Friday, November 27, 2009

Beauty in my Mailbox

Today my friend Dave sent me a link to this article by Maira Kalman.
I love farmers. And I love writers. And since I was busy celebrating Thanksgiving with the Hare Krishnas and my wonderful host family down here in Mississippi (which I also loved), I figured I'd take a moment today to send out my gratitude to you all as well.
Thanks for reading, and for your warm emails and funny comments and for generally letting me know that what I do is interesting and of value in the world.
Thank you for being the kind of people I miss, the kind of people I can tell stories about, the kind of people that make me simultaneously want to stay -stay and hug your children, pick your plants, craft beautiful homes and meals and medicines and memories together- and go, so that I can learn enough, gain enough experience and common sense and direction to do so.
Much joy to you all - joy and thanksgiving!

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Thanksgiving with the Hare Krishnas



When the sixteen names and thirty-two syllables of the Hare Krishna mantra are loudly vibrated, Krishna dances on one's tongue. – Stava-mala-vidyabhusana-bhasya, Baladeva Vidyabhusana in Bhaktisiddhanta's Gaudiya Kanthahara 17:30

Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
Hare Rama Hare Rama
Rama Rama Hare Hare
-the Maha-Mantra

So I spent Thanksgiving with the Hare Krishnas (whose name I misspelled in an earlier post - woops! I'm learning...). I know, I know, Hare Krishnas in Mississippi, right? Shows how much we know.

If I'd ever thought of the Hare Krishnas prior to Thanksgiving, it was in vague terms of saffron robes and chanting in airports. But ignorance is no defense against knowledge, especially when knowledge comes in the form of a deep South herb lady with eclectic friends, a background in geochemistry, and the frequent habit of bursting into loud, twangy Sanskrit chanting. World, meet Lynda Lynn O'Brian Baker. Lynda, your public.
But I arrived here two weeks ago, and like all the other parts of Lynda's life that she's chosen to share with me, the Hare Krishnas are far more fascinating than I thought they'd be.

असतोमा सद्गमय। तमसोमा ज्योतिर् गमया।
मृत्योर्मामृतं गमय॥

Asato mā sad gamaya
Tamaso mā jyotir gamaya
Mṛtyormā amṛtam gamaya
Aum śānti śānti śāntiḥ (Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad 1.3.28)

From ignorance, lead me to truth;
From darkness, lead me to light;
From death, lead me to immortality
Aum peace, peace, peace

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Lazarus Rose Tonight, Right Down the Road. (or, How My Life Is Myth). Take your pick.


I interrupt this mythic retelling with a glimpse into my mythic dwelling.

I spent last night with the Haghighis, my newly adopted Iranian family (I have a godfather now! Hooray!), and was planning to leave for New Orleans tonight, but when they invited me to their bible study group ("All Iranian. Only 5 people come - you make six," said Mina), how could I refuse? So we all piled into their van, and off we went, not to the Jehovah's Witness church we'd been to last Sunday (fancifully located in a neighborhood called Sherwood Forest, which gave a whole different meaning to the concept of tithing), but to the gigantic, famous, three-giant-white-crosses-conveniently-towering-over-the-highway-next-to-Walmart Baptist church, where a small group of Spanish speaking folks met in one room, and the Farsi speaking folks met in another, and everything else was closed, and clean, and vast.

Mohammad, the leader of the group, explained to me that it's a study group for new Christians, and that they review different basic themes and pray together. He talked about the movement towards Christianity in Iran (largely underground, completely banned, heavily persecuted, and strongly funded by some US churches, the one we were in included), and what it means to be a follower of Christ, both in Iran and America. I mentioned a Pakistani woman I met after 9/11, when green cards were no longer freely reissued to folks from the Middle East.
A Christian, she'd fled her homeland under death threat, only to have her request for asylum denied by the US government. She'd hidden in her pastor's apartment for months before fleeing once again, this time to Canada, where she was guaranteed religious asylum - if she could get there.
A one-time volunteer with an organization that helps refugees resettle, I'd hosted her for the night before driving her over the border the following morning. It was an intense experience, both culturally and personally, richly resonant and harrowingly simple.
She taught me how to cook a traditional chicken and rice dish, and gifted me with some of the few things she had with her, gifts that held such obvious meaning that I couldn't refuse: A ring. A sweater. Half a bottle of perfume. And some, even more difficult to sidestep, though infinately higher in value: a good match with her pastor's son. A wedding dripping with gold and happiness and music. A chance to be like a daughter to her, forever close, for always...
I tried to calm her mounting panic, prayed with her and awkwardly hugged her, made phone calls and small talk and attempted to navigate linguistic barriers and cultural boundaries. (No, I didn't want to share a bed. No, I couldn't marry the stranger on the phone, but thank you, how kind, oh, thank you, but no...) Young and naive, I did my best, though I felt I didn't do enough.
I will always feel I didn't do enough.
Tonight, hearing again of the horrors people go through to practice their various faiths, I thought of her again; thought of how alone she must have felt, and how I still wish I'd offered to share a room with her instead of leaving her alone in the dark.
Tonight, I send her my prayers, wherever she is, and wish her well. I wish us all well.

