See what I did? I put alliteration into a sentence about allegory. My fourth grader is studying literary terms. It’s like being a kid again! Instead of me joining him on the monkey bars, or me pitching wiffle balls to him, he’s been frolicking on my turf, and we have been having so … much … fun!

“Mom, what’s onomatopeia?”
Loading the dishwasher, I re-enact the commercial from the 90s and say/do: “Cha-ching!”
Then he comes back with a baseball onomatopeia…”Dujshe!” and pretends to smack a ball out of the park.
“Good, you got it,” I reply.

“Mom, what’s personification?”
I’m on the phone, so of course my son demands my attention, and I quickly, quietly reply to said 4th grader so the person on the phone doesn’t know I am having two conversations at once: “The waves were dancing.”
His brows meet as he seems to be thinking.
“The bat did the talking,” he shows me up with glee on his face.
“That’s good!” I whisper and get back to my phone conversation.

I think he doesn’t need my help, but he asks anyway, because it brings us closer. He knows Mom loves literature, Mom loves literary terms and character study and development, Mom loves cleverness and most of all, Mom loves a good story.

So when he asked me about allegory, I told him to think about Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory. An allegory is a “narrative that conveys abstract ideas to get a point across” (Glossary of Literary Terms). Or, as I’ve always explained it, infusing ideas into characters so that they represent that idea only. Take for instance: in Willy Wonka…

Mike TV: Sloth
Veruca salt: Greed
Augustus Gloop: Gluttony
Violet Beauregard: Pride

And while Charlie has every reason to represent envy, as lesser people in his situation would, he does not. He represents (in my humble opinion), Hope.

I have been using that example for a long time - since college - and I longed for some new allegorical material to chew on. It’s been in front of me for a long time.

My love affair with Pirates of the Caribbean goes way back. To infancy. It’s one of the rides all ages can go on at Disneyland. When you embark on Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland, you meander through a bayou at the beginning, and overlooking the ride is a restaurant called “The Blue Bayou.” I knew that as the name of a Linda Ronstadt song when I was a child, and that only made me want to go to that restaurant more. When I was 20 years old, I finally ate there (first place I ever ate pine nuts). Oops I digress.

On the POTC ride, you travel in a “boat” like vessel, and after the vessel goes through the swamp and past The Blue Bayou restaurant, a talking skull looks down at you from the ride entrance and says “No fear has you of evil curses says you” and you drop, through water, into caverns, and after the water settles, you hear the song, one of the best songs ever, “Yo Ho Yo Ho A Pirate’s Life For Me.”

Ahhhh, I’m in another world, maybe a past life, a happy place…I could ride POTC all day and night.

I even love the smells of the ride. I have the different scenes memorized. I found the Hidden Mickey. I spy Jack Sparrow. But, he is not my favorite Jack.

For reasons that drive my husband insane, I dig Jack Davenport, the man who plays Commodore/Pirate/Admiral Norrington in all three POTC movies. He’s an allegorical masterpiece. 

That is to say, the most realistic character.

Think about the movies…protagonist? Check. Damsel in distress? Check. Villains? Check. Hero? Check. Antagonists? Check. Blood and guts, monsters? Check. Allegorical - abstract - characters? Huh. Look closer.

Norrington is the one, I believe, that took the most intropsection and thought to create and bring to life in the POTC movies, the character I would love to see on the POTC ride. alongside Captain Jack Sparrow.

Norrington starts out an idealist - pure, ambitious, on the rise. He becomes the victim of unrequited love (adding depth). He inserts humor (“Because it was Mr. Sparrow who said it!”). And retains his honor as he lets Elizabeth go.

Then, in the second movie, he has fallen from grace. He becomes a pirate - a wily survivalist - and stays close to Elizabeth. His mind is on “the promise of redemption” but he protects her still, even though he knows she does not love him. And the foreshadowing of his character is introduced in this movie - he will eventually sacrifice himself for her.

In the third movie, Norrington regains his honor among men who want only power. He, “chooses a side” and in doing so, gives up his life for Elizabeth, and in the face of evil.

Norrintgon’s character hits all notes, goes from one extreme of existence to the other (but all the while stays intelligent and just), but most notably, he displays the ability every person has to go from darkness to light in the pursuit of what they want. His character represents that abstract idea - fate. The co-existence of peace and conflict within every soul, and how only choice (free will) puts a soul more in one than the other.

While checking out of a Disney hotel once, the bellman (actually, a bellwoman) told me at the POTC premiere, she had met Norrington/Jack Davenport, a British actor born 3/1/73, and that he talked to her about the POTC movies for about 45 minutes. She was impressed because she was a nobody, but still, he talked to her about the movies, the characters, very “down-to-earth”, matter-of-factly, and he was kind, while all of the other stars posed for papparazzi.

That made me wonder if I liked Jack Davenport, or if it was Norrington who intrigued me the most. I think it’s allegory that I love the most. I know the prototype I fall for, but a good story and intense, honest, thought-provoking characters capture my attention immediately.

When you think about it, we all represent one (sometimes more) abstract idea(s). There is allegory is all of us. We all excel at one thing in particular (we reason it away as talent), we’re all put here to learn one particular thing (we call it a pattern), and we all are drawn to people and things more so than others (we reduce it to “attraction”). These comprise our personal stories.

I like Norrington. I believe in fate.

And, just for fun…

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate’s life for me
We pillage, we plunder we rifle and loot
Drink up me hearties, yo ho
We kidnap and ravage and don’t give a hoot
Drink up me hearties, yo ho
Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate’s life for me
We extort, we pilfer we filch and sack
Drink up me hearties, yo ho
Maraud and embezzle and even high-jack
Drink up me hearties yo ho
Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate’s life for me
We kindle and char inflame and ignite
Drink up me hearties, yo ho
We burn up the city we’re really a fright
Drink up me hearties, yo ho
We’re rascals, scoundrels villains, and knaves
Drink up me hearties yo ho
We’re devils and black sheep - really bad eggs
Drink up me hearties yo ho
Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate’s life for me
We’re beggars and blighters and ne’er do-well cads
Drink up me hearties, yo ho
Aye, but we’re loved by our mommies and dads
Drink up me hearties, yo ho
#####

Back in the 90s, I started picking up familiar beats, rhythyms, and lyrics (usually, the chorus) of older songs being used in new songs. Hip-hop artists did this the most. It bugged me then.

