Monday, January 28, 2008

My Heroes Are Currently Pastas

Every so often, maybe when something unexpected happens, I find myself saying "I did all I could to prevent that," but it happened anyway.

At these times, I retreat a little. I try to hush and disguise my expectations. I find a neutral object on which to fixate my eyes as I wonder, what is it I am meant to learn?

That is an overwhelming victory for someone like me, for my what-do-you-mean-I-can't ego, for my I-am-so-getting-what-I-want mind. I simply like myself more under a twilightish spell of composure.

Even if my mind ascends to a higher road, sometimes it takes the rest of me a while to catch on. Disappointment can reside inside my chest for a while, heavy and slow, like boots of a tired person on a marble floor.  My leg, where I broke it years ago, aches dull and tight at bedtime, as I lay awake convincing myself it's only imagination. But it's my hunger that acts up the most, my insides feel hollow, my "core" is tired of being active and engaged. I know my only rescue is a ceramic bowl full of pasta.

Somedays meatloaf and mash do the trick, maybe a roasted chicken with butter slid under the skin. But with my origins in macaroni and cheese, pasta is currently the most inviting to me. I will cook it even on the days that fatigue has made my body feel tingly (does that ever happen to you? I hope I'm not the only one...).

Vicissitudes require macaroni or penne pasta smothered in a cheese sauce. Or, angel hair in a light marinara. Maybe spaghetti in a hearty Bolognese sauce, or vermicelli beneath chicken piccata, the lemony sauce spilling around a bed of pasta with capers and parsley livening up the whole thing for me. Gimme linguini in a fresh pesto with toasted pine nuts and I'm all better. Lately, though, I am on a Pasta Puttanesca kick.  I can't get enough anchovies, tuna in olive oil, capers, and diced tomatoes tossed with parmesan and whatever pasta I have on hand. The tangy fish and capers meet the sweetness of the tomatoes all surrounded by loops of pasta.

Sitting down with one of these pasta dishes, steam rising and cheese melting, is like riding off into the sunset the color of every heirloom tomato in the whole world. Just for me.

My mind tells me, "Isn't food just the best way to celebrate and embrace life?" Yeah, even when things don't go my way, I know how to cook myself into comfort, and I have an appetite that keeps me there. It's that appetite that gives me all the cues I need when determining what I need in a hero...

Smothering, but light. Hearty, lively, and fresh (from the fight, of course). Tangy, sweet, and a little loopy. And it goes without me saying it a few paragraphs above, always, always flavorful. 

My heroes are currently pastas, and my writing is currently subconscious ;-)

Posted by Sam at 16:39:06 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Slow Cooker Spicy Chicken for Blustery Days

Today is really what I needed. Time to work, rain to cleanse, food to cook itself and send piquant and sweet aromas throughout my house.

The rain came down so hard last night, my two-year-old climbed into bed (where I had gone to pout and watch the Food Network) with me and fell asleep.  My six-year-old daughter was at the neighbor's, and my son and husband went to buy yet another baseball bat, it's an inch issue - I decided not to ask.
 
Doesn't matter who is on the Food Network, I get inspired, and I calm down. Like it doesn't matter who covers Landslide, I find harmony (that is not entirely true, I despise the Smashing Pumpkins version).

So last night, after releasing some visiting demons, I ate lasagna in bed, planned the menu for this evening, and listened to water drops break up against my backyard deck and fall into my vegetable garden where they were happily received.

I was so happy. Today I was even happier.

So after my daughter put in Shrek 2 for herself, I started writing. Soon as I needed a break, I seared some chicken breasts in olive oil and placed them in the slow cooker. To the pan in which I sauteed the chicken, I added:

2 cans diced, roasted green chilies (mild)
1 can diced tomatoes (with "zesty" jalapenos)
1 bottle Tabasco ("the whole damn thing")
Garlic Powder (with parsley), about a teaspoon
Cayenne Pepper, about a teaspoon
Chili Powder, about a teaspoon
Salt & Pepper

I deglazed the pan with these ingredients, then added them all to the slow cooker.

