eat your heart out, hidden valley

Because I have a food website (www.tastebuzz.us) and I am *supposed* to be doing a food blog over there (one of these days!), I really don't want this site to focus on food. But I can't resist sharing some of the interesting mental shifts I've experienced since I began eating only the most healthful (local, organic, seasonal) foods I can sink my teeth into:

1. I really loathe the thought of fast food. I mean, at a visceral level not just an intellectual one. I almost gag now thinking about a Big Mac (I know I might as well be a fascist...).

2. I nostalgically dream about past meals enjoyed, especially delicious ones consumed in restaurants. Their memory conjures ridiculously tantalizing, highly satisfying memories. It's as if my head and tummy are saying, "thanks for the delicious, good food you made me, even though I wasn't thinking about where it came from or how healthy it was."
Examples: Bucky's blackened fish tacos...Pizzuto's authentic red sauce, Seeds organic, grass-fed beef cheeseburger loaded with goodies and served with homemade fries, D'Aquila's--well-- any dish.

3. I have begun to re formulate/find recipes for some of the classic American commercial fare that I formerly enjoyed but have come to dislike greatly.
Examples: ranch dressing, frosting, sugar cookies, mac and cheese.

Here's a recipe I found and then tweaked for homemade ranch dressing (can you say, "No more gloppy, oozy white stuff?").

Back on the Ranch Dressing
2 cloves garlic (use 1 if kids will be consuming)
1/2 t kosher salt
1 cup homemade or prepared mayo
1/3 cup buttermilk (if you don't have it use milk and vinegar to taste)
2 T minced flat-leaf parsley leaves*
2 T minced fresh chives
1 scallion, trimmed and thinly sliced
1 t smoked paprika
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Mash the garlic and salt to a paste with the side of a chef's knife. In a medium bowl, whisk together the garlic, mayo buttermilk, parsley, chives, scallion, vinegar, paprika and pepper to taste. If the sauce is too thick, thin with with a couple T more of buttermilk. Use immediately or store in fridge.

Makes 1 1/3 cups

*if you don't have exact measurements of parsley, chives and scallions or even garlic use what you have on hand. I have substituted basil and savory for the herbs and shallots for the garlic.

Trust me, your chef salad is going to thank you!

yeah, a snow day!

Today's post was going to be a compare/contrast excerpt on two books I recently read about Italy. Don't worry, Italy-philes, I'll get to it later. Today something much more important occupied my time: snow. Yes, it was a snow day! Around here, where it can be drizzly and overcast but not snowy that often, snow days mean either drive around and curse a lot or: play! Since cursing is a habit I am really trying to curb, I chose to play.

Anyway, everyone who has ever had a snow day knows they're all about stolen, fun moments. You are supposed to be working/at school/doing serious stuff. Instead the menu changes to peanut butter toast with hot chocolate. No one cares that your clothes gloves don't exactly match your coat and your boots are hand-me-downs. Or that your nose is running. The world is a clean, pure, insular wonderland waiting to be discovered and enjoyed. It's hard not to feel cozy, even if your fingers get a little cold and your pant legs wet.

I wonder if the joy of a snow day is anything like the joy of heaven. One day you wake up and all around you is perfect, as it should be. You are excited to get out of bed. Neighbors are no longer just normal people (or even enemies), but the best playmates you could want. Business as usual is anything but usual. Or business. Time is special or altogether forgotten. Today is a great day and you want it to last forever.

I hope heaven is like a snow day, minus the runny nose (even though no one cares).

of time, grief, and joy

I never meant not to write here for a whole year. It just happened. The reasons are manifold, but really can be distilled into one: grief. Last February 18, in the late hours of a dark winter night, my father died. Our family had just enjoyed a great celebration of my mom's birthday and my parents' wedding anniversary, some of us had gone dancing, and then we all went to bed. And as soon as I knew it, my mom was shaking me to get up, get up, get up. He's not breathing. But it was too late, my dad was gone as was the celebratory glow of good food, good wine and great conversation we'd experienced just hours before.

After almost a year of feeling like someone hit me in the face, of wanting to go to the mall and scream at strangers, of wanting not to get out of bed (or not get into bed in the first place), I've re-entered the land of the living. I just called a friend--a good friend--after several months of avoiding her calls. I got a second, much needed, job. I am making plans for the future. I'm doing life now, not just wading through it.

People say death changes you--profoundly, indelibly. I hope so. I don't want to be the same person I was before. I want to be stronger, wiser, kinder, happier, closer to God. I don't want to be one who delights in pain and loss--like a sadist or masochist--but I'm not operating under avoidance rules anymore, or at least not as much.

The way I see it, it's only a matter of time until sadness and loss, with their friend, grief, come knocking. So instead of waiting for our own sadness and loss to break down the door, why not prepare--think, discuss, pray--together? In my experience, the only way to get to the joy in the morning is to make it through the long, dark night. And the best way to make it through the night is to wait with friends.

time, trip, trust

Here's what's on my mind today: time, specifically how an immaterial aspect of reality, a "non-thing," can infuence a person so powerfully. Or maybe it's just something I'm going through. I just had an experience that led me to contemplate time, money and, of all things, trusting God. Here's what happened.

I just returned from a delightful trip to Miami, where I had a satisfying visit with friends I had not seen in a long time. I had anticipated the trip for a long time, so when at the start of the trip I experienced a significant flight delay that could have completely derailed my plans, well, you can imagine my great frustration. My original plans were to head out to Miami on a Thursday and back on the following Tuesday; an excursion that was slated to be just the perfect time for my current schedule; longer than a weekend but shorter than a bona fide vacation. It didn't take long for my perfect plans to fizzle, however. Due to techinical problems with my flight I found myself eagerly--and helplessly--awaiting the next available departure. For 10 hours and 25 minutes.

About 45 minutes into the wait, when all the re-routing, reticketing and re-scanning of carry-on bags and potentially hazardous shampoo bottles had occured and I was, again, safe and secure beyond the x-ray machines, dobermans, and uniformed anti-terrorist agents, I considered how I was going to spend both my time and my extravagant $10 consolation prize (meal voucher). The voucher was supposed to cover a meal, but not one that has a name. Due to its having to satiate me for the duration of my 10+ hours stay at the airport, let's call it "blinner." Or "dunchfast." Anyway, if you have ever spent any time at all in the SEATAC mall, uh airport, you know that there are at least 2,486 ways to spend ten bucks because the place caters to people who are in a spending mood. For various reasons they have suspended their usual spending blockers. They're on vacation, on business, or just plain busy, tired, hungry, bored and in need of retail therapy. This is especially true of a person who has unexpectedly found herself stranded between life and Miami, work and vacation.

So spend I did. I found a very soft pullover fleece at a travel store that boasted long-wearing, moisture wicking underwear ("one pair. Sixteen countries. Six weeks." Whaaat?). I decided I needed the sweater because the temp in the airport was sub-zero(ish). Never mind that I was on my way to tropical Miami. It was cold in that airport, darn it! Or, maybe it was my gloomy mood that just made it feel like I had landed at a peace summit in Reykjavik? At any rate, after I had secured needed apparel, I set out to provide sustenance for myself. As I wandered up to a chic seafood bar that offered both lounge seating and snack bar take-out, I knew one thing for sure. The last thing I was going to do was grab a bag of fish and chips and hastily inhale my them while sitting on a hard plastic chair, feet guarding belongings. At this point the pullover purchase had broken the spending barrier; I was feeling generous toward myself and not a little self-pitying. I thoroughly enjoyed my blackened fish tacos and lingered over a couple of cold beverages. By meal's end I had spent my meal voucher about three times over, had spilled salsa on, but had not read one complete page of my book, had talked my cell phone battery down to an anti-surge. The problem was I had only worn down one hour and 30 minutes off the clock.

My stomache now full, I set my mind to making the most of my wait. I was seriously going to get some work done now. I decided to read at least one chapter of Nathaniel Hawthorne's, The Scarlett Letter, the book I was currently researching for my master's thesis, and which I had brought along with the intent of reading by trip's end. I looked around for a place to sit that was as far away as possible from jumbo TV coverage editorializing on gay ex-NBA atheletes, Democratic candidates, or Anna Nicole Smith's deadly drug overdose. Now, normally love to read, so finding a place to sit down with a book would be no ordeal. But since at this point in the day I was supposed to be well into my Miami vacation at this point, was carb-loaded from the meal, and since the book relates to my thesis and symbolizes "work" rather than "vacation" I found myself internally resisting the idea of opening it. So when I passed by a bright, shiny magazine shop with tabloid mags practically yelling my name, I was easily lured.

