Tuesday, March 12, 2024

The Secret Ingredient



AKA the show with the beef jerky sticks




There’s a running gag in our production of Puss in Boots (written by Stevo) that always delights the audiences. The special stew that Puss the Cat serves the King so that his master can win the princess's hand, contains a secret ingredient: “honey-coated, licorice-flavored beef jerky sticks.”

 

Our young audiences may roar with laughter, but for me, I fail to see the humor. Because I have a reputation for seeking out some pretty unusual seasonings for my own dishes. Mind you, I don’t invent these concoctions (I remain pretty recipe-bound, even after all these years). But when I peruse cookbooks or culinary websites or blogs, I MAY decide to make a Mexican street corn salad, but I DEFINITELY will whip up the version that calls for tajin (a lime-spice blend). This will, of course, necessitate ordering a bottle of the stuff which, after its maiden voyage, will languish in the back of the cabinet for years past its use-by date. The same fate has befallen everything from tamarind paste to wood-ear mushrooms to galangal (which I think is an unusual Thai seasoning…it’s so old now that I’m afraid to open the container). 

 

This weird predilection goes way back. As a young child, I would avidly read my Nana Cunningham’s Gourmet magazines, and my Grandma Berrigan’s old recipe books. Neither of these wonderful women were fancy cooks (in Nana’s case, she wasn’t even an OK cook), so I don’t know why these publications found their way into their homes. But I would scan the instructions for roast wild boar and candied violets (not in the same dish!) and daydream about serving these items to cheers from the assembled diners in my imaginary dwelling some future day. 

 

Practically speaking, I have no business shelling out so much moolah for stuff that most dishes could easily do without—especially when the stuff has such limited usefulness. Rose recently made preserved lemons for an appetizer recipe, which turned out wonderfully—but left her with a large amount of extra lemons. She asked me if I had any ideas about what to do with them, so I typed “recipes using preserved lemon” into the old Google search bar. Wonder of wonders! There are, if not a ton, at least SOME other dishes where one is encouraged to toss in a P.L.!

 

This successful foray was a lightbulb moment for me: I too can Google oddball ingredients I’ve bought! I too can discover other ways to use them up before they expire! It’s been a seismic shift in my thinking. Now, before ordering achote powder or naranja agria (sour orange juice) to add to my bulging pantry, I go through said pantry first. I pull out, say, the ras el hanout. Can I marinate chicken in this? Stir it into biscuit dough? Maybe!


Looking forward to world travels with all the money I’ll be saving. I’ll surely bring home suitcases full of local specialties (maybe even honey-coated licorice-flavored beef jerky sticks). 

Old habits die hard. 


a tiny sampling of my odd food purchases (I wasn't kidding!)





Monday, March 4, 2024

Owl Be Seeing You


Awwww. (Owlet photo by Jesse Cason on Unsplash)

I didn’t hear much about Flaco the Coop-Flown Owl, until the poor bird met his tragic end. For those similarly unaware, about a year ago, Flaco, a rare Eurasian Eagle Owl living in captivity in the Central Park Zoo in Manhattan, was suddenly liberated by a vandal who shredded his enclosure. 


What followed was a gritty Streets of New York story—the spunky and resourceful Flaco, making his way in the big bad city. Crowds would gather whenever there was an owl-sighting. There were cheers when he learned to hunt and catch prey (NYC rats, what else?) For a solid year, Flaco flew free, amid hopes that he could survive long-term in the “wild.”

 

Alas, our majestic feathered friend was no match for the urban landscape. Flaco was killed flying into the side of a building. That dramatic demise could be the subject of a folk song (“The Owl That Almost Could”), right? Where are Peter, Paul and Mary when you need them?

 

Flaco’s story brings up some questions. Is it inhumane to cage wild creatures in zoos? Are we destroying their animal instincts? Flaco never asked to be a celebrity; he was just doing his best to stay alive in very difficult circumstances. What did this owl, the very symbol of wisdom after all, think of the humans who gaped and gawked and snapped photos as he flew from tree to tree? Since he’s dead, plus we don’t speak owl, we will never know. 