I forgot about it, there was still some original music being written by the few good bands that were out there. The demise of musicianship had begun, but genuine artistry still shone through and fought against showmanship and commercialism. I did not give up hope.

A few months ago I heard two classic songs worked into one, I could never listen to the whole song all the way through but I think it was “Werewolves of London” and “Sweet Home Alabama.” I couldn’t decide if it was a cover of two songs at once, some kind of weird tribute, or just a declaration of the death of creativity. I hate to admit this, but I thought of Huey Lewis and I almost said out loud, “Where is that old boy? Is he really still breathing?”

That wasn’t the end of the exploitation, the rip-off of classic music. During the back-to-school shopping season this year, JC Penney ran an ad on tv using the song “Don’t You Forget About Me” by Simple Minds.

I wanted to scream like Charlie Brown when he misses the football.

But the final blow was this - “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” being used in a stain remover commercial. Stain remover! This song went from a timely affirmation to an industrial moniker. There is something soooooo wrong with that.

Pat Benatar was the tough cookie of the 80s, I worshipped her. Loved her like I love Stevie Nicks (worth noting, I’ve heard “Go Your Own Way” in car commercials). When I heard these commercials, I felt like my childhood anthems were being ripped of authenticity and getting slapped with a cheap sign that read “SELL OUT” in neon letters.

Who are these people, ad execs, media brainstormers, business people masquerading as musicians who decide to use the songs of my generation to sell their products? I’m afraid they’re my peers. I’m afraid they’re people my age, with my experiences, but the flip side - meaning nothing is sacred, anything can be forsaken if it increases revenue. The B side to honest artistry, if you will.

Sigh.

I know there are worse things happening in the world.

I could be projecting my disappointment at seeing art and music programs removed from schools due to lack of funds. I could be misdirecting my anger about the shallowest, most violent music in decades reaching my kids. I could be reeling about the the unethical things that have been done for money.

All of those things are possibilities.

There are certainties too, and they are shiny, tenacious ones. As a result of raw, natural, unbridled emotions, people will inevitably create new moving, beautiful things. Like my son and his buddies can start a pick-up game anywhere, not just on a field, so people will paint, draw, sing and write, for no other reason than they have to do it. That is the spirit that defies even budget cuts, greed, copycats and sycophants.

That’s the A side, and even if it gets covered or exploited, it can’t be taken away.

Have you seen the SNL skit, Mom Jeans? If you haven’t you should view it on You Tube, but I can sum up for you: jeans for moms are typically, humorously high, with an elastic waist, are non-sexy, made only for comfort, must be anti-style, and frumpy.

I agree, and I love the sarcasm of the SNL skit. And I, like many moms, am suffering from a wardrobe conundrum: I detest the low-rise, hip-level jeans of today but I’m not ready to concede to frumpiness. I don’t just dislike low-rise, hip-level jeans because they’re uncomfortable and potentially unsightly. I dislike them because they have made the classic fit, or at-waist jeans hard to find and uncool. I once had a contemporary pair of hip-slung, bootcut jeans from the Gap, and while they were faded to the right color and stylish, I was always pulling them up to my waist, though they weren’t meant to go any higher.

I am a child of the 80s - I wore tapered Guess jeans in the early part of the decade and had button-fly Levi’s in the following washes/colors: faded, stonewashed, black, and white, and these jeans transitioned me into the 90s. When I was young, jeans at belly-button level were the only option available. And that was fine, because these jeans, now called “classic” or “at waist” didn’t give parents heart attacks. They didn’t expose underwear when the person wearing them bent over, or even bent down. Jean wearers used to be pretty uniform and safe.

It seems a very cruel joke of fashion on me that the only jeans available after I had my children - these Godforsaken hip slung things - require the invention of a new term for the majority of people who wear them but don’t fit into them: muffin-top. The amount of material required to make jeans of today is smaller only in comparison to the demographic of women who can get away with wearing them: too thin, not too old, but not too young.

But I have fought back against the muffin top. In the past few two and a half months I have managed to lose 15 pounds, and get to a weight I haven’t seen since January 2001. But the smallest jeans I have in my closet are size 10 jeans. To keep them from falling and exposing my mid-section, I have been wearing belts and long shirts. Last night hubby came up to me while I was washing the dishes (we have very substantive communication during this time, it’s our post-dinner show), and tugged on the rear belt loop of my jeans. He said “These are starting to sag on you, huh?”

What I heard was: “You’ve earned the right to get new clothes, honey.”

I don’t like to shop in stores. I avoid it whenever I can, for myself. However, I needed new jeans, and before I bought a pair of size 8 jeans off eBay, I knew I had to do the unthinkable: walk my ass into a store, then a small fitting room, take off my shoes, my pants, look at myself in the fitting room mirror (I’m convinced these are made to be as unflattering as possible), hope my toddler didn’t open the fitting room door or throw open the curtain, and slide myself one inch at a time into a pair of pants I prayed to fit me. 

The closest clothes store to my house is a Ross, and I thought, well, if the size 8s fit me, they’d probably be inexpensive enough at Ross to buy, right before the holidays when I usually only spend money on family members. A win-win. Think positive, Sam! I told myself.

