary confinement. We've exchanged several very good letters since then, and I continue to field contact between him and Gary as they are unable to write directly. (This is a policy which is at once clearly understandable and painfully inadequate as many of prisoners literally end up without close contacts outside of the friendships they form while inside; not all of these alliances are forged out of necessity and criminal leanings.) At some point in all of this, I will introduce you to 'T' once I receive his permission to share bits and pieces of him.
Today, as the promised snow actually begins to fall with force outside my kitchen windows, as I contemplate a hearty Greek lunch with my husband who stayed home from the workplace (though not from work, itself) and hope for snow angels and hot chocolate tomorrow morning, 'T' and Gary, each in their respective institutions, battle for a foothold in yet another day on the front lines of their lives. Yes, they are incarcerated to repay a debt to society for their crimes, but trust me when I say that they have repaid with outrageous interest -- a number which would astound even the financial institutions and governments of today. We should be outraged at that! I've joined their ranks and feel the tether I've willingly accepted, connecting me to each of them.
Earlier this month, 'T' wrote to Gary of our expanded writing friendship, exclaiming in bold print, "Your sister is PUNK ROCK, dude!" That tickled me to pieces. I interpret this as a positive spin on my character and personality as my hair is not pink and green and though I once shaved my head, I never sported a mohawk; nothing outside of my ears is pierced; I listen to Mozart, movie soundtracks, and Michael Jackson, NOT the Maniacs, Minor Threat, and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones; and my wardrobe would not draw attention anywhere. In short, though I surprise many, I shock NO ONE! Gary's reply, a letter to be mailed out to 'T' on the morrow, is below in excerpts which sum it all up. Say hello, Gary . . .
Wednesday -- January 10, 2010
What's up dawg?! Lemme tell ya' what happened the other day: I get this fat letter from sis, all psyched, I open it & it's a copy of her letter to you! You straight bumped me fool!
Look, God did a miracle in my life homeboy, for real. So I'm keeping it real, by giving the life He gave me back to Him. I'm still me. Always will be . . . I'll be doing something new, actively working on a better future. I actually have hope homeboy.
Sis loves you already, so you're really in the family now, fool. That means accountability, too. Plus, Glor can use some positive support in her life too, ya know? It's not easy to be the supporter all the time.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Thank You Letters
Dear Woman-of-A-Certain-Age at Sam's,
Thank you for telling me I didn't look old enough to have ever enjoyed fresh blackberries off the vine growing wild in the backwoods. You were so tickled to realize we shared a common childhood experience. When I told you I had recently hit 40, your look of appreciative surprise was priceless. But most of all, I thank you for sharing your childhood memories of berry-picking on your family farm in Kentucky. The expression of beauty on your face (a face which I suspect is younger than your true age, also) as you recollected the countless expeditions of your youth lifted me, pulled me up and back, to a simpler, kinder time. Standing in the midst of a Sam's warehouse, I felt the prick of thorns on my fingers, envisioned the spread of inky juice across my hands, and tasted the warm sweetness of fresh sunshine right off the sprawling brambles. We both left the display cooler with our packages of California blackberries, more blessed than we came.
Quite Simply . . . You Made My Day.
Dear Woman-of-Color-at-Wal-Mart,
Thank you for expressing your admiration of my haircut and style with such spontaneous appreciation. You touched me with your sincerity. It was made all the more pleasing by the fact that a January monsoon was pouring forth from the mid-afternoon skies and you were attempting to hurriedly cram your body into the passenger-side of the four-door sedan which had pulled up to the curb to pick you up. I was standing beside you, having left my cart in the dry foyer of the store to escort you to your destination with the help of my umbrella. You'd been waiting for the storm to pass so as to save your hair from losing its mind after the time, effort and product you'd lavished on it earlier that day. I know the price you paid to achieve that do; wasting it would have been a shame. Despite the genuine surprise that flashed in your eyes at my offer to assist you, thank you for being game and allowing me to pay it forward in some small way. I hope you saw the glorious double rainbow that followed that deluge.
Quite Simply . . . You Made My Day
Dear Woman-Who-Hates-Me-As-A-Friend-To-Her-Daughter,
Thank you for reminding me that no matter how young I might appear or how good my coiffure might be on any given Thursday, no one can ever fully know who I am by these aspects alone. As if I could ever forget. But, you provided valuable reinforcement today. You raised yourself a splendid eldest daughter and it's hard to let go, and harder still to value the input of other mothers and women in her young life when you still feel there is so much yet for YOU to impart to your firstborn. Never did I intend to step on your toes. When I enjoyed hot tea with your girl or prepared a meal to share with her, it was with respect to you and the job you do. We are fellow women and mothers and wives on this big rotating ball of land and gas and sea.