 

I am a big owl fan, though I rarely spot them in nature—I’m much more likely to see a Temple (University) Owl, than the actual bird. Even back in the old days when I was a rather nocturnal young adult, I never saw one IRL. Of course, I was much more Disco Denizen than Nature Girl, so unless an owl decided to sneak into the bar with a fake ID, the odds of our paths crossing were low. 

 

I do know that owls fly without making a peep, their massive wings gliding along, utterly silent, in order to surprise their prey. I do know that their heads can swivel almost completely around (they have fixed eye sockets, and have to turn to see things). 


A recent thrill for me was a woods walk I took near Seattle at dusk, with Evan and some of his friends. We spied TWO huge and beautiful white owls, in two different trees, and then spent a good 10 minutes gaping and gawking (as humans tend to do). We were waiting for their moment of flight, and were not disappointed when at last they alit, soaring soundlessly through the air. 

 

The debate about zoos and other man-made habitats rages on. While modern zoos make much more of an effort to give the animals space, they are still trapped. But they are also protected from harm (Flaco’s “liberator” notwithstanding). 

 

All I know is, I’m glad that, for one brief shining year, Flaco the Owl had a glorious taste of freedom. 




Tuesday, February 27, 2024

Rings On (and Off) Our Fingers


Sher and Yaj's wedding day (photo by Carolyn Majewski)


My darling husband made a confession when he recently returned home from an out-of-town film shoot, and honestly? Had he not mentioned this I have no clue when I would have noticed (eagle eye that I am most definitely not): Steve lost his wedding ring. Apparently he had taken it off while performing (his character in the movie was unattached), and stowed it for safekeeping in his wallet. At some point, getting gas, or coffee, or something, the ring had fallen out. It’s gone for good, and poor Stevo was quite upset. 

As it is, I have no right to criticize him. For I, too, am a ring-loser. Several times over, in fact. The first ring that disappeared was my beloved Nana’s. It was beautiful, and I have no idea why anyone would have entrusted 13-year-old me with it upon Nana’s death in 1970…me, who couldn’t keep track of her homework, “borrowed” clothing items, or anything else. I do recall the pang I felt when a panicked search yielded zilch (I have precious few mementos from my grandmother), but it wasn’t pang enough to keep me from repeat performances. 

 

Years later, my engagement ring was on-and-off my finger with regularity—sometimes the dramatic climax of an argument (and there were a few!), sometimes the absent-minded result of removing it to wash dishes. It always found its way back to me, until the fateful day I was vacuuming the living room. Suddenly I glanced down, and the little diamond (all S. could afford back in the day) had fallen out of its setting. I spotted it on the floor before it was suctioned up. I learned a very valuable lesson that day: never vacuum again.

 

The diamond languished in a baggie in a drawer for ages. I obviously wasn’t motivated enough to get it reset. Finally, I offered it to Sheridan to give to Ya-Jhu. He had it reset, and it has a sparkly new life with Yaj. It hasn’t been misplaced once in their 13 years together, and I’m positive it’s quite safe. 


Nowadays, my hands sport just a plain gold band on one finger, and on another, a ring belonging to my late sister Mo. I wouldn’t be shocked if these rings were also lost at some point, because that seems to be the way I roll, jewelry-wise. It does bother me, though, that in this one area I am just like my careless Mom. Joanie lost EVERYTHING—expensive bracelets, sweaters, Dad’s paychecks before they could be deposited—once, she accidentally threw away a large wrought-iron wall hanging! That, my friends, is not easy to do!

 

Gotta tell you, Steve’s sad feelings about this vanished symbol of our sacred union meant as much, if not more, to me than the silly ring itself. A ring, I reassured him, is very replaceable, and I’m sure it WILL be replaced. He, and our enduring love, are irreplaceable. 

 

Whatever else I lose track of in this life, let me never forget that.


