A Note to My Son

My darling boy,

Last weekend as you took a nap on the couch, I was struck by how peacefully you lay there, how sweet and calm and innocent.  I watched you breathing softly and uttered a silent prayer that you'd always know such peace.  Inspired, I lay on the floor to do some breathing meditation, and as I slowly opened my eyes, there you were, peering at me over the edge of the couch.  You had the most amazing look on your face, full of love, curiosity, and happiness.  I've seen all of those things from you before, but this time was special.  This time, you were radiant in a way I've never seen before.

Silently, you climbed off the couch and put your pillow next to mine.  You snuggled right in next to me, and as we shared a blanket, you kept looking at me with that silent, luminous smile.  I can't begin to express the depth of peace and happiness this small but prolonged moment brought me.  I've said that you're the greatest teacher I've ever had, and learning to experience your joy has made me a better, happier person. The impression of this moment will sit with me for a long time, and for that, and so much more, I thank you.

I love you, little boy.  I love you more than you could ever imagine.

--Your Daddy

The Death of bin-Laden, and Reflections on the Lessons of 9/11

I'm embarrassed to admit it's been some time since I've written here.  Not only has my life become significantly busier, but I've been stalled out on the piece below.  I'd started it in the wake of Osama bin-Laden's death, as a  comprehensive memoir of my experiences of that day, and the lessons I'd learned from being in New York when the towers fell.  It's a piece that proved a little too hard to write comfortably, and I have a lot of ambivalence still about sharing everything I felt on that day.  I did learn several important lessons, though, three of which I've decided to share.

* Never Lose Faith in Humanity: As the towers fell, and before anyone knew just what was needed in terms of medical resources, lines had already begun to form at all of Manhattan's hospitals.  The people in these lines were there to give blood, and there were so many at St. Vincent's on 12th Street that the line wrapped all the way around the block and on to the next.  There was a sort of peace to the line, as we knew that we were doing the best thing possible in the wake of a tragedy whose scope wasn't yet known.
     What struck me, though, wasn't just the line of blood donors.  There were also people moving up and down the line, handing out water, juice, and bagels.  These amazing people weren't from the hospital; they were there on their own, helping people keep their energy up, with refreshments both donated by local businesses, or paid for out-of-pocket.
     This outpouring of spontaneous support, and the solidarity of people wanting to help their neighbors, as well as strangers, really spoke to me.  In those early hours of the day, no one had put out a call for blood or nutritional support; people came together individually, and with the kindest and most generous of motives.  I realized then, that even as it only took a handful of evil men to cause such destruction, that at its core, humanity is ultimately kind and supportive, that we are capable of tremendous acts of kindness towards each other, and that this truth is one that is all too often forgotten.  Please, don't forget.

* Live!:  Sadly, St. Vincent's didn't have the manpower or supplies to handle the crowds that wanted to donate blood, so we were given the names and addresses of other hospitals in the city that might be able to take our blood.  As I headed uptown to St. Clare's, the streets were virtually empty; Manhattan had become almost a ghost town.  By this point, the military had sent fighters to patrol the skies above Manhattan, and every time one flew far overhead, anyone who was out in the street stopped moving and listened carefully, everyone with the same look on their faces.  It was a look of combined fear and sickness, a look of "oh, God, no, what now?"
     Even now, some ten years later, I remember that feeling, and it brings back a deep, visceral response.  At the time, I was terrified; there was no accurate news at that point, no one knew exactly what was happening.  There had been rumors of as many as eight hijacked planes wreaking havoc across the country, and cell phone service was almost nonexistent, as the most powerful signal towers in the city had been destroyed.  Walking uptown, I kept expecting the other shoe to drop, for some additional awful event that would make things so much worse, and then 'it' came to me, an epiphany that took away all that fear.
     I suddenly understood that there's only so much within my control, and that if there are terrorists or anyone else who wants me dead, there's very little I can do to stop them.  With that reminder of my mortality and the fragility of my existence, I realized that there was no sense in living in fear, that I should focus on what I could control, and not worry about the rest.  It's been a hard lesson to learn, and it's one that I haven't always been good at keeping close to my heart, but it's there, and it's something I try to practice as often as possible.

* Smile!:  Having made it to St. Clare's, the small knot of us that had made it uptown were disappointed once again as that hospital's representative told us that they couldn't take our blood, either.  Feeling thoroughly unhelpful and walking back downtown on Madison Ave., I saw a young woman walking towards me.  She looked vaguely familiar, and as I looked at her, she flashed me the most beautiful smile.  It was bright, friendly, and warm, and I was floored.  I asked her, "Do I know you?"  She smiled again, and before continuing on her way simply said, "No, but you looked like you needed a smile."
     Wow.  I can't begin to describe how that affected me, but I had to take a moment to sit down  and think about what had just happened.  In the wake of feeling scared and useless, a simple smile from a stranger brought a lightness into my day that was more powerful and surprising than anything I could have imagined.
     The lesson I took from this is the easiest of the three that I've described, and perhaps the most important.  In my mind, it's the one that ties the other two lessons neatly together, and, simply put, the lesson is to smile.  Smile at yourself in the mirror, smile at your friends, smile at strangers.  Smile because it's a beautiful day, or because it's raining.  Smile because of its power to bring happiness to someone else.  Smile because you're here.

A short bit of fantasy writing

“…and so Te’or said, ‘I told you, that’s no banshee, that’s my sister!’”

The court erupted in raucous, drunken laughter.  “I tell you, Carus, no matter how many times I hear that story, it gets me every time!  Banshee…hah!”

Carus grinned and saluted with his cup, “Thank you, dear Prince.  I’ve got a new one for you, about a busty tavern girl and a dimwitted dwa-“

His words were cut off as the enormous oak doors flew open, their iron bands ringing off the stone walls.  Standing at the doors with dusk gathering behind her was a disheveled, panting young woman holding a gleaming sword in her hand.  Struggling to raise the blade above her head, she breathed, “Prince Ekor, this is for you!”  Staggering weakly, sword in the air, she stumbled and was caught by the palace guard.  The last thing she heard before passing out was the clatter of the sword hitting the floor.

*****

Ekor stared at the woman’s prone form.  She was obviously a Westerner, with dark hair shot through with strands of silver, her skin the color of iron-rich desert sands.  The patterns of scars on her shoulders and arms marked her as a member of the ruling class of Kidhan.  Ekor wondered what she was doing in his lands; after all, Kidhan was a two-week ride across hostile terrain.  He’d been studying her for two days now, ever since she’d burst into his court with the sword.  ‘Two days,’ he thought, ‘and she hasn’t even opened her eyes once.  Gods, who is she?’  Perturbed, he walked to the window.  As he watched the sun fall below the horizon, Ekor barely noticed the lightning clouds in the far distance.

*****

“Aaahhh!!  Wh…Wha…Where am I?”

Ekor started from his chair, blinking as the woman sat bolt upright in bed, screaming.  “Easy, girl.  You’ve been unconscious for days.  You’re safe.  Who are you and what are you doing here?” 

Before she could open her mouth to answer, a trio of guards burst into the room.  “My liege!  We heard screaming.  Are you safe?”  Ekor waved them off with a nod and a slight smile, and turned back to the woman.

“Well?”

Gathering the covers around her, the woman began, “P…Prince Ekor, my name is Te’ara.  I’m from the West, from Kidhan.  My father sent me; he said you could help us.  He said that now was the time to call on the ages-old friendship between our lands.  He is certain that Ladrys will come to our aid.  Please, Prince Ekor, you must help, we will die otherwise.  We’re in dire need.  You must…”

Ekor held up his hand, “Hold on, girl.  Te’ara.  Slow down, you’re panicked.  Now, take a breath and explain what you’re saying.  First tell me, why did you burst into my court with that sword?”

Trembling, Te’ara began, “The sword, Prince, is a gift from my father.  It was presented to his grandfather by Prince Ralan of Ladrys after the Battle at Seven Elms, as a token of alliance and friendship.  We return it to you in kind, with the hopes that you will aid us in our time of need.”

Ekor leapt up, “By the hells!  You’re from the House of Te’or!  Long have we recounted the stories of Seven Elms.  What is the trouble that brings you to us?

A tear trickled down Te’ara’s cheek and she shuddered, “The dead…they, they came from the South.  Horrible, rotting creatures of flesh, marching in armies across our lands.  They’ve slaughtered our people and added them to their armies.  Our fields are burned, our army is shattered.  We have no one else to turn to…please, I beg you, help us…”  She broke down sobbing, her body trembling with each cry.

The guards burst in again but Ekor again raised his hand and stopped them.  “Fetch the doctor and tell him to bring a calming draught, then tell my chamberlain to assemble the Council.  We’re going to war.”

*****

A little bit of spooky fiction

Just a bit of raw fiction below...first draft, unedited, and a nice little vignette, I think.

Twelve years.  It had been twelve years since Aaron had been home, twelve long years since he’d felt the warmth of his family’s love, the warmth of a home-cooked meal, any warmth at all.  He didn’t even register the heat of the sirocco moving through the air as the desert surrendered the day’s swelter.

Night came fast in the desert; it was one thing Aaron was grateful for.  The sun was too hot, too bright, too oppressive.  It obscured details that the moon’s glow seemed to highlight.  Even on a moonless night, the galaxy of stars above provided enough light to navigate by.  Travelling by night and sleeping by day, Aaron kept mostly to himself.  He’d occasionally cross paths with a caravan, stopping to appreciate their hospitality.  The company was nice sometimes, Aaron thought, but he also knew he was safer on his own.  As much as there was safety in numbers, there were monsters that stalked the caravans.  A single traveler didn’t attract much attention; no braying donkeys, no large and smoky fires.

Whenever Aaron met a caravan, the Bedouins would invariably urge him in, offering one cup after another of strong, sweet mint tea, sticky dates, and morsels of the ubiquitous roast goat.  After a show of feigned humility on both sides, Aaron would at least sit down for some tea and conversation, trading gossip about the other tribes in the area, and intently listening to stories about the monsters that came in the night, the monsters that stole life from the tribesfolk, leaving them sickly and weak.  It was valuable information to Aaron; even as a lone traveler, it was important to stay abreast of the troubles of the tribes.  Being able to share news between the various families and tribes made Aaron a valuable visitor, and he never left hungry.

On this night, though, Aaron sat alone once again.  At the top of a dune, he stared off into the vast field of stars, remembering that night twelve years ago when he left home to explore the desert, and his decision shortly thereafter to never go home again.  He remembered every fright he’d had out in the desert, every death of a friend, every near miss.  He was roused from his reverie by the faint scent of incense wafting across the air, followed minutes later by the sight of a caravan some two miles distant.  Peering intently across the night-time sands, Aaron hungrily flicked his tongue over his needle-sharp fangs.  Yes, Aaron mused as he began hiking towards the flickering torches, there certainly were monsters in the desert.

Good Morning, Tehran!

I see that my blog's had a lot of visits from Iran.  Welcome and khosh amadid!  What brings you all here? 

A favorite recipe, and some seasonal musings

The advent of spring always excites me. It represents a renewal after the dead of winter, and anyone who's made it through at least one New England winter knows just how welcome spring is.  In the last week or so, the yards and tree-wells on my street have begun to explode with color, daffodils heralding the grape hyacinths, which in turn have announced the return of the tulips.  Petunias are beginning to poke through the mulch, and other, less identifiable flowers have returned as well.  The whites and greys of winter can only last so long, and they invariably give way to this incredible, bright natural palette.  The trees, which have lain dormant for so long, are now budding again.  There are so many metaphors for all this, the renewal of spirit, the rebirth of life, and so on, that I could write entire volumes about the turning of the seasons.  Instead, gentle readers, I'll leave it to you to draw your own, personal connections about the return of spring, while I talk about food for a little while.

The recipe below isn't necessarily spring-y, but if you like, I can certainly make something up about the vibrant colors, and the symbolism of the ingredients.  Again, I leave that to you.  I just wanted to share a personal favorite and invite you all to leave comments on your experiences with it.  Now, on to the cooking!

Warm Beet, Chicken, & Walnut Salad
 Ingredients:
* 1 bunch of beets, preferably with greens.  If you can't get greens, spinach or turnip greens can substitute
* Walnut or pecan halves
* 1 small roll chevre goat cheese
* Boneless, skinless chicken breast
* Brown sugar
* Olive oil
* Rosemary
* Mango chutney
(NB: This is very much a 'to taste' recipe, hence the absence of ingredient amounts/quantities.  By all means, feel free to play around to find what works for you)

Procedure:
1. Wash and peel the beets, removing and reserving the greens.  Cube the beets into bite-sized pieces and roast at 375°F for about 20 minutes.  The goal here is to get the beets to soften without becoming mushy.

2. When the beets are cooked, place them in the bottom of a large, flat-bottomed bowl.  A glass bowl is wonderful for this, as it gives a great visual when the dish is complete.  Layer the washed beet greens over the cubed beets.  Crumble the goat cheese over the greens, making sure the crumbles are evenly distributed.

3. In a saucepan, heat a tablespoon or two of olive oil, and add the nuts and some brown sugar.  Toss the nuts until they just start to caramelize.  I usually take them out of the pan when they've just started to brown/blacken on the edges.  Make sure you don't use too much oil, or you'll wind up with greasy nuts, and, well, ick!  Once the nuts are done, sprinkle them into the bowl, over the cheese.

4. In the same pan you cooked the nuts, saute strips of chicken breast with some rosemary (fresh is always better, but there's nothing wrong with dried for this recipe) and a few healthy spoonfuls of mango chutney.  Once the chicken's cooked through, place it in the serving bowl on top of the nuts.

5. That's it!  You're ready to serve.

Although it'd work equally well as an appetizer or an entree, this is really a one-dish meal.  There's no need to serve anything else, although some nice, crusty bread is a nice accompaniment.  The flavors and textures work on a number of levels, and I've never received anything but rave reviews when I've served this dish.

The variations on this dish are endless...instead of using just beets, a mix of root veggies could add a new dimension of flavor and color.  Imagine the gorgeous confetti effect from a mix of beets, carrots, and parsnips!  The sweetness of the chutney and the tartness of the goat cheese could be highlighted with dried cherries or cranberries, and slivered almonds in place of walnuts or pecans would change the nature of the entire dish, in a wonderful way.  Play around with my recipe, make it your own, and let me know how it turns out!


Bon appetit!

Cooking is love

I love to cook, but I don't do it often enough.  Not seriously, at least.  It feels like too much trouble to bang around my pots and pans and get really involved in it if it's just for me.  When there's someone to cook for, though, I leap into action.  For me, cooking's not only fun, but one of the best ways I can show someone I care.  Cooking is an act of love and friendship, it's me saying "Here, I made this for you.  I gave all my attention to this task so that you might enjoy it, because I care about you."

I've cooked for friends, family, and lovers, but the one person I love cooking for most is my son.  He's a couple of months shy of his third birthday, and he loves spending time in the kitchen with Daddy, helping him cook.  His enthusiasm is so contagious, and he insists on being put up on the counter to watch what's going on.  He helps sometimes where he can, stirring a pot (with careful supervision!) or pouring ingredients together.  I've gotten him stated on spices recently; cinnamon sugar and curry powder are hits, Tabasco isn't too popular.  He loves minced garlic straight from the spoon, and he's adept at stealing pinches of salt from the bowl.

Caleb's pretty much fearless, and the fact that he's so willing to try new foods makes me eager to keep experimenting in the kitchen.  Sure, I'll occasionally take the easy way out and drop a few chicken nuggets on his plate, or take him out for pizza, but more often, I'm there at the stove, tossing ingredients around while he asks me what I'm doing.  The other night I made a makeshift Pad Thai for him; first time he'd eaten it, first time I'd made it.  It turned out great!  Caleb helped grate the ginger, and he put the shrimp in the pan.  Later, he helped make chocolate pudding for dessert (his choice!)

In the past, he's helped me dredge fish for frying, and he's made hand-rolled meatballs. He's seasoned the hamburgers and requested tomatoes in his grilled cheese.  He knows that we have to wait for the butter to bubble before starting the scrambled eggs.  Despite his distaste for Tabasco, he does alright with heat.  I underestimate the boy sometimes when I give him something 'kid friendly,' when all he wants is my grown-up spiced food.

Spending time in the kitchen is a fantastic bonding experience for us; he puts so much attention into watching what I'm doing, and I focus my attention on him, explaining everything and watching his reactions.  We laugh and we learn, we watch heat transform raw ingredients into finished food, and we create memories to last a lifetime.  When dinner is ready, we sit, talk about dinosaurs and Elmo, and practice our manners.  The act of pouring my heart into dinner, of creating 'art' to nourish my son, is only one way I show the boundless love I have for him, but it's a special way, one that's uniquely ours, and one I look forward to at every possible opportunity.

Truly, cooking is love.