Brrr-r-r-r-Grump!

It's cold, dadgummit! If I put on any more layers of clothing, I'll start to waddle. I'll have to change my name to Sofie One Duck.

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Quack.

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I'm still here.

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Quack-quack.

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(The cartoon above tells you why I dare not give up my day job to become an artist.)

Too Long for the Comment Box

(Google rejected this response to Barrett Bonden that I tried to make in the previous post's comment box, so I have turned it into a separate post. I hope that doing so does not make my response more important or weighty than it is intended. I am too long-winded for my own good, at times, and this might be one of those times.)

BB, my dear friend,

I take issue, Friend, with your use of the word antipathy in describing my comments to you. I don't dislike you (- yet - and there is a big, teasing grin attached to that. I'm wise-cracking, BB.) I made my comments in teasing friendship, though in the one case, I likely misunderstood what you meant, that regarding squashes. (In my ignorance and misunderstanding, I didn't know if you were saying you couldn't eat them [for health reasons], or if they were unavailable to you [some squashes have a long growing season and need hotter summers than I thought England might have]. It didn't come across to me that your comment might mean you simply didn't like to eat them.) For me to continue on about squashes, at this point, though, would be like beating the proverbial dead horse.

So let's move on to the other two issues: the tongue-in-cheek remarks I made about the Irish-Americans in New Orleans on St. Patrick's Day, and your bread-crumb comment from an earlier posting about being of two minds regarding the independence of the American colony.

First, let me say that I believe American Irish are as different from Irish nationals as American Africans are from African nationals. We are Americans, who wear the trappings of our motherlands: trappings, burdens, prejudices and third- and fourth-generation memories. Both groups have romanticized views of what it means to be Irish and African, respectively, that are based not on first-hand experience gained from living in those countries (for the most part - always dangerous to speak in generalities, isn't it?) but on the biases of our cultures and the not-always-objective histories handed down to us. Make no mistake, however; we all are Americans, whether one sees that as a blessing or a curse. I think it's pretty cool, myself.

My understanding of the impact of the hostilities (civil war, really) between the Irish and the English in Northern Ireland is, obviously, not going to be the same as it would be for you. So let me apologize if my off-hand, meant-to-be-funny, remarks about Irish-Americans and their social ecumenicism - which lasts for the twenty-four hours of one day out of the year and is meant to be a sharing of fun and the joy of being Irish in a land where it is okay to be proud of your ancestral nationality - might have touched a heretofore unrecognized-by-me source of discomfort within your heart. I wrote that part of my post with a few people in mind, one of whom is you. The other intended targets who read this blog and are of Irish descent or from New Orleans would recognize the self-deprecating humor in the comments about what the Catholic Irish descendants in New Orleans might give thanks for and what the non-Irish Catholics might give thanks for. I had hoped you would take up the gauntlet, but I didn't know my remarks would be interpreted as antipathetic.

One of the things I most enjoy about our correspondences is that you, perhaps unintentionally, perhaps purposefully, drop little sparklies that catch my crow’s eye, leading me to investigate further. One such splinter of brightness was your reference to Barbara Tuchman’s history of the American Revolution. I quote: “Just reading a Barbara Tuchman account of how Britain lost that particular colony and, you know what?, it's left me in two minds.”

What a curious thing to say, I thought at the time, in response to a post about soup. I'm guessing that what triggered your comment was your expressed thought that you didn’t think anything could be bought for 32-cents anymore in the US, but still, it was the leap from discussing soup to political history that I found intriguing. Hence, my pursuit of that leap with you, which led, I think, to your second response above.

I think you do Americans a disservice in the paragraph which begins, "There is one further matter that needs clarification for US readers." Not every American is as ignorant as am I, BB, and - therefore - needful of clarification. But even I know the accepted view is that the British Empire began to unravel not with America's triumphant war of independence, but with the loss of its crown jewel, India, in the 30s and 40s of the past century. However, if Edmund Burke(*) is to be believed, it can be argued that the first snags in the cloth of the Empire actually began with the imperialism of the East India Company in the mid-1700s, which manifested in its heavy-handed dealings with the peoples of that nation. Certainly, the EIC's oppressive actions sowed the seeds of discontent that were, 200 years later, to bear fruit in India's fight for independence.