After about fifteen of minutes of chatting, a few glasses of tea (I'm pretty sure I drink more tea than most Iranians, but Mina says "is OK", so I believe her), and a prayer in both Farsi and English, Mohammad turned on a DVD of hymns in Farsi, and the group began to sing. Behind the text, a background of beautiful scenery from the northern part of Iran scrolled by: waterfalls, flower gardens, forests, a castle, snowy hillsides, a small thatched church... and as they changed, and I listened to the few voices raised in prayer, I visualized the land that I've wanted to plant since I set foot on Dave's farm, and the herbal business I want to grow, and haven't stopped thinking about since I left Pennsylvania.

Only instead of wondering how I'll do it, or what my business plan will be, or when I'll even start, I saw it all clearly as the sanctuary that I've always wanted for myself, but expanded beyond my immediate circle (and wildest dreams) into a sanctuary for people of all faiths, from all over the planet. A small organic farm and herbal body-care business, the real magic of the place came (comes? will come?) from the fact that it's also a temporary home to those who need one, those who may have never harvested a flower or mixed a salve, but who are willing to work in exchange for a time of respite and peace, safety and food, new knowledge and the chance to worship in the way they desire, putting prayer and hope into products that bring joy and healing to the world.
I saw this, and it felt good, and tender, and possible. It felt beautiful, and important. It felt true.

The song ended, and I found myself praying, fervently, that I can take part in something that connected and useful, that I might use my life to craft a place with that much meaning. Just then, one of the women asked a question.
"Who is..how do you say..Lazari--?"
"Lazarus?" I asked, with a shocked sense of connection.
"Yes, Lazarus!" Mohammad smiled.
The song they'd been singing was about Lazarus. Mohammad translated a line for me, as I sat, reeling, suddenly close to tears.
"From the loneliness of darkness to the fullness of light."

Does anyone out there want to craft this vision with me?


Friday, November 20, 2009

Po' Lazarus (forgiving Jesus): Part 2

Remember the Dietzes, whose farm I was on last month? They were kind enough to invite me to church with them, and while it was my first time at an Anabaptist house of prayer (the elder Dietzes are part of the River Brethren group of Mennonites), I was struck less by the similarities and differences of the the service and more by the content of the sermon, which was based on the story of Lazarus.
This past Sunday I went to a Jahovah's Witness service with Sarah's lovely Iranian neighbors, the Haghighis, and once again poor Lazarus was brought up (this time in conversation, if not flesh).
We humans hold so many beautiful, powerful myths tucked safely away between the pages of our holy books, ready for the days we need them. Like any strong story medicine, Lazarus' tale resonates in different ways at different points in our lives. Back in Pennsylvania, I found myself drawn in by the sheer humility and wretchedness that both Jesus and Lazarus' sisters experience "for the glory of God;" last Sunday was a good reminder that I'd been meaning to blog about it for a while, so I might as well get crackin'!The Story of Lazarus is a misleading one if you go on title alone. A bit character without any lines, Lazarus himself lurks at the edges of the story, surfacing only at the end as a vessel for Jesus' superstar powers. Popular mythology doesn't help; from paintings to witty similes, we tend to focus on the theatrics of Lazarus' situation. Try to abridge any of it - Jesus hears his friend is sick, arrives after he dies, and brings him back to life - and you miss the point entirely. But read it aloud, give yourself time to mull over the verses individually and in their collective entirety, and a different, deeper tale emerges; one of duty and submission, pain and resignation, of power balanced with empathy.

We have an almost universal passion for asking Jesus for forgiveness; I'd argue that there are times when we need to forgive Jesus. It's a common enough sentiment to feel upset with those who lead us (presidents, parents, bosses, you name it), but it's less acceptable to do so when that leader is Jesus. The story of Lazarus says it's not only acceptable; it's been going on since he was there to hear about it, and what's more, it can be a way station on the path to personal peace.
I'm sure the very notion of Jesus needing our forgiveness strikes some as sacrilegious, but let's think about it: here's a story about a (really nice) guy who knows his friend is dying, knows the depths of suffering it's gonna cause, and lets it happen anyway, in order to prove a point. And let's be honest, here: he doesn't just do it to prove a point, he does it to prove a point that he knows is going to make him look good. Really, really good... godlike, to be exact. Now, the fact that Jesus lets his friend die because it's for the greater good, and besides, his leader told him to, doesn't negate the fact that poor Lazarus kicks it, and Jesus doesn't do squat for two whole days.