Two hours before being done, I added some brown rice and about 2 cups of chicken stock.

That's all I did, and now dinner is ready, it's still raining, and I have the rest of the night to write or watch Food Network (in between and after baths and bedtimes).

Hopefully this will give me strength for what I am preparing - a document provong to be maddening that I intend to present this weekend at a Writer's Conference.

It is supposed to rain all weekend. Diners, Drive-ins and Dives will be on, however, as well as Jamie Oliver and Nigella. My favorite food of all time, leftovers, will be waiting for me no matter what time of day.

I don't know today even what I will need then, but that is a good start.

Posted by Sam at 17:18:17 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

so what is it like today...

so what is it like today to be resentful...when i look up at the grey sky here at the park this afternoon, at the vortex of a white could peering through to the blue above, i can say shamefully, i'm ignoring this moment in hopes of things i want and don't have. and it feels painfully good, like putting straight alcohol on an open wound.

but that just happens.  i don't like the park and i don't like birthday parties, but for some reason i have been placed here, chasing around my young child...i follow her curly head, her ringlets beginning to grow longer and longer from the nape of her neck, and i want to kiss her but i don't, i let her do what she wants without trying to dull my own guilt by slowing her down with affection.  i sit on the park bench, pull my right leg under my left, and look at the mommies beyond the park, far from me. i have a great reason not to talk to them...i'm chasing my own unreconciled youth around a playground while battling a temporary lack of joy.  i would have nothing to say anyway.

my middle child, Zoe, in her ruby shoes, scuffed at the toe within a week, runs back and forth from playing soccer with other girls and swaying on the monkey bars. she is a powerful force, hair in ponytails (red elastics) and her head falling to one dominant side already. the grass clearing where she played soccer moments ago has some green spots, some dead spots, dandelions sprouting up and those flowers you make a wish on. i would wish, but i  am out of breath. at first glance, i hate that grass field, because it has failed to be an endless patch of uninterrupted, flowing green. parts of it are ugly, unsightly, unwanted. where is the grass field pixie that should be written into such an afternoon...

she's right behind me. that grass field makes me think of something and i smile. i manage a smile from behind my guilt over not embracing this gift, this peaceful place to be a child. i close my eyes when the little one is close enough to me that i can feel her busy presence, then i remember being happy here once. i want that again.

i hope when i open my eyes i see this place differently. trees that rain pine needles. red swings filled with hooded children, yellow monkey bars that nurture Zoe's fearlessness. sand that feels soft, deep enough to sink and disappear into if i'd let it happen. there are even round fixtures on which to place your shoes before you walk into the park. behind me there is a steep hill, i imagine standing on that hill and wanting to roll down it, but i gave up on such things long ago because i fear being so dizzy that i lose the ability to see rightly. beyond the steep hill sit empty ball fields.

my son, the oldest, will be playing on those fields soon. for now, he tackles another boy who carries a mini football under his arm and uses the other arm to keep his opponents away. they all laugh as the ball carrier is taken down...upon this boy, one boy after another collapses. i hear childish giggles, reminiscent of my son five years ago under a wide-brimmed hat, but i sense the rush of the nature of boys in the huddle. to my son, he's just playing. to me, blood is pulsing through his veins and he is so alive, everything is still a discovery, and i am wishing again.

i know, though, i know me by now. this will pass in a couple of days. i don't exactly know where it comes from, i have never liked the park, i can't remember when it ever sustained my attention or excitement. these lulls, they make me want to be a better person. 

i grit my teeth but the light in the tower does not go out.  it is there night and day for them to come closer to.

so what is it like today to recognize daily miracles and have apathy?

alive. i am alive too, my blood just rushes in a different way.
Posted by Sam at 16:52:29 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Doppelganger

For years now, I have been confused with someone else.