There we were at Ross, Melia and me, and I find the size 8 jeans section. Next to the size 8s, I spotted in the size 6 section a pair of white jeans with light brown stitching. Maybe it’s the 80s thing, but I love, LOVE white jeans, especially with brown stitching. They looked as wide around the waist as the size 8s, maybe even bigger. They begged me to try them on. The fabric was soft. The button was copper. I grabbed the white size 6 jeans, three pairs of blue size 8 jeans, and headed into the fitting room with Melia who had an Ariel something-or-other keeping her busy.

Positive thinking on my side, I tried the white jeans size 6 on first.

They fit, and not only that, I didn’t have to hold my breath, suck it in, lie down to zipper them, or look at myself in four different angles to see if they fit. I knew it by the way they fit me - room to breathe, comfy, and strangely like a broken in pair of sweats. 

The last time I wore a size this small - a lavender, 3-piece suit I bought at Nordstrom during my lunch break ten years ago when I had a real job - was when one of my clients brought George Will to speak during a luncheon at the hotel where I was a Catering Manager. Right before I got pregnant with child #1. Being a small size seemed to help my mood quite a bit, then, too.

“Samantha, why didn’t you tell us you were bringing in such a high profile speaker? We could have used it to our advantage,” said a member of the Executive Commitee to me.

“I apologize, I should have thought of that,” I replied. That’s okay. I’ll get over it. I’m a size 5 now.

“Have you talked to your client? They’re way over their guarantee, the kitchen is scrambling,” the always pissy Banquet Manager barked at me.

“The salads were pre-set, George Will will keep them entertained until their food comes,” I said to him. It’ll all work out. I’m a size 5, after all.

Truth is, there is a superficial side to me that wants to always be a small size. It’s been wired into my brain probably from about the time I was in junior high; the thinner you are, the happier you’ll be. I know better now, but to be totally honest, I haven’t completely shed the desire to be skinny.   

So these size 6 jeans I fit into were a reward for me, I believed, and I felt physically and emotionally like I did, pre-children. Victory, right?

When I was standing in line at the register to buy them, I looked a little closer at the jeans - the brand name, etc. The brand name is Not Your Daughter’s Jeans.

Mom jeans.

Mom jeans that retail $128 at Nordstrom, but mom jeans, all the same. Better yet - they are called “Tummy Tuck” jeans, which made me imagine Tanya Tucker doing a Nutrisystem commercial. Not Your Daughter’s Jeans (NYDJ on one of the inside labels) are made specifically for bodies with belly issues. I think, when I looked them up online, they said something about butt issues too. 

A denouement to my spinning-class, portion control, jean-searching story.

The fantasy, time warp, euphoric element of my new jeans was still intact, but…matured.

And you know what? That’s fine with me! I don’t care if they are considered mom jeans, or if they aren’t. My NYDJ size 6 are so comfortable, I don’t feel constantly compelled to pull them up at the waist, and I got them for a really good price. The superficial part of me who wants to be tiny surrendered to the real me; the curvy, had-3-kids, happy-who-I-am person who is simply excited to get new threads. I am pleased to say there is a pragmatic side to this - my new white jeans with khaki stitching can be paired with anything.

Anything - nostalgia, Converse high tops or low tops, certitude, an old Queensryche t-shirt from the 80s, many layers of cotton or feminine complexity, ruffled top blouse, boots, and vintage earrings for a bohemian look. And in these jeans is the same girl I have always been.

I’m cool with her.

She - me - does not concede to frumpy jeans, or resignation of any facet of herself. Huh-uh.

I am about to turn 38, I’m a mom but still a woman, and I feel less like starving myself into social acceptance than I do spending hundreds of dollars on mom jeans. 

And Lord, how I love falling into the right pair of jeans, it’s like falling in love…jeans that fit me like they were made for me, whatever size I may be.
####

GUILTLESS OPEN-FACED EGG, TOMATO, AND CHEESE SANDWICH
I posted a while ago my recipe for a guilty indulgence, the fried egg sandwich I have been eating since second grade. That version used cheddar cheese, an egg fried in butter, but since being on my midified food plan - I’ll do a post about this if there is interest and you send me a comment - I’ve devised a healthier version. It’s still filling, satisfying, and delicious. With all food groups smartly represented, this open-face sandwich can be a meal, even, but I have it as a mid-morning or late afternoon snack.

1 slice of whaet bread, toasted
Yellow mustard (Dijon, if you like), however much you want
1 hard boiled egg, sliced with one of those handheld egg/mushroom/strawberry slicers (or just use a paring knife!)
1 Roma tomato, sliced thin
1 slice of Swiss cheese
cracked black pepper

Preheat broiler.
Squirt mustard on toast.
Lay hard boiled egg slices on top of mustard.
Place tomato slices atop egg.
Cheese slice goes over the top of tomato.
Place sandwich under broiler until cheese melts - about 30 seconds, maybe a few more - and remove (careful!).
Crack black pepper over the melted cheese/egg sandwich.

I still have protected places in my heart for people who have hurt me, and today I am still wondering why.

People who mean me harm, people who have done me harm, and I am sure with my eye-of-the-needle tongue, I have done harm to them. Some days, I scratch like a person trapped alive inside a coffin to do it again.

But, I refrain. Despite my attempts to stay a child, something inside me stirs like a breeze, and is finally breathed out a strong gale of forgiveness, relief, and love (ick!), sent to those people who brought me to my knees.

I got up, and up I stay.

The anger, bitterness and wild nettle emotions I have from time to time keep me on my toes - you see, I had to be on my feet first - and I ask myself if there isn’t a better way to feel, a higher, more blue energy to send out into the world. I’ve spent enough time otherwise, and I like to be cleansed by water rather than sink in mud. So, letting breakwater dance around my ankles, staring out across the horizon, and listening to the call of birds is the right place for me now.