Our 40th anniversary (2017)








Tuesday, February 20, 2024

A Shambolic Shambala


Himalayas and Tibetan Prayer Flags
(photo by Hannah Luo on Pexels)



Remember the ad for Calgon Bath Oil with the tagline: “Calgon, take me away”? Alas, my bath products rarely respond when I address them, and even if my body wash could speak, I doubt it would lead me to a fabulous island escape.   

Yet an escape is just what I’m after in these very trying times. I envy folks who have picked up stakes and decamped to the south of France or sunny Spain. Oh, sure, they have to contend with language barriers, finding affordable dwelling places, jobs, etc. But I’d endure those challenges and much more, as long as I am far from the dysfunction and lunacy of modern society!! There is dysfunction and lunacy everywhere, you say? Perhaps. But then again… 

There must be an unspoiled corner of the world, somewhere, right? A charmed locale, perhaps on a high mountain, where kindness and goodness reign supreme, and where groceries have actually gone down in price. Tibetan Buddhists call such a magical, mystical place “Shambala” (which author James Hilton wrote as “Shangri-la” in his book, Lost Horizon). There, the sun always shines, there’s a decent healthcare system, and everyone is happyhappyhappy. Shambala is a veritable Heaven on earth. Too bad it doesn’t actually exist.   

Further perusing Ye Olde Dictionary, I came across the word “shambolic,” which sounds awfully darned close to that Buddhist word for paradise, doesn’t it? However, shambolic means “chaotic, messy, and disorganized,” a far cry from the Calgonesque serenity I pictured. It occurs to me that, even if there was a Shambala, and even if I could book a one-way ticket, I would undoubtedly lug along my shambolic ways. Like the European settlers who arrived on our shores bearing the thoughtful gifts of liquor and smallpox for the native peoples who had no tolerance for either, I fear that my arrival would be nothing but bad news for the Shambalans.   

Alas, I carry my burdensome flaws and mistakes with me through life, much as I try to shed them. A change of address would most likely not change ME much. As they say, “wherever you go, there you are.”   

So where is this better world? And how do we keep from screwing it up?  

I just learned about something called ADP (adaptable high beams). These are car headlights designed to precisely illuminate the road ahead at night, without causing the glare that blinds oncoming drivers. Not yet available for most vehicles, at some future point they will be the standard. In other words, our autos’ beams will light up only what we ourselves need to see to drive safely. No one else will be bothered or endangered by our too-bright “brights.” They’ll have their own.  

What if we stopped forcing our “light” on our fellow travelers? What if we trusted our brothers and sisters with their light, their unique journeys? What if the way forward is bright, because of our differences, not in spite of them?   

Welcome to our Shambolic Shambala. Messy. Chaotic. Beautiful. Right here.






Tuesday, February 13, 2024

Slippery Slope



Martha Stewart, eat your heart out!


Many people’s pandemic stories (at least the tales of those of us lucky enough to escape COVID—those who got sick, of course, have the REAL stories) contain certain tropes. These include: Not Touching the Mail for Days, Cleaning the Groceries, Taking Daily Neighborhood Walks, Getting a Dog, Having Tons of Zoom Meetings, Putting on the Pandemic 15 (lbs) and Undertaking Home Improvements. Of these, the only one I missed was “Getting a Dog,” but then, both Rose and Julie adopted rescue pups, so I think I get partial credit. 

Now, nearly four years in, I have stopped doing most of the above activities—I grab my mail as soon as it arrives, plop my un-sanitized bags of food on the counter, Zoom as little as possible, and have cut back sharply on those walks (which may explain why my Pandemic 15 linger). But we are still Undertaking Home Improvements and One Improvement is Leading to the Next, and the Next, ad nauseum. 

 

First, in the summer of 2020, Steve re-finished our back deck, which of course led to new patio furniture and a fire pit. We were ready to have company—outdoors and socially distanced! Mission accomplished? Not so fast!! The interior of our abode was also crying out for attention. The family room paneling, once off-white, had aged to an ugly off-off-greyish-brownish. A new coat of paint worked wonders! But then the living room looked awfully sad by comparison, so it got painted too—which highlighted (highlit?) the shabby, shabby furniture. Out with my mom’s ancient sofa! Begone worn-out wing chairs! In with all brand-new stuff! 