I pray for the veil of fear and closed-mindedness to fall from your eyes and allow you to see this from my perspective. What I did not have at your daughter's age, I now possess in abundance. I give to my children and the children of other's from that place. You nursed her spark and I would protect it to the death to thank you.
Quite Simply . . . You Made My Day
Thank you for telling me I didn't look old enough to have ever enjoyed fresh blackberries off the vine growing wild in the backwoods. You were so tickled to realize we shared a common childhood experience. When I told you I had recently hit 40, your look of appreciative surprise was priceless. But most of all, I thank you for sharing your childhood memories of berry-picking on your family farm in Kentucky. The expression of beauty on your face (a face which I suspect is younger than your true age, also) as you recollected the countless expeditions of your youth lifted me, pulled me up and back, to a simpler, kinder time. Standing in the midst of a Sam's warehouse, I felt the prick of thorns on my fingers, envisioned the spread of inky juice across my hands, and tasted the warm sweetness of fresh sunshine right off the sprawling brambles. We both left the display cooler with our packages of California blackberries, more blessed than we came.
Quite Simply . . . You Made My Day.
Dear Woman-of-Color-at-Wal-Mart,
Thank you for expressing your admiration of my haircut and style with such spontaneous appreciation. You touched me with your sincerity. It was made all the more pleasing by the fact that a January monsoon was pouring forth from the mid-afternoon skies and you were attempting to hurriedly cram your body into the passenger-side of the four-door sedan which had pulled up to the curb to pick you up. I was standing beside you, having left my cart in the dry foyer of the store to escort you to your destination with the help of my umbrella. You'd been waiting for the storm to pass so as to save your hair from losing its mind after the time, effort and product you'd lavished on it earlier that day. I know the price you paid to achieve that do; wasting it would have been a shame. Despite the genuine surprise that flashed in your eyes at my offer to assist you, thank you for being game and allowing me to pay it forward in some small way. I hope you saw the glorious double rainbow that followed that deluge.
Quite Simply . . . You Made My Day
Dear Woman-Who-Hates-Me-As-A-Friend-To-Her-Daughter,
Thank you for reminding me that no matter how young I might appear or how good my coiffure might be on any given Thursday, no one can ever fully know who I am by these aspects alone. As if I could ever forget. But, you provided valuable reinforcement today. You raised yourself a splendid eldest daughter and it's hard to let go, and harder still to value the input of other mothers and women in her young life when you still feel there is so much yet for YOU to impart to your firstborn. Never did I intend to step on your toes. When I enjoyed hot tea with your girl or prepared a meal to share with her, it was with respect to you and the job you do. We are fellow women and mothers and wives on this big rotating ball of land and gas and sea.
I pray for the veil of fear and closed-mindedness to fall from your eyes and allow you to see this from my perspective. What I did not have at your daughter's age, I now possess in abundance. I give to my children and the children of other's from that place. You nursed her spark and I would protect it to the death to thank you.
Quite Simply . . . You Made My Day
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Altered Image - 1st Installment
While the twins and their older sister, Jamie, play in the backyard, their antics visible to me from the kitchen window over the sink, their happy noises clearly audible to this babysitter's mindful ear, I spoon flour into a bowl, measure baking powder and salt over the flour, and quickly stir in the milk and oil needed to make a batch of homemade biscuits.
In the fifteen minutes the pan of biscuits take to bake to golden layers of steamy perfection, I line up a jar of jam and a tub of butter on the counter by the sink where I have full view of my young charges from my inside vantage point. I fill a tall glass with water once, drink it, and fill it again, adding it to my line-up. When the timer beeps, I remove twelve perfect pillows of oven-fresh goodness and place them near their edible accessories.
I told myself, earlier, as my hands deftly rolled the quick dough into a flattened half-inch circle and cut four-inch rounds for the baking sheet, that these biscuits were for everyone. I often prepared meals and snacks as part of my live-in sitter duties for this kind and generous family. But now, as I pick up the first one and split it, my eyes jumping from my hands to the girls outside, I know at a gut level they have all been destined for a more singular fate.
Biscuits one, two, and even three, I thoroughly enjoy, oozing as they are with melted butter and sweet strawberry preserves. I chew them well, savoring their lightness and pleased with my mastering of their preparation. Mom taught me well; I was an apt pupil when it came to things kitchen and food. By the fourth biscuit, however, flavor has vanished, replaced by the now addictive need for texture, swallowing, and a full mouth. My mind overcomes my taste buds and orders me forward, urging me to stop counting and just gorge.
