Re-boiled.

If you're a parent, you've heard the admonition that you're going to find yourself saying the same things to your children that your parents said to you.  It's hard not to.  After all, we are good students, and those lessons happen at an impressionable age.  And we see ourselves in our children, too, don't we?  Sometimes the resemblance is obvious, and sometimes less so; sometimes it's physical, and sometimes something much deeper than facial features.  Sometimes it's flattering, and there is great joy in those moments.  Sometimes, it's anything but.

Especially when we see the parts of ourselves that we struggle with (or against) emerge in our children.


My son is sort of a perfectionist.  He's been that way as long as I can remember, lining up his vehicles in lines that had to go just so, having a complete meltdown when he doesn't do something exactly right the first time.  His teacher, in a recent conference, said that she noticed this quick frustration (to the point of tears) and it worried her, to see it in a child so young.  We do the best we can to prevent this from becoming a life-long obstacle.  Being encouraging.  Telling him that practice is important.  Assuring him that the mistakes are part of the learning process, and that everyone learns at a difference pace.  

But of course, this is my nature, too.  Having things just so.  Doing everything exactly right.  Never disappointing anyone.  Making everyone happy.  Or if I'm pissing people off, doing so with full knowledge and confidence that it's my intention to do so.  And as much as I try to be reassuring, I confess that sometimes I also respond to the things that make me frustrated by expecting him to be perfect.  Why didn't you get those math problems right? You know the answers.  Why can't you bathe yourself faster?  You're a big boy, you don't need me to supervise you every minute.  And so on.  Just, of course, like my father.

I also see him react out of anger, snapping with a quick temper, rage flaring up and going off like fireworks.  Which is also the way I've reacted to bottled-up anger over the years.  Quiet, quiet, quiet, and then BANG.

It's a scary negotiation, those moments.  Because I step back and see myself with a lens that makes me uncomfortable.

The difference, though, is that I see it, and talk about it, and let him know that I'm not happy with the way I sometimes deal with anger, or disappointment, or frustration.  And we try to talk about how both of us can problem-solve better.  

A few years ago, Brene Brown wrote, in her series about imperfect parenting, about the fact that parenting is a journey that we have to walk with our kids, while also continuing to figure ourselves out.  And in some ways, having kids forces us to figure ourselves out, even if we thought we'd figured out everything already before we started family-building.  (Good for you, by the way, if you have managed to do this.)  We may want to forget about our own flaws, or our own self-work, but we can't focus on our kids without looking a little more deeply at ourselves, too.

The other thing to remember about parenting is that as much as our children do resemble us, they are also, thankfully, their own people, subject to a different set of environmental conditions, and a different co-parent (or even in single-parent homes, different adult role models).  I know that there's hope for my son, because as much as he's a perfectionist, he's also, as my husband might be, perfectly happy with hastily written homework, or half-eaten sandwiches and crumbs on the counter, or pajamas on the floor.  And he's just as apt to walk away from a situation, or let his rage go, as he is to allow it to fester and scream.  Which are good reminders for me, too.

It's sort of like ribollita.  You start with bean soup.  And you cook it forever. And it's really good bean soup.  But then, you stop cooking it, and you throw in some bread, and you cook it all over again, and now it's heartier, and stronger, and more flavorful.  That goes for them, and for us.

I ate a soup like this in a small cafe in Kingston with a friend, at the end of a long weekend training program.  It wasn't quite ribollita, even though it was listed as such on the sandwich board (perfectionist that I am, I wasn't going to point out that they'd left out the beans and the bread).  But it was the sort of thing that had been cooked forever, which is sometimes exactly the kind of soup you want.

What traits did your parents have that you see in yourself?  If you have children, which of your traits, if any, do you see in them?  How has the "reboiling" changed you?

(not exactly) Ribollita

1 T. olive oil
4 stalks of celery, diced  
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 yellow onion, diced
4 sprigs rosemary (2 T. dried)
3 sprigs fresh thyme (2 t. dried)
1 c. white wine
4 yukon gold potatoes, 1/2" cubes
15 oz. can fire roasted tomatoes
15 oz. white beans (optional) 
5 c. vegetable stock 
1 c. water 

1 bunch of kale, stems removed, leaves chopped  

Heat oil in a large stock pot over medium heat.  Add garlic, onions and celery and saute until just fragrant and beginning to become translucent.  Add rosemary and thyme, and stir until fragrant, a minute or two.  Pour in white wine, and reduce heat to medium-low; cook until the vegetables are tender.

Add potatoes and season with fresh ground pepper and sea salt.  Stir to coat.  Add tomatoes, beans (optional), vegetable broth and water and simmer on medium-low heat for 2 1/2 hours (or however long you can stand it), stirring occasionally and adding extra seasoning or water if necessary.

Remove the sprigs of herbs if they haven't disintegrated by now.  Add kale and cook until just tender and wilted, about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.  Enjoy with a crusty white bread and the rest of your bottle of wine.

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Thoughts on Diversity, Understanding, and Justice: Kale and Fennel Salad with Apples and Cinnamon

When I went to graduate school for the first time back in 1995 for a PhD in English, my plan was to study "comparative ethnic literatures of the U.S." -- which meant, to me, studying the creative writing of non-white America, the experiences expressed in fiction and poetry by writers whose voices were less prevalent in the literary canon.  I'd written a thesis on Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston and Alice Walker, because the language of their characters was like subversive music to me.

My own identity was conflicted: I was more or less a white girl with a father from Spain who immigrated to the U.S. via France (as a Jesuit charity boarding school student) and then Cuba, a place he lived for many years and left in order to avoid being executed.  I often checked the box marked "Hispanic" because that was what I'd been advised to do, because my cultural experience at home wasn't like other white families I knew, and because there wasn't really any box I felt could describe me.  I won a fellowship for underrepresented students, and felt guilty because I came from a middle-class family, even if my parents had worked hard to achieve that status.

I can't count the number of graduate school classes in which we engaged in impassioned debate about race, about whether people who could not self-identify as [African American, Black, Latina, Chicano, Korean-American, Asian, etc.] could write with any authority about the literature written by people who could.  We talked about whether people who were white literary critics were co-opting and colonializing literary studies.  And I wondered a lot about where I fit in, and whether I was deluding myself, thinking I could speak not necessarily for these writers and these literatures, but about them.  I wondered, too, whether there were any core elements common in human experience.  If we could ever sit down together and feel like the most important thing was our shared humanity.  I hated those discussions; they always made me feel bad about being, for all intents and purposes, white.

Though I ended up leaving that graduate program, the difficulty of advocacy stuck with me.  That difficulty had dimensions, too: it wasn't just about race, but about sexuality, about anything we couldn't change about ourselves.  How could we ever create a world in which people worked together for peace and justice if we could never fundamentally understand each other?

About ten years ago, I took a trip to South Africa with a group of educators and future teachers.  We were there to visit South African schools, to see the effects of apartheid on the educational system, and to make a contribution to South African education.  And to be honest, the more our hosts talked about difference,  described the ways in which apartheid had fundamentally shaped an unjust and well-entrenched system, and complimented our ability to overcome racism in the U.S., the more I felt like we were the ones who needed to learn something from them.  Because, of course, our racism is a lot more insidious.  A lot less obvious, perhaps, but in that way even more dangerous.

My friend KeAnne wrote a powerful post on Monday in honor of Martin Luther King Day, about how we continue to struggle to deal with difference in this country, in ways that are both transparent and invisible.  (Go read it; I'll wait.)  It got me thinking about my very racist father (his ideas always shocked me, given that he was also, technically, the minority), and about my own actions and beliefs.  About what I would have done in her shoes.  I think I probably would have done the same thing, and maybe I'm naive, but I don't think that it was racist.  Because I'm not sure whether she could have helped bring about change in that neighborhood from within it.  It's a tricky, and delicate, question.

My son and I did our annual viewing of the "I Have a Dream" speech on Monday.  He doesn't understand it all yet, because he's six, and the language is pretty complex, but I try to paraphrase for him as best I can.  I love this part best:

"I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.'
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood. [...]
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."

Sitting down together at the table of brotherhood.  That's really what it's about, isn't it?  Not necessarily being able to live another person's experience, but to know that our destinies are bound up together.  The "salad bowl" metaphor for diversity in the U.S. has given way to other metaphors, and then lack of common metaphors at all.  We are a complicated place, and we don't all mix together easily.  I try to teach my son, and hopefully, one day, my daughter, that there's a lot that is the same about all of us and that the sameness doesn't make the differences any less important.

But here's what I think now, more than a decade after my graduate program days: you don't need to understand someone, exactly, or to have lived their experience, to be willing to listen, to be willing to work for justice, and to talk openly about what justice really means.  You need open eyes and an open heart, and you need to be willing to cultivate trust.  Maybe that's naive, too, but I need to start somewhere.