 

Which, naturally, made our poor little kitchen hang its range hood in shame. Arguably the heart of our home, the kitchen had gone un-enhanced for decades (unless you count the appliances that broke and HAD to be replaced). So, just before the holidays, we launched the next phase of Operation Beautify. Luckily, some of my writing income had been set aside for this project, so we hired a professional painter to do the walls and cabinets, and another company to lay the wood laminate floor. It now looks so snazzy (we even have color-coordinated drawer knobs!) that I often just walk in and stand there, staring in wonder and joy at its loveliness. 

 

But then I mosey out to the dining room, where the big wooden table, its finish long worn away, stained with coffee mug rings and traces of magic marker (it’s also the arts and crafts table) sits in silent rebuke. Even the boys are taking notice, and almost nightly now, they mention our dingy eating surface and the urgent need to “fix it.” So that’s next on the agenda.

 

Where does it end? I’m hearing rumbles of discontent from the furniture in the upstairs bedrooms, and angry rattling from our extremely old windows. And I know, once we finally finish the re-do, the deck will start sagging again…

 

It’s a slippery slope, and we’re slipping all. the. way. down. 


                                     Peter and his Baba, down a slippery slope

Tuesday, February 6, 2024

Very Wordy


What do you see?
(Photo by Wolf Zimmermann on Unsplash)


I’m nothing if not randomly ambitious-- my goals are all over the place. While I am consistent in my sports aspirations (zero), I vacillate among these: seeing Thailand (where Rose lived for a year in her teens), baking a perfect croissant (Rose, who has done so, also my inspiration here), backing up my computer files more often, blowing up a balloon (don’t ask), singing again (my once-decent singing voice deserted me long ago), and keeping a houseplant alive for more than a week. See? Pretty scattershot.

Latest ambition? Increasing my Word Power, because, according to Reader’s Digest, It Pays to Do So! To that noble end, I subscribe to several daily emails that each feature a vocab Word o’ the Day. I never know what verbiage will be offered up for my elucidation. Oftentimes, the word is one I either a) already use all the time b) sometimes use or c) at least know how to spell. Those are the times I congratulate me, for utilizing such jewels as malapropism(using the wrong word, i.e. monotonous instead of monogamous), dilatory (slow, delayed) and sibilate (hissing sound). Fun fact: in childhood, I was in speech therapy for a “sibilate s” –otherwise known as a lisp. Fun FACT, mind you—mine was not a fun CHILDHOOD. 

 

But there are some doozies, and I’m challenged to casually toss them into my everyday speech. How does one work mickle (a large amount) and sensu lato (in the broad sense) into your average sentence without coming across as an insufferable snob? “Frankly, sensu lato, I have written mickle since my retirement.” Would you opt to continue a convo with this person? I think not! Therefore, I tend to use the more out-there words sparingly. My buddy Aiden, who enjoys finding out the Daily Word at breakfast every morning, is a big fan of the adjective anfractious (meandering, circuitous), but I think he loves it because it sounds just a teensy bit like a curse word, to a fourth grader “Oh, yeah? Well, you’re just a big anfractious!”

 

I am especially tickled when I finally learn the name of something I was actively wondering about. Who among us hasn’t looked up at the sky on a cloudy day and seen cumulus or nimbus clouds with shapes that reminded them of something or someone? Well, the word for that phenomenon is, according to Merriam-Webster, pareidolia (the tendency to perceive a specific, often meaningful image in a random or ambiguous visual pattern. The scientific explanation for some people is pareidolia, or the human ability to see shapes or make pictures out of randomness. Think of the Rorschach inkblot test.)

 

"Pareidolia" also applies to that slice of toast said to resemble the Virgin Mary (Hail Marmalade!) and that tree stump in the woods, featuring the grumpy puss of Uncle Joe. Pareidolia, friends. IYKYK.

 

Today’s word? Bokeh (referring to the out-of-focus parts of a photo image.) EVERY ONE of my blurry photos? Bokeh-full! Not my incompetent camera work, nope! Artistic choice!