By the end of this session, with only an empty baking sheet as a witness to my feeding frenzy, I am a bit frantic. The careful strategies of my original subconscious plans are shot to hell. I neglected to drink water in between biscuits. I did not fully chew each and every biscuit. I wolfed them down, quite literally resembling every ravenous dog I had ever owned as it engaged the supper feeding dish, only I was not ravenous or hungry. I have devolved into my most base human collection of impulses and compulsions. On the inside, the suppressed and depressed girl is crying, huddled in a corner, bleeding out her shame and disappointment, wanting to take it all back, needing relief.
Pulling my hair back from my face with my left hand, my eyes again moving between my private hell and the scene of domestic life on the swing set and lawn beyond the kitchen window, I shove my right index finger down my throat. I feel my epiglottis, its pliable stub familiar from previous visits, and push hard, knowing my gag reflex is tough to stimulate and even tougher to maintain for a successful clearance. Several attempts come and go before the gorge rises thickly from my belly and emerges via my esophagus and into my mouth. I taste the jam, still a red swirl in the vague tubular mass I can now see moving past my lips. My face is red; my forehead beaded in sweat; and, my eyes are watering with the effort it is taking to vomit as I continually convulse in the throes of an ongoing gag.
I realize something is wrong. Unlike moist apples and Captain Crunch with milk, this dry bready mass has stopped moving. My throat is blocked. I find that I can't breathe. I can't force my stomach's contents to either fully clear out or fully return from whence it came. The sad irony of the situation does not escape me as my thoughts run freely. I think I may die here, and this does not bother me nearly as much as one might think, but the thought that the kids may come in and find me thus, with a grotesque mass of barely-chewed food snaking its way from my open maw to the drain below, horrifies me.
I redouble my actions, exerting pressure by pushing my mid-chest hard against the edge of the sink, a pseudo-Heimlich maneuver of sorts. Eventually, I clear the obstruction and free my breathing. I rinse my hands, rubbing them over and over and over. I am crying and feeling very fortunate and very stupid. And, even amidst the realization of what I managed to dodge, I bemoan the fact that I am both a failed bulimic and an unsuccessful anorexic. It is the summer of 1988. I am a new high school graduate. I have been battling food and self-images problems for over nine years now.
I will quit throwing up after gorging. Soon, I will also cease to gorge in the form of entire boxes of Wheat Thins and cream cheese, chased with chocolate milk or juice, sometimes followed by a huge bowl of cereal. I will also turn down a full-ride scholarship to UC Santa Cruz and move by the end of the summer to Colorado, unaware that my future awaits me there.
I will not cease to perpetuate this cycle of control and lack-of-control. I will not cease to hate myself for my weakness.
And, I will not cease to become more self-aware. I will fight this demon . . . unceasingly.
(To be continued . . . )
In the fifteen minutes the pan of biscuits take to bake to golden layers of steamy perfection, I line up a jar of jam and a tub of butter on the counter by the sink where I have full view of my young charges from my inside vantage point. I fill a tall glass with water once, drink it, and fill it again, adding it to my line-up. When the timer beeps, I remove twelve perfect pillows of oven-fresh goodness and place them near their edible accessories.
I told myself, earlier, as my hands deftly rolled the quick dough into a flattened half-inch circle and cut four-inch rounds for the baking sheet, that these biscuits were for everyone. I often prepared meals and snacks as part of my live-in sitter duties for this kind and generous family. But now, as I pick up the first one and split it, my eyes jumping from my hands to the girls outside, I know at a gut level they have all been destined for a more singular fate.
Biscuits one, two, and even three, I thoroughly enjoy, oozing as they are with melted butter and sweet strawberry preserves. I chew them well, savoring their lightness and pleased with my mastering of their preparation. Mom taught me well; I was an apt pupil when it came to things kitchen and food. By the fourth biscuit, however, flavor has vanished, replaced by the now addictive need for texture, swallowing, and a full mouth. My mind overcomes my taste buds and orders me forward, urging me to stop counting and just gorge.
By the end of this session, with only an empty baking sheet as a witness to my feeding frenzy, I am a bit frantic. The careful strategies of my original subconscious plans are shot to hell. I neglected to drink water in between biscuits. I did not fully chew each and every biscuit. I wolfed them down, quite literally resembling every ravenous dog I had ever owned as it engaged the supper feeding dish, only I was not ravenous or hungry. I have devolved into my most base human collection of impulses and compulsions. On the inside, the suppressed and depressed girl is crying, huddled in a corner, bleeding out her shame and disappointment, wanting to take it all back, needing relief.
