Not Much. You?

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• Today, I am 68 years and 1 day old.  Seems like only a couple of days ago that I was 67 - my, how time flies.  July 25 is, according to ancient Mayan culture, the Day Out of Time:  "The day of Kin, which is outside of time, is...July 25th, also called Green Day.  Green Day was considered by the Maya as a special day to prepare the soul, creating a space for play, art, magic and creativity."  This year, the day passed with hardly any notice, for me, anyway.  Is it a sign of aging that birthdays don't matter as much as when we were younger?
• I have a new therapist, one I think will help me work through the PTSD crap.  I am hopeful, at least.
• Lightning bugs are here later than usual this summer.  Most years they are here the last half of June into the first week or so of July.  This year they didn't show up until the middle of this month.  However, there seem to be a great many more than usual.  Their tiny bodies fill the evenings with luminescent acid green light, rising just after the sun disappears from the horizon, in that space between twilight and nightfall.  What joy!
• I am nearing that age when I'll probably have to retake the state's driver's license test - or, at least, have to go through an eye and reflex test.  Two more years of degenerating vision and slowing reflexes and I'm screwed.  Time to get a bus pass and learn to leave the driving to someone else, I guess.
• There is a new, young cat visiting my property.  Pretty little grey-and-black-tiger, half-grown kitten; very friendly, likes being petted and held.  He curls his rather prehensile tail around my wrist when I pet him.  I thought it was sweet, until I realized poison ivy rash now encircles my wrist.  Despite my wishes, Donovan has named the cat: Georgie Junior, after a cat he lost to feline distemper a few years ago.  Well, you know what they say about naming an animal - it's yours forever - so I guess I'll feed it, too.  But this is absolutely the last one!
• After so many wet weeks, we are in a dry and hot spell.  Not too bad, but I find myself longing for the cooler weather of late September, early October - as if time weren't flying by fast enough already.  As my mother used to tell me, "Martha, you'd complain if they hung you with a new rope!"  Probably, but if the sky was as blue as a Dutchman's britches and full of fluffy white clouds, with a cool breeze and low humidity, at least I wouldn't mind the weather.
• That's about all that's on my mind this evening.  How are things your way? 

Lazy Sunday Afternoon

This is one of those days when the Sunday-lazies take over and I don't do a damned thing but guzzle iced tea, sitting on the front steps - well, hardly anything else.  I did spend some time reading the mail I set aside earlier in the week, downloaded a photo of grandson in his first-job uniform, cruised the interwebs to see what y'all were up to this morning, fed the cat and watered the plants I should have put in the ground a few weeks ago.  On that last item, it would appear I have the Sunday-lazies other days of the week, as well.

First, I want to tell you about this web site that Michael linked to at the bottom of today's post, where I found this!  Went through half a gallon of tea reading SWPD - so eye-opening.

I've written many times about my grandson Donovan.  (Donovan is on the autism spectrum, with Asperger's Syndrome.)  When he was about 8-years-old, the counselor at the grade school he attended in Gettysburg told his mother that because he was autistic, with serious physical development disorders, he likely wouldn't live to be 12-years-old, but if he did he certainly wouldn't make it to high school.  If he somehow beat those astronomical odds, he absolutely wouldn't finish with grades good enough to get to college.  Furthermore, he would be better off if she placed him in a residential facility where professionals would know how to care for him until the end of his days.

Well, it took Donovan longer than neuro-typical kids to get through high school, graduating when he was 21, having been on the honor roll seven out of the previous twelve marking periods (three of those on the high-honors-roll).  When he graduated and walked across the carpet (outdoors ceremony) to accept his diploma, almost the entire senior class stood and applauded him.  (Oh, yeah - Mom was also told he'd never have friends, either, because he lacked communication skills.)

He is attending summer session at the local community college, with plans to continue there for the next two years, before transferring to more technologically advanced college or university.  Donovan wants to become a video-games programmer/designer, with the aim of writing programs to help other kids on the spectrum develop social and academic skills, tools that would have helped him accelerate his learning had they been available.  (Interactive video presentations of academic material have proved successful with people on the spectrum.)

Last week, he was hired to work part-time, working around his class schedules, at a local fast-food restaurant (no, not McD's). The first two days were supposed to be spent on video-training, but he finished that in one afternoon, so they moved him to the counter the first couple of hours the next day, but put him on one of the food prep stations when another kid called in sick.  His managers are astounded that he learned the machines and the menu preps in the remaining four hours of that second day, especially because - when the late afternoon-evening rush came on - he was in the kitchen by himself.  (Am I bragging too much?  Can't help it - he amazes me everyday with what he can do, how far he has come from when he was 8-years-old, how wicked intelligent he is, how kind and compassionate.  Okay, I'll stop.  For today.)

Taken with his mother's cell phone.