Letting the tide carry away lessons and people who are gone is what I need and where I am. Like stringed plumeria getting further and further away on active waves, I can still smell their perfume, always will, and I smile without even realizing it. 
#####

Below I am posting a poem I love by Joy Harjo, because I think it’s timely for so many reasons. Also, rather than posting my own recipe, I am posting a link to someone else’s - Ellie Krieger’s Golden Crushed  Potatoes - because it’s brilliant, easy to portion control, healthy and delicious.

We should consume only that which feeds us well. Seriously.

She Had Some Horses

byJoy Harjo

---

She had some horses.

She had horses who were bodies of sand.
She had horses who were maps drawn of blood.
She had horses who were skins of ocean water.
She had horses who were the blue air of sky.
She had horses who were fur and teeth.
She had horses who were clay and would break.
She had horses who were splintered red cliff.

She had some horses.

She had horses with long, pointed breasts.
She had horses with full, brown thighs.
She had horses who laughed too much.
She had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
She had horses who licked razor blades.

She had some horses.

She had horses who danced in their mothers’ arms.
She had horses who thought they were the sun and their bodies shone and burned like stars.
She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet in stalls of their own making.

She had some horses.

She had horses who liked Creek Stomp Dance songs.
She had horses who cried in their beer.
She had horses who spit at male queens who made them afraid of themselves.
She had horses who said they weren’t afraid.
She had horses who lied.
She had horses who told the truth, who were stripped bare of their tongues.

She had some horses.

She had horses who called themselves, “horse.”
She had horses who called themselves, “spirit.” and kept their voices secret and to themselves.
She had horses who had no names.
She had horses who had books of names.

She had some horses.

She had horses who whispered in the dark, who were afraid to speak.
She had horses who screamed out of fear of the silence, who carried knives to protect themselves from ghosts.
She had horses who waited for destruction.
She had horses who waited for resurrection.

She had some horses.

She had horses who got down on their knees for any savior.
She had horses who thought their high price had saved them.
She had horses who tried to save her, who climbed in her bed at night and prayed as they raped her.

She had some horses.

She had some horses she loved.
She had some horses she hated.

These were the same horses.

---

© 1983 Joy Harjo. She Had Some Horses, Thunder’s Mouth Press. 

Golden Crushed Potatoes…
http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ellie-krieger/golden-crushed-potatoes-recipe/index.html

I have been busy this morning - I joined 100 groups on Facebook, I think - but really, I’ve been going through a lot of emotions.

Anticipation - Sunday is my “cheat day.” I have been eating very well and making progress in being healthier in the recent months (read my post “The Other Side of Food” on MWLM’s blog, http://momwriterslitmag.typepad.com/mwlm_blog/page/6/). Last night while everyone was brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed, I snuck out to the kitchen, reached into the 3 freezer-size Ziploc bags full of Halloween candy on top of the fridge, and picked my candy of choice for Sunday. You see, I am going to the Chargers game - a real, live, NFL game! - with my amiga on Sunday, and I plan on having chocolate with me to complete the occasion. If I get patted down by Security, they will hear the crumpling sound of mini packages of: M&Ms, Reese’s Pieces, Sweet Tarts, Runts, Snarties, Twizzlers, Milk Duds, and Crunch bars. My only lament is that I ate all of the mini Reese’s in the gold foil wrappers Halloween night. My stash is ready, my Chargers shirt clean, and I am ready for some football.

Need to Clean - “Honey, please organize these DVDs before I have a meltdown,” said my husband. I find this very silly, but he respects my pet peeves, so today, a non-gym day, not sweltering hot, caffeine holding steadily, I set out to organize DVDs. And when I do, I realize there are just as many VHS tapes as there are DVDs in the bedroom, living room, and family room. We just gave away our last VCR. We no longer have any use for these tapes, except to clutter our home. Clutter is the root of hubby’s anxiety, so I begin to stack the VHS tapes, ready to place them in a garbage bag for Amvets. I feel so weird about this. Like I’m departing with my teenage self, or uncomfortably moving on to advanced technology. I am attached to these damn tapes: every Scooby movie ever made, “Once Upon a Potty, For Her”, Field of Dreams, Baby Mozart etc, Peter and The Wolf (luckily I can still whistle the tune), Disney movies. I couldn’t part with my Ken Caminiti video compilation or Monsters, Inc. Below these two tapes, our wedding day video waits for me to get it burned onto DVD. Someday. Trashing the other tapes was not easy - in those dusty, black-ribboned reels of antiquated viewing, there are memories of falling asleep to “Jinkies!”, songs to potty train to, tunes to wiggle with, and James Earl Jones’ immortalized monologue. The VHS tapes are both trash and treasure, and I hope someone gets as much enjoyment from them as we did.

Fun Baking - I don’t know when I started to like baking, maybe I have all along. Home cooking meant breakfast, lunch and dinner to me, but lately, I can’t let any food go to waste. I don’t mean eating leftovers for days, or saving the heels of bread. No banana has been discarded here in months, every pumpkin seed was set aside on Halloween and thereafter roasted with pantry stocks. I feel a sense of control over economic variables when I bake. Not only that, people fight over my banana bread. Those two things sustain me through my low checking account balance. Today, I baked not only banana bread but pumpkin bread. It was my first shot at pumpkin bread. I have had the pumpkin puree in my pantry for months, just sitting there, waiting for the right occasion. It’s autumn, food prices are insane, what other occasion do I need? Spooning out thick, dark-orange pumpkin puree from the can and mashing the over-ripe bananas…if I do nothing else today, my house smells like a very expensive candle, and the taste of brown sugar and fruit will soon make me a hero.

There is a roasted chicken in the fridge sitting in herbs, buter, lemon and spices, there is also a chuck roast marinating for the slow cooker tomorrow. The DVD clutter is nil, and my candy is well-hidden for a celebratory indulgence. And from all of these things - stashing, trashing, and mashing - I’ve gone through some journeys in a few short hours, and I never even left home. 