So, my dear friend, have I made my muddled thinking clearer, or have I made things worse? Have I misunderstood your intentions, your thoughts, again? And, finally, would you prefer we take any further discussions along these lines to email?

(*) I like to think it was Burke's education in a Quaker school that helped form his democratic – egalitarian, really - views of how to deal with one's citizenry. Too bad King George didn't listen. Too bad His Majesty's "star chamber" of advisors had taken control of the king. Any truth to the rumors that King George's mind was being systematically destroyed by poisons fed to him in his meals and wine, by members of his own family?

Martha

Oh, Woe (PS: or not)

Good luck charms.

(Post-publication caution: This was written tongue-in-cheek, and possibly should not have been posted in the first place, but I'll leave it up...for now.)

>..

I have lost my fava.

Say what? you ask.

I have lost my blessed fava bean, and now shall be penniless forever.

(You know there’s a story behind this, so grab a cuppa and I’ll tell you. I do have a fava stone, but it isn’t the same. Besides, that’s a story for another time; not much of one, but a family joke.)

When I was a young teen, in New Orleans, there were two pre-Easter “holy” days in the city: March 17th and March 19th, St. Patrick’s Day and St. Joseph’s Day, respectively. These celebrations were held (no surprises here) at St. Patrick’s on Camp Street, and St. Joseph Church on Tulane. These celebrations were not like Mardi Gras, by any means, but were something to see, for sure.

Participants in the St. Paddy’s parade frequently started the day with Mass at St. Pat’s where they expressed their gratitude for being, one, Catholic, and, two, Irish. They then went out and consumed huge quantities of fermented beverages to sustain them during the long march in the parade. Lots of good Irish fun and frivolity, and ecumenism – for on St. Patrick’s Day, not only was everyone Irish, they all were Catholic, too.

Two days later, at St. Joe’s on Tulane, the Italian segment of New Orleans had their own day of thanksgiving, when they praised God that they were, firstly, Catholic, and, secondly, not Irish.

(What is it about us Irish that makes others glad not to be us? It’s the same here in Hanover, where the German settlers pushed the Irish to the edge of town, to what is now McSherrystown, enclave of the Irish and their multitude of descendents. However, in the almost 200 years since the founding of this town, everyone lives pretty much where the heck they want, Catholic or not, and Irish or not. Besides, at least once a year, everyone is Catholic, and Irish. But, I digress.)

I don’t recall much about the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations at his namesake church, but I have strong, vivid memories of the Saint Joseph Altars on the steps of his namesake church. They were beautiful; feasts not only for the nose and mouth, but for the eyes, as well. (My gosh, I am drooling just thinking about them.) But that doesn’t even begin to explain their hold on me. Their magic had to do with living in poverty circumstances, when food was scarce, and not much to shout about when we did have it. Don’t get me wrong; my entire life has not been one of unrelenting deprivation, but when those times came, they were harsh and left scars I carry to this day.

The first time I passed St. Joseph’s Altar, I thought I must have died and gone to heaven. I was riding in the back of my Aunt Geraldine’s car, and I yelled out, “Look! Look at all that food!” After she recovered from the fright I caused, she explained that on St. Joseph’s Day, the parishioners made an altar to the saint on the steps of the church and laid out all kinds of foods which were blessed by the priest, then divided among the parishioners and given to the poor. The altar was their way of remembering a time of prolonged drought and severe famine in Sicily, when it seemed the drought would last forever, and the townsfolk were on the verge of starving. They had gone through all their stored foods and most of their livestock. The situation was so dire, they had begun to eat the same foods they fed their cattle and pigs.

When it seemed there was no hope left, they gathered to pray to Saint Joseph for mercy and a blessing. (St. Joseph, the step-father - so to speak - of Christ, is the patron saint of fathers everywhere, the protector of the family providers.) The rains came, the crops flourished and the peoples of Sicily – none of whom were Irish, I’m betting – gave thanks to St. Joseph by building an altar of thanksgiving to him, laying upon it some of the bounty of their harvests.

