Opening my crusty old recipe box I wonder who sifted flour into it. It's a grey metal file card box from some forgotten office. In a Virgo moment early in my cooking career I had the insane idea that each recipe would live it’s life neat and tidy filed under its alphabetic letter. But that idea took a karmic turn somewhere along the way. Today there are folded yellowing snippets of paper with writing going round the edges, recipes written on (yes, sigh) napkins and papers worn and torn with love.
This time of year I usually make some kind of pickle in homage to the pickle makers of my ancestry. I like pickles. Looking through the box I found Ma Jess’ recipe for “Syrup for peach, crab or sweet apple or pear” with this little quote written on the side:
“You have to go over Fool’s Hill and Monkey Valley before you settle down.” I love that. Ma Jess was the beloved stepmother of my grandmother.
There is her recipe for beet pickles.
Cook beets – save cooking water – peel beets and cut in desired size. Reheat in juice.
Beet juice ½
Vinegar ½
1 cup brown sugar to 2 qts juice
Add cloves if desired. (I put in a stick of cinnamon with 10 cloves)
There is a note on the back of her recipe that says: “This was Tess’ recipe. Vinegar is stronger than it used to be so you may need to check taste for you.”
I wish I knew the year she wrote out that recipe but I can guess it would have been around 1930. Ma Jess lived on the family farm in Northern Michigan.
Jesse
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
HOME - a Family Reunion
My son and I recently went to Missouri to attend my mother’s family reunion which was twice as sweet as it was only days after her birthday. There was a special program this year at the reunion to recognize and honor James Edward H., who died in battle on French soil in WW1. His gravestone had never been appropriately decorated, but the VFW had a memorial plaque installed recently. And now his story was told to the dozens who gathered round his gravestone, by the nieces and nephews he never knew, some reading letters that he had written home to his parents. This was followed by a 21 gun salute from the local color guard and taps, played by two bugles, echoed over the country side. Many were moved to tears, as was I.
Afterwards, my immediate family drifted away from the crowd, for this is the same small country cemetery where my father was laid to rest two summers earlier. Mom wanted to see if the grass seed they had scattered earlier in the summer had been embraced by the abundant summer rains, and we were all thankful to see that it had. Finally, the right combination of seed to water to sun.
My mother, noting that others had marked their family plot with wrought iron hooks, had installed one near my Dad’s stone. Stating that she was sure that my father would have liked it, my Mom chose a kinetic sculpture with cups of bright colors that moved with the motion of our presence. My brother had securely wired the metal mobile to the hook. I stood with my brothers and sister and we were happy with Mom’s inspiration. I gazed over the small farm pond nearby and listened for my fathers beloved quail, who had called out so gently during his grave side service … but I did not hear their voice this day.
As we drove away on the old narrow gravel road, I noted out loud that the colorful baubles were no longer in motion. My brother quietly acknowledged that they were not moving as we drove in earlier. Had they only been in motion as we gathered round to spend these precious moments with my father’s memory? moved by …..?
I am not surprised that I was not the only one who felt Dad’s presence.
* annette
Afterwards, my immediate family drifted away from the crowd, for this is the same small country cemetery where my father was laid to rest two summers earlier. Mom wanted to see if the grass seed they had scattered earlier in the summer had been embraced by the abundant summer rains, and we were all thankful to see that it had. Finally, the right combination of seed to water to sun.
My mother, noting that others had marked their family plot with wrought iron hooks, had installed one near my Dad’s stone. Stating that she was sure that my father would have liked it, my Mom chose a kinetic sculpture with cups of bright colors that moved with the motion of our presence. My brother had securely wired the metal mobile to the hook. I stood with my brothers and sister and we were happy with Mom’s inspiration. I gazed over the small farm pond nearby and listened for my fathers beloved quail, who had called out so gently during his grave side service … but I did not hear their voice this day.
As we drove away on the old narrow gravel road, I noted out loud that the colorful baubles were no longer in motion. My brother quietly acknowledged that they were not moving as we drove in earlier. Had they only been in motion as we gathered round to spend these precious moments with my father’s memory? moved by …..?
I am not surprised that I was not the only one who felt Dad’s presence.
* annette
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Cup
Each one comes, in their own time, and trades their small cup of understanding (of experiences and interpretations) for an ocean. That’s the difference-cup - ocean. What’s amazing is how long it can take to say “Im ready to give up my little cup.” How many teachers are sent, books are read, techniques applied, courses taken, interpretations given and visions revealed before you hand over your cup. It’s okay mind you, it’s only a cup and you are entitled to hang onto it as long as you like. Folks think all kinds of things are necessary to be ready, to prepare, but none of them really are. Simply place it down. The ocean is waiting.
“But how?” you ask. “It’s all I know.” Simply place it down and for a while know you will pick it up at the drop of a hat, at the instant someone challenges you or your sense of self/safety is threatened-in other words-survival. The conditioning is; something in the cup will save you, some answer is swirling around in it’s shallow depths. No-it’s not, but that’s okay if that’s what you want to think for a while longer. But not much.
As the ocean of love arrives at your door you will not care about hanging onto it. You will jump in, swim, play, float, whatever it is for you. You’ll be so busy being a drop of love bopping around the ocean you’ll soon forget your old cup and the limited world you once thought was all there is. You’ll one day have the thought “The Cup?” and laugh and laugh, that for so long you lived your life in protection of it’s fragile nature. That you worked around, planned around and built around it. "A cup", you’ll think, how silly.
Now the ocean requires certain things to stay in. You leave all that planning behind. It’s not about that. All the judgements and needing to do everything right, get left behind too. Being right, forget that as well.
That series called “Left Behind”, they got the left behind part right. They just didn’t get what’s left behind. It’s not a bunch of folks who haven’t followed some rules or paid a certain kind of allegiance to “Jesus” which is what I recall they demanded from my limited exposure. It’s the need to be right, the desire to judge, to prove yourself, greed and power over, these are just a few of the things you put down with the cup.
The cup and all it’s secrets, wrongs and rights (rules) that keep you separate; from someone, anyone, something or anything. All the the time, the whole show, the entire ride in the cup took place in the ocean. You could never have left. It was our imagination playing out the dream of limitations. What a relief. Is it time for a new dream? Would you like a cup of love now?
Mary
“But how?” you ask. “It’s all I know.” Simply place it down and for a while know you will pick it up at the drop of a hat, at the instant someone challenges you or your sense of self/safety is threatened-in other words-survival. The conditioning is; something in the cup will save you, some answer is swirling around in it’s shallow depths. No-it’s not, but that’s okay if that’s what you want to think for a while longer. But not much.
As the ocean of love arrives at your door you will not care about hanging onto it. You will jump in, swim, play, float, whatever it is for you. You’ll be so busy being a drop of love bopping around the ocean you’ll soon forget your old cup and the limited world you once thought was all there is. You’ll one day have the thought “The Cup?” and laugh and laugh, that for so long you lived your life in protection of it’s fragile nature. That you worked around, planned around and built around it. "A cup", you’ll think, how silly.
Now the ocean requires certain things to stay in. You leave all that planning behind. It’s not about that. All the judgements and needing to do everything right, get left behind too. Being right, forget that as well.
That series called “Left Behind”, they got the left behind part right. They just didn’t get what’s left behind. It’s not a bunch of folks who haven’t followed some rules or paid a certain kind of allegiance to “Jesus” which is what I recall they demanded from my limited exposure. It’s the need to be right, the desire to judge, to prove yourself, greed and power over, these are just a few of the things you put down with the cup.
The cup and all it’s secrets, wrongs and rights (rules) that keep you separate; from someone, anyone, something or anything. All the the time, the whole show, the entire ride in the cup took place in the ocean. You could never have left. It was our imagination playing out the dream of limitations. What a relief. Is it time for a new dream? Would you like a cup of love now?
Mary
Monday, July 27, 2009
Poem - Beauty Way
Can the world survive if we follow the Beauty Way?
If we focus only on the Highest Vision,
could we bridge the gap to actually attain that world on this earth?
Can there be angels without devils?
Can we trust, can we love, can we live
openly,
without being sucked dry or destroyed by takers & fakers?
How big can the Beauty Way be and still survive?
by Terra Rafael
If we focus only on the Highest Vision,
could we bridge the gap to actually attain that world on this earth?
Can there be angels without devils?
Can we trust, can we love, can we live
openly,
without being sucked dry or destroyed by takers & fakers?
How big can the Beauty Way be and still survive?
by Terra Rafael
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Summer Meal
I’m thinking of the zukes just forming in my garden, small green nubs on the tail end of huge golden flowers. Soon I hope to pick them.
Jyoti
By then, the tomatoes will ripen, those small pale orange pearls covering the branches, with yellow flowers on others limbs of those yet to form.
Soon the scallions deeper in the dirt will fatten and the basil leaves will broaden. My favorite dinner by August will come from my own garden instead of the supermarket.
When August arrives, I’ll pick all these items, this bounty of nature and , in a skillet with some olive oil or coconut oil, I’ll place them chopped and ready for the heat.
Sautéing lightly, readying brown or basmati rice or whole grain udon noodles on the side, I’ll wait for the vegetables to come to readiness, retaining their color, a slightly softer texture, and give me aromas to enliven my taste buds.
Fresh picked foods bring life force with the taste from the vine and transfer prana into my cells. For this, I’ll wait through the early summer until nature’s time decrees she’s ready. And then I’m ready to feast.
Jyoti
Friday, July 24, 2009
Dreaming of Road Trips with Mary
Home and away
Friendship and miles
Red wine and brownies
Mountains and prairies.
Long years and love
Yo yo Ma, Bob Dylan,
Jerry and Johan Sebastian Bach
Witty smarks and
Dark conversations
Chicago
Peeing
Along the way
Mapping and camping
Phoenix to Berkley
Roaring with laughter
Shannon and Darby
Blue sky and weed
Mackinac , Sarnac, and White Fish Bay
Ian and Sylvia
Tall trees and grey oceans
Beaches of agate
Mississippi, Iowa and
Dogs in Nebraska
Mountains of rocks
Rivers and Freddie
Skipping to ski
And Low country valleys
Time and again
Have we crossed the boarder
To higher ground?
Are we there yet?
Sixteen to sixty
Who are we now?
Where are we ?
Will we ever go home again?
Not this time around
Want to go to Marin?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