PUMPKIN BREAD
2 1/4 cups flour (I use King Arthur white whole wheat flour, it’s amazing)
2 tbsp. flax seed meal
(the above two ingredients alone should make you feel good about eating this)
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt (I use coarse grain)
1 cup dark brown sugar
3 tbsp. honey
2 eggs, beaten
2 1/2 cups pumpkin puree
1 tsp. ginger powder
1/4 tsp. ground cloves
1 tsp. cinnamon
nutmeg - a few grinds of whole nutmeg, or 1/8 tsp. nutmeg powder

Topping: butter slices and brown sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Mix all dry ingredients - flour, flax seed, baking soda, salt, ginger, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg - together in a large bowl.
In a separate bowl,  mix butter and brown sugar together.
Add beaten eggs to butter/brown sugar mixture, then stir in the honey and pumpkin puree.
Add this, the “wet” mixture to the dry ingredient mixture.
Top batter inside loaf pan with slices of butter and additional brown sugar.
Pour into a greased loaf pan and bake an hour, or until a cake tester/toothpick inserted comes out clean.

“Who’s for the Constitution? Who thinks freedom is a pretty darn good thing?” ~ Annie in Field of Dreams

It’s raining here!!! It’s election day!!! I am infused today with newness. I love the sound of my wipers pulling across the thick glass of my windshield. I love to hear my car splash through big puddles, and speaking of puddles, I don’t mind wet shoes, dripping socks, or the cuffs of pants needing wringing out, either.

I love looking out my kitchen window and seeing gray skies. Most people think I’m crazy, but clouds full with moisture is like a blanket I want all over me. Rain is the only thing that can make my hair curly.  A hard fall begets colorful prisms in the sky. It gives you a reason to make soup, light a fire, and it cleans things away.

Nothing wrong with that.

I love seeing people lining up to vote. I’ve heard this is one of the highest voter turnouts in years (as it should be - when it comes to voting, apathy isn’t good). I like the fervor in the air on election days, I thrive on having freedom at my fingertips, and change to look forward to. There is an anxious look in people’s eyes, but underneath it is just the ideal of that more perfect Union.

It’s not impossible.

That is why I am making red clam chowder, blue cornbread, and a white, sour cream dressing for the salad tonight. Donkeys and elephants aside, red and blue states whatever, I am feeling patriotic and cozy inside my house.

I realized today that even with my best and closest friends, I have no idea who they are voting for, or what they are voting No/Yes on. Because it doesn’t matter. What I love most is the fact that we have a voice in how things go, it’s a powerful thing to possess. I am fairly certain that people I love have convictions completely different than mine when it comes to propositions, but I don’t care. I simply like it when people have the courage of their convictions, and if it goes a direction I don’t like, I have the liberty to walk away.

That is why I stay where I am.

RED/MANHATTAN CLAM CHOWDER
1 28-oz. can clams - strain clams and keep juice separate (don’t discard the clam juice from the can!!!)
1 28-oz. can diced tomatoes, or tomato sauce unstrained (do NOT use pasta sauce)
32 oz. chicken broth
1 tbsp. tomato paste
2 garlic cloves, minced
4 Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and diced
1 onion, diced
3 stalks celery, diced
1 bay leaf
1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp. Old Bay seasoning
Italian Parsley, diced
white pepper to taste
coarse grain salt to taste (not a lot, due to the other seasonings like Old Bay)

In a large stock pot, sautee onio in olive oil.
When onion begins to soften, add garlic.
When garlic and onion are fragrant and/or softened, add potatoes.
Mix potatoes into onion/garlic, ensuring they get coasted with olive oil, too.
Add clam juice, chicken broth, tomatoes or tomato sauce, bay leaf, Old Bay seasoning and tomato paste.
Bring to a boil, then simmer for 20 minutes.
Add celery, clams and white pepper.
Simmer another 10 minutes.
Taste soup and salt accordingly.
Add parsley.
#####

If you want my recipe for conbread, visit my column Apron Strings at www.familiesonlinemagazine.com. My recipe for Righteous Cornbread is in the archives, and to make it blue, you simply substitute blue cornmeal for yellow or white.

Also, my sour cream-based salad dressing was posted last week.

Although here in SoCal the heat is on its way out - I hope - I am still detecting little pockets of it, like little pieces of unpredictable, random, chaos in life. The pockets of heat, they grab me unaware and require my attention. 

What else could it be but heat; out of it tension arises, things are forced to the surface, and it lays quietly in wait, like magma beneath a mountain - a mountain that could very well be a volcano. Even in the coolest conditions, there are pockets of heat scattered about and expanding, or so I believe. 

Two days ago, I was walking in my hallway and noticed that there were two hot spots; one by the linen closet and one underneath our attic. I pressed the back of my hand against walls, listened for buzzing from electricity, and walked back and forth in the hallway for fifteen minutes worrying that something was imminently wrong in our home. Then just like that, the pockets of heat went away. The heat was so real that I could almost touch it. And then, nothing.

Yesterday morning, I walked outside expecting a cooler day, but the sun beat down on my shoulders. It warmed my skin so quickly that I mentally prepared myself for for a hotter-than-forecasted day. While leaving the gym, I bought myself a bottled water which I left in the car while Melia and I shopped for Halloween candy. When we returned to the car, I took a sip of the bottled water, which was still cool, but provided little sips of heat within the sweating bottle I held in my hand. More pockets of heat, invisible but I could taste them, the contrast of cool and hot playing off each other…smoothly. 

Sipping my water, at a stoplight, I looked outside my car window and notoced a bed of meticulously planted flowers on the divide…orange, red and yellow. Like a blooming fire, low to the Earth, wanting to get off the ground. Everywhere, little pieces of heat. Sometimes the pockets of heat are so nice to look at, you can’t take your eyes off of them.