What does this have to do with fava beans? The food the Sicilians fed to their livestock was fava beans, not normally considered food for humans. At almost every St. Joseph Altar, in addition to the breads shaped like a ladder and hammers (St. Joseph was a carpenter, you know), you will find dried fava beans. They, too, are blessed with the rest of the feast, and are much prized and sought out by those who celebrate the miracle of Saint Joseph’s day.

The story goes that if you keep one of the beans with you at all times, in pocket or purse/wallet, your pocket/purse/wallet will never be empty. Another version is that you will never be hungry again. Either one works for me, but I stick with the first version because it is the one I heard when I attended my first altar, finally, five years ago.

I am neither Italian, nor Sicilian, nor Catholic. I am just an aging little Irish kid who treasured her fava bean for the story it carried with it, and the promise that I would never be broke or hungry again.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

PS: Well, baa-a-a-a-a, do I ever feel sheepish. I found my fava bean right where I put it several weeks ago, in the other change section of my same old wallet. I'm so embarrassed. What in the world is the matter with my brain today? BAA-A-A-A, indeed.

5:37pm

Snowman Humor

www.tundracomics.com

Not-Too-Bad Soup - a Recipe, of Sorts

Yummy Squash

I am a pretty good cook, not to toot my own horn, or anything. I think I became a pretty good cook because I like to experiment with recipes and ingredients. Nothing pleases me more than to go to my cupboard, a'la Mother Hubbard, and try to fix something edible from what I find there. I grew up cutting my culinary teeth, so to speak, in the gumbo pot of cooking that is New Orleans, where home cooks are famous for not measuring ingredients (except for baking, which is different from cooking), but just throwing stuff in a kettle and adding a pinch of this or a dollop of that, and sometimes using their cupped palms to measure things. I learned to be fearless in my cooking experimentations. This worked out very well, usually. (My family would be only too eager to regale you with horror stories of my "mishaps," given the chance, however.)

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In the previous post, I mentioned that I had intended to blog about making tomato soup, inspired by Plutarch's recipe. I didn't have exactly the list of ingredients that Joe used, but the soup I made was tasty and nourishing. I used canned (tinned) tomatoes, boxed chicken broth, garlic and pepper. I didn't have any cardamom on hand, but I did have a jar of a very good pesto in the refrigerator, so I used a healthy dollop of that. The basil in the pesto was a beautiful complement to the tomatoes, with the pine nuts adding an unusual, but delightful, uh...je nais se quoi in both aroma and flavor. (Yes, I had to Google the French. I can say it, but I didn't know how to spell it. Hope I picked the correct spelling.)

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Today I went grocery shopping. My food budget is extremely low, so I was looking for inexpensive things to use for my supper tonight. It's soup weather here in south-central Pennsylvania; rather cold out. (As my dear old daddy used to say, "It's colder than a well-digger's butt in Idaho out there!")

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One of my favorite soups is a bean and sausage concoction I learned to make from watching one of the cooking shows on television. It calls for chicken broth, white beans, Italian-style fresh sausage, spinach or rabe, onions, garlic, diced tomatoes and oregano. I was on the prowl for sausage and the rabe. Couldn't afford either of them, but I found some dandelion greens and half a butternut squash as inexpensive substitutes. I've never used dandelion greens in anything but salad or mixed with other greens in a "mess o' greens," so this was going to be one of those 'mad-scientist-in-the-la-BOR-atory' cooking sessions. (Try to imagine you hear Boris Karloff saying that - sounds so much better in my head than when I say it aloud.)

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Back to tonight's repast. I think one of the reasons the dandelion greens were so cheap (32-cents for about a pound of them) is because the grocer figures you're going to have to spend an hour washing all the sand from the leaves, so he dare not charge more for them. I mean, nothing is worth that much effort, and I wouldn't have bothered, except I wasn't going to throw away thirty-two cents! I could have bought a stale cookie from the bakery for that thirty-two cents, for heaven's sake, so I was going to wash those leaves if it took all afternoon to get them clean.

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The squash had been peeled in the grocery, so all I had to do was cut it into chunks. Ever try cutting a butternut with a paring knife? Doesn't work too well. I speared it with the fork I use for lifting the turkey onto a platter, then went in search of my kitchen-grade chainsaw. Of course, I kidding. No one has invented one of those chainsaws yet.