Talk about tough love.

We've all experienced tough love, or betrayal, or abandonment, and while it helps to try and understand why people make difficult choices, and to acknowledge that it often hurts them to do so, it's also important to let ourselves experience the anger that comes from bearing witness to the imperfections of those we love. Not because it changes the outcome of their choices, but because from there, we can parse our emotions down from anger to sadness to love. And therein lies forgiveness.
"How could you do this?" becomes "You hurt me."
"You hurt me" becomes "I trusted you not to."
And if we're really brave, if we're really willing to humble ourselves before God and those we love, we can arrive at the nitty, gritty truth of the matter: "I put my trust in you because I love you."

And "I love you" becomes what it always was, even when it was hidden away under everything else. It becomes itself. It becomes Truth.

That Jesus suffers tremendously over the death of Lazarus doesn't negate the truth that everybody around him was thinking: "If you'd been here, Lazarus wouldn't have died."
If you'd been here. If you'd done your job. You have a gift, you have God's ear, "whatsoever thou shalt ask of God, God will give thee," and you did nothing.
You did nothing.

Why?

The question is so strong, so keening, it practically levitates from the text, and it's a rare one of us who hasn't asked that same lost, wretchedly humiliating question of the Cosmos. Why?
Here, in this myth, the answer rises up clear and clean, though elsewhere in our lives it might lie rotting, shrouded and still, buried behind the boulders of our pain. In the story of Lazarus, Jesus sacrifices his friend, and (I'd argue) a part of himself, for the sake of his greater task.
He does it because he has faith that it's the right thing to do; the thing that God asks of him.
He does it because it's the thing that will serve the most people the best, though it hurts his friends the most.
He does it because of all the painful places on his personal Path, he's finally arrived at that one, and the only way past it is to keep walking.
He does it because if he didn't, he wouldn't be Jesus.

In what other text is Jesus' humanity wrought so clearly as it is here? This is a family that Jesus loves, and one that openly loves him, despite the fact that their neighbors want him dead. These people are his allies and his followers, and yet when they call out to him in their direst need, he refuses to answer, though the consequences make him groan.
It's telling that when Jesus gets the message that Lazarus is sick, he knows immediately that it's for his benefit, and yet he keeps the news to himself for two days.
Why does he bear this alone, when he's surrounded by all his disciples?
Perhaps he knows what he has to do, and is unwilling to risk being swayed by what he or anyone around him wants. Or perhaps talking about it would just make things worse. Who among us can't relate to that?

In the end, though, the time comes when he has to tell them, and that's the second place we can see how much it hurts him. Incidentally, this is one of my favorite lines in the story; the dialogue is so sparse, but it holds worlds of angst and meaning. Where else in the Bible do we get to hear Jesus say, "Some bad shit just went down, and I was part of it, and you know what? Y'all got something outa this, too, and you don't even have to believe me, but that's what happened."
I'm paraphrasing, of course, but you get the point. (BTW, the previous post is the American Standard Version; feel free to write your own retelling. Everybody else did.)

There's more beauty to be found here, and more to write about eventually (ohh, eventually...), but I want to get on with my day, as I'm finally starting to feel resurrected myself (Louisiana climate + mold = one sick wandering Jewess), thanks to the miracles of Dr. Terry, one of the amazing naturopaths and co-founder of the Center for Natural Healing. Good People are everywhere, and Dr. Terry is at the top of my list. Now... to clean my car!

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Po' Lazarus (Forgiving Jesus): Part One

A little homework, just to get you prepped for an upcoming post I've been thinking about for a while...