Kale and Fennel Salad with Apples and Cinnamon
adapted from Cooking Close to Home
I love this salad because it's both mixed and separate, because the flavors both blend and are unique.  It's a good salad to serve beside a warm winter soup.

Dressing
2 T. olive oil
2 T. honey
2 T. cider vinegar
1 t. garlic, minced
1/4 t. cinnamon

Salad
1/2 c. fennel, julienne
1/2 c. apple, julienne
1/2 c. carrots, julienne
1/4 c. red onion, julienne
1 1/2 c. kale, very finely chopped
a handful of toasted pumpkin seeds

Blend dressing ingredients together using an immersion blender (great for emulsifying) or a whisk.  Set aside.

Combined julienned ingredients in a large bowl and toss with dressing.

Evenly divide the kale among the serving plates, and top with mixed vegetables and fruit (this is also a fun job for the almost two-year-old).  Sprinkle with toasted pumpkin seeds.

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On the Boycott of Playdates, and Raw Broccoli Salad

When I was little, we lived in a neighborhood in which there were always kids within walking distance.  Two sisters my age lived across the street.  A family with three girls lived up the block.  Two little boys my brother's age lived around the block.  And while I wasn't around much after school because my parents were both teachers and we spent a good chunk of the afternoon commuting, it was still nice to know that if I was bored, all I had to do was go ring their doorbell.

As I got older, and was entrusted to go a little farther on my own, I had a friend who lived two streets away, and I'd ride my bike to her house, where we would spend long afternoons pretending in her attic.  And finally, when I got to high school, I'd head by bike to a friend's house two towns and several miles away.

I know that this is a different time and age than the one in which I grew up.  But there are some things that I don't know if we need to give up just yet.  Like the impromptu doorbell-ring.

There are some neighborhoods where this is not possible, for a host of reasons.  The houses are too far apart.  There aren't enough similarly-aged children in the neighborhood.  You folks get a pass.

And there are some neighborhoods where the impromptu doorbell-ring (or simply entering with a passel of friends without the extra step of ringing) is alive and well.  You folks aren't the people I'm talking about here, either.

We live on a street with no fewer than five boys and girls who are I's age.  There are also three children N's age.  And yet, hardly ever does anyone ring the doorbell.  Instead, we organize elaborate playdates, mostly with children who don't even live on our block.

My son and I were talking about this one night, after I'd put him to bed.  About how I dislike the word "playdate," because it feels so contrived.  Like our toddlers need iPhones from birth, scheduling their play and organizing their relationships.  And how the arrangement feels exclusive to me; once you've committed to a "playdate" with one friend, you can't add a third random friend to the mix, who happens to ring the doorbell.


Partially as a follow-up to the conversation, the next morning, on a Saturday, I sent I. up the block to his friend's house to ring the doorbell, with instructions that upon the door opening, he was to invite said friend over to our house to play.  "But what if they're not home?" he worried.

"Then come home," I answered.

"What if he doesn't want to come over here, and what if he asks me to go there?" he asked.

"Then ask to use the phone, and call us to tell us that you're going to stay," I said.  "That's fine with me, as long as I know where you are.  And I'll tell you when we'll come pick you up."

"What if he doesn't want to play?"

"Then tell him thanks anyway, and tell him that you'll see him later, and come home."

He seemed satisfied with this, and skipped up the street.  It turned out that his friend's mom wasn't able to open the door, but she called later to bring the friend over to play for a while.  My son was thrilled.

Even as adults, we seem to tiptoe around each others' lives.  We don't call up friends without a reason any more, because Facebook takes care of our quick check-ins.  We don't drop by randomly for a cup of coffee, at least, most of us I know don't.  Or I don't.  And I feel like it's a dying art, the art of the unexpected visit, the art of intrusive friendship.  I feel like it's an art my children need to learn, if they're going to learn to notice people, and care about them, even when those people don't tell them that they need to be cared about.

So I've decided that for now, I'm going to boycott playdates.  I'm going to randomly call up my friends and ask if they want to come play [*edited later to add: with as much acknowledgement of work schedules as possible, and understanding when people have prior commitments!].  I'm going to send my children to ring doorbells, and interrupt our over-scheduled lives.  I'm going to welcome people to my house if they come calling, and always have something I can throw together and offer up as a light lunch.  Because sometimes the most fulfilling moments are the ones we never put on the calendar in the first place.

Do you -- or your children, if you have them -- ring doorbells?  Or do you tend to make plans to see friends?

Broccoli and Kohlrabi Salad
I've been thinking about this salad as an antidote to all of the unhealthy eating from the holidays, and with a crusty loaf of bread, it's a perfect throw-together kind of meal that's fancy enough to offer a guest.  Kohrabi is cool-weather vegetable, and one of the first and last things that we get in our CSA shares.  If you're looking through seed catalogues yet, as we often do here in the midwinter, it might be something to add to your order.

1 head broccoli, stems removed and cut into florets
1 c. kohlrabi, finely chopped
1/2 c. golden raisins
1/2 c. sunflower seeds
1 avocado, peeled and pitted
3 T. lemon juice
3 T. orange juice
2 T. lime juice
2 T. apple cider vinegar
1 T. agave
3 T. oil of your choice
6-7 chive blossoms (you may not have these right now, so you can always use a scallion or two, but the chive blossoms are really lovely and light)

Toss together broccoli, kohlrabi, raisins, and seeds.  In a blender, blend remaining ingredients.  Pour over vegetables.

Break apart chive blossoms into small bits and scatter over the salad.

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Difference at the Table: Moroccan Root Vegetable Stew

Despite my love of the harvest, and the falling leaves, and the apples and squash, and even the raking, I don't love November.

It's something about the darkening sky, the full-tilt rush towards Christmas and the pressure to give extravagant gifts, the starches of the Thanksgiving meal, the conversations I'm doomed to have around our Thanksgiving table.

World War Three, the Passive Aggressive version, came early this year.  With my mother's fall down her stairs, and her move to our house for her recovery, we've been dancing around difficult conversations for weeks now, me sometimes biting my tongue, and sometimes not.  Imagine Thanksgiving, with all of its family land mines, stretching out for three, then four, then five weeks, and you'll get some sense of what it has been like around here.

Reflecting on the difficult topic of religious pluralism in church this week, our minister reminded us of another meal that wasn't exactly the most congenial of meetings.

Edward Winslow wrote, in a letter dated December 12, 1621:

Our corn [i.e. wheat] did prove well, and God be praised, we had a good increase of Indian corn, and our barley indifferent good, but our peas not worth the gathering, for we feared they were too late sown.  They came up very well, and blossomed, but the sun parched them in the blossom.  Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors.  They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week.  At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor, and upon the captain and others.  And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.

Can you imagine?  The Pilgrims had invited Massosoit to sign a peace treaty, and spent three days eating with ninety surprise guests with whom they couldn't communicate (except through Squanto), warriors who were bearing arms, not really sure whether they were going to be killed.  And you thought your Thanksgiving table conversation was a little tense?  Not that I am entirely sympathetic with the colonists, but it sort of puts things in perspective, doesn't it?  At least we're not armed.  And the one thing I've noticed is that over time, even if the conversations are still difficult, they've become less charged, as if time has diffused them, just a little bit.  Maybe we are figuring each other out, even if that understanding doesn't make us best friends.

Much has changed since 1621; though we haven't entirely abandoned our "roots," there's a lot on our Thanksgiving tables that is hardly "traditional" fare.  This dish is a nod to those early settlers and to their native American guests at the table, a stew made with traditional root vegetables, most of which actually were around for that first Thanksgiving (no potatoes, since they hadn't yet made their way across the Atlantic).  It's a perfect example of the meeting of cultures, American vegetables fused with the flavors of the Middle East.  Even if peace may be hard to imagine, perhaps at least we can appreciate the result of the marriage of flavors, knowing that the longer we sit around the table together, the more likely it is we'll at least achieve some kind of understanding, if not agreement.  And we can give thanks for that.

What--and who--will be at your Thanksgiving table this year?  What do your Thanksgiving roots look like?

Moroccan-Style Chicken and Root Vegetable Stew

4 c. canned low-salt chicken broth
1 T.olive oil
1 lb boneless skinless chicken
1 1/2 c. onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
2 t. garam masala
2 t. ground cumin
1 cinnamon stick
2 c. sweet potatoes, peeled, 1/2" cubes
2 c. parsnips (I used kohlrabi, because I had one) peeled, 1/2" pieces
1 1/2 c. turnips, peeled, 1/2" pieces 
1 large carrot cut in 1/2" pieces
1 c.  rutabaga, peeled, 1/2"pieces
1/4 c. golden raisins or apricots (chopped)1 14-oz can fire roasted diced tomatoes, drained
Juice and zest from one lemon

In a small pot, bring chicken broth to a boil, continue to boil until reduced by half, then set aside.