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Once I had the greens, squash, onion, garlic and broth simmering, I rummaged through the spice rack for things to dress up the soup. I used thyme, cumin (yeah, I know - odd pot-fellows, aren't they?), black pepper and the slightest pinch of salt. Then my eyes befell the bottle of chipotle chile (that's how it is spelled on the label, so blame McCormick) on the shelf with all my other peppers. Chipotle is a stealthy assassin, in that it doesn't take much of it to set your mouth afire, but I do love its smokey-sweet, almost bitter, taste. Reminds me of burnt sugar, the odor that used to waft upriver from the sugar refinery near our house in Chalmette, Louisiana.

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I pulled what I thought was a small pinch from the bottle and dropped it into the simmering broth. Immediately, the heat released by the broth climbed out of the pot on the back of the steam and torched my nose hairs. I made the mistake of rubbing my nose with the same hand that owned the pepper-laden fingers, used to extract the deadly pinch. Well, duh, Martha! Aren't you glad you weren't scratching your tender bits with that hand?

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I tasted the broth and was surprised at the level of heat from so small a pinch. Yet, it was good. I let the soup simmer for several more minutes and tasted it again. The chipotle dominated the pot, which is not what makes a good soup. My lips were hot from tasting the liquid, almost painful. I had read somewhere that sugar tames the heat in chili peppers, so I added about half a teaspoonful to the soup, let it simmer a couple of minutes, then tasted it again. That worked, or else the heat had already dissipated on its own.

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When the squash was about half tender, I added the beans and diced tomatoes. Because the soup was thin, I added a potato, diced small, thinking it would soften to mush and help thicken the broth. Now my soup was becoming a vegetable stew, and it was becoming more complex in flavor. The cumin needed something to balance it, so I added a couple of tablespoons of green mole to two cups of the stew and pulsed all in the food processor until a smooth paste formed, which was added to the pot. A few minutes more and soup was on. I ended up with a couple of gallons of yummy experimental stuff, creamy without adding cream or roux, very low salt (my blood-pressure likes that), and a new flavor combination that I like very much.

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Wish I had written down exactly what the heck I did!

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

So Far Today

• Awoke with a gushing nosebleed - thought I'd struck oil, or something
• Stepped on cat's tail as he was herding me away from the bathroom and toward his food dish. Serves him right that I dripped blood all over his head. After five or so minutes, nose stops bleeding. Cleaned up all the red drips. Fed the cat.
• Couldn't find my glasses, but didn't need them to fix tea and breakfast, so didn't worry about it.
• Sat at computer desk to eat (probably not a good idea) my breakfast of dippy eggs and toast soldiers. Noticed that a large-ish crumb of toast had landed on the keyboard. Thank goodness there was no egg on it. Picked it up and dropped it onto my plate, to be brushed into trash with other crumbs after I finished. It rolled over a couple of times...then unfolded its legs and tried to scurry away. Did I mention I couldn't find my glasses? When the leg count reached seven, I freaked. Glasses or no glasses, I knew it was a SPIDER!!!! Hopped up, screeching "Get away! Get away!"
• Startled the cat, who (unbeknownst to me) was stretched out behind my chair. In my haste to get away from the SPIDER, I rolled the desk chair across the cat's paw. He bit my left big toe in self defense. More of a warning bite, really. Didn't draw blood. Spilled my tea all over him and my jammies. He ran into the living room, I think. Found him in the chimney.
• Spent the next fifteen minutes trying to coax the cat down from the chimney ledge, my body wedged between the fireplace wall and the fire dog which toppled over when my butt hit it. Note to self: gotta lose a few pounds before I try this again.
• Cat tires of my attempts to smooth things over and leaps down, using my head as a step to the floor. Right behind him, a soot-covered mummified bird falls from the ledge into my lap. Yuck.
• Nose starts to bleed again. My once white t-shirt is now dotted with bright red blood and streaked with soot from the bird mummy. I crawl out of the fireplace, trying not to touch any of the furniture. Ran to the bathroom for a tissue to shove up my nose. I look like I've been mugged on my way home from Hell.
• I found my glasses. They were on the keyboard, at the dark end, away from the lamp.
• The SPIDER was sitting on them.