I made stewed lentils in the slow cooker Thursday. Last week at Costco, Melia and I sampled Madras Lentils - so good, creamy and hearty - but with 900 mg of sodium per pouch. Badly as I wanted to buy the product, bring it home, re-heat it and exclaim to everyone “I got it at Costco, isn’t it good?” I set down the box, thanked the person sampling the food, and told her to have a good day. I’m going to make that at home, with less sodium, I thought to myself. So I did. I used two whole serrano peppers and today when I bit into one, I got more heat. But it wasn’t overpowering, it was flavorful. The pocket of heat withtin lended personality I found irresistible, though part of me said beware.

My son has been practicing pitching and hitting, hitting and pitching. When the fastball is called for, Alex places two fingers of his his still boyish looking hand over two seams of the baseball, hiding his pitch formation within his glove. He gets the heater ready. He winds up, his shape contorts, and in these few seconds I can see everything that got him to this moment and imagine clearly what is to come, because of his little pocket of heat.

Around 4pm yesterday, Melia looked flushed, so I felt her belly, and once again, used the back of my hand to detect heat, but this time placing it against her forehead where soft, stubby baby bangs hide beneath her ringlets. Since yesterday afternoon, Melia has been a 36-inch tall pocket of heat. The heat got to 104 degrees at 3:00 am this morning, even with children’s ibuprofen it only goes down to 102.2. In her breathy voice she asks me “Can I still go trick or treating Momma?” Getting sick on Halloween, random. Fever of 104 at 3am, chaos. A little body fighting infection, with heat.

Little pockets of heat everywhere, all the time. All you have to do is use the right senses, and the pockets of heat can stop you, hold you, feed you, and refine you. 
######

(slow cooker) STEWED LENTILS
1 package of green lentils, rinsed
1-2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1 can red kidney beans, undrained
1 jar tomato paste
64 oz. chicken broth
2 serrano chilies, whole (unsliced), stem removed
1 tbsp. honey
1 bay leaf
1 tsp. smoked paprika
1 tsp. ground coriander
1/2 tsp. chili powder
kosher salt
black pepper

Pour rinsed lentils into a slow cooker. Drizzle with olive oil. Add beans, tomato paste, broth, chilies, honey, bay leaf, paprika, coriander, chili powder, salt and pepper. Mix well. Cook on low setting for 6 hours, or until broth is absorbed (no more than 8 hours total!).
We top our lentils with everything from red wine vinegar to Tabsaco to Parmesan. This dish is perfect on it’s own, with a roasted chicken and green salad, or next to some grilled sausages.
#######

TOASTED PUMPKIN SEEDS A LA KARRIE
When in need of a recipe, ask another foodie. My amiga Karrie does her pumpkin seeds this way. Check out her blog, http://karriemcallister.blogspot.com.

Fresh pumpkin seeds, washed and patted dry
extra virgin olive oil
kosher salt
* Lawry’s Seasoning, too, that is what Karrie adds because her Dad always used it

Toss the seeds with enough olive oil to coat, and use a lot of salt. On a baking sheet (I’d imagine parchment paper or some canola oil spray would be good to place down first), spread out the seeds and roast between 250-275 for one hour, stirring every 15 minutes or so, she says. Remove when they are “done to your desired crispiness.”

I think I’ll toast mine with either Mrs. Dash - 0g trans fats, all natural ingredients, and really good stuff in there too! Or cumin+cayenne+paprika.

 This is Boo Two (birth name: Melia). Five years ago, Zoe went as Boo “One” for Halloween. Since I produce girls with big brown eyes, brown hair made for ponytails, and a love of Pixar movies, being Boo from Monsters Inc. for Halloween is as expected as empty Reese’s wrappers all over the floor on November 1st.

This year, I…helped…Zoe make the decision to identify with and thereby select a heroine as a character to dress up as for All Hallow’s Eve. Zoe selected an Elizabeth Swann (Pirates of the Caribbean) costume, but people just call her a pirate, and Alex wanted to be Ghostrider. I said fine.

I am not skilled or ambitious enough to make the kids costumes, and I lack the enthusiasm to go to a Halloween store with three children. So I ordered the costumes over the Interent, but did manage to decorate my house a little bit with some witchy things. Oh, and a Halloweenish Tinkerbell.

We have already been to one Halloween house party and one Halloween carnival. 

We have three Halloween class parties this week, and tomorrow I go on a field trip with Zoe’s class to a pumpkin patch. With all of these events, I trod along with relatively little complaint, thank the parents who organized the events, volunteer when I can, and just try to get through all of the madness that is Halloween with children. I’d be lying if I said I enjoyed this time of year. The problem is this - I can’t get into dressing up in costumes nor riding ponies at pumpkin patches when the temperature outside is over 100 degrees.

I have become a Halloween Scrooge. An October Mr. Grinch. I feel deprived of proper Autumn weather and I want to punch the sun in the face.

And it isn’t just me. This time of year is when people aren’t very kind to each other, in the dog days of the California Indian Summer. Or maybe it’s just the election, I don’t know. What I do know is that I cannot wait until November 5th; the electoral votes will be counted, the Halloween candy will be mostly consumed or discarded, and there is actual rain forecast for that day (I get my glory in the desert rain*).

Someone out there is listening to me!

And Mr. Golden Sun, please don’t take it personally. I’m simply jealous of my friends in Vermont, Ohio, Iowa, Missouri and Massachusetts who tell me about their crisp weather, baking pies,and changing leaves. Oh, and Mother Nature - yeah, I want you to know the majesty of the Harvest is not lost on me, I kinda just want to see it in action rather than on Google images.

I’m simply ready for a change of seasons, and all that implies. It is time, an I have big expectations out of life. I’ll whine until the temperature falls below 80 degrees, but in my defense, I am aware enough to know that I don’t control the weather, and crafty enough to improvise.

Since I don’t have it outside, I went into my kitchen and invited Fall in all her glory to sweep over us in the form of a cool off-shore breeze and stay until December. The nutmeg and cinammon, they called to me. Chicken stock fell into my lap when I reached for the Cocoa Pebbles. I know how to read signs, so I made chicken tortilla soup and banana bread today. Butternut Squash Bisque and Apple Pie didn’t seem entirely realistic.