1 Now a certain man was sick, Lazarus of Bethany, of the village of Mary and her sister Martha.
2 And it was that Mary who anointed the Lord with ointment, and wiped his feet with her hair, whose brother Lazarus was sick.
3 The sisters therefore sent unto him, saying, Lord, behold, he whom thou lovest is sick.
4 But when Jesus heard it, he said, This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son of God may be glorified thereby.
5 Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus.
6 When therefore he heard that he was sick, he abode at that time two days in the place where he was.
7 Then after this he saith to the disciples, Let us go into Judaea again.
8 The disciples say unto him, Rabbi, the Jews were but now seeking to stone thee; and goest thou thither again?
9 Jesus answered, Are there not twelve hours in the day? If a man walk in the day, he stumbleth not, because he seeth the light of this world.
10 But if a man walk in the night, he stumbleth, because the light is not in him.
11 These things spake he: and after this he saith unto them, Our friend Lazarus is fallen asleep; but I go, that I may awake him out of sleep.
12 The disciples therefore said unto him, Lord, if he is fallen asleep, he will recover.
13 Now Jesus had spoken of his death: but they thought that he spake of taking rest in sleep.
14 Then Jesus therefore said unto them plainly, Lazarus is dead.
15 And I am glad for your sakes that I was not there, to the intent ye may believe; nevertheless let us go unto him.
16 Thomas therefore, who is called Didymus, said unto his fellow-disciples, Let us also go, that we may die with him.
17 So when Jesus came, he found that he had been in the tomb four days already.
18 Now Bethany was nigh unto Jerusalem, about fifteen furlongs off;
19 and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary, to console them concerning their brother.
20 Martha therefore, when she heard that Jesus was coming, went and met him: but Mary still sat in the house.
21 Martha therefore said unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.
22 And even now I know that, whatsoever thou shalt ask of God, God will give thee.
23 Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again.
24 Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day.
25 Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth on me, though he die, yet shall he live;
26 and whosoever liveth and believeth on me shall never die. Believest thou this?
27 She saith unto him, Yea, Lord: I have believed that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, even he that cometh into the world.
28 And when she had said this, she went away, and called Mary her sister secretly, saying, The Teacher is here, and calleth thee.
29 And she, when she heard it, arose quickly, and went unto him.
30 (Now Jesus was not yet come into the village, but was still in the place where Martha met him.)
31 The Jews then who were with her in the house, and were consoling her, when they saw Mary, that she rose up quickly and went out, followed her, supposing that she was going unto the tomb to weep there.
32 Mary therefore, when she came where Jesus was, and saw him, fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.
33 When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping who came with her, he groaned in the spirit, and was troubled,
34 and said, Where have ye laid him? They say unto him, Lord, come and see.
35 Jesus wept.
36 The Jews therefore said, Behold how he loved him!
37 But some of them said, Could not this man, who opened the eyes of him that was blind, have caused that this man also should not die?
38 Jesus therefore again groaning in himself cometh to the tomb. Now it was a cave, and a stone lay against it.
39 Jesus saith, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto him, Lord, by this time the body decayeth; for he hath been dead four days.
40 Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee, that, if thou believedst, thou shouldest see the glory of God?
41 So they took away the stone. And Jesus lifted up his eyes, and said, Father, I thank thee that thou heardest me.
42 And I knew that thou hearest me always: but because of the multitude that standeth around I said it, that they may believe that thou didst send me.
43 And when he had thus spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth.
44 He that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with grave-clothes; and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go.
45 Many therefore of the Jews, who came to Mary and beheld that which he did, believed on him.
46 But some of them went away to the Pharisees, and told them the things which Jesus had done.
- John 11:1-46 (American Standard Version)

Monday, November 16, 2009

Read This Now.

Thanks for tuning in, folks. I'll write a little more down at the bottom, but in the interest of time, I'm gonna turn the mike over to Planned Parenthood:

****************************
Bad news for women's health -- please help!

The health care reform bill that recently passed in the House of
Representatives includes a ban on abortion coverage for millions
of women with private health insurance and would also prohibit
coverage in the new public option, even if they are paying for
most or even all of the cost themselves. It's a complete
betrayal of women, and we can't let it be part of the final
bill.

Leaders in Congress and the White House have the power to put a stop to the discriminatory Stupak amendment -- and it's up to us to make sure they do so. Join me and Planned Parenthood in urging President Obama, Majority Leader Reid, and Speaker Pelosi to eliminate the Stupak ban and protect women's health. Click here:
http://bit.ly/PPFutureOfChoice


***********************************************
Hi, Jessica here again.
So, here's the bottom line, politically and personally:

I'm writing to you from Louisiana, deep in the heart of the South, where I continue to meet beautiful, warmhearted folks who welcome me into their homes, businesses, and churches, share their culture and wisdom, exchange information, ask me for help, and make me feel safe. For the most part, I don't talk politics, because I know there's a good chance we'd be on opposite sides of the picket line.
But I hope they know -I hope you know- that if if we ever do meet in that sort of situation, despite the obvious differences, I'm still looking out for our similarities. I might not be welcome at your fundraisers, but you're always welcome at my table. I am -and have been, for a long time now -the woman smiling across the isle. "Hi, it's nice to meet you. Tell me what you think I need to know."

Having said all that, I've researched all sorts of perspectives on this topic, left, right, and center. And I don't expect to change anybody's minds, because wherever folks are coming from, they've a right to their beliefs, just as I've a right to mine. (This attitude tends to make politics tricky, though much more peaceful).
I guess the bottom line for me is that I don't feel like I have the right to make decisions for anybody else, though I do have the responsibility to live my life with kindness, support for others, and unconditional positive regard for the rest of existence. And I don't expect the same back. But I do believe I have the right to take care of my body, mind, and spirit the best that I can in the way that I see fit. To me, that's not just the heart of health care; it's the definition of respect.