I have walked into stores and been asked "Back so soon?  Is something wrong?" when I had never stepped foot in that store before. "But, you were just in here," people insisted. Spooky.

I recall walking into a realtor's office and being told by a man I had never met, "Hi, we haven't seen you in a long time!" A long time, huh? Yeah, like never. That was in Arizona, I live in California.

Or, at my daughter's pre-school someone asked me, "Do you know you have a twin at Closeby Elementary*?" I was getting closer now, she was in my own neighborhood.

Then, I learned her name. "So, how are you related to Sarah Johnson*?"

But I didn't Google her or anything. It was too much like a Drew Barrymore movie or Anne Rice novel.

In September of 2006, my girlfriend Krissy enrolled her son in Closeby Elementary, and I told her "Apparently I have a twin whose child or children attend that school.  Be on the lookout."

Two months ago Krissy saw her. Last week Krissy saw her get into her car, the same make, model, year, and color as mine. "You should drive by the school and just hope for a glance at her.  It is so unbelievably strange."

So today, I was in the neighborhood of Closeby Elementary, visiting my in-laws (they still own the home my husband grew up in, when he attended Closeby Elementary). We drove by the school. And I saw me.  I mean, I saw her.

Her hair is the same length and style as mine, but with a few more highlights and lowlights.  She walks similar to me. Her body is similar to mine. But it's the face, the car, the fact that she has two olive-skinned girls like me though she herself is fair...

My kids sat in the backseat of our car watching her, jaws dropped.

I called my husband and told him I had seen my doppelganger. Everyone has one, someone who resembles them almost exactly I've heard, mine just happens to live in the same zip code, wear jeans everyday like me, and know some of the same people as I do.

WHAT does this mean?  I decided I was looking into this too much.  After driving slowly by her and taking a look, I drove on, feeling a little silly. Couldn't deny how trippy it was, though, feeling that I was bilocating on a sunny Wednesday afternoon in January.

After that trippy experience, Krissy and I took our kids to a nearby lake to feed the ducks, something we've done for years. We were the only Mommies there with their kids, it was peaceful, and the kids were looking for the osprey they had seen carrying a fish in it's talons as we pulled up to the lake.

So the kids fed the ducks, coots and seagulls stale bread and hot dog buns while Krissy and I discussed the doppelganger sighting, Mitch Albom books, and about reading The Time Traveler's Wife. Then I noticed a car that looked just like...I'll call her by name here, Sarah's. "Watch that be her," I told Krissy. 

And it was her.

"You have to go talk to her now, it's a sign!" said Krissy. Krissy was partially responsible for this eerie incident, finding this twin of mine and telling me how to find her.

I found her sitting by the lake with her two girls eating a sub sandwich.  Krissy and the five kids we took to the lake continued screaming "OSPREY!  LOOK, THERE'S THE OSPREY!" as I walked towards Sarah, thinking of what one says to their twin. I was hoping she would say to me something like, "So, there you are!"

It went like this...

Me: "Hi. I'm not insane.  But I think people have been mistaking me for you for years. Are you Sarah Johnson?"
Her: "Yes, I'm Sarah Johnson."

She asked me my name. "My husband is Greek," which is what I usually say after I tell someone my married name. "Mine too," she said.

From spooky to story-like.

Her daughters have Greek names, like mine. "I suppose you're English, Welsh, maybe French or Russian?" thinking with mirroring-each-other looks, our ethnic backgrounds must have a common denominator somewhere. "I'm English," she said. Although she is Swedish as well, not Welsh and French and Russian (recently learned German is included in my mix) like me, she said "I've been told there was a woman who looked like me out there." I was happy she had acknowledged our apparent likeness.  I would have felt like a real fool if she cooly said, "Sorry, I just don't see it."

I was a little more enthusiastic and mystified by the many similariries between us (I was really caffeinated), but she was very nice and genuinely receptive. I introduced her to Krissy, we all chatted for a bit; my daughter's in this class, my son is in that grade, it was nice meeting you, take care.