Heat oil in heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Sprinkle chicken with salt and pepper. Sauté chicken for about a minute until light golden and remove from pot; set aside.

Add onion to pot and sauté until golden and translucent, about 4 minutes. Add garlic and stir 1 minute. Add spices and stir 30 seconds until just fragrant. Add sweet potatoes, parsnips (kohlrabi), turnips, carrot, rutabaga, broth and currants. Cover and simmer until vegetables are tender, about 20 minutes. Add tomatoes, lemon zest with juice, and chicken, and simmer over medium heat about 5 minutes, or until chicken is thoroughly cooked. Sprinkle with cilantro if desired.

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Stranded: Chicken Pot Pie Soup

Noon on a rainy Tuesday.  The towtruck pulled up in front of my neighbor's driveway and began to slide the bed back, inclining it to the ground.  N. heard the commotion and went running to the door, pressing her face to the glass, where her breath made frosty marks around her small nose.

I'd been expecting the truck; my neighbor told me the other day, in her matter-of-fact way, that the van was going to be towed.  My neighbor is almost ninety, and the van has been uncooperative for a long time; finally, it rusted out completely underneath, leavings its entrails exposed to the elements.  But uncooperative as the van may have been, it was the symbolic representation of her independence.  It was her escape.  To the Amish market.  To the salon.  To the doctor's office.  To wherever she needed to go, by herself.

As I watched her from our doorway, standing on her own porch, I tried to imagine the thoughts in her head.  About borrowing her daughter's car.  About juggling rides.  About not going places.  About having to ask for help.

She stood there for a long time, stoic, half inside, half outside, newly coiffed with an auburn bouffant.  There were no tears; it was as if she was standing watch to make sure it all went right, rather than offering her last goodbye.  Finally, as the driver loaded the van onto the truck, she closed the door.  Perhaps she could take no more.

I believe that part of what has kept her and her husband alive and healthy for so long is their sense of independence, their sense of freedom. I can only imagine how difficult it was for her to give up that freedom.  She was, effectively, stranding herself.

My mother is also now stranded here.  She has no car, no friends, no lunch dates, not even 24 hour access to the Food Network, because we have no TV, much less cable.  She is in some pain; she can walk from room to room, but prefers not to move from standing to sitting positions more often than she has to.  She has to ask for help, and it's as if she doesn't quite know how; she doesn't want to be a burden, and yet sometimes not knowing how to help her is more burdensome than a simple request.  Today I helped her wash her hair in the sink, and take a sponge bath, and felt an awkward intimacy, almost like I was intruding.  These are things I do for my children.

This is a difficult negotiation for us.  There were times, as an adult, when I wanted her to be there, to support me, to tend to me, and she wasn't.  At least, not in the way I wanted her to be.  And I couldn't ask her to be, because that is not the person she is.  And yet now, I find myself in the position of caretaker.  Feeling like I ought not to be feeling sorry for myself, because she is the one in pain.

In her 2001 book Bodhichitta, Pema Chodron writes

"Bodhichitta is [...] equated, in part, with compassion—our ability to feel the pain that we share with others. Without realizing it we continually shield ourselves from this pain because it scares us. We put up protective walls made of opinions, prejudices and strategies, barriers that are built on a deep fear of being hurt. These walls are further fortified by emotions of all kinds: anger, craving, indifference, jealousy and envy, arrogance and pride. But fortunately for us, the soft spot—our innate ability to love and to care about things—is like a crack in these walls we erect. It's a natural opening in the barriers we create when we're afraid. With practice we can learn to find this opening. We can learn to seize that vulnerable moment—love, gratitude, loneliness, embarrassment, inadequacy—to awaken bodhichitta."

The soft spot.  Our innate ability to love.  The crack in my wall.  Maybe this is the moment that Pema would call the "teacher."

There is more soup on the menu this week.  The sort of soup my mother would like.  Because when you're stranded, at least you ought to have something you like to eat.

Chicken Pot Pie Soup
adapted from no, 2 pencil

2 T. butter
1 medium onion, diced
2 stalks of celery, diced
1 large carrot, diced
2 T. flour
2 t. sage
1 t. thyme
6 c. chicken stock - plus additional to thin if soup is very thick
3 c. shredded and 1 c. diced potatoes
4 c. cooked, diced or shredded chicken
1/2 c. evaporated milk (or heavy cream)
1 cup of frozen peas

Melt butter in a large pot over medium heat.  Add onions, carrots and celery and saute until softened. Add flour; stir well and cook about one minute more. Add herbs and chicken stock, increase heat to medium high. Once chicken stock begins to simmer, add potatoes and let simmer for about 15 minutes, or until potatoes begin to break down and thicken soup. Add chicken and let simmer until heated through, then add milk and peas and let simmer about 5 more minutes.

Add salt and pepper to taste, and adjust consistency of soup with additional chicken stock if needed.

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On Freecycling, and Healthy Pumpkin Pie Dip

I am the first to admit it: I have my father's frugal genes.

I hate being in debt.  I like a good bargain.  But I'm not a coupon shopper; rather than buying something at a discount, I will talk myself out of needing it or wanting it at all.  My husband often jokes that our relationship defies traditional gender conventions: he urges me to go buy myself some clothes, and I urge him to go buy a motorcycle.

The effects of my genes are further complicated--or perhaps even amplified--by a borderline obsessive desire to reduce, reuse, and recycle.  I'm the person who digs plastic bottles and toilet paper rolls from the garbage.  I save tissue paper and bags and ribbons from presents, to use again.  I write on the back of my shopping lists.

Which is why I love Freecycle.

If you've never Freecycled before, it works like this: you join a group in your region (a town, a county, even a workplace) where people post classifieds divided into three categories: OFFER, WANTED, and TAKEN.  The categories are self-explanatory.  People who want to give something away post it as an "offer."  Interested people contact the poster anonymously through the site.  The poster responds to the Freecycler of choice (usually the first one to claim the item) with information about location for pickup, and the Freecycler goes to pick up said item.  Quite often the item is left on the porch or in a mailbox or on a doorstep.  Sometimes the items are small: holiday decorations, lamps, salt and pepper shakers, DVDs.  Sometimes the items are large: exercise equipment, laptop computers, etc.

Though I already have standing arrangements to pass down my kids' clothing, I've been Freecycling a lot more lately, trying to find homes for things we don't need (we recently gave away N's pack and play, and crib, and some toys, for example), and trying to find things I do need that others might not.  And one of the things I could use are some new fall/winter clothes.

Don't get me wrong.  We are not impoverished, and my husband has encouraged me to go shopping.  He doesn't understand my fascination with, as he puts it, "clothes you find on the side of the road."  I joke that at least I haven't yet found a dress at the dump, as his aunt did for her daughter's wedding.  But I'm also aware that I'm not currently adding income to our household, and I hate buying something new that would be perfectly good used.

So I jumped when I saw the post.

OFFER: Large bag of women's clothes.  Most size M and some S.  Tank tops, long sleeved shirts, pants, shorts, a few gym clothes.

It was in a town about 15 minutes' drive away.  Totally doable.  I emailed the poster and said I'd be happy to come by if she didn't have any takers yet.  To my delight, she informed me that I "won," and that she'd leave the bag outside for me.

After I put the kids to bed, I left S. holding down the fort, and ventured out.  The house wasn't too hard to find, though it was dark, and I walked up to the door, squinting to see if I could locate said bag.  In the dim light, I made it out, sitting on a chair.  Much larger than I'd imagined.  And, picking it up, I thought, heavier, too.  WOW!

I drove home on winding country roads, listening to the radio, enjoying the crisp fall air, feeling extremely satisfied with myself, looking forward to the surprise of unpacking the bag.

And I was not disappointed; it was like Christmas!  What great taste this woman had!  What perfect colors!  I began to sort things into piles of "RIGHT SIZE" and "NO WAY IN HELL CAN I WEAR THIS," already thinking about how I was going to keep the cycle going with the second category. Wouldn't it be great to bring some of these to the next women's clothing swap at church?  Small, medium.  Small.  Small.  Medium, but ... er, nope, that doesn't fit.  Small.  Medium that really ought to be marked as small.  Medium that is skin-tight.  Suddenly the "NO WAY IN HELL" pile was much larger than the "RIGHT SIZE" pile.  And then, it had only two things in it.  Well, shit.  So much for Christmas.


I frowned, poking and prodding at my belly, which is a bit doughier than it used to be.  I still love Freecycle, though.  At least I'll have some great things to bring to the next clothing swap.

Maybe I'd better lay off the cake and eat more of this.