"Spicing Up the Holidays with Sarah" photos

The insanely talented Peggy of Peggy Wiltz Photography was at White Oaks the other day for our seminar, and sent us our first batch of pictures. The above one is my favorite; I feel very professional! Sarah (of HERBS by Sarah) was kind enough to share her audience, so we made one of my favorite holiday recipes: Real Peppermint & White Chocolate Bark...yum!

It was a great crowd, and a really fun experience!

Peggy's off touring with a ballet company now, but if you're looking for a great freelance photographer, check her out; I really like her work.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Quote of the Day (Chief Seattle)

Today's post comes to us courtesy of a sticker I picked up somewhere in Georgia, in honor of bare feet on bare earth:

"Every part of this Earth is sacred to my people. The ground beneath our feet responds lovingly to our steps because it is the ashes of our ancestors. Our bare feet know the kindred touch.

When the streets of your towns and cities are quiet and you think they are empty, they still throng with the spirits that love this land. Our ancestors never forget this beautiful Earth. It is their Mother.
-Chief Seattle


Of course, there's all sorts of controversy over what Si'ahl actually said, and his speech has been rewritten more times than I can think of, but retelling history's like following an unwritten recipe - it never comes out the same way twice.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Happy Veteran's Day, Grampy!

ooops, I almost missed Veteran's Day; can you believe it? Since I've still got a few hours left, I want to sneak in a great big "Thank You!" to my beloved Grampy Nat.

Grampy was a Navy Seabee during World War II, and continues to share his stories, artwork, memories, and time with veterans and civilians alike. Creative, stubborn, silly, smart, perfectionistic, passionate, loyal, generous, artistic, and kind (even to his sometimes-vexing granddaughter), Grampy's the Sicilian-blooded patriarch of the family.

Back in World War Two, Grampy was stationed in the South Pacific, where he kept an ongoing "visual diary" through his beautiful, sometime haunting, and always intriguing watercolors. He also kept a running sketchbook -maybe a series of them?- and I remember standing at his knee in the old Massachusetts farmhouse as he opened one up on the kitchen table and showed me page after yellowed page of pencil sketches from a time and place as foreign to me as any fairytale. That was well over twenty years ago, but I still cherish that memory, and send him lots of gratitude, prayers, well-wishes, and love.

Happy Veteran's Day, Grampy!

White Oaks Adventures (Baton Rouge, LA)

A big "Thank You!" to Sarah, Keith, and the wonderful participants at the Herbal Seminar today, and to the fantastic White Oaks staff who made it all possible. I enjoyed meeting you all (though I suppose I should say "y'all" since I'm in Louisiana!) and spending the day talking, tasting, and sniffing our way through some of the many delicious holiday herbs.
Since several of you asked, here's my favorite Kahlua recipe:

Blackbird's Daughter Kahlua Liquor


3/4 cup organic cane sugar (such as Wholesome Sweeteners, Florida Crystals, etc.)
1/2 cup organic brown sugar (such as Wholesome Sweeteners, Florida Crystals, etc.)
2 cups strongly brewed fair-trade coffee (such as Equal Exchange, etc.)*
1/2 vanilla bean
2 cups vodka (80 proof or higher)
*or substitute 2 tablespoons instant coffee and 2 cups water

Directions:

Stir together sugars and coffee over medium heat until the sugar dissolves. Slice open the vanilla bean and add it to the pot (Note: if the bean is too stiff, use a pair of scissors to cut it into small chunks instead). Add vodka, remove from heat, and cover until cooled - don't let that yummy booze evaporate!
Pour into clean jars or bottles, screw the lids on tight, and hide your proto-liquor somewhere cool and dark where you won't be tempted to "test" it every time you walk past. Leave it alone for at least a month, rebottle if desired, and give as gifts or enjoy it on the rocks, over ice cream, in a White Russian, etc.

Note: The longer this Kahlua sits, the better it gets. My parents still have half a bottle from the first batch I ever made; my mother guards it carefully, but if she lets you try it, you'll be amazed at how smooth the mouthfeel and taste have become.

Enjoy the recipe, and feel free to email me with herbal questions or recipes of your own at blackbirdsdaughter@gmail.com, or to talk about placing a special order or hosting an Herbal Evenings party while I'm here in Louisiana!

2:45 AM (Baton Rouge)

Ugggh, it's way too late to be up, and Sarah and I have a cooking & herb show to do tomorrow, but I'm STILL AWAKE. Grrr.
I shall now post a picture of the best bumpersticker ever, courtesy of Dave's truck:

Go, Peacemobile, go! You keep on truckin' those crazy hippie veggies.
And now for some more random Pennsylvania shots:

Them'ns are the inestimable Miss Pickles & the stupendously fantastic Katie. Who wouldn't want to live in Pennsylvania with people like them around?
Not to mention these fine folks, my gracious hosts on the farm (from the left, Myron, Lois, and Dave):
Seriously good people, and salt of the earth, as evidenced by Dave's super high powered state-of-the-art farm equipment:
Namely, strong hands and hard work. BTW, those rows? The ones Dave laboriously plowed, and we all filled by hand and shovel with shallots and garlic? Completely dug up by the free range chickens. Incidentally, I hear guinea fowl eat bugs but don't dig dig. But are they as soft? Hmmmm....

