Be Strong In Your Warrior
One is not supposed to think during Yoga. You know the bumper sticker slogan "Go with the flow"? I'm thinking some yogi coined it. Yoga is about flowing. I know this because I got to thinking today, during yoga, and when I opened my eyes at the end of practice, I was facing the back wall, while everyone else was facing forward.
But first, before beginning the practice, we take time to focus our intention.
I’ve had loads of practice thinking, mulling, musing, pondering, "daydreaming" as my grandmother used to call it which sounded so pleasant, positive even, in contrast to other terms letting your mind wander is called: "Procrastinating", "Wasting Time", and when it goes on too long it morphs into "Resisting" as Steven Pressfield discusses in War of Art.
In an interview about her writing process (which I searched for but couldn’t find, as I didn't want to waste any more time looking) Isabel Allende said she "dreams" her stories. She watches the scene play out in her head, then writes it down. (And I seem to recall she actually lies down while "dreaming"--as in on a bed. Maybe with a pillow and blankie . . .
What's the difference? Focused Intention.
I've tried "dreaming" my scenes, playing them, working through them in my mind. And it works--but only if I'm walk-dreaming or ironing dreaming or cooking dreaming. Flat out out on the bed or in a chair turns to "NAP TIME".
I have the same problem during yoga. At the end of each practice we lie in “corpse pose” (pretty self-explanatory: lay flat on your back on the ground like you’re dead.)
However, even with the instructor’s warning: “Tell yourself you are practicing deep meditation, you will not move, you will not fall asleep…” I’ll find myself jerking to attention or snorting awake. Maybe more than once, my friend Mimi had to give me a nudge.
"I am practicing deep relaxation. I will not move. I will not fall asleep zzzzzzzzz"
When I think "yoga", Love-not-War, Flower Power and "Peace, Dude" comes to mind, not battle. Which makes flowing through a series of warrior poses seems oximoronic (if that’s even a word). Today, when Catherine said, as she does every yoga session “Stand strong in your warrior", this oximoronosity--which self-corrected to monstrosity--came to mind.
As I stood, with my back leg stretched, front knee bent, staring past my quivering fingertips, pushing down through my aching legs in one of my mightiest Warrior 2 ever, I pondered the purpose of these Yoga Warrior poses.
Why would a peaceful practice such as yoga need warrior poses? What do flower power peace dudes have to do with battle?
I must share how, in spite of my pondering--or maybe because of it--2 out of 3 of my Warrior Poses were Stellar.
Okay, so my Warrior Three was wobbly. In my defense, I was thinking . . .
It was not my best yoga day. (“Thinking, mulling, pondering” and “listen and follow directions” are mutually exclusive.) It was not my best work day, either. This question of why peaceful yogi-types would spend so much time and energy posing as warriors won. I couldn't let it so. So instead of sticking to the tasks I'd set for myself, I searched the internet for answers.
Validation came when I came across an article in Yoga Journal which also challenged warrior pose's role in yoga:
“Given that the ideal of yoga isahimsa, or ‘nonharming,’ isn’t it strange that we would practice a pose celebrating a warrior who killed a bunch of people?”
Rosen's conclusion is that the yogi is doing battle against her own ignorance. . . trying to "rise up out of your own limitations." Which is not easy! Battling oneself never is.
Is this why we resist? Why we avoid? Procrastinate? (Which, I'm compelled to restate for the record, is so not the same thing as daydreaming. . . )
Fame is no insulator. Allende, author of 20 highly-acclaimed books, most recently Ripper, battles, too.
Each Jan. 7th, Isabel Allende prepares--focuses her intention. Jan 8th, she begins each new book.
Why Jan. 8th? Allende explains: "My daughter, Paula, died on December 6, 1992. On January 7, 1993, my mother said, ‘Tomorrow is January eighth. If you don’t write, you’re going to die.’"Her mother went to Macy's and when she returned Allende had taken up the gauntlet.
“ The only hard thing about writing is sitting down,” Isabel Allende noted. “The rest is so easy and so wonderful. ”
“If you attempt to stay in it [warrior pose] for any length of time, you’ll confront your own bodily, emotional, or mental weaknesses. Whatever limitations you have, the pose will reveal them so that they can be addressed....When viewed this way, practicing Warrior [pose] can be seen as fighting the good fight. ”
What tool does Allende take with her to battle. What reminder to keep her focused. To help her stay strong in her warrior? A candle.