The mail was nothing much, except for a billing summary from the local hospital.  (Had to visit the emergency room two weeks ago, thought I was having a stroke.  Only a TIA, fortunately.)  I was in for four days, on the CVA floor.  The bill came to almost twenty-three-thousand (yep, 23,000) dollars.  Medicare will take care of most of that for me, but what do people without health care do?  How do people manage this sort of expense without insurance?!  Mr. President, you haven't lived up to your promise on this one.  I'm taking your campaign bumper stickers off my car -- in futile protest, not because I think it will make any difference now.  

The Cat...sigh.  Cat no longer lives in the house.  She seems to think my legs are a Cat Olympics slalom drill, which is not good for someone with vision and balance problems.  She climbs the furniture and curtains as if they were rock walls, knocking obstacles (books, pictures, computer monitor and other peripherals that weigh less than she) to the floor.  In addition, she likes to play ninja-commando cat, where in she leaps upon me when my back is turned (forget about sitting at the computer when she's in the house), or swats my ankles while in deep cover between the refrigerator and the baker's rack.  In order to feed her, I have to pick up the bowl and turn away from her to put food in it.  Otherwise, she pushes her head in the way and food spills all around the bowl, not in it.  I  like that she wants to go for walks with me, though.  Long walks, as if she were a dog.  Trots about five feet ahead of me, meows bitterly if I stop to smell the neighbor's roses or pause to chat with anyone.  Plus the crows are beginning to associate me with her and make menacing fly-bys even when I'm alone.  I keep telling her she is free to go find a new home, just like she did this one a couple of Octobers ago.  The look she gives me in return says that I'm free to leave, too.  Any time.  Like now.  What's holding you up, old woman?  

Time to refill the pitcher, maybe get those plants in the ground before it rains this afternoon.

HAPPY, HAPPY!

Photo by Cindy Tucey (www.sharetheexperience.org)

 

Hope today is a good day for everyone!  Happy Birthday, America, flawed beauty that you are.  I love you, anyway.

I Won't Turn Back

Pastor Charles Jenkins

Last evening, I attended a memorial service and candlelight vigil for the Charleston Nine at St. Paul's A.M.E. Zion in neighboring Gettysburg.  I was gratified and filled with hope to see that half the people who packed the church were white.  All of us, regardless of color or ethnicity, were there to grieve together and offer support to the congregation of Emanuel A.M.E. in Charleston, South Carolina.

Worship service at St. Paul's is vastly different from services at Menallen Friends Meeting, where I am a member - though more in name only over the last couple of years.  We Quakers sit in silence, awaiting God/the Light Within to speak to our souls.  At St. Paul's, they call out loud for God to enter the House, to fill their hearts and souls with His presence.  They offer praise with prayer, with songs, with their bodies.  I felt at home there last night, unlike I have felt at my meeting for a very long time.

One thing I found interesting, and understandable considering the small size of St. Paul's, is that they use recorded music, to which they sing along.  Joy spills out of the mouths of the congregation, their voices raised to a level that makes it seem the rafters are shaking.  Which they might be, given the age of the church.

The gospel song that was playing when I arrived, that the congregation was singing with great fervor, rocked my soul last night, long after the vigil ended and I drove back home.  It is my anthem for the rest of my life.  One phrase, especially, is my new motto (and the title of this post).

I will not turn away this time.  I can't.  How about you?

Marvels

 In the wake of yet another heinous slaughter of innocents in this country, I am too depressed to think clearly right now.  I need to think what to do next.  Tonight, I let Pablo Casals speak for me.

The Can Alone

I came home from a long, exhausting day on the road and dealing with elements of my past I wish I could have left along the wayside.  Somewhere between leaving the parking lot of the V. A. Clinic in Camp Hill and pulling into the carport at home, a depression as cold and grey as the rain clouds spilling over the mountains settled around my shoulders, dampening my spirits.  I was tired and hungry, but didn't feel like cooking.  Neither did I want to spend money to eat in a restaurant full of people.

I fed Cat then went to get the mail - my evening routine.  This time, though, retrieving the mail was anything but routine.

There was a mermaid in my box.

This mermaid came from Thailand, by way of New Jersey and Illinois, through the kindness of blogging friend and fellow sardinista, Michael Leddy, at Orange Crate Art.  What a wonderful surprise!  (Thank you, Michael.)

In his accompanying note, Michael wrote that he'd never tasted this brand, didn't know if they were any good, "but the can alone was worth it."  

Yes, the label is lovely.  Even better (and so totally delicious!) are were the little fish inside.  This brand is probably the best I've had since starting my recent search for the sardine taste of my youthful memories.

The flesh is tender, the skin silky on the tongue, the tiny bones a crunchy delight.  Two things I think add to the enjoyment of these fish are the light flavor and scent of the oil (soybean) in which they were packed, and the barest hint of smoke. 

My supper was a simple, but satisfying one: the sardines, with slices of cucumber and a sweet red pepper with a homemade herb-yogurt sauce, plus some garbanzos.  These sardines are perfect as they come from the can, which is how I ate half of them.  Lemon juice added a nice touch to the rest of them, but was unnecessary.

Michael, I hope you get to try them.  I think you'll like them.

