I live in a stunningly beautiful place. Surrounded by madrones, manzanitas, and vineyards, the property on which I am lucky enough to live also affords me glorious views of the oak-studded California hills, a sometimes-rushing-sometimes-dry creek and, particularly spectacular at the moment, three dogwood trees covered in ivory, four-petalled blooms.
In the mornings I walk down the road, past lizards sunning themselves, to the vegetable garden. Here, the farmer’s constancy is aided by the alluvial soil and everything grows brazenly, from the springtime favas and rhubarb to the summer’s sweet corn and tomatoes. In the afternoons, when I take the dogs out gopher hunting (they catch nothing but definitely enjoy the dig), quails traverse the road unsteadily, like besotted dowagers in party hats. Driving home on a moonless night I must be attentive to the jackrabbit zigzagging across the road; the foxes are faster so I only catch a glimpse of a bushy tail being sucked into the brush. Occasionally, a pointy-eared bobcat lopes across the driveway. Frogs sing me to sleep and coyotes disturb that sleep with high-pitched cries no different from the ululating wails of women in grief.
As the determinedly hot days give way to unhurried breezy nights, the uncluttered, certain sky becomes a layering of Braille on an indigo page. It is easy to breathe deeply here, to find one’s angle of repose. But as much as the beauty of this place brings me a contemplative stillness and unquantifiable gratitude, I am restless.
I remember this feeling from many years ago. I was living in another rural, wonderfully beautiful place: the Pocumtuck Valley in western Massachusetts. Farmland, rolling hills, a river, plus the New England seasons. After two years living there, I had to leave.
Now, as I did then, I realize that when I live so close to nature, I am overwhelmed. As I should be: Nature is profound in its beauty, power, mystery. Here I have fallen into an intoxicated stupor of submission. It is exactly what the poet Rumi writes about: that drunken love one experiences upon meeting G-d. All there is for me to do is luxuriate in this beauty. And so, prostrate before Nature’s magnificence, I do nothing. I feel too small, too insignificant. What can I possibly do to contribute to THIS?
Knowing my smallness in all of this makes me ready to leave Eden. But not out of a sense of inferiority, rather out of an understanding. Yes, in the grandness of Nature I am small. Just as a single jackrabbit or oak tree or creek is. But small and solo don't mean insignificant.
I don’t know that I will ever live in a place as beautiful as this one again, but I have been given an inestimable gift to have lived here for six months. I have been embraced by Nature--indeed by G-d--and shown the grandeur of this world to which I am not merely a witness but a bonded actor. And now strengthened by that embrace, I must go do my part.
(Note: Blog title from Wordsworth's poem "A Few Lines Written Above Tintern Abbey")
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails (or the Diagnosis, Part I)
Yes, I have eaten two of the three. I have eaten an entire banquet made from snake in Hong Kong--I particularly enjoyed the stir-fried snake with chrysanthemum but the rest of the dishes didn’t do that much for me (then again neither does chicken). I do enjoy snails, though, to be honest, most snails are like nuggets of dark brown, rubbery tofu so, as with tofu, it’s really all about the sauce. And, at least when the snails are prepared in the West, the sauce usually involves butter. I have not and will not ever knowingly eat dog, though a roast dog seller on QingPingGaai in Guangzhou, China once tried to convince me otherwise. While I remained steadfast in my conviction not to eat it, I could not stand fast at his stall and so hightailed it out of there (you may disregard the pun). At any rate, the title refers to something I have been missing. Not in my diet but in my life.
I knew that something was amiss was when I began to experience food ennui. Last night, I told a friend I really didn’t care what I had for dinner and she looked at me--the poster child for “Live to Eat!”—in alarm. I’ve been searching for the cause of my dining indifference and have come to the conclusion that my life is imbalanced.
I am a great believer in the Tao; I know that too much or too little of something disrupts life’s harmony.* Coming in the “too little” category is time spent in the “Bro-zone;” that is: I am missing boy energy.
Okay, this seems to make little sense. I am a forty-something woman. I have many, many close women friends. I went to a women’s college. I read Sisterhood is Powerful and In a Different Voice several times. I hate the oppression of patriarchy and the violence it has bred. I don’t abide bad table manners, “Dutch ovens,” or contests that involve distance urination. And, having been the dorm mother to 40 high school boys at an East Coast boarding school, I think boys smell bad. Or at least their rooms do, especially if their sweaty hockey uniforms are left drying on the radiators. Eeewww.
In spite of all that, having spent a good deal of the last 25 years around boys and adult males who can easily access their “boy-ness,” I realize that whether you’re a boy, an adult male, or a female, you can experience a lot of positive energy in the “Bro-zone.”
Without benefit of a sociology degree, extensive reading into evolutionary biology, or special attention paid to post-modern gender theory, here’s my highly un-nuanced, overly generalized take on what’s good about boys.
• Their desire to dog-pile, like puppies, whether on a grass field or in the back of a taxi-cab: it’s rambunctious, intimate, messy and someone usually gets hurt but doesn’t complain.
• That they can be picky without being fussy: that is, boys seem to be clear about their wants/needs and come to resolution quickly about how to respond when they aren’t.
• That they have a less angst-ridden relationship with their bodies than females do; they have little day-to-day concern with their bodies.
• That they trust their senses.
• That they like jokes--the practical, the scatological and the punny--and laugh with ease.
• That they form their bonds through doing things and so their memories and loyalties are etched deeply, right down to the cell-level.
• That they are curious and open to possibility (i.e. they're risk takers).
• That they can trust easily (and can be almost irrevocably hurt when betrayed by someone to whom they have given their loyalty).
• That they can stand alongside; they might not always know what to say or do but they will stay in the zone so as not to leave the person alone and unprotected.
• That they don't run the Social Communication De-coder at all times; a cigar can just be a cigar. (Okay, that was a bad example as phallic reference runs high in the bro-zone; the point is, boys can take a comment as it is said, unless it even remotely references anatomy or sex.)
• That they give their friends a lot of room to mess up, to be weird, to be themselves.
In short, at its best, the bro-zone is physical, fun, goofy, less verbal, straight-forward, loyal, protective, less focused on analysis and more on being & doing. I need more of that in my life. You?
*(Caveat: butter, cream, pork and good bourbon are excluded from the “too much” category; any amount of these is the perfect amount.)
I knew that something was amiss was when I began to experience food ennui. Last night, I told a friend I really didn’t care what I had for dinner and she looked at me--the poster child for “Live to Eat!”—in alarm. I’ve been searching for the cause of my dining indifference and have come to the conclusion that my life is imbalanced.
I am a great believer in the Tao; I know that too much or too little of something disrupts life’s harmony.* Coming in the “too little” category is time spent in the “Bro-zone;” that is: I am missing boy energy.
Okay, this seems to make little sense. I am a forty-something woman. I have many, many close women friends. I went to a women’s college. I read Sisterhood is Powerful and In a Different Voice several times. I hate the oppression of patriarchy and the violence it has bred. I don’t abide bad table manners, “Dutch ovens,” or contests that involve distance urination. And, having been the dorm mother to 40 high school boys at an East Coast boarding school, I think boys smell bad. Or at least their rooms do, especially if their sweaty hockey uniforms are left drying on the radiators. Eeewww.
In spite of all that, having spent a good deal of the last 25 years around boys and adult males who can easily access their “boy-ness,” I realize that whether you’re a boy, an adult male, or a female, you can experience a lot of positive energy in the “Bro-zone.”
Without benefit of a sociology degree, extensive reading into evolutionary biology, or special attention paid to post-modern gender theory, here’s my highly un-nuanced, overly generalized take on what’s good about boys.
• Their desire to dog-pile, like puppies, whether on a grass field or in the back of a taxi-cab: it’s rambunctious, intimate, messy and someone usually gets hurt but doesn’t complain.
• That they can be picky without being fussy: that is, boys seem to be clear about their wants/needs and come to resolution quickly about how to respond when they aren’t.
• That they have a less angst-ridden relationship with their bodies than females do; they have little day-to-day concern with their bodies.
• That they trust their senses.
• That they like jokes--the practical, the scatological and the punny--and laugh with ease.
• That they form their bonds through doing things and so their memories and loyalties are etched deeply, right down to the cell-level.
• That they are curious and open to possibility (i.e. they're risk takers).
• That they can trust easily (and can be almost irrevocably hurt when betrayed by someone to whom they have given their loyalty).
• That they can stand alongside; they might not always know what to say or do but they will stay in the zone so as not to leave the person alone and unprotected.
• That they don't run the Social Communication De-coder at all times; a cigar can just be a cigar. (Okay, that was a bad example as phallic reference runs high in the bro-zone; the point is, boys can take a comment as it is said, unless it even remotely references anatomy or sex.)
• That they give their friends a lot of room to mess up, to be weird, to be themselves.
In short, at its best, the bro-zone is physical, fun, goofy, less verbal, straight-forward, loyal, protective, less focused on analysis and more on being & doing. I need more of that in my life. You?
*(Caveat: butter, cream, pork and good bourbon are excluded from the “too much” category; any amount of these is the perfect amount.)
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Canary Meet Coalmine
It doesn’t take much to get me excited. Mere mention of pork in some form—bacon, trotter, ham—or a runny French cheese or a seared rib eye makes my eyes sparkle in joyful anticipation. I am ALWAYS thinking of what delights the next opportunity to cook and to eat will bring. Every meal represents creativity, pleasure, choice.
But lately…something is amiss. I feel as if I am stranded on a barren shore, with no culinary wind to roust my sails and set me a-sea again. So much so that even a luscious ramekin of rhubarb custard the other night could not float my boat. I had lunch today without once thinking of all the options--pupusas? ceviche?burger? I came home and ate whatever was on the counter. (Some pretzels, a handful of almonds, and a half an avocado.) My palate lethargy signals "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" My palate, my love of food is my compass. When my palate fatigues, it means I’m not on true north.
I began to wonder where I had gotten off tack. Perhaps I have been neglecting my other senses. Those of us who love food are usually sensualists. We feast not only on taste but also on:
smells—a bouquet of freshly cut lilacs or the rich earth newly plowed;
sights-- the sunlight playing hide and seek among the oaks;
sounds--the caress of Alan Rickman’s voice; and
touch--a cashmere sweater holding you close (or, even better, a cute man in a cashmere sweater holding you close).
So I did a check of my sensory world to determine if my palate was in a funk because another sense was being under-utilized. You know: sometimes when part of the system goes down, the whole thing gets affected. I had to conclude, well, no, my sensory life is pretty dang rich.
More diagnosis is needed. I mean, a girl without her pork joy is a lost girl indeed.
But lately…something is amiss. I feel as if I am stranded on a barren shore, with no culinary wind to roust my sails and set me a-sea again. So much so that even a luscious ramekin of rhubarb custard the other night could not float my boat. I had lunch today without once thinking of all the options--pupusas? ceviche?burger? I came home and ate whatever was on the counter. (Some pretzels, a handful of almonds, and a half an avocado.) My palate lethargy signals "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" My palate, my love of food is my compass. When my palate fatigues, it means I’m not on true north.
I began to wonder where I had gotten off tack. Perhaps I have been neglecting my other senses. Those of us who love food are usually sensualists. We feast not only on taste but also on:
smells—a bouquet of freshly cut lilacs or the rich earth newly plowed;
sights-- the sunlight playing hide and seek among the oaks;
sounds--the caress of Alan Rickman’s voice; and
touch--a cashmere sweater holding you close (or, even better, a cute man in a cashmere sweater holding you close).
So I did a check of my sensory world to determine if my palate was in a funk because another sense was being under-utilized. You know: sometimes when part of the system goes down, the whole thing gets affected. I had to conclude, well, no, my sensory life is pretty dang rich.
More diagnosis is needed. I mean, a girl without her pork joy is a lost girl indeed.
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