So, top secret news flash: I love aprons. Seriously, seriously love them.
Between the professional ones and the fun ones, I've got at least four, though I neglected to take either of my favorites along (I have a maroon "kitchen witch" one that Hunter got me and a short-n-frilly 1950's hostess one that I love). Anyway, Mrs. Dietz loaned me this one: It was so soft and well-loved, I wanted to curl up inside one of the pockets and stay there. Wearing it made me think of kittens and gingerbread and canning veggies barefoot. Well, not really, but it did come in handy when baking pumpkin spice muffins with cardamom frosting, cooking picnic breakfasts, butchering roosters and whatnot. And speaking of breakfasts: Cinnamon swirl french toast, scrambled veggies and eggs, and homefries al fresco, as nommed with the much loved and lovely Jolene and her sweetly serious Avery, who was very focused on houses. He and I built a log cabin with 9 windows out of tinkertoys the day we killed the roosters. He was there for the whole process (and the next night when we skinned a buck and fed the carcass to Scotty's pet couger). Obviously, Kiddo was tremendously scarred by the whole experience: Seriously, though, that rooster went from stump to sink (with a few stops in between) in about 2 hours, and from there directly into the dinner pot, which is not only the freshest meat I've ever eaten, but really puts those cellophane-wrapped factory-raised birds into perspective. After catching the birds (no easy feat - next time I'ma nab 'em while they're sleeping), Dave positioned their heads between two nails so they couldn't move. "Hmmm, well that's one less cock to deal with..." Seriously, us Yankees find the humor in everything. (Then we set our mouths stoically and go back to work).After the bodies were drained, they were dunked in boiling water to loosen the feathers for plucking.
Then Mrs. Dietz lit a small fire and singed the last few hairs off.
Ok, this is weird but true: roosters have hairs, or at least hairlike somethings. Not a lot, but enough to notice once they're plucked. Does anybody know about this phenomenon? If so, please explain; I was certainly surprised to find them there. Mmmm mmm mmm, them's some good eatins. Incidentally, notice the size of the chest, drumsticks, etc.? Chickens are not supposed to have a pound of breast meat per bird; they're supposed to run around and chase each other and make very brief landings and take-offs when necessary, and that means not being too top-heavy to walk. In other words, this was a healthy, "normal" (or at least how nature intended him to be) rooster.
And he was delicious. Especially with green curry and coconut over rice.
So yeah, that was my farm experience, and I loved it.

All right, all you cats and kittens, it's time for this sleepy muffin (as Em is wont to say) to finally go to bed so I can be bright eyed and bushy tailed in a few hours! Oyasuminasai...

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Song in Progress (somewhere in Mississippi)

Think Joni Mitchell meets Ani Difranco.

It feels so good
To get my feet back under me on the ground
Now I'm traveling down, down, down
Down South again, don't know when I'll be back home
Back up North, back where I belong
Where I belong (repeat 3x)
And it's been so long since I felt the cold
And I love this car but it's getting old
Love this trip and I love the fun
Taking joy in the setting sun
Take my pleasure in the rising tides
Change of the moon, thought of your eyes
Yeah, I'm twice burned with half a plan
But I got enough food and I need no man
Need no man (repeat 3x)
I do what I can
To be happy without the things I don't need
Letting go of guilt and greed
And those moments of fear that I ride so hard
Shake 'em off shake 'em down open the door and get back in my car
Back in the car (repeat 3x)
The sky's gotten dark
But I've still got a ways to go
Signs flash on a river of road
It's a rare night that I feel this incomplete
With only me in the driver's seat
In the driver's seat (repeat 3x)
The road is sweet
And tough but there're tricks I know
And I want things fast but I'll take 'em slow
Still I want roots and I want them now
Miss the dirt and I miss that town
Don't know if it's where I belong
But I've got time and I've got this song
I've got this song (repeat 4x)
Yeah I take my pleasure in the setting sun
Spinning wheels and what I've begun.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Gumbo: the Creole Gateway Food (Baton Rouge, LA)

Quick, ask me what I had for dinner last night?
Gumbo!
How 'bout breakfast this morning?
Gumbo!
Dinner?
Gumbo!
Would my wonderful host Sarah feed me anything else if I let her?
Of course, but it's not gonna happen. At least not while we have any left in the pot.
Why?
Because gumbo is a Creole Gateway Food. And now I'm hooked.

I'm sorry, Mama. I didn't mean for it to get like this. Sure, you hear about people getting hooked their first time, but it's not like that's ever gonna be you, you know? Thought I was tougher than that, man. Guess I was wrong. [insert sound of slurping]

It's only a matter of time before you find me snorting lines of file off a Louis XV mirror somewhere in the French Quarter next to sultry-eyed men with names like Beau and Jean Philipe...

Goddess, my life is delicious.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Funny People

and, for those of us who love good wordplay, I give you Katie. Formerly of the Burlington Katies, don't you know.

Where Have All the Consonants Gone? (A South Carolina query)


Would someone tell me, please, what it is that Southerners have against consonants? Dropped vowels I understand, but I've always viewed consonants as non-arbitrary elements to most words.

And, as in so many instances, I was, of course, completely wrong.

I have this little game I play when I cross state lines. Whenever I see one of those "Welcome to _____!" signs, I turn the radio on and listen to whatever station comes in the first, trying to see whether it syncs up with that particular moment or place.
The 1812 Overture began exactly as I crossed into Virginia.
Entering into North Carolina, it was Goodbye Stranger, by Supertramp.
By the time I reached South Carolina I'd turned off the radio, but flipped it on again when I saw the Welcome sign. After a brief stint of static, I stumbled onto an all-request bluegrass show.
"Nice," I thought, and settled back in my seat. When the song ended, the show's host -a cheerful, 'den mother-y' sounding woman- began a long series of shout-outs to her loyal listeners, many of whom were tuning in from pickup trucks in their backyards.
It was eerily akin to hearing Paula Dean channel Garrison Keillor.

I was hooked.

Never in my life I been so captivated by a radio announcer's voice (with the possible exception of my 'This American Life' phase. Then again, I like to think I'm genetically programmed to fall for a nebbish, brilliantly sardonic intellectual, so the Ira Glass thing was only a matter of time). Finishing her fan correspondences, the woman laughed.
"Way-ell, folks, trucks shure are a pop'ler place t'be lis'nin' from t'night."
Enthralled, I lis'ned, wide-eyed, from my car.
"An' before Ah forgit, Ah'aughta tell y'all 'bout the upcoming church dinnner, this Sa'erdee..."
I'm sure she did talk about the dinner, but by that point I was already lost in a river of sorghum molasses and sweet potato pie, buffeted about by gently floating peaches and giant barbeque ribs. Saturday. Saerdee. Saaaaah-errrr-deee.

When I came to, I was pulled over in a field of cotton, my jaw slightly open, mouthing the word "Sa'erdee" over and over again to the sound of empty static.
Never in all my travels have I found myself in the midst of a group of native English speakers who so thoroughly, unintentionally bogart the English language, suck the Shakespeare'd marrow out, and replace it with rolling mouthfuls of grits.

My friend Scotty called me later that day, and I asked him for an explanation, figuring he'd be a bit of an authority on the subject. Scotty himself is the possessor of a fine, multi-syllable Pennsylvania drawl, a phenomenon I'm more than happy to listen to. (If menfolk want to walk around my part of the world sounding like Sawyer from Lost, I have no objections).
"But what possible objection," I asked Scotty, "Could the people of South Carolina have to proper diction? What's so bad about consonants that they feel the need to remove them from the centers of words? And where on Earth do they put them??"
Scotty had no answer.

I can only assume it has something to do with the War of Northern Aggression.
Perhaps, in addition to scurrilous politics and opportunistic confidence men, the carpetbaggers also brought along an excess of Yankee inflections and intonations, and the decimated but still rebellious region's been flipping us the verbal bird ever since, bless our little hearts.

Some things are beyond mere mortal comprehension.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Things to Smile About (the Alabama version)

1. Bar-B-Q ribs. Hallelujah, Lordamighty, thank You for creating pigs and hickory smoke, and may I always appreciate the deliciousness of your bounty (and strive to eat piggies who were raised and killed with respect). Amen.


2. Nice waitstaff. Like, genuinely friendly waitstaff.
Last night, as my friend Adam and I waxed ecstatic over the I-found-Jesus-in-the-bottom-of-a-bottle-of-barbecue-sauce dinner, our waiter explained the whole smoking process to us, then came back to offer sweet tea and extra corn muffins for the road, and lingered to chat for a good twenty minutes after that.
This is in stark contrast to the stoned counter-boys and resentful, pasty-skinned waitresses we have up North. Down here, they look you in the eyes, smile, and ask you to come back soon. Back home, if your server hasn't already spat in your food through her unbrushed smoker's teeth by the time she sullenly drops your change on the counter, you can bet dollars to Dunkin' Donuts she was thinking about about it.

3. Space to make art, dear and talented friends to teach us, and master artists to inspire us...all of which can be found at Adam's pottery haven, aka Cahaba Clay Works.
I remember Adam's mugs from the year we worked together in Human Services Land (conveniently located smack dab in the middle of the Bog of Eternal Paperwork, just inland from the shores of Bureaucrae Sea). It was a magical place, but when he left, things felt pretty barren without his "c'mon guys, this life business is a really cool thing, but you gotta get your shit together if you wanna do it right" method of social work. Luckily for everyone who stayed behind, as a parting gift he made us a set of beautifully rounded, lovingly decorated mugs with the school's name written on their sides in glaze.
I used those mugs every single day with my students, and usually had at least one or two waiting on my bookshelf next to the tea and honey as vessels for our special, beginning-of-class ritual. For at least a year of my life, Tension Tamer tea and those mugs went together like IEPs and community-based education, so it's really exciting to see the new pieces he's working on, and to drink from an Adam Mug again. His motifs have changed, the craftsmanship's grown finer, and he's got a new signature at the bottom of his pieces, but the style's still all Adam.

4. Wooded trails, the kind with crinkly leaves and giant acorns and Popsicle stick bridges over streams. Today we took the dogs for a hike in Oak Mountain State Park. It was a perfect fall day, the kind with paper bag leaves and sunlight that shines with the consistency of 1% milk, as artless and lovely as a shoebox diorama.

5. Human-animal interactions. Adam and Sue are Dog People, and their pups are as well-loved and cherished as any child I've ever met. And while I must admit it's a new-to-me way of understanding pet ownership, it's a beautiful one. Like today, how instead of leaving the older dog who can't walk well at home, her dad looped a terrycloth sash under her belly for support and took her on a mini-walk, before bringing her back to the car so the other, younger dog could have a chance to gallop off and find dead things to roll in.
And boy, did he. I'll tell you, that's one thing Padme the Wonderbunny never put me through. Though there was that whole cecotropes thing...still, stinky stuff in small doses is easy to handle -no pun intended from this cleaning lady- and it did give me fodder for another "someday I'll make this" t-shirt: a picture of a rabbit with the caption "Cecotropes: everybunny's doin' it."
Insert awkward pause here. At least Dave laughs at my jokes, right, Dave? Dave...?
Regardless, whether it's the four-legged babies in this house, or Dave's Rhode Island Reds (sorry Americanas, that whole 'favorites' thing just sorta happened), the sweet and daily ways we coexist with 'all our relations' are such earthly, intimate blessings.
That alone is worth its own listing.

6. 'To all my relations'. In Lakota, 'all my relations' translates to 'Mitayuke oyasin.' More than just an encompassing phrase, it is a prayer and recognition of unity; an acknowledgment of the collective and each of our roles within the whole.
Mitayuke oyasin. Namaste. Shalom.
To all my relations, the spirit within me bows to the spirit within you. Peace and Welcome.
Truth like this runs deeper and farther than any language or nation can ever hold.

7. Herbal wisdom. Susannah from the Rosemary House taught me to make Four Thieves Vinegar, and I gave it to friends in Pennsylvania. I told some Georgia folks about it and have promised to make some for Adam and Sue, too. Not five minutes ago, I met a couple in the tea isle of Whole Foods as they looked around for something to help get rid of the husband's flu. I told them about Four Thieves, the wife whipped out a notebook, wrote it down, and they stopped by later on to double check the recipe and go over some more suggestions before heading home. (If you're reading this, I hope you're getting lots of rest and feeling better - and email me at jessicabellantone@yahoo.com with any questions; I'll do my novice best to try and answer).
Why was I in the tea isle in the first place? Because the cashier and I got to talking, and she wanted to know what I was doing down in Burmingham, so I told her I'm traveling around learning about herbalism.
"Are you a botonist?" she asked.
"No, I'm a beginning herbalist," I replied, to which she asked, "Is that like a real thing?"
Honey, it's exactly like a real thing, but better.
I love it when people are curious about what I do, almost as much as I love it when people let me learn about their passions and trades. And I really love the inevitable questions that follow, namely "What can I take for ____?" Tonight, I got to explain what herbalism is to a young and crampy woman, and help her reclaim her natural birthright and connection to the healing herbs that help our moontime cycles. And that, my friends, was why I was in the tea isle to begin with.
Folks, I know so very little, but the more I travel, the more I realize that the few and tiny grains of wisdom I carry in my cupped and barely-weathered hands are different from the handfuls all you fellow travelers hold. And right now, I've scooped up all that I can pick up up on my own; the only ways to get more are to hold out my hands to the rest of the world, giving and receiving as the adventure unfolds, until the next time I bend down, let the bits I've gathered flow through my fingers, and dig, waiting to see what new joys get unearthed.
Mitayuke Oyasin.

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