And thank you for brightening the remains of my day.

Food of the Gods, of Lucky Cats and of Hungry Old Women

(Poster for Lisbon's 2011 Annual Sardines Festival, a week-long event.  The Portuguese love their sardinhas!)

Michael Leddy, at Orange Crate Art, reawakened a longing in me for sardines, something I used to eat regularly in my youth, but not for over forty-plus years of late.  My mother used to buy them for when my step-father came home from his trips abroad.  Pop was a Master chief bosun's mate and sailed with the Merchant Marine fleets all over the world.  We knew he'd be home soon when the cabinets were stocked with pasta of all shapes and sizes; cans of crushed tomatoes with basil and garlic and whole plum tomatoes; globes of aged provolone slung, melon-shaped, in twine, small wheels or larger wedges of Parmesan; raffia-wrapped bottles of Chianti and tissue-papered bottles of port; tall bottles of anchovy-stuffed green olives, tins of smoked oysters and of sardines.  

Ah, the sardines!  What stinky, delicious memories!  There were smoked sardines in olive oil, plain sardines in mustard sauce, in tomato sauce with garlic, in red wine and olive oil.  Oh, and larger dry, salted sardines with heads still attached.  Those were wrapped in brown, heavily-waxed paper, which smelled more like the sea than did the fish.  (He liked the whole ones poached in a bit of Chianti with some of the pomodores, lots of garlic, parsley and red pepper flakes, served with a side of cavatini napped with the poaching sauce.  Yum - except for the sardine heads; couldn't look the fish in the eye, you know?)

Anyway, several weeks ago I started searching for sardines in the local groceries and fish markets.  I was disappointed that no one around here had fresh or dried sardines, with or without their heads.  Almost every vendor told me to go to the Italian markets in either Phillie or Baltimore.  That will have to be a road trip (Road Trip!) after the weather settles down.

However, I have found numerous brands of processed sardines from as far away as Thailand, Poland, Portugal, Spain, Morocco, France, Canada (which isn't all that far away), and China.  (The ones from China glow in the dark and smell of kerosene.  Okay, I lied.  I didn't buy those, as a matter of principle, so I have no idea whether they glow or not.  Kerosene odor emanating from the paper wrapper, yes.  Didn't have to buy them to know that!)

Sardines are amazingly inexpensive, unless you have no money at all, and then everything is outrageously priced.  I bought three tins: King Oscar Mediterranean style, Bar Harbor skinless boneless, and Season Brand kosher sardines, certified by Rabbi S. Z. Revach of Israel to be parasite free.  I must admit that I'd never given the health of the sardines I've eaten any thought - except I won't ever buy canned foods from China, no matter what it is.  Unless a Rabbi certifies it, but even then...maybe not.

The sauce on the King Oscar sardines smelled strongly of fish, but I reminded myself that it has been forty-something years since my last can of sardines, so maybe this was to be expected.  The sauce was a light mixture of a fruity olive oil, a couple of black olives and a pesto-like blend of herbes-de-Provence and red bell peppers.  I ate half the sardines as they were, which was surprisingly tasty, but lacking something.  I added aged Modena balsamic* vinegar and a few capers, the tiny ones.  I like the combination.  Next time, I'll drain off as much oil as possible, then dress them with the vinegar and capers.

The second can (didn't eat all these brands at one seating, mind, in case you are wondering; a few days between), the Bar Harbor brand, was okay but I ended up giving about a third of it to Cat Who Overran My House.  First of all, I've discovered I prefer sardines to have their skin and their bones, especially the bones.  That's why I like salmon, mackerel and sardines in the can - love the crunchy bones.  Secondly, the fish were broken, almost chopped in appearance, and packed in oil that didn't look or smell like olive oil.  The first helping was straight from the can, nothing added, not even pepper, which goes on almost everything I eat, even ice cream - and in chai.  Very bland flavor, dry fish - fibrous.  Was not impressed.  For the second third, I made a mustard sauce, using the baby-crap-yellow hot dog mustard, a little bit of kosher dill pickle juice and chopped fresh dill.  Flavor improved, but the texture remained the same.  Dumped the last, unadorned, into the cat's bowl.  Cat, who is very finicky about what she eats (like Mikey - starts at 10 secs), scarfed them down as if she'd had nothing to eat for weeks.

Today, I had the Season Brand (certified by Rabbi Revach) for lunch.  This can held whole fillets, in a little bit of olive oil.  The fish were surrounded by a gelatin, probably of their own making, slightly salty, but no overwhelming fishy odor.  They were tender, soft-bodied: very good, I thought.  I pulled one from the can to taste, decided to add a couple of things.  I squeezed the juice from a Meyer lemon onto the sardines and sprinkled a good amount of red pepper flakes on top.  We have a winner.  Despite the lack of bones, these are good fish, good sardines.  I will not be sharing these with Cat.

(*) Is Modena and balsamic redundant?

(Disclaimer: I am not being paid to review any of these.  I wrote this for Michael, with thanks.)