Aiden's recent orchestra concert--I THINK he's in there somewhere


Tuesday, January 30, 2024

In the Fun House

 

Picture facing THAT--and the ball throwers were teenagers!
(photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels)


I recently asked myself, “E, when was the last time you had FUN?” 

 

I gotta tell you, E was stumped. First of all, define fun, right? When I think of my funnest times, I think of watching standup comedy and reading funny books and enjoying funny movies…hmmm, I guess those are not very participatory. Common understandings of “fun” are more along the lines of “running barefoot in the rain,” or “sticking your hands in the air on a roller coaster” or “playing dodge ball on a mission trip” (I actually did this last one, and fun is the last word I’d use to describe this sadistic youth group game, played by hurling a ball at full speed towards someone’s stomach or head).

 

I can’t very well continue down the road of life having zero fun, right? So, I checked and Eureka! I discovered the burgeoning consulting business known as “fun coaching.” Seems folks are paying the big bucks to hire someone who will reconnect them (and/or their office team) with simple childhood joys. Imagine paying a “coach” to teach adults to blow bubbles, to skip rope, to romp! According to my research, one can spend an average of $125 a session (4 sessions minimum!) to re-learn playdoh pummeling, hopscotch, and finger painting. The websites wax rhapsodic about our neglected need to belly laugh, to play with abandon, to channel our inner toddlers.

 

My visual image of these shenanigans? The HR department, clad in office casual, reduced to clapping their hands delightedly as a Jack-in-the-Box pops up. Yippee! 

 

I suppose, for some, “fun” is an alien concept that must be carefully taught, and maybe hiring a fun coach is the way to go. But I think if you have to study fun, you’re missing the whole point—much like repeatedly pinching someone to teach them how to be sad (which might work in a “pinch”—sorry!—if you were applying to be a professional mourner). “Fun” is, I feel, completely subjective (some of the church youth seemed to really enjoy throwing balls at me. Go figure.)

 

Just in case I’m missing out, though, I’m planning to hire my own personal “fun coach." My ideal teacher is 11 months old, spends large chunks of the day chuckling manically over absolutely nothing, and delights in smearing mashed potato in their hair. This happy kid would inspire by example, and would never expect a 67-year-old woman to join in the jolly potato hair massage. No, my fun coach would totally support me doing what I already DO for fun--writing essays, mindlessly surfing the internet, and eating the elaborate, highly caloric desserts I bake, ostensibly for the other people in the house, but really for me. 

 

Best of all, I could probably get away with paying my coach in Peppa Pig stickers.

 

Meanwhile, I’ll get tons of enjoyment watching those trendy “fun coaching” companies gradually fade away, as we all return to our natural feelings of impatience, anger and fear. Back to normal!


Fun Coach Patrick




Tuesday, January 23, 2024

WEIRDEST JOBS YOU WON'T BELIEVE ARE REAL--BUT THEY ARE!


Teaching dogs to surf: actual job
(picture by chandlervid85 on Freepik)


I’ll start with a confession: I'm the person for whom the clickbait title writer writes; the stranger the headline, the more compelled I am to check it out. Combine that with my ongoing search for blog material, and you get posts like today’s gem. Weirdest jobs I won’t believe are real? Yes, please!! As I perused the list, I kept asking myself—how much money would it take for me to agree to DO these jobs? Does Elise have her price? Read on…

 

HAIR BOILER: Curly wigs are made by…boiling the hair! Who knew? Since I have experience trying, as a sixth grader, to straighten my naturally curly locks with the clothes iron, I’d be game to boil hair (as long as it’s not on my head). I do recall the stench of my frizzled mane, though, and wonder how boiled hair smells. For $11/hour, I think I’ll pass.

 

TRAIN PUSHER: This job requires someone willing and able to push as many people as possible onto a crowded train before the doors close. I may not have the upper-body strength for this, plus I’m not ready to move to Japan (where most of the “oshiya”-- train pushers--push.) Earning potential listed as “variable” (I guess you’d get a bonus if no pushee loses a limb). Arigatō, but no.