She didn't act like she thought I was insane but I'm sure no insane person thinks they're regarded that way.

"I'm sure I'll be seeing you around!" she said as I walked away. How else do you end that conversation? It was nice meeting her, but mostly, strange. The same round face, the same brown sunglasses, just, strange.

I have to get home and write about this, I thought. But before I began to write, I Googled the word doppelganger.

Talk about spooked.

Seeing your own doppelganger isn't the best sign to get, in fact, it's supposed to mean death is coming for you soon. A "harbinger of bad luck" says Wikipedia.

Do I believe in that? I believe in signs religiously, and I try objectively to receive even the ones I don't want. I am at all times superstitious, and I have been wondering what the meaning of this was (but I wonder about the meaning of everything, my mind never shuts up even when my mouth is quiet)...but death? Soon? Goethe, Lincoln, Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Donne all had doppelganger experiences that turned out rather badly for them.

However, people like me, people who feed ducks at the lake with their children and lead pretty uneventful lives also see people who look just like them and have nothing remarkable happen to them afterwards. I came home, helped my kids with their homework, gave one child a nap, and commenced making dinner. 

But I kept thinking about it, shaking my head in disbelief as I did the dishes. The similarities go beyond physical appearance. Certainly that signifies something? Probably me looking too much into things. Or, as usual, me wanting to know everything, forcing the hand of a meaning that may be slight. 

I don't like slight meanings, though, I like finding new writing material at every turn, especially things that would require exclamation points and italics. And bold lettering for bold moves. I like excitement, I fear boring, stillness and complacency scare me more than death (and in some books, those two words actually mean death).

In my core, I don't feel bad luck or death edging closer towards me. I feel something more like fiction in the works of my overactive mind, because, you know, truth is stranger...

I am old enough now to walk up to a stranger at the risk of being thought crazy. I am old enough now to accept that I won't always get the explanations/signs/meanings I want (I reluctantly accept that). I am old enough to realize that an urban legend or misnomer on Wikipedia simply gives me, along with my neuroses, something to worry about.

There were years I would have been happy to be someone else. But now, seeing someone who could pass for me, I feel more comfortable in my own skin than ever. I know what to do with it, I know to write.
 
That's a good sign, and it definitely signifies something.

* last names and school names were changed, so poor Sarah Johnson isn't harrassed any more.



Posted by Sam at 20:25:13 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Pasta con Nova

We may have had our last winter storm, then again, you never know. I have stopped keeping track of the weather, it's going to do what it wants to do anyway. I am just about as prepared as I will ever be. Come August I may feel differently, but right now, I am particularly harmonious with the random weather patterns.

I can learn something from everything.

So I decided to cook like it is already springtime. I am so in love with spring, I can't help it. And if spring decides it's not ready, turns it's back on me when I'm waking early at the thought of a change in season and wanting abundant sunshine, it's okay. I'll ride out the last winter storm here in my kitchen, that's my pattern.

For dinner tonight, though, the near 80 degree weather we've been having has inspired me to make Pasta con Nova. I bought smoked salmon, heavy whipping cream, whole wheat pasta, organic sweet peas, dill, and cut some mint from my garden. I also have capers in the event I want some attitude.

I'll slice the salmon on the bias, and it will cut like butter. I'll make a roux with the heavy whipping cream instead of milk, then add the dill and chopped mint that released essential oils into me that I will be able to smell for hours. The pasta, in the water at a rolling boil, I know how you feel, will wait patiently for the sweet flavor and texture of the salmon. After the pasta is drained it will finally join the cream sauce with herbs. The sliced salmon and sweet peas will arrive later than the rest. It will all come together beatifully, a magnificent dish, Pasta con Nova, giving me spring before an official announcement. It is still winter, if you look at the calendar. If you follow such tangible things, as opposed to signs.