Healthy Pumpkin Pie Dip
Remember that really bad-for-you dip with the cream cheese and powdered sugar?  Try this instead.  Much more satisfying, and absolutely good for you.

1 c. canned or fresh pureed pumpkin
1 c. plain nonfat greek yogurt (vegans can also use coconut greek yogurt here)
1/2 t. to 1 t. cinnamon
1/2 t. to 1 t. ginger
dash nutmeg
sweetener of choice: a few drops of stevia, a squirt of honey or agave
apples for dipping (though you can also use graham crackers or animal crackers or gingersnaps)

Stir together all of the ingredients except the apples.

Add spice and sweetener as necessary.  Serve with apples to dip.

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Neighbors: Peach Upside Down Cake

When I was growing up, there was a petite Italian lady named Mrs. B. who lived across the street from our house.  She was well into her eighties, but she was a spry, feisty little thing.  Despite her fairly constant claims of heart palpitations, telling us she "felt nervous" about one thing or another, we'd see her out sweeping her sidewalk almost daily in the summer, and raking endlessly in the fall, when her towering maple seemed to catch fire before it would drop its leaves.  In the winter, she would don her plastic bonnet with its chin-tie, and shovel herself out in the middle of a Nor'easter.  She drove her cream-colored Oldsmobile Cutlass long past the time when she probably should have stopped driving, giving us a near-heart attack every time we saw her backing out of her garage.  She had an opinion about everything, and she was quite eager to express it, motioning us close so she could stage-whisper conspiringly in our ears, shaking her head and wringing her hands at the absurdity of whatever happened to be the subject of the day.  Though we sometimes joked that she was the neighborhood busybody, she was also, admittedly, an effective one-woman Neighborhood Watch: she would peek out from between the Venetian blinds periodically when something was happening outside, and if she was concerned (which was more often than not), she'd give us a call.  We felt completely confident leaving our house on vacation, knowing that she would look after it for us.

As she got older, she would often come over to ask us for a favor: help her back out of the garage, help her lift something heavy, help her to reach something by climbing up a ladder.  Most times, when we'd do something for her, we could expect a cake to appear within the next few days.  We would joke about that, too, ask each other when the cake was coming if we thought we'd done something important.  But really, it was a generous gesture, and the most genuine way, for her, to properly express gratitude.

When we moved into our current house, I had pretty low expectations of my neighbors.  Besides Mrs. B., I'd had few experiences of close relationships with the people who lived next to us.  So I was pleasantly surprised when our neighbors began to become friends.

On one side of us lives a couple who is now in their nineties, an old farmer and vet whose wife reminds me a great deal of Mrs. B., armed year-round with her broom and her sharp tongue.  They brought food when our children were born and remember them every birthday and holiday, they lend us things like eggs and garden tools, they look after our house.  We shovel them out in the winter, help them with small maintenance tasks, and take an interest in their lives.  My husband often sits out on their porch in the evenings with Mr. H., drinking a beer with him and listening to him talk about his years in the war.

On the other side of us lived a woman who was the director of our county's domestic violence agency.  She had two older children, but adopted us soon after we moved in: she brought me chicken soup when I was sick, came over with tea to tend to me during the worst of my miscarriages, took in our trash cans, worried over us during visits from our parents, wrote love notes and gave gifts to our children.  We baked her birthday cupcakes, shoveled her out in the winter, lent her eggs, listened to her when she needed a convenient ear, and finally, hearts heavy, helped her to sort out her belongings to get rid of some before her move to the West Coast.

Our new neighbor, who moved in when she left, is different: still neighborly, as my husband described him, but not a friend.  He waves and makes polite conversation with us when we see him.  He bought lemonade when our son was selling it from our driveway.  He is still someone who we'd be willing to let borrow our hose and ladder, but not, perhaps, someone who would remember our birthdays, or pick up my son in a bear hug, or take care of us when we're sick, or come over for a lazy beer and talk after the kids go to bed.  He often makes a point of telling me how hard he's working (on his house and elsewhere), as if suggesting that I'm somehow not.  The other day when I was outside, he asked me where I. was, and, learning he was at camp, asked if there weren't other kids in the neighborhood he could play with if he'd been home.  I felt like he was criticizing me, but I didn't feel like telling him it was none of his business, nor did I feel like explaining to him about my job limbo, about what it's like to have two kids who are far apart in age and stage of development spend every waking moment together.  He's just not the kind of person I feel I can confide in.  After having such fabulous neighbors for seven years, I have to keep reminding myself that just because my neighbor isn't my best friend doesn't mean he's not a good neighbor.

***

There's been a lot of discussion around my little corner of the blogosphere lately about what makes a good member of the blogging "community."  For me, it's a lot like remembering that there are different kinds of neighbors.  Though we all live on the same block, our relationships can be very different.  Some of them we hold at arms' length, borrowing eggs and garden tools, waving when we see them outside.  Some of them come over for tea, take care of us when we are sick, remember our birthdays, become our friends.  Some of them argue with us about the fences between our properties.  And some of them watch over our houses from behind the venetian blinds, keeping us safe, and occasionally bringing us cake.

What kind of neighbors do you have?

Peach Upside Down Cake
adapted from Fatfree Vegan Kitchen
One of the cakes my neighbor Mrs. B. was known for was her pineapple upside down cake.  I had a peach version the other night that reminded me of her.  The one I'm posting here today is probably healthier for you than hers was, but it's still baked with love.

Dry ingredients:
1 1/2 c. unbleached white flour
2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. cinnamon
1/2 c. sugar
1/8 t. salt

Liquid ingredients:
1 c. vanilla soy milk mixed with 1 t. lemon juice
1/2 t. vanilla extract
1 t. lemon zest

4 c. peeled and sliced peaches (about 4 peaches)
1/2 c. brown sugar, divided (2 T. and 6 T.)
6 T.  cup natural, raw or brown sugar
2 T. water

Preheat oven to 350F.

Combine the dry ingredients in a medium bowl. Combine the liquid ingredients separately. Set aside without mixing them together.

Combine the peaches with the 2 T. of sugar. Wipe or spray a 10-inch, well-seasoned cast iron skillet with oil. Begin heating it and add 6 T. sugar and the water. Heat and stir until the sugar is completely melted and the mixture is bubbly and slightly reduced (but be careful not to burn it). Place the peaches on top of the sugar and remove from heat.

Add the liquid ingredients to the dry, stirring briefly, just to moisten. Pour the batter over the peaches, covering them entirely. Bake until the sides of the cake pull away from the edges of the pan and a toothpick comes out clean (about 30-40 minutes).

Allow the cake to cool in the pan for about 15-30 minutes, and then run a knife around the edges of the cake to loosen it from the pan. Place a large plate or serving platter over the top and invert the skillet. Remove the skillet carefully from the cake, and sprinkle, if desired, with a little bit of extra cinnamon.

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Aloo Baingan and the Art of Efficiency

I pride myself on efficiency.  When I had boring jobs back in high school and college like stuffing envelopes, I would spend the first few minutes figuring out how I could optimize envelope and paper placement so that I could move at the fastest speed.  When I'm cooking, I tend to try to do as many things at the same time as I can, stirring two pots with two spoons at the same time, doing dishes while something is simmering.

Which is why I had such a hard time in graduate school figuring out why I simply couldn't get it all done.  I found out later that no one else was actually doing all of the assigned reading, so my whole efficiency approach was shot to hell; it wasn't physically possible to do all of the reading.

Post-BlogHer, I made a commitment to myself to be more active in social media.  I already comment as much as I can on other people's blogs, especially if I know that that person is reading this blog (with apologies to WordPress people whose blogs don't always show up in my reader).  I have a Pinterest account where I pin beautiful food that I publish here and that I find elsewhere.  I created a Facebook account for this blog so please go make my day and like me there, and I've made more connections on Twitter (tweet me!).  Part of my previous reluctance was an attempt to keep my "real" identity separate from my blog identity; I think I've finally given up on that semi-anonymity.  So now I'm trying to keep up with all of it.

I still haven't figure out yet, though, how to be efficient about all of it.  Reading and commenting take up a lot of time.  And then reading Facebook.  Forget the Twitter feed, which is gone instantaneously if you're not watching it scroll by on your phone, or managing it on Tweetdeck, and if you follow a few people who post things every thirty seconds.

The efficient perfectionist in me hates this.  I keep thinking, there must be an easier way.

The SITS Girls tweeted on Thursday, asking tweeps what advice they'd give a new blogger.  I replied, "Build a supportive community by being a supportive community member."

But what does that mean?  How do you keep up with the social media maelstrom, especially if you want to engage people in meaningful conversation?

One place I love to be efficient is in the use of our CSA veggies.  When I can find a recipe that combines several vegetables from the share for dinner, I feel like I've conquered the box.  Here's one we ate this week.

Aloo Baingan
(adapted from here)

1 T. olive oil
1 medium eggplant, cut in half lengthwise, then cubed in 1/2" pieces
1/4 c. water
4 medium tomatoes, chopped
salt and pepper to taste

2 T. olive oil
1 t. mustard seeds
1 t. cumin seeds
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 1/2 t. grated ginger
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 large red bell pepper, seeded and cut into rings (1/2" thick)
4 medium potatoes, peeled and cut into 4 wedges (you can also cut them into cubes)
2 c. water

1 t. coriander powder
1 t. curry powder
1/2 t. garam masala
1/4 t. turmeric

Heat 1 T. oil in a non-stick pan on medium. Add the eggplant, a little salt and cook for a few minutes on both sides until it turns slightly dark and starts to soften. Add tomatoes, water, season with salt and pepper and cook covered for a few minutes until the fresh tomatoes are soft.  Set aside.

Heat 2 T. oil in a pan on medium. Add the mustard and cumin seeds, cover and let them splatter. Add garlic and ginger and sauté for a few minutes until fragrant. Add the onion, a pinch of salt to help it soften faster, and cook covered for a few minutes, stirring occasionally.

Add the red pepper rings and sauté for a few minutes. Add the potato wedges and cook covered for another few minutes, turning them around from time to time. Finally add the water, enough to almost cover the potatoes, the spices and cook covered for 10-15 minutes until the potatoes are tender but not easily breakable and the liquid has reduced.

Add the eggplant/tomato gravy and cook together for a further 10 minutes. Taste and add more salt if needed. If the curry is thick enough, keep the lid on for the last minutes. If it's still liquidy, keep it uncovered until it has the right consistency.

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A House of Compromise: Napa Cabbage Salad

I might as well confess this: my husband is a Republican.  In case you haven't been reading for very long, and didn't notice my political stripes ... well, let's just say I'm not a Republican.  Luckily we agree on the important ideological issues (at least, the ones I think are important), and disagree when it comes to issues of government size and fiscal responsibility.  It works for us.

As you found out in his guest post, my husband is an engineer.  He sees things with a scientific, rational, logical mind.  Me?  I was an English major, a Psychology minor, and got my doctoral degree in the Sociology and Philosophy of Education, heavy on the Philosophy.  I see things through the lens of metaphor, I am more likely to be emotional even when I'm being rational, and I am drawn to ideas about culture.  The difference offers us balance, most of the time, like when I want to cry about laundry detergent.  (Maybe sometime I will tell you that story, but not today.)

My husband is a carnivore.  He would be perfectly happy with a meal of hot dogs and mashed potatoes.  In fact, Thanksgiving at our house falls just short of a world war every year because though I am not exactly a vegetarian, I often eat that way, and I am the lone voice protesting the preponderance of starch and animal protein.  (A meal of sugar and fat, though?  Oh, ho!  Not a problem.)

Unlike most of our differences, which are completely surmountable or even useful, this last difference presents a challenge given that the CSA share is ... well ... full of vegetables.  And not just the flexible jack-of-all-trades vegetables like zucchini and tomatoes, but things like napa cabbage.  And eggplant.  And tomatillos.  I am way too lazy to make stuffed cabbage, and the idea of a whole head of cabbage worth of stuffed cabbage makes me a little weak in the knees.  I have eaten more baba ghanouj this summer than I thought possible, because everyone else who lives here thinks that eggplant is slimy.  And will someone please tell me what people do with tomatillos besides make salsa, or throw them in stew, which I really would prefer not to do when it's ninety degrees out?

I love my CSA.  LOVE, love my CSA.  But this is tricky business.

I remember having long conversations with a former colleague about her split household, and how she managed, as a vegetarian, to cook for herself and her vegetable-hating husband (not that my husband hates vegetables ... he just doesn't love them like I do).  At the time, they seemed like perfectly reasonable solutions: add beans to one half the meal, meat to the other.  But sometimes, like when you have a cabbage to contend with, it works less well.

You can, however, take a deep breath, compromise a little, and present your husband with a rack of ribs to grill as an enticement to eat said cabbage.  Which is exactly what I did.

Napa Cabbage Salad with Red Bell Pepper, Cilantro, Almonds, and Dijon-Ginger Dressing
(Adapted from Kalyn's Kitchen)

1 medium head napa cabbage, chopped (about 5-6 cups chopped cabbage)
1 red bell pepper, very thinly sliced into same-length slices
1/3 c. thinly sliced green onion
1/2 c. chopped cilantro
1/3 c. chopped almonds, toasted (or roasted, salted)

Dressing:
2 T rice vinegar
2 tsp. grated ginger root
2 tsp. Dijon mustard
3/4 tsp. sesame oil
1 T. agave nectar or 2 t. honey
salt and fresh-ground black pepper to taste
3 T. light olive oil

Stir together the rice vinegar, grated ginger, Dijon mustard, sesame oil, agave nectar/honey, salt, and pepper, then whisk in the oil one tablespoon at a time.  Set aside and allow flavors to mingle.

Toss together the chopped napa cabbage, red bell pepper, green onions, and chopped cilantro in a medium-sized salad bowl.  Add desired amount dressing and toss to coat the salad.  Place in salad bowls and top each serving with chopped almonds.  Serve and eat immediately, since the cabbage will begin to wilt in the refrigerator.

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The Politics of Chick(e)n

So I wasn't going to post about the whole Chick-Fil-A debacle.  I don't eat much chicken, anyway.  Or much meat at all, to be honest.  But the Muppets keep showing up in my FB feed, and after my homage to Kermit in yesterday's post, I'm taking it as a sign.

First, let me make sure you understand my lens on this: I'm a Unitarian Universalist (UU).  Which means I subscribe to seven principles and take my wisdom from six sources, including Jewish and Christian teachings about love.  I'd be that way if I weren't UU, too, but UUism helps me to name what I believe.  And I am pro-gay marriage.

I've known since I was a kid that something was different about Chick-Fil-A.  I think my mother was the one who told me that they closed on Sundays, though that didn't matter where I grew up because of the blue laws that closed the entire mall on Sundays anyway.  I knew that it was a business owned by a particular group of Christians (not to be confused with Catholics, according to my very-Old-World-Catholic father, and at that point I didn't really understand the difference between Baptists and Lutherans and Presbyterians and other sects), who really believed that the seventh day was for rest.  Honestly, I never gave their politics much thought.  It stands to reason, though, that the values of Chick-Fil-A's Baptist leader would align with the majority of established Baptist congregations in this country.

Where this begins to get tricky for people, so it seems, is drawing the line between the beliefs and actions of an individual--who happens to be a business leader--and the product of his organization.  The Muppets say you can't separate the two.  Others say you can.

I guess what it comes down to for me is that an individual with a particular belief system, who chooses to use the profits from my chicken sandwich to support organizations that I would not choose to support, may be a little less offensive on the scale of business-antiheroes than, say, a company that overtly discriminates in its hiring practices, or creates a hostile environment for employees and customers.  But if I know that my money is, in the end, going to support organizations that don't represent my beliefs, then I feel that I have the responsibility to act on that knowledge.  Maybe that's where Kermit is coming from, too.

Now, as KeAnne points out (in her fabulously written post on the subject, which you should go read RIGHT NOW), there are a lot of other companies out there, and a lot of other politics to wade through.  Sure, Haagen Dasz seems pretty harmless.  And ice cream is always a good alternative lunch.  But if I go digging deeply enough, what will I find?

This isn't the first time I've had to come to terms with the thorny problem of putting my money where my mouth, and head, and hands, and heart are.  (That is, assuming I'm ever faced with the unlikely situation that Chick-Fil-A is a real meal option.)  And I'm sure it won't be the last.  I would love to say that every time I make a purchase of goods or services, I know exactly where my money goes.  But the truth of the matter is for the most part, I really have no idea.  We get hand-me-downs for the kids when we can, and I'm not about to turn them away because they were made abroad in a factory where unfair and even unsavory labor practices prevail.  Though I cook most of our meals from scratch, and can get local eggs and butter and honey, I use things like sugar and flour and other pantry staples that come from large companies whose profits could be spent in all kinds of unsavory ways.  There are two problems here: one of them is that the chain of commerce is infinite, that even if I know about official company policy, I can't ever hope to track the expenditures of every employee (sort of along the lines of my MckMama post, there does seem to be a point at which a private person's life is just that: private); the second is my own lack of time to do even the most basic research in the first place.  And I'm clearly not alone: why did it take so long for people to put two and two together to figure out where Chick-Fil-A's leadership stood on the promotion of the "Biblical definition of the family unit" (Dan Cathy's words, not mine)?  Unfortunately, in the end, I suspect that time--of more correctly, lack of time--will often make my decisions for me.  It does now.

Still, in the case of Chick-Fil-A: my research has been done for me.  And as a supporter of gay marriage rights, I can't support a business that nurtures other anti-gay marriage organizations like WinShape.  So Chick-Fil-A can continue to serve up its patties.  And if, in this mostly-vegetarian household, I get a craving for chicken, I'll continue to make my own souvlaki.  (Which, if you're really not into chicken, would also be tasty when made with some hearty mushrooms.)

How about you?  How do you make decisions about companies to support with your business?

Souvlaki with tzatziki is the perfect way to use up all of those summer squash and cucumbers now filling your CSA boxes and farmers' market stalls, for those of you in the northern hemisphere.   Southern hemisphere residents: your time will come soon enough.

Tzatziki

1 c. Greek yogurt
1 cucumber, shredded, squeeze out excess water with hand
2 T. fresh lemon juice
1/2 t, salt
1 garlic clove, minced

Combine all ingredients together and stir well.

Souvlaki

6 T. fresh lemon juice
1 T. fresh oregano (or 1 t. dried)
4 t. olive oil
1 t. salt
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 lb. skinless, boneless chicken breasts, cut into 1” pieces (vegetarians can use portobello mushrooms)
2 zucchinis or other summer squash, cut into 1” chunks, halved if large
cooking spray or olive oil
pita bread (I used whole wheat)

Combine lemon juice, oregano, olive oil, salt, and garlic in a bowl. Add chicken pieces and coat well. Marinate in refrigerator for 30 minutes, turning once.  Remove chicken from bowl; discard marinade.

Light your grill and set it to medium, if you have some control over it.  Thread chicken and zucchini alternately on metal skewers (or wooden if you don't have metal ones, but makes sure you soak wooden skewers well in water first).  Spray grill with cooking spray or olive oil, and grill skewers, turning ever few minutes, until chicken is no longer pink inside (about 8 minutes).   Remove from grill.

Serve skewers with tzatziki sauce and pita triangles.

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Critical Thinking, Public Education, and Granola Bars

In which I get all political on you.  Apologies in advance to my regular readers who are patiently waiting for mindfulness and cupcakes.  Also, you owe it to yourself to go read Garage Author's post on this subject.  Because she writes like a champion boxer.  KO.

My son is going to public school at the end of August, so I find myself paying even more attention than usual to discussions of education policy (which is saying something, considering that I'm the daughter of two teachers, and spent my entire career in higher education).  Back at the end of July, the Texas GOP released its Education platform.  Usually this doesn't cause much of a stir, but they made this objectionable little comment that got everyone up in arms, and provided some useful fodder for Steven Colbert:

Knowledge-Based Education – We oppose the teaching of Higher Order Thinking Skills (HOTS) (values clarification), critical thinking skills and similar programs that are simply a relabeling of Outcome-Based Education (OBE) (mastery learning) which focus on behavior modification and have the purpose of challenging the student’s fixed beliefs and undermining parental authority.

Now, I do sort of understand the resistance to Outcome-Based Education.  OBE generally promotes curricula and assessment based on constructivism, which holds that people create meaning of the world through a series of individual constructs, or filters we choose in order to make sense of our reality.  While I consider myself more of a constructivist than not, and in principle this sounds like an excellent idea (and is the reason that we're beginning to see things like portfolio assessment of student work in addition to grades), in practice, it becomes a political morass.  How do you decide what the outcomes should be without getting all wishy-washy?  Where I used to work, that discussion resulted in a complicated core curriculum during the university's last revision of undergraduate education, which made no one happy.  I can't even imagine the discussion on a state level, especially when the state is the size of Texas.

But really? Challenging a student's "fixed beliefs" is a bad thing?  Should a child's lifelong beliefs be completely formed by elementary school?

A party spokesman later said ""[The chairman of the Education Subcommittee] indicated that it was an oversight of the committee, that the plank should not have included 'critical thinking skills' after 'values clarification, [...] And it was not the intent of the subcommittee to present a plank that would have indicated that the RPT in any way opposed the development of critical thinking skills."

Still, the fact that those words got written in the first place (which means they must have been spoken by someone, and read by many others before that document was released) is disturbing to me.  Isn't that what public education is about?  About encountering difference, about questioning your beliefs, about questioning what you've simply been told, about promoting democracy?  I'm reminded of the article that jjiraffe linked to the other day, about Mike McQueary, an assistant coach at Penn State who reported child sex abuse but is not being blamed for not doing enough.  At the end, the author writes, "[w]e need to find ways to teach Good Soldiers and Team Players to question authority while still respecting it. In fact, we need to go one step further and teach them that questioning authority is the best way to show respect for it. And any authority that challenges that notion isn’t worthy of respect."  As I wrote to jjiraffe, I'm not sure how we do that, exactly, but that kind of questioning is necessary if we're going to raise the next generation of heroes and whistleblowers, instead of people who stand by and watch terrible things happen.

The platform also opposes, among other things, early childhood education, sex education, and multicultural education, but supports “school subjects with emphasis on the Judeo-Christian principles upon which America was founded.”

Um ... excuse me? Wasn't it values clarification that motivated the colonists to travel here and stick it out against some pretty incredible odds in the first place?  And with growing populations of non-Judeo-Christian people who are influencing the future of the country, wouldn't it be important to discuss non-Judeo-Christian ideas?

You can read the entire policy here, if you're interested.  But I'm sorry, Texas GOP--as my son starts first grade this year, there is one thing I'm hoping he'll continue to learn: to think for himself.  And if he figures out that I've been wrong all along about something important, and can show me why in a way that is civil and respectful, more power to him.

Here's a great addition to a lunchbox for back to school, or to slip into your own bag, so that during that mid-afternoon dip in energy you can recharge your own power of critical thinking.  They're sort of like Luna bars, only more customizable and less expensive.  The basic formula from Brown Eyed Baker goes like this:

1. Rolled Grains (2 1/2 c.): Oats, Rye flakes, Barley flakes, etc.
2. Nuts, Seeds & Spices (1 c.) : Almonds, Walnuts, Pecans, Pistachios, Sunflower Seeds, Pumpkin Seeds, Cinnamon, Ginger, etc.
3. Sticky Sweetener (1/2 c., can use a bit more if you prefer): Honey, Agave Nectar, Molasses, Maple Syrup
4. Dried Fruits (1 c.): Raisins, Apricots, Dates, Figs, Prunes, Cranberries, Pineapple, etc.
5. Binder (1 c.): Pureed Dried Fruit, Apple Butter, Peanut Butter, Almond Butter, Unsweetened applesauce, etc.

Here's my variation on the theme.

What did you think of the document?  And how do you like your granola bars: chewy or crispy?

Luna Bar Style Tropical Granola Bars 

1 c. apple butter
1/2 c. raw local honey
1 t. ground cinnamon
3/4 t. vanilla
2 1/2 cups rolled oats
3/4 c. chopped almonds
2 T. raw pumpkin seeds
2 T. sunflower seeds (roasted, unsalted)
1 c. chopped dried apricot
2 to 3 T. unsweetened shredded coconut

Preheat oven to 325F. Line an 8×8-inch baking pan with parchment paper. In a large bowl, whisk together the honey, apple butter, cinnamon and vanilla extract. Stir in the oats, making sure that everything is mixed in well and that the oats are all moistened. Mix in the almonds, seeds, and dried fruit. Turn the mixture out onto the parchment and press into the pan, distributing it evenly and packing it tightly. Bake for 25 minutes. Remove from the oven and cool in the freezer until the bars are firm, at least 1 hour. Remove from the pan and cut into bars. Store in an airtight container for up to 1 week.  You can even cut them into fun shapes with cookie cutters!

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Stop-Motion and Larb Gai (or Tofu)

Last night in yoga we practiced sun salutations in slow- and stop-motion.  Before putting a foot down, for example, we would hover it over the ground for a few seconds.  If this sounds like a huge pain to you practicing yogis out there, well, it was.  I've done sun salutations hundreds of times, and though my form is far from perfect, my body naturally glides through the flows of the asanas.  It was amazing to observe how different something feels, and how clumsy and unbalanced you become, when you take a habit out of practice, when you make yourself wait in an in-between.

Part of the point, my teacher explained (besides allowing us to concentrate on our form), was to become comfortable with in-between-ness, with the messiness that occurs when we are attentive to the process rather than rushing headlong to the endpoint or solution.

I am not good with in-between-ness.  It's not that I don't enjoy the journey from point A to point B, but rather that I generally live with my end goals in sight, and I tend to be hell-bent on arriving at them.  That's one reason this year has been a challenging one for me: the goals are fuzzier (though I suppose I could set more tangible writing goals), and the days less purpose-driven (short of the bullet pointed list of things to do that is always in my head, and which always includes laundry and making the next meal, sort of like a shopping list that always starts with bananas and milk).  I am less graceful in this state.  Sometimes it's downright ugly.

On the other hand, sometimes if we disrupt the "flow," the most wonderful, unexpected things can happen.  Not like hovering my right leg an inch above the floor before I put it down for a high lunge (which builds muscle tone but makes my quadriceps scream), but like discovering a new kind of tiny flower that grows in the cracks in the sidewalk, or having a conversation with someone you've never met, or gaining new perspective on how to resolve a difficult situation.

I used to travel internationally as often as I could; we were lucky to have parents who took us on vacation every year to some really remarkable places: Spain, France, Mexico, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico.  I had relatives in two of those places, so it wasn't that surprising that we traveled to see them, but saving for those trips was a priority in our house.  When I started living on my own, I continued to make travel a savings priority, and I visited (some with my husband) Alaska (which might as well be another country for me, given where I live!), South Africa, Brazil, Thailand, Japan, Canada, and a host of other places.  And when I think back, I remember that the best trips were the ones in which I didn't, guide-book in hand, spend all of my time worrying about getting to the next place.

So I'll encourage you to do something disruptive today.  Live for an hour in stop-motion.  And become comfortable, for a moment, in the in-between-ness, the point of transition, that makes change possible.

Larb Gai or Larb Tofu
This refreshing salad is generally made with chicken, but the tofu will sop up the flavor and dressing beautifully.  And if the shallot bites, live with it for a minute or so. :)

2 t. jasmine rice*
2 t. coconut or vegetable or peanut oil
3/4 lb. chicken or firm tofu, minced/crumbled (I use my cuisinart)
1 stalk lemongrass, sliced
2 T. fish sauce (nam pla)
1/3 c. broth
3 small shallots (1-2 large ones)
4 green onions, sliced on the diagonal
1/2 c. cilantro, chopped
1/2 c. mint, chopped
3 T. lime juice
1/2 lb. lettuce, shredded
1/4 c. roasted unsalted peanuts

(PSA: this first part is a real p.i.t.a., and we will understand if you decide to skip the rice bit.)
In a small pan over medium heat, toast the rice until it's fragrant.  Grind to a powder using whatever means you have available: mortar and pestle, small and powerful cuisinart, etc.

Heat oil in a medium skillet over medium heat.  Add chicken mince and cook thoroughly, stirring often to break up lumps.  Add broth, lemongrass, and fish sauce, and cook for another 10 minutes (but watch to make sure it doesn't burn; you may need to turn down the heat).  Remove from heat and allow mixture to cool.

Add shallots, green onions, cilantro, mint, and lime juice and stir to combine well.  Place lettuce on a serving platter, top with chicken mixture, and sprinkle with peanuts.

*You could omit the rice entirely, though I'm told that the flavor of the dish without the rice really makes it a different dish.

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Parenting in the Age of Facebook: Nut-Free Healthy Trail Mix Cookies

First, some housekeeping: anyone looking for a BlogHer '12 roommate?  (Yes!  My husband got me a registration for my birthday back in December, and I hope I'll see many of you there!)

Now, for the real meat of today's post:

This morning I took I. and N. for a walk downtown to get a bagel for I.'s breakfast.  It was an exciting trip not just because N. got to wave to the garbage men, or because I. got to wear his rain boots, but because the bagel store has TV.

Yes, it's true: we have no TV in my house.  Not even one on which we watch videos.  But before you pass judgment, know that we have a Netflix subscription that gets watched on a laptop (though we use it at a snail's pace), and that there are plenty of opportunities for my five year old to use the internet--supervised, of course.

Today, as my son was selecting and paying for his honey wheat bagel (because I think it's useful for him to make small transactions like this on his own, with me standing a few feet behind him), I found myself watching TV, too.  Because up there on the flat screen I saw the video I'd seen a few days ago on YouTube, posted by a FB friend, of the father who'd shot his daughter's laptop (which he bought and just upgraded) in response to her FB post about her allegedly demanding parents.  When I watched it the other day, I found myself angry, but not wanting to feed into the (social) media circus already surrounding this family and their choices about conflict resolution.  My son caught it out of the corner of his eye, though, and wanted to know what it was all about.

I explained what had happened, and how her father had reacted, and then asked him what he thought.  Was the girl right?  Was the father right?  We talked about what was missing in the exchange, what they didn't use: their words.  Communication with each other, instead of through a third party: the faceless audience of the internet.

We worry about our children and cyber bullying.  But what are kids learning from their parents about the proper use of media?

Over the years, the internet has made it easier for me to talk to people.  The blogging community has been a source of encouragement, support, comfort.  Sometimes I feel braver, say things I might not have said in person, even when I'm writing to people I know.  But we can't use this media to shout at each other, or worse -- to shout past each other -- if we hope to teach our children love, respect, and tolerance.

I think that parents have the responsibility to build the foundation for communication early on; this doesn't just mean playing with your kid, but really talking with them, trusting them, treating them with respect, and entrusting them with real responsibilities, letting them know that they're an important part of a family partnership.  Sometimes that means baking cookies with them, like I did with I. the other day.  Sometimes it means asking them to take out the trash.  Sometimes it means telling them a difficult truth.  Sometimes it means letting them sit on your lap and saying nothing at all, and really listening when they have something to say.  And then, I think, it's up to us to show them how the internet is just a tool to extend those same principles of communication.

Where does the internet fail you?  What do you think are the limits of virtual communication?  Have you seen the video, and what are your thoughts about parenting in the age of Facebook (Twitter, etc.)?

Healthy Trail Mix Cookies

2 c. old-fashioned oats
1/2 c. whole-wheat flour
1/4 c. ground flaxseed
1/4 c. wheat germ
1/2 t.salt
6 T. unsalted butter, melted
3/4 c. white grape juice concentrate
1 large egg
1 t. vanilla
1/2 c. dried cranberries or raisins
1/4 c. dried apricots, chopped
1/3 c. cacao nibs (or nuts if you prefer)

Preheat oven to 325F. Line baking sheet with parchment.

In large bowl, combine oats, flour, flaxseed, wheat germ, and salt. Add the melted butter and mix well. Set aside.

In a medium bowl, combined egg and grape juice concentrate. Pour over the oat mixture and stir well. Fold in fruit and cacao nibs.

Drop dough by rounded tablespoonfuls onto prepared baking sheets, spacing about 1 inch apart. Flatten slightly with the back of the spoon.

Bake 13-15 minutes, until lightly browned but still soft in the center; do not overbake. Let stand on baking sheets a few minutes to firm up, then transfer cookies to wire rack to cool completely.

Store cookies at room temperature, tightly covered, for up to 5 days, or freeze for 1 month.

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Recovery: Ten Minute Apple Crisp

To me, a sure sign of recovery is finding time to take pleasure in the things that you did before whatever life event happened to you, happened.  I'll never forget one of the first things I really wanted to do after I had my son was make an apple pie.  Having a newborn makes finding time for apple pie pretty challenging, especially if you're spending an hour breastfeeding and then have just an hour and change to go to the bathroom and do the other things you need to do before the whole process starts all over again.

This time, I knew I definitely wasn't going to have time for apple pie, especially given that when my son gets home I want to spend time with him, too.  But I did think I might have time for an apple crisp, and I had some apples in the refrigerator that had been long overdue for use.  So I tossed together one that I'm sharing the recipe for below, originally given to me by my friend C. (who also brought the pot pie in my previous post), and was pleased that it came together in about ten minutes, long enough that my husband was able to hold and try to quiet the baby, who had just woken up, hungry, as usual.

We also got out for a few walks this past week, and enjoyed the fact that it was in the 50s and 60s ... warm enough that I found myself taking off my jacket to fully appreciate the warmer weather.  Breathing in what felt like spring, it was hard not to feel like things were back on the road to normal, that I could live with a little less sleep, that I could figure out this whole two-child-family delicate balance.

I know myself well enough to know that this state of mind will probably not last (and it's supposed to snow again tonight), but it was nice to feel a little bit more like myself again.  Perhaps you'll have time to throw one of these together, too, and go for a short walk while it's baking.


Ten Minute Apple Crisp

3 lg. crispy apples (granny smith or other sweet-tart variety)
2 handfuls of dried cranberries(or pears, blueberries, peaches, etc.)
1 c. oatmeal
several dashes of cinnamon
1/2 c. flour
1/3 c. brown sugar (or less, or 1/4 c. agave nectar)
5 T. butter, melted

Chop apples and rub with lemon to prevent browning. Toss in cranberries.

Mix oatmeal, cinnamon, flour, brown sugar and melted butter to slightly moisten mix. You can also add a dash of allspice, crumbled almonds, peanut butter, etc.

Drop mix on top of apples in dish and bake 350 for a little over 30 min. (until the top is slightly brown and apples have softened).

Enjoy with some whipped cream, if you're feeling both hungry and decadent like I was!

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Removing Obstacles: Autumn Vegetable Stew with Wheatberries

Two weeks ago, after my yoga class began with a chant to Ganesha, I was going to write a post about removing obstacles (Ganesha is known as Remover of Obstacles).  I abandoned it because it was taking me too long to write, and because I was feeling too beleaguered by obstacles myself, but after my teacher came back to the theme again this week in class, I felt like it was too perfect a fit not to talk about here.

After our beginning-of-class chant, my teacher, in her infinite wisdom, commented that the obstacles rarely go away (e.g., a diagnosis of IF is not likely to change any time soon); rather, it's a matter of changing perspective on the obstacle by returning to the present, by stripping away the complications that make dealing with it more difficult, and being able to see how to approach the problem more clearly.   Yoga teaches us to recognize and acknowledge difficulty when we encounter it, and then realize simplicity by coming back to what is immediate: our breath, our bodies, the way we feel right this very instant.  This sort of makes sense to me: when I'm in an asana, sometimes if I breathe, I find that I can go deeper into the pose or become more balanced on the exhale.  I haven't removed the obstacle; by staying present, I've managed to work through it.

This isn't to say that we can make difficult things "easy," by any means -- but rather, simplify them, make them less complicated, by looking at them in the present tense.  According to this line of thought, when we're looking too far ahead into the future, worrying about too many things, the simple things begin to look more complicated than they actually are, and what could be clear becomes muddled; we lose the ability to focus and problem-solve.

This exactly describes where I am, in this pregnancy, with my professional life, with everything.  I'm practically hyperopic ... I can't focus on things that are right in front of me, in the present tense, because I'm so worried about the immediate and not-so-immediate future: about how I will deal with a baby and still pay enough attention to my son (I imagine scenarios in which my husband spends lots of time away from me with my son [whose company I just love most of the time], thinking he's doing me a favor, and leaves me to feel completely alone with an infant), about how I will deal with coming back from maternity leave to a situation that will be very different from the one I left, about how we will manage financially and how I will manage psychologically and intellectually if my career will take a different turn.  I love going to yoga class because it helps me to leave all of this behind, or at least to put it where it belongs--in the future--and to concentrate on my breath, the way my body feels, the way that Bean is shifting and moving in my abdomen, the sound of the eternal Om playing during savasana.  Type-A personality aside, I can't do anything about some of these possible futures, because they haven't happened yet ... so trying to deal with them is not only a waste of psychic energy, but complicates what is happening right now.

Though I don't often cook wheatberries, I like this stew because of its satvic properties, and because it's so uncomplicated.  It's adaptable (like most Mark Bittman recipes) to the season, and to your tastes: substitute dried fruits, or summer vegetables like leeks and zucchini and tomatoes, or whatever you like.  There are no "obstacles" in the way of appreciating the tastes of the vegetables and grain: no heavy sauces, no overpowering spices.  While those things have their place, too (ayurvedic eating, like pretty much everything else in yoga, is about finding the balance that is right for you), this can be the base for any meal, and you'll leave the table feeling satisfied, but light enough to tackle the next challenge.

Autumn Vegetable Stew with Wheatberries

3 T. extra virgin olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
Salt and pepper to taste
¼ lb. green beans, 1" slices (1 scant c. ... you could also use carrots)
1 acorn squash, peeled seeded and chopped
½ c. white wine or vegetable stock
2 c. cooked wheat berries
1 heaping c. kale
1 t. dried sage

Put the oil in a large saucepan or deep skillet with a lid over medium-high heat. When hot, add the onion and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until soft, about 2 minutes. Add the squash (and carrots, if using those instead of green beans) and stir to coat with the oil. Stir in the wine.

Reduce the heat to medium-low, cover, and cook, stirring once or twice, until the squash is just starting to get tender, 20 minutes (if you're using green beans instead of carrots, add them after about 15 minutes and continue to cook the whole thing for 5 minutes more). Raise the heat a bit and stir in the wheat berries.

Cook, stirring frequently, until hot and bubbling, a minute or two. Stir in the kale, season again with salt and pepper, cover, and turn off the heat. After about 5 minutes, add the herb and fluff the stew gently with a fork. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Serve right away or at room temperature, drizzled with a little more olive oil if you like.

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Standing in Tadasana: Pearled Couscous Tagine

There's something about a snow day that makes us all slow down a little bit.  Even though the roads were pretty clear by the time I would normally have gone to work, I.'s school was closed, so one of us had to stay home, and there was nothing on my calendar that I couldn't postpone, so today it was my turn.  I was sort of glad; I'm feeling increasingly detached from work (even though I'm still sending and receiving plenty of email, and am wondering when that will slow down), and I was feeling pretty lazy this morning, anyway.

We spent the day playing with Legos, making "a craft" (I. took out his supplies and started gluing things together and making collages), sledding and playing in the snow with friends, cooking dinner for tomorrow night, watching a movie (which I fell asleep on, not that my son noticed!), and going to my midwife appointment, where I was told I gained eight pounds in the past week.

EIGHT POUNDS?

OK, so I've been eating cake and drinking honey-lemon water for my cold, and I stopped running last week, but really ... how does anyone gain eight pounds in a single week?  S.'s theory is that I've been eating salty foods (I've had an inexplicable craving for wonton soup) and am retaining water.  That could be partially true, given that my socks are tight around my legs these days.  My blood pressure is fine, so the midwife seemed unconcerned.  I don't look that much fatter.  My maternity clothes are feeling tight, though. And I am pretty horrified.  Also a little concerned (even if my midwife isn't), because sudden weight gains like that at the end of a pregnancy can't be good, can they?  Or am I being overanxious?  I mean, my midwife teaches midwivery; she'd know if something were wrong, right?

My mother called tonight, and wanted to know if there was any word on when the midwife thought the baby might arrive.  You'd think she'd know better, having birthed two children.  "But I'm just concerned that I'm far away and won't get there in time to take care of I.," she explained. (She lives an hour away.)  I asked her if I was born in an hour.  She said no.  I asked her if my brother was born in an hour.  She said no.  I then informed her that we had two backup people who were happy to take our 2 a.m. phone calls and would spring to action if she couldn't make it.  Part of me is wondering why we have asked her to come stay at all, when she won't do laundry, won't cook, and talks so much about herself that she rarely hears what I. says, and now needs to know the exact day and time of the baby's arrival in advance.

What does any of this have to do with tadasana?

Tadasana is the pose of the month at my yoga studio.  We rarely spend much time in tadasana; more often it's the place we begin as we move into other asanas.  But having a strong foundation, feeling ourselves well-grounded, like a mountain, is so important; without that grounding, we're unable to balance, to flow, to breathe.  Snow days remind us to stand still for a bit, to get firm grounding so that we can deal with the rest of the crap that might be coming our way.  Tadasana is also the way we feel the sky and the ground connect; we become the conduits between the heavens and the earth, reaching in both directions simultaneously, both rooted and aspiring to something greater.

The recipe today is a good snow-day dish.  Like tadasana, it has roots in the earth (carrots and other veggies), but the little pearls of couscous (be sure to get the pearled kind) remind me of snowballs, skyward bound.  I hope that I, too, can ground myself well enough to move onward and upward, for whatever comes next.

Pearled Couscous Tagine

2 T. extra virgin olive oil
1 onion, chopped
1" piece ginger, peeled and minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1½ t. ground cumin
2 t. ground turmeric
Two 3-inch cinnamon sticks
1/3 c. chopped dried apricots, dates, or raisins
2 c. vegetable stock
1½ c. chopped ripe tomato (about 1 lb. whole, preferably peeled and seeded, or 1 15 oz. can, drained)
1 c. cooked or drained canned chickpeas
2 carrots, cut in bite-size chunks
½ head cauliflower, cut in bite-sized chunks
2 zucchini, cut in bite-sized chunks

Salt and black pepper
1 cup pearl couscous

Put the oil in a deep skillet with a lid over medium-high heat. Add the onion and cook until it softens, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic, ginger, cumin, turmeric, and cinnamon; cook, stirring often, until fragrant, 2 minutes.

Add the dried fruit, tomato, stock, chickpeas, carrots, cauliflower, and zucchini, a large pinch of salt, and a good amount of pepper; bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to a gentle simmer, cover, and cook until the vegetables are just tender. (The dish can be made ahead to this point, cooled, covered, and refrigerated for up to 2 days. Bring it to a simmer before proceeding.)

Add the couscous and cook until al dente, about 10 minutes. It should have a stewy consistency. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Serve hot or store, covered, in the refrigerator for up to 2 days and then reheat.

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