So, how has your day been so far?

PS: Why the picture of tomatoes, you ask? I was going to blog about making soup today, using Plutarch's recipe, but I got sidetracked.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Home, Sweet Home

Because I burdened all who visit here with tales of woe regarding my daughter and grandson, I thought it only right to let you know their lives have taken a turn for the better. They have found a home in a wonderful apartment building (pictured above) here in town, just a few blocks from my house.

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The apartment building's "life" story has elements that echo my daughter's life. Both were at one time vibrant, busy and active. Both fell on hard times that led to decline and apathy, plus depression in my daughter's case. Both were rescued, rehabilitated and brought back to life after a period of decay.

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The apartment building started life as a factory, where Hanover Shoes were made. This was one of the industries that helped make Hanover a bustling manufacturing town for about fifty years. It had been sitting empty, windows broken out, graffiti-marked, when we first moved to town over 24 years ago. The building was vandalized, stripped of anything valuable, and became an abandoned derelict that cost the town thousands of dollars in lost revenue. The out-of-state owner refused to sell it or let it be torn down, and had no interest in restoring it for any purpose. I don't know how many years back-taxes he owed, but it was significant. The building became home to vagrants and thousands of pigeons and rats, feral dogs and cats. In fact, the place had fallen into such a shabby state that the local fire department, housed just down the block, went on record that should the building catch fire, they would push the walls in rather than try to save it.

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After many years wrangling with different redevelopers, the owner was persuaded (some say forcefully persuaded) to sell to the current owners. There has long been a need for low-income housing in our town, but plans for building such accommodations were always met with strong resistance. However, the current owners presented plans which overcame area residents' fears of public housing (read ghetto - their perception), and we now have a beautifully redesigned, repurposed apartment complex available to low-to-moderate income families and seniors. Enough about the apartment building.

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If you were here when I wrote about evicting Daughter and Grandson from my home, you'll recall that my beloved daughter had slipped into such a sad state that she had pretty much given up trying to care for herself and her son. It didn't help her for me to continue bailing her out. She became dependent and even more deeply depressed. Her life skills, so to speak, weakened and she was going deeper into debt than she was when she moved in with me the year before.

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The first three or four weeks they lived at the motel she was in a state of shock. Almost every cent she had coming in went to pay rent for their room. She had little money left over to buy gas or feed herself during the day. She had reached a very low spot and considered giving up all together. Often the only meal she had was the one we shared at my house each evening. (Donovan had breakfast and lunch provided at his school.) It hurt deeply to watch her struggle with their situation, but I knew that if I did more to solve her dilemma, I would only be making things worse for them. Knowing that, however, did nothing to ease my Mom-guilt.

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My daughter is an intelligent human being, a magnificent problem-solver and organizer, creative and innovative, hard-working and diligent - except when it comes to her personal life when she falls into depression. Yet, something snapped in her, about a month into living in that motel. She took the reins of her life back into her own hands and said, essentially, "Enough of this crap!"

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For many years, Karie volunteered with a group called Survivors, for victims of emotional and physical abuse. She knew all the social agencies to contact to get help for the women who came to the agency, and was a strong advocate and mentor for women leaving abusive relationships, since she had done the same. Now she became an advocate for herself and for her son. Having to fight for herself and Donovan snapped her out of the decline she was in. She applied to homeless shelters, to several low-income apartment complexes and to privately owned apartments. She sought and obtained a financial counselor for help with her money management problems.

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One of the results of her new-found strength and determination is that they now have a lovely two-bedroom apartment in a recently remodeled, secure apartment building that has almost everything they need within walking distance of their new home. The apartment is on the top floor of the building, is spacious, bright and airy - very nice. Karie gave me the grand tour this morning. She hopes to finish moving in over the weekend.

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She is so excited and happy with the way her life is turning around. She has every reason to feel proud of her accomplishments. I am also proud of her, happy for them both and greatly relieved. We all can breathe a little easier now.

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She informed me that we're having Christmas at her house this year, the first of many, I hope. Thank you, Universe, for helping my daughter find herself again.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore