A Cup of Kindness

When I was a kid, I wondered why the end of one year and the beginning of the next went by with no physical change to the earth that I could see. Seemed to me that one day was pretty much like the one before, unless we people did something different. The earth seemed not to notice that 1955, let's say, had given way to 1956. There was no noticeable pause in the rotation of the planet, no shifting of gears - like in my Dad's pickup - that caused the earth to lurch ahead with a grinding or creaking noise. The sun still looked the same, and so did the moon and its cycles. What was the big deal?

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What was especially confusing was the song we sang to mark the passing and the coming of the two years in question. What exactly did "Auld Lang Syne" mean, anyway? None of my teachers could answer that, though most guessed that 'auld' meant old, but no one could tell me about 'lang syne.' Eventually, I stopped wondering and accepted it as part of the year-end holiday traditions.

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This year, though, the question came back, and I used one of my favorite research tools, Google, to search for the answer. Wikipedia told me the song was a poem by Scots poet Robert Burns, set to the tune of an old Scottish folk song. (Okay, okay, for all those who knew that already...I'm a late-bloomer/late-learner, and it was news to me that Burns had written it.)

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Wikipedia kindly gave me a translation, and all the lyrics. "Auld lang syne" is a song of friendship, of the celebration and remembrance of friends past and present; a toast of heartfelt love, friendliness, well-wishes and kindness.

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Good answer.

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So, to my old friends and loved ones who are no longer with us; to old friends and beloveds still here; to new friends I hope to know better; to the unmet friends the new year promises to bring -- I wish all of thee a happy new year, a peaceful new year, a new year full of promise and success.

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"And there's a hand, my trusty friend!

And give us a hand o' thine!

And we'll take a right goodwill draught,

for auld lang syne."

...

(c) Martha McLemore 2008

Hunger

(Picture of grilled cheese sandwiches by Lenn Thompson. http://lennthompson.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/grilledcheese.jpg)

Many things have transpired since my last post, some of them interesting, most...well, most not so much. I will post some of the interesting things later, but today is all about one of the most comforting of comfort foods -- the grilled cheese sandwich. As soon as I finish this post, I'm going to make one for myself, using some leftover Italian bread, some Asiago cheese, and maybe some paper-thin slices of apple, like Lenn Thompson put in his sandwich, pictured above.

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This also is a cheater post, in that I'm using something I wrote over 11 years ago, back when I used to post regularly to rec.food.cooking newsgroup. Partly because I cannot say anything any better about grilled cheese sandwiches than I did then, but mostly because I am in a hurry to get to making one right now, I offer this essay.

.....

.....It begins with a gurgle in the throat which builds to a gnawing sensation in the stomach. Soon, the whole body is in yearning, driving the spirit to move into the kitchen where the food shrine stands, humming its mantra as it performs its cooling ritual.
.....One hand moves with urgency to open the food shrine. The body is illuminated by the Light within, all 15 watts of its glory lighting the supplicant and the cabinets beyond. On and on, the shrine hums, oblivious to the worshiper at its door. Darting eyes scan the shelves for something--anything--with which to sate the hunger, some quick-fix morsel to quiet the Gastric Beast. The spirit droops. Of all times to be without leftovers.
.....Time to make a pilgrimage to the lesser shrine, where temperature is not so critical to the nourishment inside. Alas, no quick snacks to be found. Must be approaching that time of the moon when the funds have run out and only long-cooking staples are left in the pantry.
.....Without thinking, the supplicant returns to the major shrine and peers inside once more, not really seeing the contents. Her hand moves over plastic-wrapped parcels of miscellaneous contents until she senses a familiar form.
.....Ah, it is the heels and a couple of slices of the Italian loaf from the weekend spaghetti feast. Her nose picks up the scent of sharp Provolone. The supplicant scoops the treasures to a plate and prepares to eat them.
.....But, wait...wouldn't these treasures be better made into a sandwich and grilled? The Gastric Beast twists and growls its disapproval. "Feed me NOW!" it demands.
.....The supplicant lays her bits and pieces on the counter. In an attempt to calm the Beast, she stuffs one of the small bread heels into her mouth and chews slowly. Be patient, she soothes, the wait will be worth it.
.....A glance in the major shrine reveals there is no butter, but she remembers the bottle of emerald olive oil on the counter. The supplicant turns the heat on under her cast iron skillet, retrieves the oil and returns to her finds.
.....She selects two slices of the bread which are nearly the same size and brushes them with olive oil. Next she shaves several pieces of the hard, sharp cheese until she has enough to fill the sandwich. Again, The Beast fumes and rumbles, coiling and uncoiling inside her belly. Again, she speaks quietly and soothingly of the rewards of patience.
.....Layer by layer, the cheese is laid upon one slice of the oiled, dense bread. Then its mate is placed atop the cheese. Maybe it's because the supplicant is so hungry, but she imagines she can smell the earth in the groves where her oil was produced. The warm Mediterranean sun beats down upon her shoulders as she transports the unfinished sandwich to the heated skillet.
.....The heat from the hot iron vessel releases the fruity perfume of the oil. The supplicant inhales and sighs in anticipation. Again, The Beast rumbles, but it, too, sounds in anticipation.
.....Two minutes on one side, then two more on the other. The aroma of warm olive oil is accompanied by the drool-inducing fragrance of melting cheese. At last, the sandwich is finished. The supplicant removes it from the skillet to her plate, which she has in the meantime garnished with kosher dill slices and ripe tomato wedges.
.....A few steps from the shrine room to the dining room and the end of her journey is at hand. Before her lies the crisp, browned body of a perfectly executed grilled cheese sandwich.

.....The Beauty and Truth of the moment have at last stilled the growlings of the great Gastric Beast. The feast begins.

.....Silence reigns, broken only by the muted crunching of teeth upon food and the tinkling of ice in her glass of Golden Assam. Her longing answered, the supplicant enters a state of grace. Nirvana.
Martha McLemore (c) October 1997

There is a light dusting of snow upon the ground and the wind is howling its song to the gods of the season. The tea kettle is on, heating water for some recumbent Lapsang souchong leaves at the bottom of my favorite beat-up old teapot. I have the house all to myself for a few hours and I am going to spend some of that time indulging in nesting.

.....

It is good to be alive.

Tur-kenstein!

When I was in the Navy, I worked in the Hospital Corps. While stationed at Charleston, SC, one of the doctors there allowed me to put a couple of sutures in the chin of a very drunk, very loud and obnoxious chief petty officer. I was supervised at all times and followed the doctor's instructions to the letter. What I lacked in experience, I made up for in enthusiasm. Somewhere in this world is a 70-plus-year-old retired Navy veteran with a slightly crooked scar on his chin, just under his lower lip.
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Fast-forward to Thanksgiving, this year. I'd like you to meet Tur-kenstein, the guest of honor at our dinner.

..

Whoever butchered the turkey slit the skin across its breast. Knowing that the flesh underneath the split would dry out during roasting, I used some of the trussing needles to pin the skin back together to prevent that from occurring. As you can see in this photo, my suturing skills have not improved with time.

This bird is huge (we like lots of turkey leftovers in this family), filling the roasting pan almost from edge to edge. In fact, I had to remove the parson's nose (tail) after I stuffed the bird to get it to fit easily in the pan. I had set the nose atop the bird to do something else and was amused by the sight I beheld when I returned to the turkey.

With all those needles and the suture-like trussing down its breast, the parson's nose on top made me think of Frankenstein, all cobbled together from various body parts, stitching scars everywhere. Immediately, the bird was named Tur-kenstein.

I never listened when Mama said 'don't play with your food, Martha,' so I borrowed Ball's googly-eyes (weren't doing him any good, anyway) and gave Tur-kenstein the appearance of sight.

Really creeped me out, after I stopped laughing.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
(c) M. C. McLemore, 2008

Homecoming

Donovan gets to come home for Thanksgiving and the weekend. This will be his first time home since he was admitted to his residential treatment facility in August of this year. He is excited and a bit apprehensive about being away from the hospital for so long, and about spending time with both his parents.

Donovan needs only a few things to feel secure and safe: he needs to know what the "order of the day" is, he needs as few surprises to his routine as possible, he needs to know where his mother is at all times, he needs Blue Blankey, and he needs a night-light.

On a recent trip to Penney's department store, Kareema and I were admiring tree ornaments when she spotted the penguin light in the photo. She agreed when I said it would be perfect for Donovan's room, so I added it to my too-large balance and brought it home.

One of Donovan's favorite (recent) movies is "Happy Feet," the story of a penguin that marches to a different drummer...or, dances, I should say. I imagine Donovan connected with the character, who is rejected and scorned by the rest of the flock because he can't sing like the others. Never mind that he could tap like Gregory Hines, the little guy brayed like a jackass when he tried to sing. It's a cute movie.

Anyway, the night before Donovan was to come home, Kareema and I fixed his room. The last thing we did was plug in the penguin. We sat watching it to see what it was supposed to do, because we thought it was supposed to bubble, like those old time Christmas bubble lights I remembered from my childhood. We watched for what felt like five minutes with no results, then were startled when silvery glitter inside the candle part of the light shot up like a rocket and started a dance of its own. Cool! Sparkly! (Crow!)

For the next half hour or so, my 38-year-old daughter and her 61-year-old mother lay across Donovan's bed, in the dark, and silently watched the magic of light and shiny stuff dance around that small patch of wall next to his pillows.

I haven't felt that delighted and peaceful - and safe - in a very long time.

(c) M. C. McLemore. All rights (such as they may be) reserved.

GRUMP!

The sky has been threatening snow for the last couple of days. Layer upon layer of blue-grey, gloomy, swirling clouds have occluded the sun, off and on, and hung over the landscape like some fluffy sword of Damocles, so to speak. As much as I enjoy blustery weather, I don't like being threatened, so snow, dadgummit...or get off the pot!