The signs I see, high winds, no apparent clouds, bluebell sky, and flip-flop/t-shirt/shorts weather; all of these things tell me spring will be here soon, if not already. I'll have to wait and see if I am correct, while I imagine other dishes; asparagus and Gruyere quiche. Roasted beets over arugula, with a red wine vinaigrette and goat cheese croquettes. Steamed shellfish with lime, cilantro and chorizo...oops, that's more summery than springish.

So I get a little bit ahead of myself here in the kitchen.  The Pasta con Nova and me, we're blissfully okay with that.

Posted by Sam at 11:55:21 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Monday, January 07, 2008

"I Don't Get It!"

12:14 a.m., January 1, 2008 (in real time, not so long ago).

The shot glasses are being re-filled with Patron Silver. The espresso machine is ready for another round too. Guitar Hero has been given a break because the men in the room have noticed Fergie is hosting one of the New Year's Eve shows (I was going to try Guitar Hero, too, but it's probably better I didn't, lest I find another way to obsess over music and lyrics).

In Happy New Year's celebration, The adults have kissed each other's cheeks and shared can-I-lean-on-you-so-I-don't-fall-down hugs, we've picked up our kids and spun them until they became nauseated, and smacked the butts of our spouses, this is what we do instead of shooting guns - we don't own any.

But the kindergartners in the room - there are two of them - stand silently side by side, watching their parents and older siblings act stupid and state, simply, "I don't get it."

"What don't you get, baby?" hand licking salt.
"What's...the new year?" six-year-old Zoe.
"Why are people kissing?" five-year-old Silas.
"Oh, okay. See, 2007 is over now.  It's 2008 since [squinting eyes to make out the clock] fourteen minutes ago.  Understand?"
"No. I don't...know, Mom." She sounds so sad.
"Yeah, we don't get it." He's assertive.

They are Kindergartners, Zoe and Silas. I thought everything we all know now we learned in Kindergarten, right? The way the little ones stand wide-eyed in front of us, in their chronology-challenged state, I guess not. But Kindergarten isn't over for another six months yet, and their...curiosity and combined innocence [I just hate that word] is rather adorable, actually. It's a feel-good juxtaposition to the backdrop of our husbands getting Fergie in high def and our older sons break dancing on the hardwood floor while listening to the edited version of Soulja Boy on their iPod Shuffles.

Interesting scene, those first few minutes of 2008.

Then come the morning of the same day, what our kids don't know goes from adorable to irritating.

"Momma, what's the hair of the dog? You're always complaining about dog hair."
They don't get it. Thank God.
"Why are you taking pills with no water?"
You know, I can't really answer that, either.
"You're not hanging over anything, Momma, you're standing in the kitchen."
The origin of the word hangover, interesting thought, if it didn't hurt so much to think.
"Why do you HAVE to make black-eyed peas today even though you said you feel like that word you say I can't say?"
My deceased Texan Grandfather would get it.
"Why are there so many football games on today?"
Ask your father.  He gets it.
"What letter comes after 't'?"
Oh come on, you get that, you repeat the alphabet twenty freaking times a day.
"Momma, why does Santa's handwritring look so much like Poppa's?"
Uh-oh.  Gees...um, how do I answer that? I didn't think they'd catch on for at least two more years, I have no response prepared which is unusual for me but there was a lot of tequila going on just a few hazy hours ago...wait, I know.  I have the perfect answer. 
"Sorry honey, I don't get it."

Curiosity and combined ignorance. Rather affable, actually.

Posted by Sam at 19:31:53 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Thursday, January 03, 2008

The Rules for Giving Nicknames

There are Rules for Giving Nicknames.

1) Insert meaning (basically, have a good reason because the name may follow the person)
2) Avoid degradation (and be humble, nothing status-based).
3) Keep it clean.
4) Be original, even inventive (sophisticated wit comes in handy here).

