Southern Oregon Soul Food

What is Southern Oregon Soul Food?
It's an earthy mix of vegetative extravagance—if there is such a thing—and carnivore indulgence.  It's a super savory blend of summer's preserved harvest mixed with especially dear winter and spring garden gifts.
In summer, it's a shopping trip to the garden with a will to work with whatever is ripe and ready.  It's a flair to dispense with recipes and rely on your culinary instincts to throw together whatever you have on hand to create something fabulous.
Here in Southern Oregon we're blessed with mild weather that encourages gardening nine months of the year. Our landscape is hill and vale, and those of us in the valleys are entrusted with rich bottom land begging to be cultivated. Not that the land gives itself up to easy harvests; a lot of work goes into every tomato and pepper. But for half a year's effort, there's a full year's eating pleasure. Want more?

Spring, for sure

 The weather has been generally rotten for the past couple weeks.
The only way I know for sure it's spring is that summer crops are bursting forth in the solarium.

I cheated and bought one cherry tomato plant at the Grants Pass Growers' Market.
It already has blossoms!

Tomatoes, peppers, eggplants soon to be potted.

Outside, overwintered lettuce, spinach and chard are pumping out the vites in the cold frame.
We take for granted that we'll have fresh greens from the garden or cold frame  nine months of the year.
I'm not sure how ordinary that is.

Creamed kale with dried tomatoes. Two, maybe three cheers!

It's April. That must mean it's time for kale! Oops. Looking back on my recipe posts, it looks like just about any time is kale time in Southern Oregon. And aren't we lucky?! I just happen to love kale, especially over-wintered kale that is crispy, crunchy, sweet in salads and delicious in soups etc. Then, of course, there's creamed kale with dried tomatoes. (I would say "sun dried" tomatoes, as just about any dried tomato is named thus. However, these tomatoes were sun-ripened, then slapped into the food dehydrator. So their summer-sun induced sweetness is preserved, but technically, they are air and heat dried.) Whatever. If you got em, use em in just about any way—and with kale, garlic, and heavy cream they're especially divine. Here's a guide.....not exactly a recipe, to creamed kale with dried tomatoes. If you cook at all like I do, guides work better than half a cup of this, a quarter cup of that, and two teaspoons of butter. (You always need more butter!)

Three different kinds of kale, left to right: red ursa, winter red, improved dwarf Siberian.

So here's how, loosely:
Ingredients:
1 big bunch of fresh kale ( I used all that was in the basket above.)
2-3 handfuls of dried tomatoes, chopped or broken
2-4 cloves chopped garlic
Veggie or chicken broth as needed to steam
Olive oil and/or butter as needed (or desired)
Whipping cream, about a quarter cup (Or half and half mixed with sour cream. Why skimp?)
Salt and pepper to taste
Directions:  The pictured kale is fresh from the garden, but kale is readily available in large bunches at most markets. Strip the leaves from the center stem and chop coarsely. Some people save the stems and use them in soup stock etc; I feed them to the compost worms.
Put a little olive oil and/or butter in a fry pan (I have recently been converted to the Cuisinart Green Gourmet pan, which my Aunt Ellen ensures me does not exude toxins into the food or air.)
Put the tomatoes into the pan along with a couple of sloshes of broth. Cover and cook on medium heat til the tomatoes are reconstituted, 5 to 10 minutes. Most commercially prepared so-called sun dried tomatoes are already pliable and won't need as much time. Add the kale and chopped garlic and stir together, then cover again until wilted, five to seven minutes or so. Add cream carefully—a little goes a long way. Season. Heat through and serve.

A GREEN dinner. In addition to the kale, we had green chili/turkey enchiladas suiza and cabbage and cilantro slaw with chipotle dressing. 

In the garden numerous bunches of kale are ready to be picked and processed. By that I mean blanched and frozen for next winter's soups and casseroles. In the meantime, there will be lots more creamed kale and super green salads.

Goo-goo, ga-ga: Advice for baby & parents

PK and I had a baby shower yesterday for son Quinn & his wife, Heather, who expect their first child, Noah,  in early June. Parents no longer guess about their baby's gender, making it easier on shower guests, who still purchase the color-appropriate baby garments and accessories. Shower attendees were mostly good friends from forever, it seems, and one new young woman. Before gifts were opened, advice for the new parents and the person-to-be were solicited. Here, for your reading pleasure, are their words of wisdom followed by an invitation to chime in.

Advice for the parents-to-be
Michael: Don't shake the baby. No diaper pins. God, they cry when you pin 'em.
When the baby cries and works into a fit, lay him on his tummy and press down gently and bounce him. This pushes the air out. When his face gets red, he can't cry.
Paul: Be ready for anything. You don't know what's going to hit you, but something will.
Gail: Be consistent. They'll work you against each other. This is a huge issue. And don't argue in front of the kids.
Mark: You only have one chance. Do the right thing for your kids, same as love. Do what you need to do to do right by them.
Dave: Children are such a positive and special part of a marriage. But you have to work to keep your relationship together and not let it get hijacked by the kids.
Susan: If you are the stay-at-home person, keep your creative energy alive.
Ferron: Anyone who has raised animals knows that you make a prompt response to behavior. Bad! Good! Do this before they learn to speak.
Elke: You'll make mistakes. Don't sweat the small stuff.
Catherine: Don't coddle. Children are resilient.
Jeanne: You think when they're little that childhood will last forever and you'll never have time for yourself. It doesn't last forever. Enjoy your children. They're gone too soon.
Gary: Your children are always with you. It just changes.
Mary: Children are born with a temperament. You can't do anything about it except to observe and learn what the child's nature is, then accept this little person for who he is.

Advice for Baby Noah

Paul: Be patient. Your parents have no idea who you are. Believe that they'll learn.
Gail: Laugh a lot. Life is good.
Sueji: I love your name, Noah. It has to do with boats. I want to take you on the river! It is important to know that your parents are human. Cut them some slack. Good parenting is the hardest job in the world.
Ferron: Get together with other newborns, and seriously consider a class-action lawsuit against circumcision.

Elke: Be patient with your parents. And be happy.
Catherine: Your parents are smarter than you are. Listen to them.
Mary: If your parents are mean and unreasonable, call Grandma!
Katarina: You're the firstborn. You're the experiment. Your parents will try everything on their first kid. Be patient.

Heather and Katarina cavort in the kitchen with baby Noah present in some way.

Got any words of wisdom for Noah or his parents? Ears, eyes, and minds are open wide. And hearts, too. And maybe even fetal comprehension.

Where the hell is Roatan?

Cruise passengers (the white people) are greeted by Roatan dancers who aren't all that amused.

The cruise ship docks just a short pier off the tiny island of Roatan, much to the delight of locals who view the cruise  ship industry as an economic opportunity where economic opportunities are rare.

I've been back from two weeks in the Caribbean for one week and it seems like I never went anywhere! Before "be here now" takes over entirely, I have a few words and images.

Roatan. Ever heard of it?  Neither had I until the cruise ship stopped there disgorging about 2,000 passengers onto this small—37 miles long, five miles wide—and hilly Honduran island. 
PK and I opted for a day at the beach. At $35 each, it was the least expensive of about a dozen excursions offered that day. (We were still clueless about independent excursions. More on that later, if I ever get to "what I learned about cruising.")
Here's what we got: a van ride over hill and vale thru tropical jungle to the beach: a huge buffet cruise-style barbecue lunch (all cruise food comes in huge); a park-like entrance to the beach; lounge chairs lined up like this with cruisers in various states of, uhhhh, ecstacy? Are we having fun yet?

A line is drawn in the sand and inches outside are locals, toes on the boundary,  trying to make a buck off us cruisers. PK and I strolled outside of the sanitized area and were immediately accosted by the woman in the green and black striped blouse. She was selling massages performed by her daughter, Larissa, that younger woman on the left. I bit. A half hour massage for $15.

Most importantly, according to the cruise-line sales pitch, this beach had been sanitized of sand fleas, which are apparently a plague upon tourists and locals alike and probably the universe. At any rate, something toxic was sprayed upon the white sands and within the confines of the private beach, we were not bitten.

And here is Larissa, ready to  knead the white pasty flesh of some old woman from god-knows-where.

Larissa claimed to be 15 but seemed older. Although we occupied an unsanitized area of Roatan, I didn't suffer any flea bites. Only sound bites of Larissa's life. I asked if she and others were able to buy food at the opulent cruise barbecue buffet, which was wafting tantalizing aromas from maybe 100 feet behind us.  She scoffed, "No. They'd rather throw food away than give it us, or even sell it to us. They treat us like dogs," she said. She pressed her thumbs especially hard into my shoulder muscles. Ummm.
She slathered me with baby oil. No pricey scented oils here. No massage table. No licensed massage therapist. Just Larissa, a teenager who told me she's still hoping that a former  cruise customer from Syracuse will make good on a promise to house her in the  U.S.A. and help her with college. Larissa went on at length about this woman, who Larissa believed, would deliver her from the poverty that plagues Honduras. The massage went past 45 minutes. Maybe I knew this woman? Larissa said she had the woman's phone number and had called her many times. But the woman hadn't called back.Why hadn't she called back?
Silence. What could I say about the temporary goodwill extended by tourists?

A local beer and the groomed entrance to the private cruise-ship beach just beyond.

Larissa said the food sure smelled good. "You want some?" I asked. "Would you?" she replied. I went through the buffet line and piled barbecued chicken, coleslaw, beans and rice, and wonderful tropical fruit onto a paper plate. I covered it with another plate and sped to the "line in the sand" where Larissa whisked it away, followed by two others. I saw them under some palms savoring the feast. She glanced over at me and nodded her thanks. Believe me Larissa, it was nothing.

Cruise Blues #1

Not exactly what you want to see when you step onto your cruise ship balcony to gaze at the tropical sea,  right? Not just that there's a crapload of tankers out there, but it's a metallic morning with a stiff breeze and just 64 degrees and you've signed up to go snorkeling. You're committed. The cruise line has a Draconian 48-hour cancellation policy. The $74 per person excursion charge has already been added to your swiftly escalating cruise account, and no matter what, you're going. This is kinda like eating a restaurant meal even though it sucks, or staying through a revolting movie just because you've paid for it.

And besides, it's a "free" cruise, which means I won it. No kidding. I took my elderly mother to a promotional event at a retirement center where the big prize was this cruise.  My number came up. It seemed really lucky to win, even though PK and I aren't exactly cruise material. But here we were a couple days into the cruise thinking that an opportunity to skim above a piece of the world's second largest coral reef—we were in the Caribbean off the coast of Belize on the Yucatan Peninsula—was not to be missed—or dismissed just because our teeth were chattering.

So we followed the herd onto a safe and comfortable craft (everything on cruise vacations is safe, if not  always comfortable) and headed with about 125 of our closest friends to the reef six miles distant. It wasn't getting any warmer.

This is a crew member enjoying the unseasonable March cold.

We arrived at the reef and were given our safety briefing; wear the mandatory flotation and don't go beyond the approximately basketball-court-sized area defined by crew members in plastic boats. And don't drink the rum punch until afterwards. Rum punch? At 9 a.m.?

So we floundered over the rail and with at least 100 other eager cruisers, splashed into the cool aquamarine.  Some wiser souls, including a couple of college girls in spaghetti straps, however, said NO WAY and got a head start on the  punch. More on that later.

I didn't mind the cold too much as I possess adequate natural insulation—fat. My ectomorph husband, however, quickly became, uh, chilled, a condition that would soon spread from his body to his mood. Especially his mood toward his wife. 

The pleasures of snorkeling with the masses in an intimate area is not to be downplayed. You will come into contact, fin or face, with at least 75 of them, one for each dollar paid for the experience. We were allowed an hour to snorkel, but most people couldn't hold out that long. PK and I soldiered on for maybe 30 minutes before I got sick of seeing way more people than fish, and  PK got sick of shivering. 

I took the above photo when we were back on the boat and all but the most persistent had called it quits. PK was wrapped in a damp towel and quaking like a hairless dog. Determined to cut my losses, I sought out the plastic barrel dispensing rum punch, the only free alcohol on the cruise where even a simple lite beer costs $6. It was maybe 10 a.m.  

College girls (?) on spring break cavort under an imagined sun.

A Scottish lad celebrates the not-so-fair morn.

And his fair lass goes along for the fair ride.

A lubricated couple prepares to smooch.

Rumless PK was not amused.

The cold was forgotten. The dance tunes were cranked up and whoo hoo! I believe the crew had  dumped an extra load of rum into the barrel out of sympathy for people who had paid too much for too little.  I think I can safely say that no one who signed up for the snorkeling on the world's second largest reef expected to be snockered before noon. 

Later PK and I  took a tender (a boat transporting cruise passengers into ports without proper depth to accommodate behemoth ships) into Belize City. Judgment clouded by the punch, I ordered a daiquiri on shore when PK got a beer. I couldn't drink the daiquiri, however, and handed it off to this receptive individual who was crafting trinkets near a bridge in Belize City. I believe his expression captures the spirit of the day.

I don't know this man's name, and I can't identify any of the people pictured above—except for that one unsmiling and annoyed person. If you were along for the ride this March 2010 day and happen to be pictured above and don't like it, please respond and I will remove your photo. Until then, thanks for a good time and bottom's up!

 

Blog drought

Johnny Jump-ups make February appearance.

Or maybe that should be blog paralysis.  I've been mulling several topics, all of them languishing in the draft stage. But the following sentiment, or something similar, depending on time of day, obstructs my progress: Who the hell cares?  I should just go watch the Olympics. (Not unlike my thoughts when I started this blog.)


At this moment, I should just go for a walk! or get ready for a vacation that starts in a couple days. But I've decided. I'm not going until "this" is finished, even though I'm not sure what "this" is. I learned during the years I wrote a weekly newspaper column that even though I often had NO IDEA what to say, a looming deadline—like the next morning—would spark an idea. So I'd perch before my primitive 1980's computer and start typing. Anything. Just like I'm doing now. Over time, I developed faith that thoughts that had been roiling in my brain would bubble up and spill onto the screen. They always did, of course, because I took those newspaper deadlines seriously.

Lots of those columns were absolute dogs. But recently I've been looking them over and thinking, Hmmmm. Not bad.  So my younger self is inspiring my 25-years-down-the-road self to keep trying, even though I recognize that deadlines=discipline, and the only deadlines I have for this blog are self-imposed—which could mean more drought.
But anyway. For you faithful (and much beloved) few who check periodically to see if I've been able to cough up another post, here are some topics rumbling in my drafts file:

• I'm jealous of my kids.
• Life is senseless. But I like it.
• Not a goddess. Uh uh. 
• Southern Oregon Soul Food (series)
• Characters in ordinary life. (series)
• Why get out of bed?
• Girdles are back. Aack!
• Changing places. (caring for 93-year-old mom)
• PK's the Man!

Cold frame lettuce abounds.

See anything interesting?

And then, of course, there's all those fascinating garden updates and irresistible "what I made for dinner last night" recipes. Speaking of garden updates, you must be dying to know what's up in February. Quite a lot, really, considering the fabulous spring-like Oregon weather we had for the past couple weeks. (Rainy today, however.) Here are a few edibles ready for harvest, or nearly so. I have trouble configuring blog photos, so bear with me. The captions for photos below are consolidated under the last photo.

 Cilantro not quite big enough to harvest. Magnificent Russian KALE and fall-planted broccoli that survived 8 degree nights in December. We aren't quite rolling in produce yet, but give us another month.

The belly as public domain

This is another one for my daughter-in-law and first-time-mother-to-be, who has recently complained about uninvited belly handling. It's rough, I know, but goes with the territory. I wrote the piece below when I was eight months pregnant with Chris. Don't worry, Heather. The bigger the belly, the worse it gets. 

Grants Pass Daily Courier
May 7, 1986

I'm getting to the big-bulge stage of pregnancy that's difficult to ignore. And, indeed, far from ignoring it, quite a few people seem to suffer from the delusion that a pregnant abdomen is in the public domain.

People I hardly know rub and pat my protruding belly as if it were some neutral object that happened to be between us, like a stone or a puppy. Some grab it with both hands as if it could be removed. They probe through the skin and fat, muscle and womb, right down to the baby. I silently command the little beggar to give the intruder a swift kick, but already the kid is disobedient and curls up sweet and docile.

There are the strokers who pet it and sort of coo. These are the ones who are speaking to the baby, not to me, and I feel old and in the way.

"Do you need a moment alone with it?" I want to ask, but don't.

The absent-minded feelers let their hands wander to my belly during casual conversation, as if walking their fingers around somebody else's tummy was the most natural thing in the world. Usually they're asking baby-related questions at the time time. "When are you gonna pop? or "Is it a boy or girl?" are the favorites.

Hearty patters give the old belly a slap and a ruffle, much as they might greet a large dog or a horse. "How's that baboo?" they'll ask.

I grin and bear it. For now, it's a part of my body that, being occupied by another person, is only partly mine anyway, and I view all the handling with some amusement. Depending on my mood, I even like it. When else will my midsection be lavished with so much attention?

Most of the time people are reluctant to touch one another in casual situations, but advanced pregnancy somehow invites intimacy. People seem to want to fuss over a baby even when the baby is still sheathed in its mother's body.

They want to fuss over the mother, too, opening doors, carrying groceries, picking up dropped objects, and performing other small services that suggest concern for one who's carrying about 25 extra pounds front and center. It isn't as debillitating as it looks, but most pregnant women appreciate the sympathy.

What they don't appreciate is people who feel compelled to relate Horrible Birth Experiences in gory detail. Even if you're able to stop them before they get to the worst part—the part they're dying to tell you—the damage has been done. Telling Horrible Birth Experiences to women about to deliver is akin to tell a mountain climber she can't reach the top, or a marathon runner that her lungs will burst at mile 25. It so rude and such a bad idea.

The absolute worst example of what NOT to say to a pregnant woman was said to me about a week before I was due with my first child. This moron's wife had just had a baby, and apparently the experience was not that uplifting, because he kept tossing out words like excruciating, terrible, and agonizing. His wife nodded gravely in agreement, doing nothing to soften the impression that giving birth is worse than the Chinese water torture.

He ended his tale with a remark to the effect that he'd sooner do himself in than endure such agony. Rejecting that option, I went ahead and had the baby. I found the event decidedly anti-climatic in the pain department and quite wonderful emotionally, despite Mr. Idiot's last-minute attempt at sabotage.

Fortunately for him, while blowing holes in my psychological preparation for birth, he didn't snake his oily hand over to prod my belly. If he had, I would have been sorely tempted to return the favor—with the bottom of my foot in that anatomical area where the sun don't shine.

Forgive mothers-to-be a couple idiosyncrasies

Our oldest son Quinn and wife are expecting their firstborn. They sent out the "bun in the oven"postcard in November 2009. The ecstatic news sent me rummaging through columns I'd written when Quinn, our eldest, was a child and I was expecting his brother, Chris. (Now, as I repost Times change but some things don't, and a wanted pregnancy is a time like no other. I wrote a lot about both boys during those incredible child-rearing years and will post a rerun column occasionally with notes about what I've learned since.

Grants Pass Daily Courier
April 2, 1986

Forgive mothers-to-be a couple idiosyncrasies.

The woman was well into the third trimester and struggled to write about it. Pregnancy is so, well, common, and maybe no one cares that she's getting close to being fruitful and multiplying. Pregnant women often secretly believe they're the center of the universe, forgetting that birth is as routine as spring, as ordinary as tulips. In philosophical moments they identify with the earth and how it is the medium for unfathomable growth. Seeds draw nourishment from it, and every spring the miracles repeat, renewing the landscape and replenishing hope.
The baby grows in her, but she does nothing. She has a vague sense that making a baby is the most important thing she can do, yet it requires no effort, no creativity. The egg that produced this baby was formed within her while she was still in her own mother's womb. At conception its physical characteristics were determined, written indelibly in genes.
Pregnant women think about such things and feel important but humble They can be dull company if they often share their thoughts, or if all they can discuss is the activities of the unborn.

The pregnant woman does not wish to bore anyone with incessant accounts of her past several months, but hopes she can be permitted some reflections. She periodically tries to ignore the whole process, turning her mind to matters of greater interest to he companions, but sooner or later, a keen sense of caring emerges. It is difficult to ignore the fact that a highly visible part of her anatomy is gradually being overtaken by someone who already has a functioning brain, and who can hear her voice and music and maybe even the songs of the spring birds in the orchard.
If for a moment she forgets her condition, the becoming person will energetically stretch or flex or roll. She suppresses the urge to call attention to these gymnastics, instead resting her hand on her abdomen and trying to visualize the small but growing person exercising its muscles, cell by cell building toward birth.
She is overwhelmed by curiosity about this person with whom she shares her body, her food, her moods, her thoughts. Sometimes she addresses it as "she," and sometimes as "he," not having a strong preference either way. She sometimes believes she may be the only expectant mother over 35 who doesn't know the sex and confirmation of her unborn child. She wants to know the baby is all right, but she knows she couldn't "do anything about it," as her doctor put it, even if it isn't. So she waits, sometimes impatiently, as the baby prepares
itself for life on the outside.

Quick cat update

Thanks to all who offered counsel regarding the Christmas cat moving in with my mom, age 93. Your advice, except for one (my wise sister, Monette who said no way!) was "sure, bring it on!" more or less.  Then it all fell apart because 1) my mom took another fall in her apartment, and adding even the slightest risk would have been irresponsible, and 2) that whore of a cat disappeared for almost a week. He materialized  on our doorstep last night, visibly more sleek and well fed than the last time he was here. i went right into slave-to-whore-cat mode and whipped up his favorite meal—baked chicken drumstick. Sometimes you just have to go with the status quo and call it good.

To cat or not to cat—petting the elderly

My mom, 93, likes cats. The "Christmas cat" I mentioned in an earlier post likes her. He is a mellow guy, prone to long naps. When mom's here, he nestles into her lap and she strokes him. They both purr. She asks about him when he's gone. "Is everybody accounted for?" she inquires, looking for him when entering our home. He spends hours in her lap. The question: should this cat be her apartment mate? The arguments pro:

• The elderly are often lonely and bored  and pets help give them purpose and companionship. I can hear her talking to him as I write. She coos, "Oh, so you do move every once in awhile. Nice kitty."
• Cats are silky and responsive and nice to touch and feel. The elderly get precious little of "touchy, feely."
  
• Her residence encourages small pet ownership.
• She's open to the idea, but worries that she "can't take it outside," not realizing many cats are house cats only. Our cats, the only felines she's known as far as I know, have been inside/outside beings with a come-and-go-cat door. The last one, Rowdy, our favorite for about 10 years, disappeared one summer night. After sad and fruitless searching, we figured he was eaten by an owl, a coyote, a raccoon, a fox, or a cougar. Country life is not always kind to pets.
• Provision for litter-box clean-up, which is beyond her, can be arranged.
• We could always take the cat back and continue to share him around the neighborhood.

The primary argument con:

• The cat is black, especially difficult to see in the night-lighted darkness by a visually impaired elderly person. Cats are a tripping hazard. My mom is increasingly prone to falling. Cats are notorious for slithering around ankles and being in the way.

Since I started this post, I've witnessed the usually docile cat in manic mode, outside, flinging himself from tree trunk to tree trunk in our small orchard. He rushes one trunk, grabs it with all fours, clambers up, drops, and flings himself onto the next tree. We've also noticed carnage—a mole's head, long front teeth intact—in a puddle of slime on the back porch. Is it fair to ask an inside/outside neighborhood cat to convert to inside only? Or would we be doing him a favor by providing him with reliable warmth, companionship, and food?

But really, it's not about him. It's about her. Does the safety issue outweigh the pleasure of having a pet? What do you think? Many readers have expressed frustration when attempting to leave comments. (Why is that, Blogger?) Try my email: mkorbulic@gmail.com. Facebook friends, you can weigh in via our fave social network.  I appreciate your thoughts.

Things that make me glad in bleak mid-winter

Geraniums glowing in the solarium. 

A box of winter greens. 

.

Wild turkeys alongside the road during a December bike ride.

  

Grandma LaVone enjoying grandson Chris'  adventures via the Kokotat blog.

PK's dried serrano peppers awaiting marriage with garlic and vinegar for superb chili garlic sauce.

 My first senior ski pass: Mt. Shasta, $15 a day!

Resolutions I have kept- and one for 2010

I thought I'd given up on the New Year's resolution  exercise, but I see not.

Why? Because despite my resistance, the topic compels me. I can't help it. In the recent past, I have made resolutions that I have actually kept, and some corrections in my trajectory transpired.

Here are some resolutions that worked. 

1. I bought nothing new for one year. (Not that difficult for somebody already attuned to Goodwill shopping, but it required some discipline. I still adhere in general, but respect and recognize the preference for unsoiled undergarments.)
2. I ate something from the garden every day. (So easy when surrounded by garden 9 months of the year. Pepper flakes, dried tomatoes, and lots of frozen corn in lean winter made this a snap.)
3. I kept a daily food journal. (Incredibly boring, but I will revisit for an occasional inspired recipes and periodic insights.)

No big deal on these. But they beat losing (and regaining) the same 10 pounds year after year. And they required daily thought and discipline.

Despite advancing age, I'm still figuring things out and recognize the role that resolutions fill in setting direction. Ta da! Here's THE 2010 resolution:

Figure out the difference between what I have to do and what I want to do and make necessary adjustments.  This has to do with juggling familial obligations and pleasures, volunteerism, paid work, and self-centered stuff—such as writing this blog and going for walks and bike rides and doing yoga and taking up art and on and on. Stay tuned.

Christmas cat

Cozy, yes? Nice kitty, all snuggled in my office chair with a cushy pillow and full belly. This is the cat we took in a couple weeks ago when temps hovered in the single digits and ice coated everything. He came prowling round our doorstep, mewling and pitiful. Cold! Hungry!
Oh, poor baby! Even though he was supposedly famished, he was finicky. Didn't like dry cat food. Didn't like canned cat food. (I should have known!) But he just LOVED those chicken drumsticks I baked for him. Yes, I BAKED for him, and then I continued to labor by separating the meat from the bones and the skin and so on. Cat-sized portions remain in the freezer.

But come to find out, this is an opportunistic animal, a neighborhood cat, who has now disappeared to more favored digs. Turns out he has at least three homes that welcome him, and all within shouting distance, plus the home where he "belongs," which is apparently not acceptable. I'm not sure why, but I hear they have an unfriendly dog. They're missing out. This is a sweet cat that enters your home and claims the territory. He drapes over furniture, rubs along legs, and stands by the door in a mannerly fashion when he needs to exit to do his business.
Why did we take him in? One, we like cats. and two, we stared directly into his pleading eyes and believed he needed our help. I think most people are like that. If you can see a being —person, or animal, that is clearly in jeopardy, and you are in a solitary position to help, then you will. It's not like the shared responsibility we have for beggars with "will work for food" signs whose eyes you avoid, and who are ignored by most people in passing cars, and whose plight you figure somebody else will address. And whose motives you may question.

But when it's just you and a suffering (supposedly) being, and you are the only person who can alleviate the situation, what do you do? Most people open the door or the wallet.  I know I do.

All those mailed appeals with photos of children with cleft palates and hideous living conditions and polio and so on, not to mention the puppy mills and chained starving animals, attempt to duplicate the impact of beings who are suffering right before our eyes. Local newspapers at Christmas time highlight pathetic story after pathetic story of "friends in need" and the community responds with an outpouring of cash and goods and trips to Disneyland. But nothing quite rivals the domestic animal who shows up on your doorstep on a frigid night looking for a way in. Unless it could be a child fleeing abuse or neglect. Can you imagine a terrified child trembling at your door? Could you turn her away? I couldn't. But I'm afraid I ignore some of the most plaintive appeals from the most worthy non profits because I just can't take it all on. But give me a cat on a cold night? You're in, baby.

65 Alive

Today I am 6-freaking-5 years old. Thank you, my friends, for your birthday wishes. And thank you,  Laurie, for taking this photo a couple weeks ago, proof that yoga works no matter your age. If I can still do this in 10 years, I'll send the picture to a tabloid. "Seventy-five-year -old woman does splits!!" If we even have printed papers then.  It's difficult to project what the world at large will be like tomorrow, let alone what might come in the next decade. For sure our own  personal molecular swirls will have undergone vast change and may even be circling the drain by then. Ha!  Don't you love how things change so fast you can't keep up? I do, except for the getting-old part.

I cannot believe I've reached the Medicare birthday. But isn't that the way it is no matter how old you've suddenly become? I heard my sons recently complaining about turning 31 and 23 and I say, poor babies! I felt practically the same astonishment turning 40 and 50 and 60 that I do now that the next milestone on the horizon is the big 7-0! Time passes in a blur. Remember this song? Time Is by It's a Beautiful Day. If you click, scroll to song number seven. Crank it up, please, and twirl around and sing along. It will be good for your soul. And mine, too. I love to have dance partners, even those I can't see.

Sharing Love Through Food, Wine, Music, Dance.....and Ping Pong!

Thanks, Steve, for the wholesome post title, (my first attempt was "Dance, Drink and Dink Around) and Laurie Gerloff's photo, above,  which says it all. Ping pong and dancing were temporarily suspended so the feast and toasting could proceed apace. Nothing fancy in the presentation, but what a gourmet spread! And what a celebration. The best way to start the holiday season is with friends and family, music and dancing, PING PONG, and a lush cornucopia of deliciousness that spills across December like a wave of rich gravy crested by sweet potatoes and pecan pie.
It's taken two weeks to sort this out, and I'm not sure it's quite jelled. But as I've learned,  writing, and even thinking about writing, is a process that can reveal (to yourself and maybe your readers, if you have any) what you're thinking and feeling. I'm writing this because I'm curious. What  am I thinking? It should be easy to describe something that was absolute fun, starting on Wednesday before T-giving and ending on Sunday after.

But.... no. I have to complicate with comparisons of Thanksgivings past and sentimental reflections about the future. But first off, it's clear that the marathon shared with a gang of friends and family bore NO resemblance to the iconic Norman Rockwell painting. For one thing, those sitting at Rockwell's Thanksgiving table don't look like they had anything to do with preparing dinner. And who's going to clean up? Never mind. And have you wondered how that fleshy grandmother held a 25-pound bird at arm's length? There are other problems. Celery sticks? Water? Where's the wine? Where's the stuffing and cranberry sauce? Where are the Brussels sprouts? I see you Norman, peeking out from the right lower corner. I wonder what you'd think of our Thanksgiving.

Southern Oregon deep freeze— perfect for solar home

It's unusually COLD in southern Oregon and has been for several days. This morning was just 8 degrees F and now, close to 11 a.m. under blues skies and brilliant sun, it's still only 18. But the solar water panels on our roof have kicked in to heat the water circulating in the hot water tank to 100. Before long, it will will rise to around 150, as it did yesterday, and I'll throw a load of clothes into the washer and fire up the dishwasher. It'll also be time for a long hot shower because for the next 12 hours or so, we'll have free hot water. Thanks to our modest passive solar home, built in the early 1980's, we'll also have free heat as waves rise out of the simple solarium and sun streams through south-facing windows in a living room addition built in 1994. PK took pains all those years ago to include every energy-saving trick we could afford including:

• a clean-burning woodstove
• 10-inch thick insulation
• whole-house fan, which is primarily responsible for summer cooling
• ceiling fans
• double-door entrances
• a solarium that heats the house on cold sunny days, doubles as greenhouse in the spring, and serves as a winter clothes dryer
• orienting the house to face south
• double-paned woodframe windows

Everything still works, and summer or winter, nary a sunny day goes by without thanking our sun-smart 2.300 sq. ft. home—warm in the winter and cool in the summer for an average energy bill of around $100 a month, year-round. (In addition to a tiny woodstove in the living room, we use a natural gas stove in the center of the house for heating, and also cook with natural gas.) Next up, perhaps, solar-electric panels.

Nomad kayaking son ..... will I survive?

As I begin this post Nov. 18, son Chris, 23, is en route to India and perhaps Nepal, China and Tibet, on a two-month kayaking expedition. This is not "ordinary life" but it is his life. Here he is, my baby, 20 years ago dipping a paddle into the river for the first time. (That's his dad's vintage blue Dancer) And here he is a few years ago in a circling-the-drain Chilean waterfall. Actually, I"m not sure that's Chris. He and a Spanish kayaker explored this creek and took turns with the camera. Those days Chris was on his own with a hunger for adventure and a quiet determination to join an elite cadre of kayakers who travel the globe pursuing primo adventure and first descents. That's what he's doing now—primo adventure and first descents. And that's what he did in 2008 in Pakistan and Brazil, and in 2007 in Newfoundland and Chile. It's a ridiculous life. He toils for a few months to earn enough for life support and airline tickets, and then hops around the world with his kayak. It's not something that you envision, or can even imagine, for your child. But Chris is driven by an endless well of ambition and passion, so I go along, oscillating between pride and terror. Despite my fearful motherliness, I say, Go Chris!