In an interview with Bill Moyer she shared how she lights a candle when she begins writing. "It's a real candle, but it's also a metaphysical candle," she told him.
“And if I have a candle, for as long as the candle is burning, I write. And then, when it’s over, when it burns off, I can have dinner and get out, and do things.”
Imagine, each of these candles represents pages, chapters, novels . . .
Today has been a battle. A battle to stay the course in yoga. A battle to stop puttering and sit down to the work I had planned for the day (a battle I lost.) And most frustrating/time consuming of all, a battle to publish this posting. Three times I'd been clicking away and something went wrong. It would have been easy to quit and turn to those many things I had planned to accomplish today. Important things. But working through this notion of what Warrior meant, which had taken hold of me as I stared down the length of my outstretched arm. And so, I soldered.
How-to Focus Intention:
First: admit it. No matter what differences we are trying to make, what we are trying to create, to change, it is a war we are fighting. A war against taking the easy road, playing it safe.
Second: Arm yourself with whatever will help you focus your intention, be it yoga mat, walking desk, chocolate bar reward, candle. . .
Third: Attack!
If you're reading this, I won! And it feels darn good.
BE STRONG IN YOUR WARRIOR
It's Might Be Scary Out There . . .
I’m getting “in to” Yoga. I have all the paraphernalia. A groovy pair of yoga pants.
Not this kind . . .
This kind. . .
Nephew-in-law, Jake, gifted me with them last Christmas,
Black ankle-high yoga socks with tiny traction bumps on the bottom, a neon green constriction shirt which holds it all in while I bend.
and I’m thinking about growing my hair out into dreadlocks and cashing in air miles for a ticket to an ashram . . .
Eagle pose is like having to go to the bathroom really bad, and are trying to hold it while not getting your foot dirty. . . not pretty or easy.
One of Catherine’s recent ponder points was from “bestselling author, poet, philosopher” Mark Nepo’s book:
THE BOOK OF AWAKENING: HAVING THE LIFE YOU WANT BY BEING PRESENT TO THE LIFE YOU HAVE.
Nepo tells of a guy “Robert” who dumped his fish into a bathtub of water so he could clean their tank.
When Robert came back to retrieve the fish from the tub, “he was astonished to find that, though they had the entire tub to swim in, they were huddled in a small area the size of their tank. There was nothing containing them, nothing holding them back. Why wouldn’t they dart about freely?”
I AM JUST LIKE THOSE BATHTUB FISH?????!!
But why?
Do I follow the rules, stay inside the lines, rely on learned behavior, swim the same circles around and around and around and around and around—in life and in my work—because it’s best . . . Or because it’s easiest?
Because it’s smart . . . or because the alternative is unknown?
Because it’s safe. . .
. . . because I’m lazy?
. . . scared to make mistakes?
“Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
How many times, in how many copies of NOT NORMAN have I written “Think Outside the Bowl!”
"Think outside the bowll" . . . It’s high time I did.
As they say in the song: "Now that my life is so prearrange/I know it's time for a cool change."
Care to join me? Dare YOU! Dare ME!
Potato Chips, Penicillin, Post-It Notes, W-D 40 . . . 2014?
Potato Chips . . .
Penicillin . . .
Post-it Notes . . .
The Slinky . . .
Goodreads kick-started my 2014 with this quotation from author Neil Gaiman:
“I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes. Because if you are making mistakes...you're Doing Something.”
That quotation haunt-taunted me through these last days of holiday and first days of this new year.
We celebrated the start of 2014 at a New Year’s brunch at friends, Joy & Michael’s new Kentucky home. Curtis and I were newcomers to the group. Lots of “news” at the launch of this year promising much change and challenge. Finding myself alone with one of the guests, I resisted the urge to withdraw into a dice-and-slice frenzy and instead tried to strike up a conversation by asking her if she’d made a resolution. It’s usual to make resolutions on New Year’s, isn’t it?
Big mistake! She doesn’t make resolutions. Doesn’t believe in them. Think’s they are stupid. A waste of time. Did I want to know why? Because we always break them, of course. Resolutions are made-to-be-BROKEN Blah, blah, blah blah-baaaaa. . .
I was feeling sorry for having tried starting that conversation when she added something that made me think maybe my resolution conversation starter wasn’t a mistake.
Turns out that morning on one of the “Morning Shows” (she watches several) the featured guest was some author who’d written some book about this very topic and he said (or so I deduced):
Along with making resolutions we need to “sweep away crumbs in our way” by resolving to stop doing whatever it is that is taking up the time during which we will do what we resolve to do.
A crumb. A take-away that bonded with Gaiman’s salutation the way 2 Hs bond with an O. Refreshing!
Spray W-D 40 on any surface & wipe. It will clear away even rusty crumbs.
W-D 40 will clean mineral build-up off glass shower doors, too. And kill cockroaches, remove gum from hair, keep squirrels from raiding bird feeders (spray W-D 40 on the top of the feeder and “The pesky squirrels will slide right off.”
But, what do W-D 40, Potato Chips, Penicillin, Post-it Notes or The Slinky have to do with New Years? Resolutions? Or Neil Gaiman’s quote? Why should we even give a crumb?
All of these things along with The Pacemaker, Chocolate Chip Cookies, plastic and who know what other inventions were created by MISTAKE. Failed tries. Miss takes
Take One! Take Two!
"I'm Ready for my Close-up!" Take 40 . . .
In W-D 40’s case, 39 failed tries by chemist Norm Larsen to prevent corrosion by displacing water.
What sets W-D 40 apart from these others is that rather than the end invention being something different or unexpected or accidental, Norm Larsen did what he set out to do: prevent corrosion by displacing water. The name W-D 40 is a testament to his efforts; it stands for “Water-Displacement 40th Attempt.”
Maybe Norm and the folks at W-D 40 Company have mistake envy, because they can’t seem to stop trying to find more uses for their spray. Along the way they’ve made mistakes, and discoveries.
Some bad: W-D 40 is not edible.
Some questionable: Is a python coiled around the undercarriage of your bus?
SPRAY IT WITH W-D 40!
Is a naked burglar trapped in your air conditioning vent? Dislodge him with WD-40.
2000+ dang useful! W-D 40 Company maintains a list of remarkable things this “corrosion prevention” in a can can do.
I went back to see if the squirrel repellant tip included a video (call me “cruel”, but I kinda wanted to watch slip-sliding squirrels) and was sucked into the 2000+ vortex. It took some time but I finally pulled myself free—But not before finding a helpful hint I’m itching to try: Last Christmas Curtis was gifted with blue ice cubes to cool spirits without diluting them. Sometime, someone tried using one. I don’t know who. Or when. All I know of the experiment is that one of my adorable, favorite juice glasses now has a blue glass ice cube lodged inside it.
Glass ice cubes look like this, but they don't melt and this one is lodged in an adorable cherry juice glass--one of a matching set, now relegated to the back of the cupboard
I’ve tried to remove the cube. Yes, I've tried knives. Scotch. Running cold water on it, hoping to chill the cube enough to shrink it so it would slide free. No such luck.
According to a Reader’s Digest article, “Stuck glasses will separate with ease if you squirt some WD-40 on them, wait a few seconds for it to work its way between the glasses, and then gently pull the glasses apart.”
When next I’m in WHB, I could give it a try . . .
Uh oh. . . hang on. That’s how mistakes happen. Breakage. Damage. Possible injury.
Do I really want to try?
Try, doesn’t mean succeed. . .
Try could lead to fail. . . .
Try could turn out to be a MISTAKE. . .
Consider son Max, then college student’s, attempt to concoct a high-test frat bathroom cleaning product. He tried mixing bleach with ammonia. That experiment ended in a trip to the hospital emergency room and destruction of who knows how many brain cells. Max counts it as a “partial success” as his potentially fatal mistake did save him from more bathroom cleaning. . .
Mistakes. Misses. “F-2” “Missed my Battle Ship”
Frustrating, embarrassing, harmful, sometimes lethal “miss takes.”
Safer to stick with the known. If life is good, why rock the boat? Why tempt fate?
“ . . . if you’re making mistakes . . . you’re Doing Something.”
Gaiman went on to add a note to the quote:
"Happy New Year! What kind of mistakes are you looking forward to making in 2014?"
Gaiman’s writing is so varied: CORALINE, THE GRAVEYARD BOOK, CHU'S DAY, THE DANGEROUS ALPHABET, ANANSI WARS. . . It seems he’ll try anything.
Was Coraline a mistake? If it was a mistake, it’s one that went horribly right for readers and reviewers. Reading it certainly was one of mine. It creeped me right out, then held me spellbound until I finished…
Paul Fleischman is another writer who likes to try new literary forms. He's recently adapted SEEDFOLK for the stage.
SEEDFOLKS, a collection of linked short stories--one of my favorites for any age, read aloud to adults!
At an SCBWI conference Fleischman admitted to attendees how his “tries” don’t always work. Mistakes maybe, but never a waste of time. For him, trying new things is what keeps writing interesting.
. . . INTERESTING . . .
In words from one of my fav songwriters, Mary Chapin Carpenter, from I Take My Chances:
Now some people say that you shouldn't tempt fate/And for them I would not disagree/But I never learned nothing from playing it safe/I say fate should not tempt me.
Today, soon after I click “post”, I’ll play that song again, for inspiration. Make that my battle cry of 2014.
Then, I’ll get to work sweeping out some crumbs of my “play-safe days” to make room in this brand new shining year with New! New! New Attitude. (And give a shout to the Patti LaBelle while I'm at it.)
I take my chances, I don't mind working without a net/
I take my chances, I take my chances every chance I get . . .
Take one. Take Two. ACTION!
. . . YES, IT MIGHT BE A MISTAKE . . .
It's a New Year!
"What kind of mistakes are you looking forward to making in 2014?"
(I’ll let you know if the blue glass cube rescue operation works, AND MORE!)
Finding My Way Back
The reality of what I was doing didn’t dawn on me until I was winding my way down the California Coast, in pitch black, with no wireless connection, hence no Google map on my phone to guide me.
A book about a girl who’d returned to her home in Carmel by the Sea after her father’s death, inspired me to try being a writer in the first place. I’d read it while, like the heroine, I was back home at my grandparent's house in Watsonville, facing major life changes/decisions.
Nanny & Poppy's house now, Dec 2013, looks pretty much the same as it did back then. Except that the fountain stands where my loquat tree once did
That life-changing book isn't in any literary cannon. It was an inexpensive, paperback Harlequin Romance with a man & woman embracing on the cover.
Young, broke, plain but interesting girl moves somewhere exotic for a job, meets older, rich, handsome arrogant hottie and--in spite of a gorgeous, sophisticated, worldly heiress set on snagging the hottie--wins his heart. What's not to love about that kind of romance?
My friend Theresa's mom (with her hair set in pin-curls, which she'd take out just before five when her husband return home from work) would drive us to the library where "checking out" Harlequin Romance's meant filling a grocery sack with all the titles we didn't think we'd read before, taking them home and reading one in an afternoon while Elton, Rod or Bread played in the background.
To admit I have forgotten the title, is not to say I have, or will ever forget that book. It made me who I. . . was.
And now, some 28 years later I’m retracing my steps so to speak. And this time, I’ve traveled even farther distance-wise, if not time-wise. My last trip back to find myself had been via car, with 2 small children in tow—a much weightier journey on so many levels.
To get to where I am now, on the eve of the Big Sur Writing Workshop, I flew from Port of Spain to Houston to San Francisco and drove the 137, 3-hour trip down. I could have flown into Monterey Airport instead. That drive would have been less than an hour. And—or is it “but”—
. . . I would have skipped the drive down highway 101 through San Jose to Gilroy and up and over Hecker Pass to Watsonville.
View of Watsonville and the Pacific from the top of Hecker Pass
When I was a kid, the twisty-turney, bumpy, hot drive over Hecker Pass made me queasy. Subconciously, is that what drove me to drive it this time? Is this part of my Hero’s Journey? Is making the drive without urping one of my quests?
If I had flown into Monterey instead of San Francisco, I wouldn't have had an opportunity to stop in Watsonville to check out the town, drive past my grandparent's house on Oregon Street and peek over the fence, past my Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Joe's house in the next block, or The Miramar--my mom's favorite place to eat back in the day (best garlic bread and mastaccioli in the whole world)--or drive through the old shopping center, with The Coffee Shop, where we’d go for lunch at least once a week, and Bud’s Barber Shop, where my brother Joe, and later my boy Max, got the “traditional boy cut” and a sucker. Or the Elks Lodge where we’d go for the Friday Night Fish Fry, and to the cemetery to visit my grandparents.
It took me way too long to find my grandparent's graves. I said hello and spent some time wondering and feeling grateful that someone had left Nanny flowers. But what about Poppy? Where were his?
. . . Or have dinner with my cousins Jodi and Amy until Sunday night after the Workshop.
Last Saturday, rain and more rain, kept Curtis and I from our regular walk. Instead we watched movies. One was Music and Lyrics with Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore.
Through the course of the movie, Grant & Barrymore's characters try to write a song entitled “Way Back Into Love” which Grant hopes, will be his way back into a music career.
Pressfield suggests that’s what many of us "Artist Types" do when we are near our goal. We screw up.
In WAR of ART, Steven Pressfield draws attention to THE ODYSSEY how, when Homer was within sight of the shore—of home—rather than remaining vigilant, got lazy, cocky, and went to sleep. While he slept, his crew, believing his bag was full of treasure, untied it and released the unfavorable winds.
. . . If I hadn't stopped for dinner I wouldn't have been driving south on Highway One at close to 9pm, even though the instructions to the Workshop and Big Sur Lodge clearly stated the park closed at 9pm.
. . . I would not have been driving in the pitch black of night on that narrow, windy, empty highway winding down the coast, not sure where I was going or how much longer it would take me to get there.
“
We’re always attracted to the edges of what we are, out by the edges where it’s a little raw and nervy.”
“
Planning to write is not writing. Outlining, researching, talking to people about what you’re doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing.
”
I signed up for the Big Sur Workshop quite a while back. Back when I thought I was staying the course.
Did I subconsciously know I had strayed far, super far, and finding my way back wouldn’t be so easy?
E.L. Doctrow's words about being a write came to me as I wound my way down PCH: "It's like driving a car at night in the fog. You never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."
I Made It!!!!
You Procrastinate Your Way, I Procrastinate Mine
**Note: This entry was supposed to be posted Sunday, but I put it off until today. Sorry
Heck yeah, I've got loads to do! Tis the season, isn't it? Gifts to wrap. Suitcases to pack. Messages to return. Cards to send. Oh yeah, and writing . . .
In 2 days I'm leaving Trinidad for the month. First to California for the Big Sur Writing Workshop. Workshop means preparation. Make copies of projects to focus on. Decide which projects those are. Gather my tools. Instead . . .
The Big Sur Workshop is the delicious carrot I'd been dangling just beyond, ever since September, when I quit writing to focus on L&R's wedding. I'll refocus on my writing, then, I'd promised myself. I'll commit to finding a new agent. Polish my stories. Finish revisions on my chapter books.
After the workshop, I'll fly to Reno to visit my mom and brother's family. Reno means cold, not Trinidad tropical. After Reno, I'll fly to Westhampton Beach, more cold. I need to dig out my woolies. Instead . . .
We'll spend the holidays in Westhampton Beach with M&M, L&R and Baby B.
Latest Baby B news: he's flipping front to back and sometimes back to front. And surprise, surprise, like his father before him, loves to be held...all the time!
Holidays means sorting out gifts I've already bought. Wrapping for folks here. Thank you envelopes. Cards. Packing my suitcases. Instead . . .
Reno in Winter means dressing like this
Curtis loves his woolies!
Trinidad means dressing like this:
Me and John ready for the beach!
After packing and hauling this mound of baggage for L&R's wedding, I was not excited about packing all over again . . .
I could have, should have, tackled this To-do List last week--or at least made a stab at it. But last week was Thanksgiving. And cooking a Thanksgiving Feast seemed more pressing. And more in keeping with my 2013 resolution "Live in the Moment" which I haven't been especially good at keeping.
My post Thanksgiving Feast plans has been for us to continue eating our way through the leftovers while I sorted, wrapped, packed today & tomorrow. (No hardship; "leftovers" is our favorite part of Thanksgiving.) Post dinner, Tuesday, I'd sort the fridge, freeze, repackage whatever remained of the feast.
This morning, pouring rain stopped me from keeping my other 2013 resolution "Exercise Regularly," too.
Maybe if I had said "yes" when Curtis asked if I'd like some coffee, I would have stuck to my plan.
Maybe if freibor, Brian, hadn't sent those recipes on ways to use Thanksgiving leftovers, it wouldn't have been on my mind.
But somehow, when I opened the fridge to pour milk into my coffee, the bowls and platters of leftovers called to me.
"Take us out!"
"Don't leave us like this!"
"We want to be used!"
"Mixed!
Blended!
Baked!
Transform us . . . PLEASE!"
And so, leftover mashed potatoes, chopped onion & parsley, butter & fresh grated Parmesan became "Potato Puffs"
Leftover marinated mushrooms, picky-platter pickles & olives and a couple of cans of beans--kidney, garbanzo & pinto--became "Bean Salad".