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One of the funniest things about this part of the country (and it may happen elsewhere) is the panic run on grocery items when the forecast suggests we might be in for a snowstorm. Around here, it's bread, milk, toilet paper and ice-melt granules that disappear off the shelves faster than they were loaded onto them. My sister Sandra says substitute panels of plywood for the ice-melt and add bottled water to the list and that describes the panic runs when hurricanes head into her part of the Gulf of Mexico. Oh, yeah, and candles. Up here, we grab batteries instead of candles. Probably because many people around here use kerosene heaters for emergency heat and candle flames mixed with kerosene...you can see where that's headed.

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This is probably a good time to make sure the snow shovels are in good condition and close at hand, that the tub I use for ice-melt is full, and that my tires are fully inflated. Better put the winter emergency equipment tub back into the car and might better get new flares...the ones I have are nearly ten years old. Got new wipers and anti-fog fluid last month. Time to check the anti-freeze and other fluids in the car, too.

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Gotta clean the leaves out of the gutters and downspouts, put the garden hoses away and winterize the outdoor faucets. Already took the ACs out of the windows, but haven't put the storm windows in place yet.

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Okay, okay...I'll check the pantry for bread, toilet paper and batteries, too.

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Yep, it's going to be a busy weekend.

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Like I said...grump!

Glowering sky photo (c) M. C. McLemore, November 2008

Body Parts

There is an arboretum near my house. We call it Squirt Park, because that's where we used to walk our dog, and he would leave liquid messages for all the other dogs who came along later.


In Squirt Park, there live a great variety of birds: flickers, woodpeckers, an owl, nearly a dozen crows, several pairs of jays, sparrows, finches, juncos, starlings, umpteen hundred pigeons and doves, and three mated pairs of Cooper's hawks. The hawks are fierce hunters, even fiercer defenders of their nest sites. I found bird remains under a tree in the arboretum and watched an adult hawk feeding half-grown chicks the carcass of a plump dove. Gruesome, but fascinating.

In recent months, I've noticed that some of the hawks come to the flat roof of my carport to eat their prey. There, they also leave the remains. The crows saw these remains as windfalls and would keep the rooftop fairly clean.

However, since the kittens arrived and grew big enough to climb trees -- from which they leap onto the carport roof -- the crows haven't been so tidy. Consequently, the nearly grown kittens are the beneficiaries of the hawks' garbage. They've brought down rabbit bits (mostly fur), squirrel tails, leftover bird pieces, and last week the wings, head and feet of this hen pheasant. I picked up several feathers in the yard that show the teardrop shape of a bird of prey's beak, and bones that have been separated from the body of the pheasant with almost surgical precision. No cat nor crow peels the fur off a rabbit in order to get to the flesh, but a hawk will.

Until I found the body parts, as far as I knew we didn't have pheasant running wild in downtown Hanover. We have several wooded areas and farms just on the outskirts of town, so maybe the hawks have been hunting there. I heard foxes barking about four, maybe five blocks away one evening this spring, and my friend Ann spotted a coyote out at her place, so city-dwelling pheasants aren't beyond the realm of possibility.

There are wild parts of this town I've not suspected existed until now. With all this other wildlife around my neighborhood on a daily basis, what makes me think a pheasant is so unusual? I mean, we used to have bison and wolves in this state not that long ago, for heaven's sake!

What's next...Sasquatch?

Photo of Cooper's hawk (c) Lloyd Spitalnik. Photo of hen pheasant found at http://www.wildaboutkent.com

Reggae Requeim

(Sung to the tune of Bob Marley's "I Shot the Sheriff.")

I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but I didn't touch the microwave.



While brewing up my favorite roast,

The acrid smell of burning toast

Filled my nose and burned my throat.

Toaster needs to be cleaned, I made note:

Yeah, man, needs to be cleaned, make note.

I say:



I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but did not touch the microwave.



It seemed a simple job to do

Just loosen a screw or two,

But nothing ever works out that way;

Not for me, and not today.

Oh, not for me, not this day!

I said:



I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but did not touch the microwave.



With screwdriver in my hand

Toaster's compliance I did demand;

I was met with steely defiance.

Now it's another dead appliance.

Just another dead appliance.

I say:



I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but did not touch the microwave.



All I wanted to do was clean it;

Now it's dead - I didn't mean it.

Can't find all the screws I broke out.

I have looked for them all about.

The cats scattered them, no doubt.

Listen to me now:



I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but did not touch the microwave.



Parts are on the counter in a heap;

I bet I'll see them in my sleep,

Dancing all around the room

By the light of the waning moon.

Reggae toaster in my room.

I say:



I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but did not touch the microwave.



Should have left the crumbs on the trays;

They'd been there for several days.

Didn't care 'til they started to burn.

What lesson from this must I learn?

Don't force a screw that won't turn.

Oh, yeah:



I killed the toaster, but I have not touched the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but have not touched the microwave...

-

...yet.

Photo of dead toaster (c) Martha McLemore, November 2008.