After 20 minutes I had explored the fascinating depths of Cameron Diaz's jealousy, Nicole Richey's eating disorder(s) and Anna Nicole's penchant for methadone and slim fast shakes. Feeling about 20 IQ points down, I peeled myself away from the magazine shop and decided that sitting at the departure gate would be more conducive to serious reading. Wrong. In avoiding the big-screen media, crying babies and loud speakers, I had chosen the business section. Which is to say, the really-busy-people-talking-loudly-and-making-very-important-deals section. Sitting amid two men and a woman, all three talking loudly on phones to people who-knows-where, while simultanously fiddling with hand-held devices, I felt commerce stress wash over me. Needing consolation, I looked around for a crying baby.

With 6 hours 35 minutes left to go, I was starting to feel circumspect (reading gossip mags and listening to uber-stressed business people will do that I guess). I was experiencing some strange feelings: buyer's remorse over buying a fleece on my way to the tropics, guilt over seeking out the most expensive restaurant in the airport, and disgust that as even while alone in a croud, I could not discipline myself to get to work. Then it hit me. I'm not at work. Sure, I'm still 2,986 aeronautical miles from Miami and stranded in my own personal no-fly zone at gate A9, but like it or not this is my down-time, my mini-vacation. Just because I'm not sipping a cuban coffee, doesn't mean my holiday has not started. Why don't I chill out, stop stressing, and start actively enjoying myself. Could that be what I'm "supposed" to do right now? I wasn't really sure, but that's what I set out to do. I found--of all bizarro and wonderful places--a wine and hors d'oevres bar that sold affordable (sorta) small plates of tasty foods paired with wines. For one hour and 20 minutes I was transported, not by the food or wine, mind you but by the whole experience. If you know me at all, you know that sitting down at a table with loved ones over good food and a glass of wine is my idea of God's earthly blessing. As I sat nibbling and sipping, I talked to a man who loves his job and playing golf in the winter and a woman who travels for business but eagerly checks on her young son as much as possible when she's away. I overheard a table of people--former strangers themselves, it appeared--talking and enjoying themselves. I forgot that I was not where I wanted (with friends in Miami) or at least doing what I was "supposed" to be doing (work), and enjoyed being right there where I was, with acquaintances at the SEATAC Vino Volo. My copy of Hawthorne was on the table--reading material of all kinds being the solo diner's standing date-- but I didn't really read it. And I didn't feel guilty at all.

Later, on my return trip (which was also delayed, but that's a story for another time), I learned that downtime, rest, relaxation, cessation from labor, whatever you call it, has become a rare commodity, at least for Americans. In between Hawthorne chapters--yes, I finally started to read my book!--I skimmed a humorous article in my in-flight magazie about the so-called working vacation (apparently unless you are crazy or masochistic those develop into bona fide vacations). And then I read a business column that contrasted the work/vacation patterns of Europeans and Americans (the latter work way more, make a lot more $, take less vacations, but are less productive on an hourly basis). The column debated the value of a workforce comprised of richer workers over and against rested ones. It made me want to book the next flight to Paris or Milan. Or at least return to Vino Volo for an hour.

I realize that my story may not touch the details of yours. I'm writing this mainly to our youth group, and after all, you are teenagers, and Americans at that, so you probably don't hang out at wine bars in airports (!), or travel alone to Miami to see friends. But I think the relationship I'm describing between work and rest, trust and guilt, is universal. I imagine you can understand that nagging sense that you should be working all of the time--prepping for SATs, studying for AP classes, practicing sports, serving church or community, making money at your job, cleaning your room, etc. I bet you feel guilty when you rest, stop, play, chill, hang. Or if you DON'T feel guilt, there are people in your life who would want to guilt you. That's because our culture drifts us all that way. And if we don't actively resist, we all end up incessantly working, never resting, and forgetting what it's all for in the first place.

What I learned, or at least remembered, by being confronted with delay and disappointment, is that I'm not the CEO of the universe, mine or anyone's. That's terrifying, but okay. Sometimes things are out of control--MY control--and sometimes I feel out of control, too (why did I buy a sweater and eat expensive food? Well, I felt more in control, better about things). Without justifying myself or my motives, I boarded my rescheduled flight with a positive lesson in toe. When it's time to work, work. When it's time to play (even in the neighborhood of gate A9), it's time to play. Sometimes the hardest work is to rest. But when we do and look around, we see good things happen, meet interesting people, and learn about ourselves because it starts to dawn on us: we are not in control and Someone else is. That's terrifying sometimes, but more than okay.