But they are on the horizon. This is the most dreaded time of year for me, I suppose the way the humid summers are dreaded in the South, the way frozen, scary winters are dreaded in the Midwest. No one is exempt from some kind of misery (I guess every form of refuse has it’s price**), and the more I think about it - the more I write about it, actually - I am not so troubled by this temporary heat. I’ve come to realize that the people who can find joy in the mundane or smile through the bad days are the people who have life figured out.

So, I have life figured out during 3 seasons out of 4, and that ain’t bad.

But my kids - Boo, Elizabeth Swann and Ghostrider - they have life figured out all the time. They play their soccer and baseball games in the blazing sun and have fun, they take their tests knowing recess is just minutes away.

When I grow up, I want to be like them. And when they grow up, I hope they can cook like me.

BANANA BREAD (it’s really healthy!)
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 tbsp. honey
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1 tbsp. flax seed meal
1 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. kosher salt
1 tsp. cinammon
a few grates fresh nutmeg, or a few shakes from the spice jar
1 stick unsalted butter - at room tenperature
3/4 cup brown sugar
2 eggs, beaten
2 cups bananas, mashed - over-ripe is when I use them
Optional: butter slices and brown sugar as topping

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Grease the inside of a loaf pan.
Beat eggs. Mash bananas.
In one bowl combine the dry ingredients.
In another bowl, mix brown sugar and eggs together. Add bananas in.
Mix the butter-brown sugar-egg-banana mixture to the dry ingredients.
When the banana bread batter is all mixed together, pour into loaf pan.
Add some butter slices and brown sugar to the top, if you like.
Bake at 350 for about one hour, until a toothpick or cake tester inserted comes out clean.
####

Happy Halloween!!

* The Killers, Bling
** The Eagles, Lyin’ Eyes

I am confused again.

This should come as a surprise to no one - I watch the Food Network predominantly. My kids now have their favorite shows. Like I surrenedered to ESPN when I met my husband and later learned to really like it, the same goes with my kids and the Food Network. Their current favorite show is Unwrapped.

I like Unwrapped. But it has caused me confusion and fear as well as hunger and cravings. How could a light-hearted, fun, informative show that shows how Cheetos and lollipops are made cause me fear and confusion?

Fear: I’m watching Unwrapped, okay, and the representatives of the massive (mainly corporate) food companies say things like this…”We require 750,00 tons of corn (for example) per day to make such-and-such a product and can produce (something like) 2 million bags daily.” Think that company times thousands of others and you have a lot of food being grown, imported, produced, etc. to be consumed or … wasted. Thoughts of the Dust Bowl come to my mind. Thoughts of Carmela Soprano looking an ancient ruins saying “It all gets washed away,” come to my mind. I know I might be a little fatalistic about a food show, but it freaks me out - the question of if we can sustain our food production, if the goods will run out, if the consumption rate is depleting our resources, and how much of it gets wasted. We discard juice boxes and trail mix while kids in other countries go without. I know it’s an exaggerated thought, but sometimes I imagine a paltry, surviving population looking at old, abandoned silos saying “It all got used up.”

We’re little itty bitty dots, chronologically and existentially thinking, but we sure consume, and waste a lot. Maybe some retro candy like Razzles (Unwrapped did a retro candy show) will cheer me out of my freaky thinking.

Confusion: In between these shows that I watch on the Food Network, there are commercials for food - entrees, side dishes, desserts - that are already prepared, just requiring a quick zap in the microwave to be edible. Food Network is a huge, monied network that has shows running almost all day long showing colorful personalities Like Emeril or Bobby Flay educating people from novice to advanced how to prepare meals from scratch, with health in mind, quickly, sophisticatedly, or home-style. Yet, the advertisements on the Food Network show people miserably peeling potatoes and finding satisfaction heating up packaged mashed potatoes in the microwave.The commercials on the Food Network show people eating ready prepared, processed pasta dishes at work that take seconds to re-heat.

Where is the fun in that? The idealism of culinary wisdom is lost in those seconds of re-heating or endorsing mediocre food. The Food Network/food commercials contradiction just confuses me. Why not advertise (in addition to the commercials they already have) the slow cooking movement, or sustainable farming? Can you imagine Mario Batali zapping a Dinty Moore meal in the microwave and eating it in seclusion before an Iron Chef battle? I want the hypocrisy to end. Food Network, I hereby request that you give Bruce Springsteen and Tom Petty a cooking show with a rural, grass roots format and have one of your different celebrty chefs on their show each week. They can talk all about “I remember my Momma doing that in the kitchen,” or “Methods taken from old country and indigenous peoples,” or maybe episodes based on their songs. A “She was an American Girl” show comes to my mind, macaroni and cheese, open faced turkey sandwiches with gravy, quinoa qith organic veggies. Or as “Streets of Philadelphia Street Food” episode, a chef and The Boss preparing Philly Cheese Steaks.

I also hereby request that at the end of each commercial advertising re-heated, packaged, processed food, you have one of those quick chef interview/talking about food snippets in which the chef says “By the way, that commercial for penne pasta with roasted chicken ready in 90 seconds? I can teach you how to make that with fresh ingredients, and you can take it to work the next day.” Run commercials advertising those handy containers in which people can tranpsort their leftovers to work. That oughtta bring in some (more) revenue.

Phfew, I feel better now. I’d feel even better if I could be on a cooking show with Bruce and Tom.

And Rachael Ray, if I still had my pittie Terra, I would feed her your dog food. Rachael Ray’s new dog food, Delish, donates all of its proceeds to charities helping animals. That good feeling offsets my planetary worries and contempt for corporate America.

You know, we could just save ourselves after all.