I came up with this list because I couldn't sleep.  Two nights ago, my husband and I asked our two-year-old daughter Melia if she knew her name.  She knows how old she is, so name recognition seemed the natural progression of things.

"What's your name, baby?" hubby asked her.
"Boo-boos," she responded.

Boo-boos is her nickname. I don't really recall how she got that nickname, but it's fun and it's cute, like her so it stuck. When her older sister, Zoe was a baby, we called her Boo. Monsters, Inc. was released when I was pregnant with her - not only did I know instantaneously while watching that movie that Zoe would look exactly like Boo, but I had a fabulous third trimester nap in the theater watching Monsters, Inc. during which time I dreamt about my first daughter Zoe, the baby girl on her way to me, who would say things like "Kitty!", have big brown eyes, and wear ponytails and pink shirts.

So Boo-boos seemed like the natural progression of things for the second daughter, Melia. But she is a little less like Boo from Monsters, Inc. and more like her Uncle Leo. Another nickname was soon born.

You see, Leo has curly hair that grows "up" rather than down, and as a child, slept with his heinie pointed up in the air. Melia has an afro to be proud of, and refuses barrettes, ponytails, or headbands. Her hair is as high as her Uncle Leo's, and even though he now tames his mane with products, the resemblance is undeniable. Melia also loves to sleep with tushie north, like a caterpillar who got stuck while arching. With these two similarities, we also call Melia, "Meleo."

These nicknames correspond to Rule Number 1 of Giving Nicknames, Insert Meaning. Disingenuous nicknames are a waste of time, usually overdone, and say as much, if not more about the name-giver than the nick-named person. So choose wisely.

Rule Number 2, Avoiding Degradation, is perhaps the most important rule. As a baby, my father nicknamed me "Filthy Beast," after Cary Grant in the movie Father Goose. I liked mushing avocados and rubbing the green paste all over things, including myself. "You're going to give that child a complex!" or "Her self-opinion is at stake," were two things told to my father when I was young. I guess as a baby it was easy for me to respond to an easy, one-syllable word. Later on I simply inferred the name as a term of (culinary) endearment, I do love avocados, and being called Beast just doesn't bother me. However, the wrong nickname can really mess with a kid's head (my father will not let me call Melia "Smelly Meli" because he says people will tease her, the same man who scoffed at the possibility of "Filthy Beast" begging ridicule onto me).  So be thoughtful.

Rule Number 3 - Do I need to say more? Good, because I don't want to. Except maybe this; do not call someone by a nickname their mother would cringe to hear.  Have respect. 

Rule Number 4 - Be original and inventive. My son's nickname is Champ, which he received during a brief stay in the Neo Natal Intensive Care Unit after birth. He had a scary high fever when he was born, and for days, he wouldn't pee. And even though he screamed so loud he was sequestered from the other babies, he handled it like a Champ. In 2007, his Little League team won the Tournament of Champions, took their district flag home, so we now tell him his nickname is multi-faceted (and it happily works in two rule categories). As far as we can tell, it adheres to the extension of Rule Number 2 (Avoid Degradation), to also be humble.  No one likes a show off. If we ever began calling our son "Saint ---- Does Not Stink" or "Little G PhD", I would expect our friends or parents to inform us we had departed from good taste and hypocritically broken our own rules.

Nicknames should be fun, that said, I know fun is a relative term. Until there is a smartly written "10,000 Baby Nicknames" available at Barnes & Noble, until celebrities see integrity in using their birth names, the Rules for Giving Nicknames shall exist (at least by opinionated people like me).

Among the other nicknames commonly used by me are; Zo-Zo, Woody, Dutch, Hoodie, Stinky Pete, Cheeks, Ames, Spock, Pete the Neat Greek, and Lil.

See? Nothing bad there. I can be nice.

I'll sign off with the one I am most often called...

Sam I Am.
(I like avocados more than Green Eggs and Ham).
Posted by Sam at 10:42:25 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |