Category Archives: relationships

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The Secret Ingredient is (Always) Love

cat eating leftovers

cat eating leftovers (Photo credit: Wikipedia) Not at my house!

 

 

 

 

I’ve always loved to cook.  As a child, volunteering  to cook on weekends meant I didn’t have to go out and help drag brush into burn piles or do other unpleasant, outside chores. It also meant not having to suffer through my mother’s cooking which, back in the day, consisted of undercooked casseroles or spaghetti and burnt cookies.

 

 

 

overcooked cookies

 

 

 

 

 

 

As an adult, able to purchase my own ingredients and cook in my own kitchen, I grew to love cooking even more. Home made caramels and chocolates, crab rangoons, cheesecakes of every descriptions, there was no holiday or family event that didn’t involve hours of poring over recipes and experimenting with new dishes. Preparing my favorite meal, Christmas Eve dinner, involved days of preparation and culminated in tables and counters overflowing with food.

 

smörgåsbord), Swedish buffet

smörgåsbord), Swedish buffet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

 

 

 

At my house, there are always leftovers.

 

 

 

The last few years, though, I’ve noticed my cooking has been lacking something. My dishes are good, just not great. The menu is varied, but not spectacular. The leftovers fly out the door as quickly as ever, but what remains sits in my refrigerator uneaten. There’s something missing.

 

 

 

At first I thought it might be a change in my taste buds, but no one complained about the seasoning or flavor combinations. Perhaps it was a reflection of my hurried life. Rushing through meal preparations might result in inaccurate measurements or missing ingredients, but even when I slowed down, the results remained the same. In desperation, I started to farm out my cooking to other relatives. My recipes, my ingredients, my directions, my kitchen, not my cooking. Sort of like I was the executive chef and my daughter and nieces functioned as my sous and pastry chefs. It filled the table, but didn’t feel fulfilling.

 

cook helpers

 

 

 

Then this week, beset by an awful cold, I made my famous, never fail, totally delicious homemade chicken soup. And it sucked. Oh, it was good-looking enough, and it was hot, and it had the correct ingredients, but it didn’t taste right and it didn’t make me feel any better. It sort of made me feel worse. A feeling I’d never experienced with my chicken soup in the past. Why?

 

 

 

As I dumped it down the sink and ran the garbage disposal, it hit me. It was missing the most crucial ingredient of all – love. My food isn’t meant to just nourish people’s bodies, it’s meant to nourish their souls. Cooking isn’t the combination of ingredients and heat or cold and time equaling taste, it’s the way I say “I love you.” And the last few years, I’ve been a little down on myself. I feel overstressed, overworked, pulled in too many different directions, and plain tired.  Cooking has become another chore in the my never-ending chore list and I approach it with the same attitude I clean up dog poop with – resignation. It’s no longer a way to say “I love you.” Instead it’s become a way to say, “Eh, eat.”

 

human food

human food (Photo credit: xtopalopaquetl)

 

So how do I pull myself out of this cooking death spiral and put the love back in my cooking? I’m not really sure, but I have to try because I miss the looks on the faces of my loved ones when they bite into their favorite dish. I miss the appreciative “mmm’s” as they chew. I long for the happy smile when they ask for seconds. I miss all of it and I want it back.

So this weekend I’m going to pick out one dish and cook it with intention, honesty, and love. No looking at the clock. No stressing about bills that need to be paid or laundry that needs to be washed. No regard for how many dishes or ingredients it takes. All I’m going to do is make one meal with love. Then, hopefully, I can recreate that feeling and make another. I’m going to keep going, one recipe at a time, until I  return to the days when my food whispered “I love you” with every bite.

A turducken that is chock full of love.

A turducken that is chock full of love.

 

 

 

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Winter Storm Nemo: Stranded Without a Charger

LAX Delays 12/20/07

LAX Delays 12/20/07 (Photo credit: andysternberg)

Winter Storm Nemo didn’t do much in my neck of the woods other than fill my driveway with snow and make the dogs happy. While the dogs happily frolicked outside, I tried to figure out whether my mother, who had arrived in LAX Thursday morning to find her flight to Boston cancelled, had caught a flight home or been stranded for another day.

She’s one of the unlucky ones who found their travel plans disrupted by the closing of Boston’s Logan as well as every other New England airport. Hard to fly back from the West Coast when the East Coast is shut down. Hard for your family to figure out where you are when you forget your phone charger and are running low on battery.

Solar Charger and Nokia N82

Solar Charger and Nokia N82 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Of course my mother’s generation didn’t grow up with cell phones and smart phones. She grew up with party lines and pay phones. Her cell phone isn’t the way she communicates with the world, gets news, and keeps updated with her friends. It’s a phone.

In her world, someone meets her at the airport rather than waits for her in the cell phone parking lot. If her flight gets cancelled, she goes to the ticket counter and talks to a person rather than trying to rebook online. When she finds herself stuck overnight at an airport, she strikes up conversations with strangers to pass the time rather than  spending time playing Candy Crush or Words With Friends. Shutting off her cell phone to conserve the battery doesn’t bother her in the least because she’ll turn it on if she wants to talk to someone.

Being incommunicado is not a scary thing to my mother.

No Service

No Service (Photo credit: SkyWideDesign)

And maybe that’s not a bad thing, but my generation is used to being in touch.  Whether it’s updating Facebook. tweeting, or texting, you know where we are. We leave a wide digital swath behind us. Tracking us down is easy and we never forget a power cord.

As tethered as I am to electronics, part of me realizes that my mother’s casual attitude toward being connected isn’t necessarily a bad thing. She’ll return from her hours in the airplane terminal with a different experience. She might not know the latest weather update or the specials at the local restaurant, but she’ll have made friends and shared memories with her fellow unwired passengers. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all.

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Yes. It’s My Yappy Dog.

Yes, it’s my yappy dog. The one who barks and barks for no good reason in a tone guaranteed to disintegrate ear wax. I know it’s annoying.  But, he’s really cute.

nate sleeping

I try to be considerate. When I let him out in the morning, I wait in my pajamas at the patio door, ready to force him inside the second he lets out his first annoying bark of the day. That loud clunking sound you hear is a cardboard box full of zombie dice being vigorously shaken while I hiss “zombie dice” at my dog. Don’t ask me why. Sometimes it works.

After breakfast he likes to go out again. His quiet dog brother (oh, you didn’t realize I had two dogs? Of course not. The yappy one’s noise drowns out the pitter patter of my other dog’s silent feet) doesn’t appreciate the incessant barking any more than the rest of us. Every once in a while, when you hear a snarl, it’s him saying “shut the hell up” in dog language.

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Coming home for lunch means more barking. Barking as I pull into the driveway. Barking as I come up the walk way. More barking as I unlock the door and enter the kitchen. Luckily it’s inside barking, which, while annoying, I hope is not as loud as outside barking. Then it’s back outside again until the inevitable yapping returns and we’re back to zombie dice and treats.

Yes. I give him treats to come inside so I can shut him up. Remember when you didn’t want to screech at your children like a nut when they drove you crazy in the grocery store? That’s how I feel about my dog every single day, multiple times no less.

I’ve tried everything I can think of. Water bottles sprayed in his face temporarily stop him, but not for long. Shaking loud, noisy things in his face have the same brief effect. Bark collars? I’ve been through three of them.  They stop the barking for a while, but then it returns. My family says I should have his vocal cords removed.

If I didn’t love this dog so much, I’d probably contemplate foisting him off on some unsuspecting sucker. He’s good looking, friendly, and has a great personality. Until he opens his mouth.

nate and brady

Any ideas for how to make the perfect dog shut up (short of physically harming my precious)? Let me know in the comments. My neighbors will thank you.

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Life’s Sending You a Message, Are You Listening?

cough drops

I have an addiction to Halls cherry cough drops. I love the taste of them, slightly medicinal with an underlying sweetness, and the size, one drop lasts about five minutes.  They’re portable, don’t have an expiration date, and the wax-paper like wrapping protects them from the abuse of being carried in pockets, purses, and the car console.

A few years ago I was attending yet another boring work meeting in a job that consisted of going to boring meetings. We were seated around a conference table so there was no way to secretly work on a grocery list or write hate mail. Opening up my laptop and checking my email was out, too. Looking at the small, crumpled pile of cough drop wrappers in front of me, I realized they had printing on them. I unwrinkled one and was surprised to find it covered with messages such as “Dust off and get up,” “You’re resilient,” “You’ve survived tougher,” and an explanation in all caps,  “A PEP TALK IN EVERY DROP.”

You tell 'em, little Halls cough drop wrapper

You tell ’em, little Halls cough drop wrapper (Photo credit: spiffie)

Five years of addiction to these delicious cough drops and now I find out there’s a pep talk in every drop? How could I have been so blind? Still, the messages started me on a path that included enrolling at Goddard College, inching my way out of the nursing profession, and starting this blog. All because of messages I had been carrying around for years, but had been too busy and preoccupied to see.

It’s like when you buy a red car and you start to see red cars everywhere, when you’re ready, you see that signs are everywhere.  Unhappy with your job? A college catalog with a certificate course you’ve always wanted to take ends up on your kitchen table. Stressed out over finances? You see a small notice on the bulletin board at your gym offering free membership in exchange for volunteer work. House falling apart? A little blurb in the newspaper asks for volunteers to learn about home repair through helping low-income homeowners.

Crazy "do not" signs

Crazy “do not” signs (Photo credit: remysharp)

It isn’t that the catalog, notice or blurb decided to show up that day to entice you. It’s been there a while, waiting for you to take the time to see it.

Once you see the signs, it’s up to you to act on them.  Leaving behind the comfort of the life you know for the life you don’t isn’t easy, but whenever I get discouraged or second guess myself, I remind myself to, “Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim” (Nora Ephron) and that “Its better to die on your feet than to live on your knees” (Emiliano Zapata).

Sure, getting out of the passive, mindset that life-is-happening-to-me-like-a-slow-motion-crash is hard, and sometimes it seems that every step you take toward a new future, gets you forcibly dragged back three steps, but if you are ready for a change, look around and notice the signs. The universe is trying to point you in the right direction.

I’d love to hear how life sent you a sign in the comments section.

 

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Fitting Apocalyptic Preparation Into My To-Do List

I’m fascinated with the apocalypse, both the Biblical version and the Hollywood one. My obsession with what will happen if and when we get to the End Time (or the end of time) is well-known to my family and friends, even if they don’t quite get why someone my age acts like a teenage groupie whenever a new apocalyptic book or movie comes out.  To give you an idea of my interest in the subject, last week I read one book about an apocalypse caused by a government experiment gone wrong leading to the creation of a bunch of super vampires called virals; one book about an apocalypse caused by the genetic engineering of food resulting in the creation of a hybrid zombies; and watched a movie where angels descended from heaven to wipe out humanity because of God‘s bitter disappointment in mankind. Nightmares? Yeah, I have a few.

 

Apocalypse?

Apocalypse? (Photo credit: mikelehen)

 

Even so, I get caught up in the whole apocalyptic speculation. If I’m the last one at work at night, I imagine what it would be like to walk outside and find a Stephen King “The Mist” situation or even a “Night of the Comet” scenario where everyone except me has turned to dust.

 

LA NIEBLA (the mist)

LA NIEBLA (the mist) (Photo credit: besos y flores)

 

Or perhaps I will step outside and hear hoofbeats as the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse gallop past (hidden by the mist, of course).

 

Four Horsemen of the Millennial Apocalypse

Four Horsemen of the Millennial Apocalypse (Photo credit: Batai)

 

Bottom line, in all of the scenarios my overworked (and overwrought) mind creates, it is stunningly obstinate in the belief that I will survive. Survive in spite of my lack of ninja skills, firearms, food cache, and available lumber to cover my windows. And candles. I should mention I don’t have enough candles to survive a three-hour blackout let alone the end of the world.

 

Candles

Candles (Photo credit: magnuscanis)

Do any of these shortcomings compel me to act like a Mormon and start stockpiling food or act like a Doomsday Prepper and amass a gun collection? No. It doesn’t. I don’t prepare because, deep down, I don’t believe I can prepare. I’m too busy with the business of day-to-day life to prepare for the possibility of a to-be-determined catastrophe.

The world will end one day. There are any number of possible causes for life as we know it to be permanently derailed: floods, fires, famine, disease, to name a few.  Without the reassurance of knowing how it will end, I’m not sold on the idea I can plan.

Think about it. If the world goes into an Ice Age, one set of survival skills and gear would be necessary. If the world entered a superheated Hot Age, one would need a different skill set and gear. A world devoured by zombies would pose different challenges than a world decimated by vampires. If Gabriel blows his trumpet and God lets all hell break loose, well, no amount of stockpiled guns or food is going to help me with that.

Do you understand my angst?

In the meantime there are so many other things that need preparing for, and many of them are more likely to happen. I need to prepare for my eventual retirement. I need to prepare for work. I need to prepare dinner.  Sometimes just getting through each day is all I have the energy for. Much as I’d like to be more like a Boy or Girl Scout, so much of life springs upon me and I deal with it, unprepared, and it works out okay.

 

I trust the apocalypse will be the same.

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Key West and The Voices in My Head

Old painting from around 2001 - "Voices i...

Old painting from around 2001 – “Voices in my head” (Photo credit: jelene)

 

There was a time when the voices in my head delivered a running commentary on my performance as a human being. Most of the time the consensus was I did a pretty crappy job. Now, the voices weren’t the auditory hallucinations of mental illness nor were they the intercepted signals of aliens being broadcast through my fillings. No, they were my own tortured mind.

 

 

 

What did the voices say? Most of the time they kept up an incessant barrage of all of the things I had or would do wrong on a variety of topics. They were well-informed and knowledgeable about proper social behavior, normal parenting skills, and health and beauty concerns. It was a little like having the entire editorial board of a women’s magazine in my head, constantly pointing out my shortcomings. The voices seemed to enjoy their full-time job as the background chorus of my life.

 

 

 

I maintain there is only so much second guessing one can do, but the voices never tired of it. The comment made at work in anger? The voices would chew that like a juicy morsel of steak, deriving every last meaty bit of satisfaction before letting it go. Going to a conference? A scathing look at my wardrobe, my weight, and my inability to have a “look” occupied the hours it took me to pick out an outfit. Social cues? The voices assumed I had Asperger’s syndrome rendering me unfit to make friends or attend social events. If there was a fault to find, the voices found it.

 

 

 

Surprisingly, I put up with this for a long time. I would have put up with it for my entire life. But then Key West happened.

 

 

 

If you haven’t been to Key West, go. Now. Don’t wait. Stay at the Southernmost Hotel on the Beach. I’d tell you to say I sent you, but they’d only look at you blankly. Go anyway.

 

 

 

Southernmost Hotel in Key West

Southernmost Hotel in Key West (Photo credit: MarkelConnors)

 

Because in Key West, the most amazing thing happened. The voices stopped. One minute they were there, chattering away in the background, the next minute gone. In retrospect, as soon as we got off the plane in Key West they started to quiet. Maybe it was the view from the tarmac.

 

 

 

Key West Airport

Key West Airport (Photo credit: Wikipedia) The first thing I saw in Key West after getting off the plane

 

Or maybe it was the Gay Pride parade, or the frosty drinks, or the drag queen show, or the roosters, or even the sunset. Whatever it was, the voices chilled. Day by day, they had a little less to say.

 

 

 

gay pride chickens frosty drinks gay pride parade itty bitty key west sunset

 

 

 

And then, on our third day there, we went on a snorkeling trip. Imagine being piled onto a boat with a group of strangers and the promise of diving in the cool offshore waters and seeing all variety of marine life. Exciting, right? Even better, on the way back to shore the crew would provide all the beer or wine one could drink. Who wouldn’t enjoy this experience?

 

 

 

My voices, that’s who. Yes, what should I wear that would be appropriate to snorkel while hiding the parts of me that needed hiding? How was I going to see the shark that was sure to attack me when I had to take off my glasses to put on a facemask? How could I breathe through a snorkel when my gag reflex kicked in every time I put the snorkel in my mouth? What if I got separated from the group and was left in the ocean? What if  I couldn’t follow the directions on jumping in and everyone laughed at me?  By the time I got to the boat in my carefully picked out bathing suit/shorts combination with strategic coverup, every scenario on how to die or be humiliated snorkeling had been painstakingly considered and accepted. I walked up the plank as if I was, well, walking the plank. And then we were off.

 

 

 

Glancing around the boat, I noticed a couple animatedly chatting in German. He was tall, dark haired, great looking, and, when he removed his t-shirt, I saw he was incredibly well muscled.  She was short and squat. Her hair was cut indifferently and held back with an elastic band. She wore a shapeless white cover up that contrasted nicely with her sunburnt face. Then she pulled off the cover up.

 

 

 

She wore a one piece cut high on the thighs, low on her cleavage. Her skin had the porcelain whiteness of someone that didn’t get a lot of sun exposure. She had fat rolls. Not to be unkind, but to report the facts,  she had back rolls and side rolls and thick, chunky thighs. Thick, chunky, white thighs.

 

from website c'mon fatso

 

http://cmonfatso.com/2011/06/22/fat-girl-in-a-swimsuit/

 

The voices in my head, coming out of their heat and/or alcohol induced torpor, tried to chime in, but for once, I shut them down. And, without the voices giving their opinion, I thought, why the hell not? Why shouldn’t she relax on a boat in her swimsuit when the temperature’s over 95 degrees. Why shouldn’t she be comfortable in her own skin. Why shouldn’t she enjoy a day on the water with a man who obviously adores her.

 

And with that, the voices in my head disappeared, never to be heard from again. I spent the rest of my time in Key West wearing what I wanted and doing what I wanted. I was finally free. Not only that, but the voices kept gone even after I left Key West and returned home.

I am sure there are all sorts of rational, science based explanations for the transformation I underwent, but I give the credit to Key West. There are sacred places in the world, full of magic and wonder. For me, Key West is one of those places. Some nights I imagine the voices, seven miles off shore under the white sand of the ocean floor, making nasty comments to each other to pass the time while they wait for me to return and retrieve them.

Their wait will be in vain. There’s no room in my head for them any more.

 

 

 

 

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