Pulling my hair back from my face with my left hand, my eyes again moving between my private hell and the scene of domestic life on the swing set and lawn beyond the kitchen window, I shove my right index finger down my throat. I feel my epiglottis, its pliable stub familiar from previous visits, and push hard, knowing my gag reflex is tough to stimulate and even tougher to maintain for a successful clearance. Several attempts come and go before the gorge rises thickly from my belly and emerges via my esophagus and into my mouth. I taste the jam, still a red swirl in the vague tubular mass I can now see moving past my lips. My face is red; my forehead beaded in sweat; and, my eyes are watering with the effort it is taking to vomit as I continually convulse in the throes of an ongoing gag.
I realize something is wrong. Unlike moist apples and Captain Crunch with milk, this dry bready mass has stopped moving. My throat is blocked. I find that I can't breathe. I can't force my stomach's contents to either fully clear out or fully return from whence it came. The sad irony of the situation does not escape me as my thoughts run freely. I think I may die here, and this does not bother me nearly as much as one might think, but the thought that the kids may come in and find me thus, with a grotesque mass of barely-chewed food snaking its way from my open maw to the drain below, horrifies me.
I redouble my actions, exerting pressure by pushing my mid-chest hard against the edge of the sink, a pseudo-Heimlich maneuver of sorts. Eventually, I clear the obstruction and free my breathing. I rinse my hands, rubbing them over and over and over. I am crying and feeling very fortunate and very stupid. And, even amidst the realization of what I managed to dodge, I bemoan the fact that I am both a failed bulimic and an unsuccessful anorexic. It is the summer of 1988. I am a new high school graduate. I have been battling food and self-images problems for over nine years now.
I will quit throwing up after gorging. Soon, I will also cease to gorge in the form of entire boxes of Wheat Thins and cream cheese, chased with chocolate milk or juice, sometimes followed by a huge bowl of cereal. I will also turn down a full-ride scholarship to UC Santa Cruz and move by the end of the summer to Colorado, unaware that my future awaits me there.
I will not cease to perpetuate this cycle of control and lack-of-control. I will not cease to hate myself for my weakness.
And, I will not cease to become more self-aware. I will fight this demon . . . unceasingly.
(To be continued . . . )
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Text Me Not This
"Not good news. The cancer has spread to about 8 areas and very fast. So I will go home tomorrow and wait it out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Jan. 12, 2010 @ 2:53PM Central Time
There are those instant text messages that one should never read off the cuff. THIS would be one of those. Text seems to lack the necessary mode of emotional import inherent in a phone call or even in a handwritten letter. While emoticons and generous use of punctuation, LOL's, LMAO's, and the entire parade of abbreviated sayings are intended to ensure the reader correctly interprets the tone of the message, they are all decidedly one-dimensional. Text messages lack the depth of description one might read in a newspaper story or magazine article. They are, by their very nature -- text messages -- brief, to the point, an instant communication without too much thought behind it.
Receiving that text, actually more like discovering that text a bit after receiving it, left me with the equivalent feeling that I had just banged my head against the sharp edge of an open cabinet door, or inadvertently crunched down on a piece of ice with an old metal filling, or took a fast breaking baseball pitch to the groin area (still hurts like a mamba! even if one does not possess all the male hardware). Yes, it felt like all of those horrible sensations in an instant but without the accompanying memory of having experienced those actions to elicit the pain. THAT is the lapse in texting: feeling disconnected even while connected.
Bad news by telephone is plenty bad. In the past decade, I've accepted more than what is anyone's fair share of bad news by phone. Hearing the voice on the other end relaying the heartbreak and horror of death and illness and madness is most unpleasant. And, it feels very real. When the sharp pain hits your chest, you know how it got there. When the air whooshes out of your lungs in a sudden deflating exhale of shock, you understand what caused it. When your teeth sing a song of grinding, you remember why they buzz in your head. Though the person on the other line may disconnect, the voice, the reason for the call, is fully-fleshed in your auditory senses. A phone call has the power to dim a sunset and drain the blood from a face: a phone call is wholly connected.
Right now, however, the reason for this vein of thought escapes me. What I feel is numb at more painful news from a person I allowed to take up space in my heart. As with each of us, that closeness allows a strong reaction to someone else's suffering to grab purchase within the cliffs of my inner landscape and make for the summit instead of remaining in the foothills where general bad news camps, inflicting smaller sorrows of compassion and commiseration that are devoid of truly personal connection. Though I grieve and fear for the impoverished island nation of Haiti and its peoples while they struggle to recover from a massive earthquake, I share no emotional ties with any one person, much less the country's population at large. But, to imagine a person with whom I have broken bread -- not to mention cheesecake and bottles of fine wine -- in a most helpless position is deeply lamentable. And, there is nothing, not one element outside of prayer and a shoulder, that is under my control. I can't even share the burden of his pain with him to spread it out a bit.
No, instead, there's one more person I must put before the throne of God in humility as I beseech Him for His grace and answers to prayer in the manner that He deems most appropriate to His purposes with yet another friend and family member.
Yesterday, I was prepared to comfort and care for a friend who was all set to lose his right lung to a third wave of cancer in order that he might live longer in this earthly plane. This was the worst case scenario. The possibility of death was a presence in the dark corner but not one invited to come out and play. Today, I am prepared to comfort and care for a friend who knows that outside of a miracle, he is now living each day with the knowledge that his death has stepped out into the spotlight and wishes to engage him fully.
I'm up to 30 push-ups at a time in my 120 every-other-day series. Let me at him! I can at least arm wrestle the cretin called cancer!
There are those instant text messages that one should never read off the cuff. THIS would be one of those. Text seems to lack the necessary mode of emotional import inherent in a phone call or even in a handwritten letter. While emoticons and generous use of punctuation, LOL's, LMAO's, and the entire parade of abbreviated sayings are intended to ensure the reader correctly interprets the tone of the message, they are all decidedly one-dimensional. Text messages lack the depth of description one might read in a newspaper story or magazine article. They are, by their very nature -- text messages -- brief, to the point, an instant communication without too much thought behind it.
Receiving that text, actually more like discovering that text a bit after receiving it, left me with the equivalent feeling that I had just banged my head against the sharp edge of an open cabinet door, or inadvertently crunched down on a piece of ice with an old metal filling, or took a fast breaking baseball pitch to the groin area (still hurts like a mamba! even if one does not possess all the male hardware). Yes, it felt like all of those horrible sensations in an instant but without the accompanying memory of having experienced those actions to elicit the pain. THAT is the lapse in texting: feeling disconnected even while connected.
Bad news by telephone is plenty bad. In the past decade, I've accepted more than what is anyone's fair share of bad news by phone. Hearing the voice on the other end relaying the heartbreak and horror of death and illness and madness is most unpleasant. And, it feels very real. When the sharp pain hits your chest, you know how it got there. When the air whooshes out of your lungs in a sudden deflating exhale of shock, you understand what caused it. When your teeth sing a song of grinding, you remember why they buzz in your head. Though the person on the other line may disconnect, the voice, the reason for the call, is fully-fleshed in your auditory senses. A phone call has the power to dim a sunset and drain the blood from a face: a phone call is wholly connected.
Right now, however, the reason for this vein of thought escapes me. What I feel is numb at more painful news from a person I allowed to take up space in my heart. As with each of us, that closeness allows a strong reaction to someone else's suffering to grab purchase within the cliffs of my inner landscape and make for the summit instead of remaining in the foothills where general bad news camps, inflicting smaller sorrows of compassion and commiseration that are devoid of truly personal connection. Though I grieve and fear for the impoverished island nation of Haiti and its peoples while they struggle to recover from a massive earthquake, I share no emotional ties with any one person, much less the country's population at large. But, to imagine a person with whom I have broken bread -- not to mention cheesecake and bottles of fine wine -- in a most helpless position is deeply lamentable. And, there is nothing, not one element outside of prayer and a shoulder, that is under my control. I can't even share the burden of his pain with him to spread it out a bit.
No, instead, there's one more person I must put before the throne of God in humility as I beseech Him for His grace and answers to prayer in the manner that He deems most appropriate to His purposes with yet another friend and family member.
Yesterday, I was prepared to comfort and care for a friend who was all set to lose his right lung to a third wave of cancer in order that he might live longer in this earthly plane. This was the worst case scenario. The possibility of death was a presence in the dark corner but not one invited to come out and play. Today, I am prepared to comfort and care for a friend who knows that outside of a miracle, he is now living each day with the knowledge that his death has stepped out into the spotlight and wishes to engage him fully.
I'm up to 30 push-ups at a time in my 120 every-other-day series. Let me at him! I can at least arm wrestle the cretin called cancer!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Moment-ous
This is a moment's peace. A momentary peace. A moment of peace.
Me atop the comforter of our queen-sized bed in the dark of my bedroom. My husband breathing steadily and easily beside me, tucked beneath that same comforter, his gentle inhale and exhale exerting a soporific effect on my senses. Tomorrow has been declared a snow day by cautious county school officials, thus my middle-schooler and my high school junior float about the house like two unique flakes showered forth from the same impending storm, adrift in a haze of joyous delirium . . . they are possibly the closest any of us will get to actual SNOW. But, really, isn't that beside the point?
My family is fed: a belly-filling, hunger-satiating combination of vegetable-laden pork fried rice, homemade blue cornmeal cornbread, and pot roast leftovers dropped off by my mother, who hands-down wins the award for best roaster of red meat and veggies by every member of my immediate family. I shared a nibble of my 72% dark chocolate square with my spouse, lulled into complacency by his admiring crooning over my gray pants and black blouse combination, before he moved on to hang out with his guitar for a bit while I socialized over a few hands of Scrabble Slap with the youngsters in the house.
I've done a bit of pest-free and sweat-free farming on Facebook: doesn't hurt now and again. Where else can I plant and harvest from starfruit trees, black cats, and pink calves, AND send a few shout-outs to friends and family without tying up my ear and the phone lines?
At one point, I caught a sustained glimpse over the screen of my laptop of a show on the tellie about an organic chocolate shoppe in New York and decided it was necessary to track it down online. Boy, was THAT one of my better ideas of the night! CocaoVino was its name-o. It's safe to reveal that I have uncovered what I covet for my Valentine's Day dream chocolate fix of the year: can you say drunken fig, comprised of three decadent gourmet layers of palate-pleasing richness? And, organic and sustainable to boot!? Somebody please inform the proper purchasing romantic party. Thank you. The four-pack is plenty. It's not cheap, but I'm worth it!
My belly is pleasantly full of air-popped popcorn which I lightly sprayed with canola non-stick spray, sprinkled with sea salt, and very sparingly drizzled with dark agave nectar. I crunched and munched to my heart's content and worried not a lick or a wink over taking down the Christmas ornaments, balancing the checkbook, catching up on my important letter writing, or the state of the world and my role in it. No, my biggest concern was picking up the escapees and leaving no survivors!
Now, as my self-imposed midnight deadline fast approaches, I sense there is still time to floss and change into my long johns (worn inside out to encourage snow accumulation) without tempting the clock to tip over. The main impediment to this goal will be actually dragging my very comfortable body from its place of comfort atop bed and beneath laptop, swathed in the lovely loose knitted poncho sent to me from my Canadian cousin and leaving behind the sonorous strains of my husband's sleep sounds. I've no wish to upset the apple cart as I know what will come of it. This, too, shall pass.
But, it has been blessed relief. If only for a moment.
Me atop the comforter of our queen-sized bed in the dark of my bedroom. My husband breathing steadily and easily beside me, tucked beneath that same comforter, his gentle inhale and exhale exerting a soporific effect on my senses. Tomorrow has been declared a snow day by cautious county school officials, thus my middle-schooler and my high school junior float about the house like two unique flakes showered forth from the same impending storm, adrift in a haze of joyous delirium . . . they are possibly the closest any of us will get to actual SNOW. But, really, isn't that beside the point?
My family is fed: a belly-filling, hunger-satiating combination of vegetable-laden pork fried rice, homemade blue cornmeal cornbread, and pot roast leftovers dropped off by my mother, who hands-down wins the award for best roaster of red meat and veggies by every member of my immediate family. I shared a nibble of my 72% dark chocolate square with my spouse, lulled into complacency by his admiring crooning over my gray pants and black blouse combination, before he moved on to hang out with his guitar for a bit while I socialized over a few hands of Scrabble Slap with the youngsters in the house.
I've done a bit of pest-free and sweat-free farming on Facebook: doesn't hurt now and again. Where else can I plant and harvest from starfruit trees, black cats, and pink calves, AND send a few shout-outs to friends and family without tying up my ear and the phone lines?
At one point, I caught a sustained glimpse over the screen of my laptop of a show on the tellie about an organic chocolate shoppe in New York and decided it was necessary to track it down online. Boy, was THAT one of my better ideas of the night! CocaoVino was its name-o. It's safe to reveal that I have uncovered what I covet for my Valentine's Day dream chocolate fix of the year: can you say drunken fig, comprised of three decadent gourmet layers of palate-pleasing richness? And, organic and sustainable to boot!? Somebody please inform the proper purchasing romantic party. Thank you. The four-pack is plenty. It's not cheap, but I'm worth it!
My belly is pleasantly full of air-popped popcorn which I lightly sprayed with canola non-stick spray, sprinkled with sea salt, and very sparingly drizzled with dark agave nectar. I crunched and munched to my heart's content and worried not a lick or a wink over taking down the Christmas ornaments, balancing the checkbook, catching up on my important letter writing, or the state of the world and my role in it. No, my biggest concern was picking up the escapees and leaving no survivors!
Now, as my self-imposed midnight deadline fast approaches, I sense there is still time to floss and change into my long johns (worn inside out to encourage snow accumulation) without tempting the clock to tip over. The main impediment to this goal will be actually dragging my very comfortable body from its place of comfort atop bed and beneath laptop, swathed in the lovely loose knitted poncho sent to me from my Canadian cousin and leaving behind the sonorous strains of my husband's sleep sounds. I've no wish to upset the apple cart as I know what will come of it. This, too, shall pass.
But, it has been blessed relief. If only for a moment.
Monday, January 4, 2010
World Peace, One Cookie At A Time?
Eight minutes to midnight. I await the drying of the second drizzled layer of chocolate -- this coat the melted white chocolate, so pretty a contrast against the previous layer of dark Ghiradelli chocolate -- all on a batch of biscotti baked last night for my ailing cousin, who's week has been difficult, and my big sister, whose just-a-bit-over-21st birthday falls this weekend on the same day as my father-in-law's.
I'm trying to come to terms with my compulsiveness over certain things: baking comfort food and mailing it off to random friends and relatives being one of them. (It's right up there with fantastical desserts for my Bunco ladies when its my month to host -- Starburst candies make wonderful flowers for orange chiffon cake; or, containers and plates of various and sundry pies, cookies, cakes, and the like for my neighbors to try.) It's not as if I didn't concoct upwards of ten batches of multi-flavored biscotti for folks less than a month ago. (It's not even as if I didn't recently have three or four pieces with my Refresh herbal tea while making dinner!) I can't help myself. Truly. I've tried. Alas, the ambassador within me runs headlong into the curious confectioner also within, and the yearning to tempt my fellow man with delightfully unique and wholesome sweet treats overtakes my practical side. If anything, I only regret that I could not mail as many boxes of my crunchy Italian cookies to as many contacts as existed on my 120+ Christmas card list. You all know who you are!
If I could bake the world into generosity of spirit and lightness of being, I would measure, mix, whip, roll, set at 350 degrees, dry, and dip in a non-stop succession of doughs, batters, crusts, and fillings. If a lemon curd island set atop an oasis of creamy white coconut cake would set fire to hard hearts in dark corners of the world, I would beat beat every egg white within a mile into submission in order to frost countless 3-tiered confections and and carefully coddle their accompanying yolks into a heated bath of tangy juice and melted butter, all the while hunting down the appropriate shipping containers: each box to be overnighted to warlords and hatemongers in war zone hotspots across this vast globe. If buttercream could calm the savage beast, I would fill tubes with the stuff and hand it out at street corners, instructions for application given with a grin and a hug. And, if the heady combination of cream cheese and pumpkin swirled atop a gingery-buttery graham cracker crust could elicit justice from the unfair, shortage be damned, I'd buy up every jack-o-lantern squash and canned counterpart for my soon-to-be-weary Springform pan.
But, peace and grace do not flow from the perfect perimeter of a Red Velvet cupcake, nor are they licked from the peeled paper wrap. Saigon cinnamon sprinkled atop the ruddy surface of a simple snickerdoodle cookie will not bring about a cessation to bus bombings and plane attacks. The perfect pearls of mildly chewy tapioca suspended in a bath of slightly viscous boiled milk and vanilla will not string their way from barrio to hovel to inner city, bringing soft opaque light to troubled souls. Even my husband's favorite celebration of sweet -- Nilla wafers marching up the side of a glass bowl, sliced coins of banana set in a deep bath of lovely thick pudding, extra crushed wafers skimming the surface like fallen skaters on a snow-covered frozen pond -- does not have to power to encourage a general cease and desist.
No, alas, all the whole wheat pastry flour and baking powder in the world will not create a soft enough landing for most people moving through the minefields of their difficult lives. Still, the dreamer within me, the hope and faith attached to such dreams like long tails on a high-flying kite, they refuse to relinquish their grip on the burdened heart of this one suburban housewife set adrift in the northern side of an average town in the middle of Tennessee.
Mine is not an average heart, comprised of mere sinewy chambers through which blood ebbs and flows; I'm quite certain it was formed within my chest by merit of Godly yeast and double-proofed raising. It certainly feels as if it has been kneaded doubly hard! So, when you taste the goods which have sprung forth from my hands, you savor not only the wholesomeness of a toasted almond or an anti-oxidant rich dried cranberry, you sample not just a cross between what I watched Giada di Laurentis do and what I thought would be a most excellent tweak . . . you partake of a piece of my heart. It's that secret ingredient I can reveal but cannot be purchased in bag, bottle, or box at Kroger or World Market. When you accept, either fork or hand to mouth, dipped in tea or accompanied with a cold glass of milk, laughingly shared with a friend, even by the late night illumination of the refrigerator, my stores are replenished and my heart is free to give yet again and again in earnest and generous pre-portioned measure.
Double-chocolate biscotti, anyone?
I'm trying to come to terms with my compulsiveness over certain things: baking comfort food and mailing it off to random friends and relatives being one of them. (It's right up there with fantastical desserts for my Bunco ladies when its my month to host -- Starburst candies make wonderful flowers for orange chiffon cake; or, containers and plates of various and sundry pies, cookies, cakes, and the like for my neighbors to try.) It's not as if I didn't concoct upwards of ten batches of multi-flavored biscotti for folks less than a month ago. (It's not even as if I didn't recently have three or four pieces with my Refresh herbal tea while making dinner!) I can't help myself. Truly. I've tried. Alas, the ambassador within me runs headlong into the curious confectioner also within, and the yearning to tempt my fellow man with delightfully unique and wholesome sweet treats overtakes my practical side. If anything, I only regret that I could not mail as many boxes of my crunchy Italian cookies to as many contacts as existed on my 120+ Christmas card list. You all know who you are!
If I could bake the world into generosity of spirit and lightness of being, I would measure, mix, whip, roll, set at 350 degrees, dry, and dip in a non-stop succession of doughs, batters, crusts, and fillings. If a lemon curd island set atop an oasis of creamy white coconut cake would set fire to hard hearts in dark corners of the world, I would beat beat every egg white within a mile into submission in order to frost countless 3-tiered confections and and carefully coddle their accompanying yolks into a heated bath of tangy juice and melted butter, all the while hunting down the appropriate shipping containers: each box to be overnighted to warlords and hatemongers in war zone hotspots across this vast globe. If buttercream could calm the savage beast, I would fill tubes with the stuff and hand it out at street corners, instructions for application given with a grin and a hug. And, if the heady combination of cream cheese and pumpkin swirled atop a gingery-buttery graham cracker crust could elicit justice from the unfair, shortage be damned, I'd buy up every jack-o-lantern squash and canned counterpart for my soon-to-be-weary Springform pan.
But, peace and grace do not flow from the perfect perimeter of a Red Velvet cupcake, nor are they licked from the peeled paper wrap. Saigon cinnamon sprinkled atop the ruddy surface of a simple snickerdoodle cookie will not bring about a cessation to bus bombings and plane attacks. The perfect pearls of mildly chewy tapioca suspended in a bath of slightly viscous boiled milk and vanilla will not string their way from barrio to hovel to inner city, bringing soft opaque light to troubled souls. Even my husband's favorite celebration of sweet -- Nilla wafers marching up the side of a glass bowl, sliced coins of banana set in a deep bath of lovely thick pudding, extra crushed wafers skimming the surface like fallen skaters on a snow-covered frozen pond -- does not have to power to encourage a general cease and desist.
No, alas, all the whole wheat pastry flour and baking powder in the world will not create a soft enough landing for most people moving through the minefields of their difficult lives. Still, the dreamer within me, the hope and faith attached to such dreams like long tails on a high-flying kite, they refuse to relinquish their grip on the burdened heart of this one suburban housewife set adrift in the northern side of an average town in the middle of Tennessee.
Mine is not an average heart, comprised of mere sinewy chambers through which blood ebbs and flows; I'm quite certain it was formed within my chest by merit of Godly yeast and double-proofed raising. It certainly feels as if it has been kneaded doubly hard! So, when you taste the goods which have sprung forth from my hands, you savor not only the wholesomeness of a toasted almond or an anti-oxidant rich dried cranberry, you sample not just a cross between what I watched Giada di Laurentis do and what I thought would be a most excellent tweak . . . you partake of a piece of my heart. It's that secret ingredient I can reveal but cannot be purchased in bag, bottle, or box at Kroger or World Market. When you accept, either fork or hand to mouth, dipped in tea or accompanied with a cold glass of milk, laughingly shared with a friend, even by the late night illumination of the refrigerator, my stores are replenished and my heart is free to give yet again and again in earnest and generous pre-portioned measure.
Double-chocolate biscotti, anyone?
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