YUMMY SALAD DRESSING
1 cup organic sour cream (I’m working with a theme here, but organic is not necessary)
2 tbsp. chili pepper sauce (I used Trader Joe’s, it is more sweet than hot. If you use Tabasco, scale back a bit)
1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
2 tbsp. rice wine vinegar
chopped, fresh herbs - basil or dill, parsley and thyme (have fun here or just use what you’ve got!)
coarse grain salt to taste
pepper to taste

Whisk all ingredients together. Zoe said “I love this ranch dressing, Momma!” Imagine that! A Ranch dressing I can live with.

I’ve been thinking a lot about names lately. Moreso than when I was pregnant, because I had the names of (two of) my future children picked out when I was very young. But my friend’s nine-year-old son said the other day “You eventually look like your name.”

Dude. I mean, babe, and what just came out of your mouth.

“Is your daughter named Melia too?” and “Oh, my daughter is also named Melia,” have been said to me in the last three weeks by two different women, both of whom have Malia’s at my daughter’s pre-school. Prior to 2004, I never even heard the name Malia once in my life. But the bellman at The Fairmont in Kona - a man who for some reason gave me a very quick lesson in Hawaiian while waiting for my rental car - told me “Malia” is what Hawaiians call the ocean when it is calm. Calm ocean. God, I loved that right away. I told my husband that very moment, “If” (at that time in our life, it was a big “if”) “…we ever have another child, and it’s a girl, she will be named Malia.” 

That bellman at The Fairmont gave me a few Hawiian vocabulary words:

Kuu’ipo = Sweetheart
Ikaikae =Strong
Mele = Calm
Malia = Calm Ocean

He also told us all about a band his son was in called Falling for Alba. Sometimes the most interesting conversations, the most useful information, is casually exchanged and thoughtlessly offered. I’m sure that man doesn’t know that the “if” became a reality, born in September 2005, and that he was the catalyst in naming her. Names really do become our identity, even if it doesn’t happen right away.

But, knowing that “mal” is synonymous with “bad” in romance languages, I changed Mal-ia to Mel-ia. No need to tempt fate or self-fulfilled prohecies. That and I thought I would like calling her Mel, or Meli.

After naming our third child Melia, I started hearing that name a lot, very often…too often. I thought I was being different, naming my daughter after a state of tropical water, it was almost like her individuality was formed in Hawai’i, and that made us all earthy and cool.  

So much for that. “It means plumeria.” “It’s Hawaiian for Mary.” “It means Marie,” is what I was told, and what I was able to confirm from Hawaiians here (on the mainland). What happened to the wisdom bestowed upon us by our fortuitous bellman? Son of a bitch. Might as well have named our Melia after a relative.

But one of the two women - mothers of other Malias - told me “I had a friend growing up who was from a huge Hawaiian family, and Malia is what they call the ocean when it’s calm.”

Lady, whoever you are, mahalo.

That nomer-gratification was ample for me, in fact, it made my whole day, but then she added “And if your daughter is anything like mine, she is so far from being a calm ocean!” I nodded vigorously in agreement. My Melia is more like the hot, choppy waters that fuel a Category 5 in the Gulf. 

When the second woman made the Malia-association to me, I told her -  my individuality reaffirmed and faith in the bellman restored - that our daughter’s names meant “calm ocean.” “That’s certainly not my daughter,” she said. I smiled. I didn’t need to have the same conversation twice, I love the irony, that our little girls are wild even though they are named otherwise, but I also believe that one or all of the Melia/Malias will in fact become in their later lives a simile of a tranquil, Southern Pacific sea.

She added, “If Obama wins, there will be a lot of Malia’s!” Ohmigosh…she’s right. Presidential names - Amy, Chelsea, Jenna. Here we go again. But I have too many other things to think about than loss of name uniqueness and individuality. Melia can legally change her name in fifteen years if she is dissatsified with it. Besides, she still insists her name is Booboos.

Names. Contradictory at times but mostly accurate. Given in the hopes that our children will come into who we hope them to be. I named my son Alexander because it was the only male name my husband and I could agree on. But when the kid walks by me, and all I can see is the swoosh of his medium-length black hair or when I can hear him from the other side of the house pouring himself a bowl of cereal after school, he’s Alex. Zoe, the way she hops out of bed in the morning and pulls the covers over her Care Bear, or throws herself into the mix on all all-boys team, is all Zoe, which means “life” in Greek. I have been told I am totally a Samantha, which is Aramaic for “listener.” The meaning of my middle name Suzanne is “lily.” I think I am just a Sam. And just like when I was a kid, I feel like I am in trouble if someone addresses me by my entire, three-syllable first name. Call me Samantha Suzanne, and I am less like a listening flower and more like a feline with a trail of feathers behind me.

The next time you read a book, or watch a movie, ask yourself why the writers chose the names for their characters. Would Indiana Jones sell as “Henry Jones”, his real name in the movie? “Jerry Maguire” is the name of a movie, but in the movie, it represents the many levels of a singular identity.

And you don’t get to choose your own. More irony.

Lastly, since I usually write about my kitchen successes, tonight I am writing about an un-success. The other night in the kitchen while making pesto, I became distracted. I left out the pine nuts. So when I poured it from the blender onto the pasta, it looked strangely like a vinaigrette.

I wondered, do I toss it into the trash, or make it a pasta salad? Or should I grind the pine nuts in the mini-prep food processor, add them in, and see what happens? That is exactly what I did. At first I was scared it was like adding peanut butter to wheat grass, but it tasted exactly the same as pesto made correctly. There was a whole pine nut here and there, but I’ve had the same result with the blender when I remembered to add all the pesto ingredients. No one ever knew about the mistake. The pesto pasta was delicious. Zoe and Melia made a pizza with fresh mozzarella and goat cheese, and I added the basil chiffonade at the end.

Whether it was a success or un-success is, I guess, how you interpret it…like everything else in life.