PET FOOD TASTER: This appetizing pursuit requires actually sampling the food Mittens' owner will be buying. The way I see it, it can’t taste worse than my Nana’s cooking (she of the charred-beyond-recognition roast “meat”). For the right price, I’d probably chow down on some puppy chow. Alas, the salary is quoted as only $45K—not enough moolah, Purina!

 

BICYCLE FISHER: It’s a real thing in the Netherlands, where a number of the 800,000 Dutch bikes end up in one of Amsterdam’s 165 canals. Filling a definite need, and a nice opportunity to get some fresh air and exercise. However, I neither ride a bike nor swim. Too bad, as this one also has “variable” pay (perhaps based on the value of the cycle: you’d get more retrieving a new Audi Sport Racer, say, than a rusted, dented old Schwinn). 

 

SNAKE MILKER: No, reptiles don’t produce milk (if they did, I’m sure the upscale cafes would be pouring it into their specialty Cobra Lattes). Snake milkers collect snake venom, so that antidotes can be developed. Salary here up to $5K/month, which sounds decent until you factor in the potential fatality. Alas, not for me!

 

FORTUNE COOKIE WRITER: Ah!!! Now we’re in business!! I would LOVE this job!!! I have endless ideas for the fortunes already—though it pays an average of $60K annually, I honestly would do this one for free. “You will make it BIG in the movies. Better cut back on buttered popcorn.”  “Move in the direction of your dreams. Turn off TV and go to bed.” 

 

My careers go in 20 year cycles (20 as actor, 20 as church worker, etc), so I predict a “weird” 2042-2062 for me! 



Photo by RDNE Stock Project on Pexels




 

 

 

Wednesday, January 17, 2024

My Love Language

 

Photo by rovenimages on Pexels


Time was, when we talked about “loving," we had a fairly agreed-upon concept in mind. Saint Paul put it thusly to the good people of Corinth, and his wise words have since been repeated in 10 jillion wedding ceremonies, draining them of all meaning:

"Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends."   (1 Corinthians 13 v. 4-8)

I've amended this ever so slightly: 

"Love is patient, as long as loved one gets to the damn point sometime in the next century. Love is kind (of nice), Love is not  envious/boastful/arrogant/rude, unless there are GOOD REASONS to be. Love does not insist on its own way, but if Love's way is correct, of course it does insist. Love is understandably irritable if Love is awakened in the middle of the night by loved one's unbearable snoring (and Love does keep records). Love rejoices in the truth, so long as the truth is that Love is beautiful, bright, funny and generally far superior to all other spouses. Love believes, hopes and endures to a certain extent; Love is not an idiot. Love never ends, except when it does."

There, fixed it for you, Paul!

Well, now, a mere 2000 years later, along comes Dr. Gary Chapman and his bestselling tome, The Five Love Languages™--apparently there is a mere handful of (patented) ways people show their devotion to one another:



 

Hmmm...Acts of Service? My honey bun can show me his love, not by buying me a diamond bracelet, but by lugging the trash can (filled with his trash) to the curb? He can spend his idea of Quality Time with me (watching football) and that counts as affection? As for Words of Affirmation, what woman wouldn't be swept off her feet by a man telling her she does an excellent load of (his) laundry? Then there's Physical Touch: all well and good, but high fives and fist bumps should not count as adequate PDAs. Finally, "Receiving" Gifts. I'm a tad confused--isn't giving gifts the truer sign of love? I mean, when the four year old birthday child grabs the toy that mommy drove all over creation to find, does the grunt accompanying said grab mean "I'm so eternally grateful, mother dear, and I love you"? Convince me!

I believe that Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing, but much of the splendor comes from its myriad expressions. Let's not be so limiting! As for me, I finally found the meme that explained my personal love language better than I ever could...

My love language is cooking elaborate meals screaming at everyone to get out of the kitchen then loudly announcing the food was NOT MY BEST and waiting for compliments.

Hugs and kisses!