Incense and Peppermints

 There can be the most unlikely and strikingly beautiful friendships formed, if we just step out of our paradigms of what should be.  This is the story of a very small girl, and a very sick woman, and how they healed one another's souls with pure love.   

When Carrie was two, her Auntie came home. She climbed up onto the green scratchy davenport (seriously, who bought those things?), and leaned into this stranger's arm.  The stranger (who had been monikered Auntie), looked down, and said "Hello, baby".  Or at least this is how the story has always gone.  But it doesn't even begin to encompass what happened in the ensuing six years.  This is such a  difficult story to write, you know, because it's mine- I'm the she, the her, the Carrie- and she, the Auntie, isn't hear to tell her part, which means I shall take liberties, and perhaps surmise what she was thinking or feeling or being driven by in some moments, but truly, I can't imagine it was anything BUT the most pure love.  I thought perhaps the story would roll out more easily if I tried to tell it in the third person, but as it turns, I cannot. This is my heart.  My soul.  My wholeness, my brokenness, my amazing experience and immeasurable grief.  This is what it's like to be Mole, and Wilbur, and the Snow Goose, and the recipient of the Jennifer Gift.  It's being a Borrower, stepping into Stuart Little's shoes, finding magic in all things- imagining oneself one of Cicely Mary Barker's incomparable flower faeries.  It's knowing Mother West Wind's Hows and Whys, it's the safety of an imaginary meadow, the cool damp earth on one's feet felt by another.  It's communication that transcends words and space and time, and happens in the ethereal spaces- precious and fleeting, almost imperceptible, save for the feeling of utter content, security, and yes, once again, pure love that remain, like a whisper on the wind.  It's noticing so many tiny details, having someone who knows every crevice, ever fold of your grey matter, and treats it with the gentlest hands clad in only the best silk gloves.  It's Goldfish crackers, and Perrier in slush mugs, and tuna salad with cottage cheese and pineapple on a buttered English muffin, toasted just so. It's the Queen's English, always.  It's that we must have lived in a cottage on the edge of a village in the Cotswolds at the foot of Bredon Hill, once.  It's that we've heard those church bells that we've yet to see.  It's the sound of the oxygen tank, and the song of Chip and Dale, and every episode of Nova, and Art on the Move, and Stationary Ark, and the coolness of her sheets on any summer's evening.  It's my own personal Narnia- that magical place on the other side of the door that leaves everything else behind.  It's Scotch sticky notes on my door almost every morning when I awoke.  Encouragement, wit, Items of Great Interest, and by the way, what do you get when you pour boiling water down a rabbit hole?  Hot, cross bunnies.  It seems as though I may need to take some time to sort the stories into digestible bits for the masses.  It will come....

True Colours

This was the place where I was going to write the epic post about what happened this week.  About how my eldest daughter lost a friend to suicide, and that friend happened to be transgendered.  And I was going to mention that suicide is an epidemic in the young transgendered community in particular.  I was probably going to mention that those suicides aren't likely due to those kids being "confused" as much as society not being equipped to deal with people who don't fit their mold of normal.  I was going to talk about how people, young people, our children, are killing themselves over the fact that we, as adults, are failing at mirroring compassion for the younger generation.  For a minute, let's just pretend that being transgendered is a "phase" of "confusion".  Well, guess what?  Because people are failing at their humanitarianism, we will never know, because that kid felt so ostracised, that they took their own life.  See how that works?  Let's keep pretending, for the sake of the story, that the transgendered, and the homosexuals, and the lesbians, and the pan sexuals, and the queers, and the demis, and the bis (sorry if I'm using terms you aren't familiar with- let's just go with "not straight")  So, moving along, let's just say that all of the "non-straights" are in a period of confusion.  Now imagine this.  We treat everyone with kindness, and compassion. we don't name call.  We don't bully, harass, shout slurs, or put our hands on people.  We say things like "I like your hair that way!" or "wow!  you look better in a dress than I do!".  Or, if it's a struggle, don't say anything at all.  You know what?  If your theory was right, at the end, out pops an emotionally whole and well adjusted straight person.  And, if my theory is right, at the end, out pops and emotionally whole person, period.  See how your theory doesn't have to be wrong, for mine to be right?  Think on that for a bit.  Instead, I had to spend my week trying to keep my kid emotionally whole, and explain to her why this world has to be such a cruel place.  I had to find a way to help her grieve, help her find answers to questions that have no answers, help hr find closure, help her find peace.  Don't even try and blame the kid.  Just... don't.

And then, Orlando.  Before I could even find any of the words to describe the heartache of watching my kid process what happened to her friend.  Orlando.  Fifty souls.  FIFTY SOULS. People's children.  Aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, lovers.  And my heart aches.  Because, as I word vomited onto facebook, it could have been my kid.  It could have been my kid.  Say that out loud until it sinks in.  It could have been your kid, too.  I've been to gay bars, so I guess it could have been me, too.  This isn't politics.  It isn't religion.  We are all human.  By our very name, we should all be humanitarians.  We should be looking after one another- we have become so isolated in a world that is so overconnected that we have lost the most important key to our survival- our interdependance on one another.  We chat, we text, we call, we email. But we don't do life together.  We spend our time glorifying our differences to a point that we are villifying entire groups of people, instead of rejoicing and reveling in them.  Everyone has something to contribute.  Everyone deserves kindness, and hope, and safety.  And within the next 15 years or so, I will be opening the doors on the vault of safety I have been struggling to maintain,  and watching my children spread their wings, quietly fearful that they will be shot down, not figuratively, but literally.

I'm sure there is more to be said, but this is a start for now....

Cyndi Lauper - True Colors Live

You with the sad eyes
Don't be discouraged
Oh I realize
Its hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness inside you
Can make you feel so small

But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful
Like a rainbow

Show me a smile then
Don't be unhappy, can't remember
When I last saw you laughing
If this world makes you crazy
And you've taken all you can bear
You call me up
Because you know I'll be there

And I'll see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful
Like a rainbow

If this world makes you crazy
And you've taken all you can bear
You call me up
Because you know I'll be there

And I'll see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show

Your true colors
True colors
True colors
Shining through

I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful
Like a rainbow

"close your eyes and make a wish..."

Our dearest Dot crossed the rainbow bridge today.  And it sucks.  Big time.  But I have to explain this picture now, it's significance, and what a gift it is on so many levels, now that I have a little more perspective.  This picture was taken the day before we thought we were going to have to make some tough end-of-life decisions for and with Dottie about a month ago.  So, I asked my girlfriend Leah (you can find her at The Kindred Lens) to please come and take a few pictures for me "just in case".  And then we took Dot to the vet, and we were not quite out of options yet, and so I didn't 'think too much about the pictures until yesterday (foreshadowing?).  I asked Leah to send me the "picture of Dottie with the wish on her nose".  If you look closely, what looks to be a tiny tuft of fur on her nose is actually the fluff of a dandelion seed- the "wish".  It had appeared on her nose out of nowhere that day, there wasn't a dandelion to be found anywhere, yet here it was, on her nose, and until Leah looked for the image to send it to me, neither of us realized she had closed her eyes.  And this is why it matters- the next day, she went to the vet, and came home, and RAN (see yesterday's video).  This dog, who couldn't stand when she came to us, was running with our children.  And we were all laughing like fools, and overjoyed to see Our Dot so carefree.  And it turns out that moment wasn't a promise of things to come.  But it was the thing that I wished for the most for her- to know that feeling of freedom and happiness.  And when I thought about today, as she took her last breath in my arms and slipped from this world to the next, was that she used her wish for me.  She wished, in this moment that you see, to give me that gift.  

(this is the original image that Leah took that day)

A Love Letter

Our "Lotsa-Dotsa Potty-Potsa"

My dear, dear Dottie,

I am here because I am trying to hear what you are telling me, what you need, what you want, and how you need me to help.  Are you too tired?  Too sore?  Too done with this world?  Or am I hearing my own fears of what it feels like to lay on your skin and bones frame on a hard floor, because you don't know there is a soft bed inches away?  My own angst of your thin body chilled through in a Michigan winter, despite my efforts to keep you warm?  I know, in my deepest heart, that a month ago, you asked for help.  You were struggling, but not ready to leave.  Now, I don't feel that same assuredness.  Is it fate that when I googled that word, because I'm sure I've used it, but just in case, a picture of a tiny Spaniel puppy popped up?  I just, I don't want to be wrong.  I don't want to be the last person in the list of people who have failed you, and I don't want to give up if you don't.  I am trying to find the balance, or perhaps the difference, between giving up, and helping you call your own game.  Just for the record, I will never give up on you.  You are a warrior soul, through and through.  I am so honoured that you called to me, chose me, and my crazy clan to show you love, and compassion, and acceptance.  I just want to honour you in the way that you need, on your terms, to get you to where you want to be, whether that's here with us for awhile longer, or running free on the other side.  I wonder, that day, a month ago, when we brought you home and you were running, RUNNING through the yard, with that lopsided Dottie grin, was that your gift to me?  Because I said all I ever wanted for you was to know love, and the freedom to just run and be happy?   I took it as a promise from this Universe of better things to come for you, but I wasn't clear on who the promise was to, or what it looked like. In my eyes, it looked like the ease of the lives of the other pups around here, and the ones that came before, carefree living, full bellies, warm beds, and a good rub, but perhaps your past, the life you've already lived, just won't allow that to be the picture that sees you through to the next life.  For you, that promise may look like a family who loves you, who belongs to you, and to whom you will also always belong.  It may look like the promise of no more hurting, no more fear and uncertainty.  I may just need to be secure in the knowledge that we have somehow managed to heal your heart, even if your body can't catch up.  You are loved, our Dot, and forever a part of us.

putting my listening ears on

sometimes, if you're listening, the message is there for the hearing

"Too Close"

Alex Clare

You know I'm not one to break promises,
I don't want to hurt you but I need to breathe.
At the end of it all, you're still my best friend,
But there's something inside that I need to release.
Which way is right, which way is wrong,
How do I say that I need to move on?
You know we're heading separate ways.

And it feels like I am just too close to love you,
There's nothing I can really say.
I can lie no more, I can hide no more,
Got to be true to myself.
And it feels like I am just too close to love you,
So I'll be on my way.

You've given me more than I can return,
Yet there's also much that you deserve.
There's nothing to say, nothing to do.
I've nothing to give,
I must live without you.
You know we're heading separate ways.

And it feels like I am just too close to love you,
There's nothing I can really say.
I can lie no more, I can hide no more,
Got to be true to myself.
And it feels like I am just too close to love you,
So I'll be on my way.

So I'll be on my way.

And it feels like I am just too close to love you,
There's nothing that I can really say.
I can lie no more, I can hide no more,
Got to be true to myself.
And it feels like I am just too close to love you,
So I'll be on my way.

So I'll be on my way.
So I'll be on my way. 

"Secret Separation"

the Fixx

We are passengers in time
Lost in motion, locked together
Day and night, by trick of light
But I must take another journey
We must meet with other names
We must meet with other names

You touched my heart so deeply
You rescued me now free me
Don't watch me cry just see me go
I'll take away the strongest feelings
You will ever know

There will be no more isolation
In our secret separation
You touched my heart so deeply, you rescued me
Now free me

We are passengers in time
Lost in motion, locked together
Day and night, by trick of light
But I must take another journey
We must meet with other names
If you hold me you will hurt me
Be brave

There will be no more isolation
In our secret separation
You touched my heart so deeply, you rescued me
Now free me

We are matching spark and flame
Caught in endless repetition
Life for life we'll be the same
I must leave before you burn me
I am the stranger who deserts you only to love you
In another life

There will be no more isolation
In our secret separation
You touched my heart so deeply, you rescued me
Now free me

I'll bear one precious scar that only you will know
Passengers in time, free me

Shucking peas

Dear Gram,

I miss you such a grist.  I saw a picture of an old woman in a plaid skirt, and it reminded me of that blackwatch plaid one that you had, pleated, and set on the diagonal.  And you used to wear it with a  sweater, and sometimes a scarf, and I remember how it felt on my face when I'd rest my head on your knee and you'd run your fingers through my hair for HOURS.  I remember how your perfectly manicured nails with their white moons felt on my scalp, and the pinch when you'd work the tangles out with your fingertips.  That's the place I want to go to when everything here feels nuts.  I wish you were here, I miss the sound of your voice, and the stories I'd heard a thousand times.  I miss being in your kitchen, and I wish you could be in mine.  And I wonder if you are proud, if I'm doing it right, and what you would say.  What advice would you have?  What more could I learn?  Mostly, I want you to know, the way I know, what a force you are in my life.  How I still strive to live to the standards I set for myself by standing in the shadow of your grace, and your love, and your strength.  How you set an example in everything you did, but not in the way that makes one feel inadequate, but in the way that one feels like their own superhero for coming close.  I hope you saw the goodness in yourself, how your kindness made a forever impression on people's lives.  How from you I learned we are all one- we share feelings, and experiences, and if we can help, we should.  I'd give just almost anything to see you and Papa pull into my drive in a black Chrysler sedan.  Missing him, well, that's a whole thing of its own.  I taught Bre to shuck peas 2 days ago.  And I felt you there, on my porch, smiling at us as we worked, and I know you were there when I was cooking, making the peas and beans and new potatoes come out just right.  And I thank you, because I really needed supper in your kitchen that day.  I know they say you shouldn't look back, but if I don't, I don't seem to know where I'm going....

Semper Fi

So many things to say, and no idea where to start.  I want to write for myself, for my broken heart, and strangely, for the people who say they would like to hear more of my voice.  I want to write for the people who DON'T understand, who are going to believe what they want to believe.  Not because I can change their minds, but because I am entitled to my VOICE.  This is an odd place to be, though, in the middle of these raw emotions, but still somehow wanting to set the record straight.  Who knew that now, I'd be paying such a price for the decisions I made way back then...

Have you ever met someone, and when your eyes locked, you just felt like you'd seen them before?  Like you KNEW them- not their favourite colour or food, but really knew who they were at their core?  Where conversations came easy, and emotions were strong but not really uncomfortable?  And so this is where the full disclosure comes, where I bear my soul in this place that I created for me, and maybe you will see it.  I've had that in my life, more than once, that connection with another living being.  But those bonds, they are so very, very strong.  I should mention, this doesn't belittle any other relationship- it's not better, or more real, it's just... different. 

In 1998 (I think), I was working a desk job, and someone came in for an interview.  I called him by the wrong name, our eyes met, and then we both looked away.  We became friends quickly- conversation was not only easy, but remarkably unnecessary.  There was a familiarity, something neither of us could really explain.  Did you see Avatar?  It was like that kind of awareness, cliche, perhaps, but so much in that movie spoke to me, and it applied here.  But here is the problem- most people don't understand.  They don't want to.  It doesn't "make sense".  Apparently, that kind of kinship and connection just doesn't exist.  Except it does.  It's easy to mistake it for some sort of fanatical romantic love- it's intense, and real, and does resemble in some ways those amazing euphoric early days- but in truth it's much more like a reunion- a finding of something dear and thought lost.  I'll be honest, at the time, I wondered briefly if it was a romantic pull, but in a matter of a short time, it was clear this was something else entirely.

People questioned, over the years.  Hell, we questioned, more than once, but I felt a steadfast knowledge that our destiny this time around wasn't a partnership- not in the traditional sense, anyway.  The timing was always wrong, there was always a wife or a husband, a girlfriend or a fiance, a reminder that we were right when we were supposed to be for each other in this life, and it certainly wasn't in each others' bed.  The mistake I made here was allowing myself to be a secret- it gave fuel to the rumours- the ones I never cared about anyway, because I thought they could never hurt me.  They were someone else's misunderstanding, after all.  I was so very wrong...

16 years went by- a pot of coffee, a full tank of gas, a new pack of Swisher Sweets, dark 'til dawn in a truck on the back roads- 80s ballads or country on the radio and no words needed.  Five spouses, six children, heartache and heartbreak, joy and success.  And then one day, too soon, he was gone from here.  No one last ride, no goodbye, in a blink.  And it hurt to my core.  It felt like someone took my heart in their hands and squeezed, and then it felt like a gasp of air when they let go.  It was waves of hurt, and sadness, and anger, and disbelief, of wanted answers that would never come.  And then I realized, that after all these years, I bore a scarlet letter.  Not for my own infidelity, nor his, but for the perception of others- for those who didn't understand, who never would.  The glares and the gazes, the questioning looks and questions themselves.  And this was the part of the grief that I wasn't prepared for at all,  The defense of this amazing gift- this friendship that transcended time, space, lifetimes, it was somehow now dirty.  It was an "affair".  There were "letters"- and I'm sure there were, and I'm sure they spoke of love, and future, and our place for one another.  But they never came to pass.  They were all just part of our journey.  I have been labelled a home wrecker- an intentionally selfish and hurtful human being- and I feel nothing could be further from the truth.  So I came here, to my safe place- to confess.  I loved him, perhaps more than people thought acceptable (I can't bring myself to say "more than I should have"), but anyone who has felt love at all knows that the depth isn't something you choose, it's something that IS.  And so I loved, with the depth, and the intensity, and the openness that I think love itself deserves.  And as much as this whole thing makes me want to shut it all down, to paper the windows to my soul, and lock the door tightly, I won't.  I will wear my hurt, and I will never apologise.

"Let Love Speak Up Itself"

The Beautiful South

Don't whisper love and dream of wedding bells
Don't do all the talking, let love speak up itself
Let love speak up itself

So when you feel a little tatty and unhappy with your face
Let it breathe into us and put you back in place
Let it breathe, let it breathe
From the day it came into us till the day it wants to leave
For it will, it will go
And it will not say goodbye just like it didn't say hello
There will not be a send-off, a funeral or mass
Just a pathetic little vodka from a dirty little glass
'To the world's greatest mum
From the oldest swinger in town'

Let love speak up itself
Let love speak up itself
Let it rise up in the morning and take us for that walk
Let it do the talking when we're too tired to talk
When we're too tired to talk

And when you feel unhappy that I'm not the one I was
Let love rot inside and let love palm you off
Let it rot, let it rot
Let it take your feelings and tie them in a knot
In a knot, in a knot
Let it take your feelings and tie them in a knot
Hang them from a cleaver and say 'Look what we've got
A man and a woman and guess what they forgot'
'To the world's greatest mum
From the oldest swinger in town'

Let love speak up itself

The double entendre

This story makes me smile every time I think of it.

When I was in high school, about 3 million years ago, there was this band called Rhythm Corps.  And they had a song called Common Ground.  And I liked it, so I wrote it down, so that the next time I went to Harmony House, I could see if they had the cassingle (kids: it was like a cd with one song on it that you could rewind with a bic crystal pen).  I left said piece of paper on my dresser.  Right out in the open.  No big deal.  Unless you're a teenager, with a piece of paper on your dresser that says Rhythm Corps, Common Ground.  And there's a form of birth control called the Rhythm Method, and the local crisis pregnancy center is called Common Ground.  And your Gram sees the piece of paper, and about has a coronary, but doesn't want to say anything, because she doesn't want you to feel as though your privacy is being invaded.  Even though the paper was right out in the open.  That is some serious restraint, on her part.  And trust.  And respect.  And, when she finally said something, we had a very long laugh over it.  For about 20 years.

This was also about the time she started telling me that the best form of birth control was holding an aspirin between my knees.  She told me that for about 20 years, too.

To see the awesomeness of late 80s hair (and a chicken?!)  click below:

Rhythm Corps - Common Ground
(Seriously, why is there a chicken in this video???)


Can we meet on common ground
Are our views so far apart
That there's no room to be found

Can we speak without a sound
Of a world gone quite insane
Can we start settling down

I'll not play the scene
Where the threats start flying
You'll not have to scream
Cause we're not that stupid

Can we meet on common ground

Can we meet on common ground
Are your walls all brick and stone
And far from tumbling down

Can we seat ourselves around
A table for awhile and talk
Like friends we have found

Well, all that's plain to see
While the brats start blighing
You'll not have to dream
Of a peaceful oneday

Can we meet on common ground
Tell me, tell me, tell me
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa

Can we meet on common ground
Are our views so far apart
That there's no room to be found

Can we speak without a sound
Of a world gone quite insane
Can we start settling down, yeah

I'll not play the scene
Where the threats start flying
You'll not have to scream
Cause we're not that stupid

Whoa, can we meet on common ground
Can we meet on common ground
Can we meet on common ground
Tell me, can we meet on common ground 

The Demons Within

No one can possibly know what it's like to be inside these walls, inside this skin when the demon inside of him takes over,  When he rants, and raves, and screams, and slings hateful, hurtful words, and then falls in a  sobbing heap in my lap asking for forgiveness.

"He seems so...normal" they say, those who don't know, who don't understand that he's no less "NORMAL" than any of us, his struggles are just different than many the rest of us face, because he struggles every minute of every day to fit into these paradigms that have been set of "acceptable", so that heads won't turn, and eyes won't roll, so that people won't huff, and stare.

And so here I sit, with this broken heart as he tells me that I don't love him, and I'm the worst mother ever, that I never liked him, and I don't even want him, and I long to scream back "YOU ARE WRONG!"  and I want to allow my hurt to fall in on itself, and take me right along with it, like a roly-poly curling itself tight into a ball, showing the world nothing but it's protective shell and holding the hurt and fear it feels inside itself.  I wish nothing more than that when he finally comes to me with words of apology and regret, and I hold him tight and stroke his flaxen hair, and tell him that it all ok, that it was ok, that it didn't hurt, that it didn't break my heart just a little each and every time.

I should be grateful, I know, that he "seems normal", and more than anything, that I am the safe place where he can let it all go, I just wish it didn't come with such a toll....

Getting tarred with the same brush

Today, I had an epiphany, of sorts.  It's been coming on awhile, really, this slow arrival of consciousness.  When I was young, and Gram was worried about with whom I was spending my time, she would say "Carrie Anne, don't get tarred with the same brush".  Let me explain.  Back in the days of tarring and feathering, if you were standing too close to the offender, you, too, would end up with tar and feathers on you. 

Lately, I've been reflecting very much on the amazing people in my life.  I wonder how I got so lucky, to be surrounded by these giving, smart, gracious souls.  I think about the breadth of time that these friendships cover, some since I was just five, some a few weeks or months new.  Each one has a generosity of spirit, a flair for life, a respect for living things, and a sense of humour.  These are the people who I can laugh with, and cry with, the people whose fear I can feel, and whose hurt I would take away in an instant if I had the power.  They are the moments that make up this crazy wonderful life that I'm living.  And today, when I was wondering how I got so lucky, it dawned on me that they just might feel lucky to have me, too.  And so, once again, Gram was right.  This is my tribe. 

(courtesy of Google images, The Hives)

Waste not, want not

Gram was raised during the Depression.  A lot of great stuff came from this, like neat ways to reuse stuff, before it was cool and called "upcycling".  But, some of it just made sense, and laid the foundation for greater things later on.  Like soup.

When you roast a chicken for supper, eat what you will that night, strip any other meat you'll eat off the bones (perhaps a chicken salad, or tetrizzini?), and put the carcass, skin, and remaining meat into a zipper-style freezer bag or one of those ice-cream buckets from that awful sherbet with the handle, or a tupper-ware like container (you get the idea) in the freezer.  When you peel or trim carrots, onions, celery, or any other veggie, throw the trimming in the bucket with the bones.  When the vessel is full, turn it out into a stock pot, add water, salt, a few allspice, copious amounts of garlic, and the lid.  Bring to a boil, and reduce to a simmer.  Gram simmered her soup for a day or two, on low, on the stove, on the back burner.  So, that's how I do it.  When it's done, strain it through a colander, portion it out in freezer safe containers, and there you go- no more broth in a box.  Oh, and feel free to add more onions, or celery or the like to the stock if you think it needs it, but when you're done, strain all of those veggies out.  At this point, you've cooked all the nutritive value out of them, anyhow.  Provided you used only bones, and not meat, you could grind everything and put it in your compost pile if you have one... (I've been known to give the meat scraps to the dogs).

Oh!  And if you want just a little stock for thinning gravies and such, fill a muffin tin with stock, then pop it in the freezer.  When it's all frozen, run warm water over the tin, pop out the "pucks" of stock, and store them in a zipper freezer bag or plastic container.

By the way, here's the recipe for the best roast chicken ever.

Gram's Roast Chicken
an iron skillet large enough to hold the chicken
a chicken, the best quality you can afford- and keep in mind you're getting 2-3 meals at least out of this bird, so even if you're paying $15 for an organic roaster, you're still doing ok
garlic, about 4 cloves (or to taste)- preferably organic and fresh
a yellow or white onion- preferably organic
a lemon- preferably organic, if not, well washed

a coupla tablespoons of cornstarch

preheat the oven to 450F
lightly oil the pan with olive oil
Rinse the chicken and place it breast up in the skillet
cut the onion and lemon in half
peel the garlic and
squeeze the juice for half of the lemon over the chicken, and shove the lemon inside the chicken, followed by half the onion
flip the chicken over, breast side down
squeeze the other half of the lemon over the back of the chicken
shove the other half of the lemon inside the chicken, followed by the other half an onion
scatter the garlic around

shove the whole thing in the over at 450F for about 15 minutes to seal the skin
after 15 minutes, add a little water to the pan, and turn the heat down to 350
cook for about 15 minutes a pound, until the temp measures 165F on a meat thermometer
pull the chicken out, put it on a platter to rest, and put the pan on the stovetop on medium heat
add a cup of water or so and perhaps a little wine, some salt and pepper, and use a whisk or fork to deglaze the pan
mix the cornstarch in a  few ounces of cool water, and add in
just keep stirring

while the gravy is thickening, you can cut up the chicken
dump any leftover juices into the gravy
sing or hum
have a glass of wine

we always have this with smashed potatoes, and green beans

Every potato is a decision

This last Christmas, my sister in law, Peach, made me the most wonderful art.  It said:

  

 

 On the back, it said: 

"Every potato is a decision.  What does that even mean?  I think it means that 

sometimes grandmothers say things that make sense to them, and even 

make sense to us for fleeting moments but in the end the meaning is meant

to be mercurial.  When you look at this I hope you think of the generations

of our family and how it has changed and where it will go in the future.

Because she's right.  Every potato is a decision."

Ok, I'll admit, I had to look up mercurial.  Don't bother, I'll give it to you, courtesy of Google.

mer·cu·ri·al  

/mərˌkyo͝orēəl/

Adjective

(of a person) Subject to sudden or unpredictable changes.

Now that that's out of the way, here's the story.  When Papa was in Marine boot camp, there was another soldier who couldn't make a decision to save his soul.  Well, this isn't a fabulous trait to have in a combat situation, where decisions need to be split second and right.  So, the CO put him on KP duty, sorting the bushels and bushels of potatoes.  When he went to check on the young man, he was in a state of despair sitting on a chair in the kitchen, surrounded by potatoes.  When the CO asked what was wrong, the woebegone fellow wailed "Every potato is a decision".

This story seemed to come up every time there was a big decision to be made.  And at the time, it seemed to make sense.  Though, out of context, there almost seems to be no point, so I think Peach was spot on with the mercurial descriptor- it means what it needs to mean when it needs to mean it.

This seems like an excellent place to share Gram's potato salad recipe

Potatoes- organic russet seem to work the best, I estimate about half a pound of potatoes per person, because everyone eats a lot of this
Onions- organic, sweet, like vidalia, I'd guess one medium onion to 2 pounds of potatoes
Celery- organic, I guess about one medium rib per 2 pounds of potatoes
Hard boiled eggs- locally farm-raised if possible (have I mentioned checking out your local farmers' market?) one medium egg per pound of potatoes.  Even if you don't like eggs, try it this way, first!
Mayo
Yellow mustard
Salt
Black pepper

A large stainless steel mixing bowl, and I mean BIG (I guess glass would work, too.  I'm just going with what Gram had in her kitchen)
A medium size stainless mixing bowl
A large pot for Boiling the potatoes
A large colander for draining the potatoes
A paring knife, and a cutting board
A grater
A glass measuring cup
A spatula

In the measuring cup, mix some mayo and mustard, until it's about the colour of a buttercup.
For reference, that would be like this:

 (thanks, Google Images)

Add salt and pepper to taste

And maybe a touch of vinegar, probably cider, if you have it and want to 

I'd say you want to end up with about half a cup for a couple to few pounds of potatoes.  You can always make more.

Peel and cube the potatoes (or don't peel them.  Gram did, but I like the skins.  Or, you can compromise and peel stripes).  When I say cube, I mean 1/4" cubes.  It makes a difference.  It does.  Put them in plenty of water as you cube them to keep them from turning brown, and to release a bit of the starch..  I just fill the pot about half way with cool water, and use that.  When all of the potatoes are cubed, pour off the water and add new, and then put them on the stove to boil.  Enough water to cover the potatoes to let them move a bit, and a cover.  Here's a Gram tip- root vegetables need to be covered when being boiled,  Stuff that grows above ground does not.  Don't ask why.  It's just so.  Once the water gets going, keep a close eye, if the potatoes get too soft, they will all go to mush.  

While the potatoes are cooking, finely dice the onion and celery, and put it in the medium bowl.  You can also peel the eggs, and grate them over the celery and onion.  If you're not an egg-lover, use a fine grater.

Once the potatoes are JUST fork tender, drain them, quickly rinse them with cold water to stall the cooking process, and then dump them in the large mixing bowl.  Add the celery/onion/egg, and the dressing.  Mix well with the spatula.  If it looks like it needs more dressing, make some more.  This is not vegan, or paleo, or low carb.  HEY!  It is gluten free.  And damn good.  Especially when still slightly warm.  I'll be honest, I can't remember what else we ever had on potato salad night.  I guess burgers might be a good idea.  Or, just potato salad.  Anyhow, make extra, because you'll want more for tomorrow.

Wanting memories...

I don't know what the appropriate Mother's Day tribute is to this amazing woman.  I could wish for a chance to tell her how grateful I am, how every day, I hear her lessons in my mind, hear her words coming out of my mouth, feel her life-force in my veins, and her love so deeply in my soul.  I could hope to tell her that the sound of birds, the smell of a maple blossom, the warmth of a kitchen feel like her arms around me, and her voice in my ear whispering, "I'm still here".  I could tell her that the miss is visceral, but so is the presence, and I am simultaneously sad and overjoyed.  I could say thank you.  I could say "I love you".  I could say "I'm sorry I was a teenager".  I could say "please, just one more day in your kitchen".  Those are things I could have done.  But could have dones, and could have beens are just regrets.  So instead, I will tell my children that the sound of birds in the spring, and the smell of maple blossoms, and a warm kitchen remind me of my Gram.  I will tell them how the new hope of Spring smells and feels, and share it with them.  I will teach my children her lessons, "with one hand we wash the other", "every potato is a decision", "don't get tarred with the same brush", and "no one has dominion over your mind".  I will teach them to be fair, and to consider others as well as themselves.  To live a life of kindness, and wonder in all things.  To treat yourself, and everyone else with respect.  To be ladies, and gentlemen.  To never date someone not worthy of being married to you.  I will teach them to be generous, because you never know when you will need the kindness of someone else.  I will teach them about kiss-me-quicks (those dips in the road that make your heart skip a beat), and how you can suck the sweet nectar out of a purple vinca blossom.  I will teach them to respect nature, and everything the earth gives us.  I will tell them stories about being in her kitchen, and cooking at her side, and how "we learn to do by doing".  I will teach my kids to sew, and to mend, and "as ye sew, so shall ye rip".  I will teach my children that I am with them ALWAYS, and they are loved WITHOUT condition.  I will tell my children "thank you", and "I love you", and "I'm sorry".  I will give my children one more day.  So that one day, when I look back, not only will I have paid homage to a beautiful soul, I will hopefully have given that same gift to my children, and many, many years from now, they will hear my whisper in the wind, and my heartbeat in the raindrops, and they, too, will know.

Sweet Honey in the Rock - Wanting Memories (click)

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world
Through my own eyes
I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world
Through my own eyes

You used to rock me in the cradle of your arms
You said you'd hold me til the pains of life were gone
You said you'd comfort me in times like these
and now I need you
Now I need you
And you are gone

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world
Through my own eyes
Since you've gone and left me
There's been so little beauty
But I know I saw it clearly through your eyes

Now the world outside is such a cold and bitter place
Here inside I have few things that will console
And when I try to hear your voice above the storms of life
Then I remember
all the things that I was told

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world
Through my own eyes
I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world
Through my own eyes

I think on the things that made me feel so wonderful when I was young
I think on the things that made me laugh
made me dance
made me sing
I think on the things that made me grow into a being full of pride
I think on these things
For they are true

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world
Through my own eyes
I thought that you were gone
But now I know you're with me
You are the voice that whispers all I need to hear

I know a please, a thank you, and a smile will take me far
I know that I am you and you are me and we are one
I know that who I am is numbered in each grain of sand
I know that I've been blessed
Again
and over again

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world
Through my own eyes
I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world
Through my own eyes

Snapping Beans

I remember sitting in Gram's kitchen, while she sat on the ladder, snapping beans.  The "ladder", really wasn't a ladder at all, well, not a ladder proper.  It was one of those kitchen chairs where the seat flips up, and there's a step ladder underneath.  But, anyone who ever spent any amount of time in Gram's kitchen knew exactly what the ladder was.  And she'd snap beans, first the ends into a stainless steel bowl, and then each bean, into one inch pieces, into the old aluminum colander.  It seemed to me that the bean snapping often happened early in the day- enough light through the windows that the lights in the kitchen were off, but still early enough the the sun hadn't crossed the roof to bathe the room in dusty sunlight.  There always seemed to be so.many.beans.  And it was just the three of us at supper, she, Papa, and I.  The colander was full, even with the number of beans I'd steal, and munch on while we chatted.  I don't remember the conversations, not in detail, but they were easy, and comfortable, not like old slippers, because they never felt worn, but comforting, and familiar, yet still fresh- like biting into your favourite apple in the fall- crisp and new, but known and welcome.

There are so many things about that kitchen I wish my own children would have know- the gold loop carpet, and light green counter tops.  The avocado appliances, and warm maple cabinets.  The wooden table, with 3 chairs and a ladder.  The way it smelled, from morning 'til night, the way it FELT.  It really was the life force of that big old house.  Or maybe it wasn't the room at all, but the woman in it.

Fresh Green Beans
2# or so fresh green beans, whole, organic of possible (have you looked to see if you have a local farmers' market?)
a stainless steel bowl
a metal colander
a pot large enough to hold the colander over about 2" of simmering water
a person, with whom to chat, or not
a problem to solve, or not
a child or two, to snitch beans, or not

snap the ends off the beans, and put them into a small stainless steel bowl (compost, chicken food, or, save in a zippered freezer storage bag for making soup stock)
snap the beans into 1" pieces over the colander
rinse
place the colander over a pot with a few inches of water in the bottom
bring the water to a boil, toss the beans over in the colander with a large metal spoon a few times until they are vibrant green
remove from heat and serve (we always ate them plain, but you could add butter, or olive oil if desired)