Leftover turkey, green beans, broth, gravy and the rest of the mashed potatoes became "Turkey Shepherd's Pie"
Leftover cranberry sauce, chopped pecans, and milky whipped cream became batter for "Cranberry Pecan Oat & Buckwheat Muffins", some of which I dropped into mini-muffin tins for now, the rest of which--thanks to a quick Internet surfing and instructions from Heavenly Homemakers.com, I froze for later.
Potatoe Puffs, Turkey Shepherd's Pie, Cranberry Oat Pecan Muffins, Marinated Bean Salad (not shown)
The Tupperware saleslady from The Husband's Secret by Liane Moriarity would be so proud!
And everything else that remained of our Thanksgiving 2013 feast was sorted into tidy plastic containers.
Then, because all the freezing muffin batter postings--I did say Internet Surfing as in ongoing activity and instructions, plural--suggested freezing them as muffin blogs, either in cupcake papers or directly in the tin, and I got to thinking "wouldn't it work to freeze the batter en mass?" I decided an experiment was in order. I spooned half the leftover muffin batter into a greased tin, as directed, and poured the rest into a small contain and froze it that way. My thought is semi-thawed I should work just fine. Procrastination? Ney, I have another work for it: Experimentation.
Oh yeah! And then, because I was so excited to share this brilliant frozen muffin batter idea here, I left the heaps of crusty feast dishes, pans, bowls, mixing and measuring utensils--not soaking--and raced over to my computer to type up this blog entry. I'll wash the dishes later. Right now, I better get started on that to-do list . . .
You procrastinate your way; I'll procrastinate mine. . . .
Thanks for the Memories
Thanksgiving, for me, begins with pie. P-I-E, pie. Not so much for the eating, as for the making of pies. For with the pie making come the memories.
Cherry, pumpkin, apple, pecan . . . Just saying the word, as the song goes, "Makes my eyes light up/My tummy say 'howdy'!"- from Shoo-fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdie
The memories begin creeping in while I’m writing my grocery list: apples, pecans, cranberries, canned pumpkin, corn syrup, pie spices, sugar, flour, shortening. . . American Thanksgiving is a feast in celebration of North American foods gathered at the first harvest. So it follows that American Thanksgiving foods are cooked from ingredients grown, produced, and readily available in North America.
How many hours did I spend going store to store in Indonesia searching for those same unheard of items? Explaining cranberry sauce and pecans to the Indonesian custom officers; baking my first fresh pumpkin pie; the barrage of text messages heralding “Ranch Market has Crisco!”
How I would have welcomed that text as I drove from shop to shop, round and round Port-of-Spain and surrounds, Tuesday. Trinidad stores are well-stocked and carry all manner of imported goods. I’d worried some, about finding a nice turkey, but never dreamed I’d spend hours searching for ground cloves and shortening, lard, or TT equivalent.
Shona and Charles lugged these blocks from New York to Turks & Caicos, Trinidad, Houston, and the 1000s of milesback to Port Alfred just so they'd grace their South African Thanksgiving.
Nanny, my grandmother, in 1981. Nanny always used Crisco brand shortening. Nanny would say she wasn’t much of a cook, (although, aside from red meat which she liked cooked until it was “tough as shoe leather” everyone disagreed; and no one ever left her table dissatisfied) & she made glorious pies.
Hand written recipes are pure gold. A smudge of chocolate here, a crusty bit there, memories of the dear ones who wrote them on every card.
My go-to cookbook and recipe folder, taped together and stuffed with hand-written recipes from my grandmother, my mom, their friends, my 10 year-old scratch.
From the time I was big enough to stand with my chin over the edge of the table, I helped. (Before that, the story goes, Nanny plopped me in the highchair with a blob of pie dough. I’d merrily mush and masticate while she rolled & baked.) She who capitalized the "P" in perfectionist, didn't allow anyone to interfere with the making of her pie. However, when the last pie was in the oven, training time--fun time--began. Nanny'd turn the rolling pin over to me.
I’d roll it, smear on a layer of butter, sprinkle on sugar and cinnamon, roll the dough into a long tube, cut it into bite-sized pieces and bake. We call these pie-twists. I taught my daughter to make them. And yesterday, Mimi and I used the last of the dough to make pie-twists, too. It’s what we do.
Mimi, my neifrie (upstairs neighbor & friend) came over yesterday while I baked pies. Not to “get in my way” she assured me, but more to watch and keep me company. Before Mimi arrived, I was kind-of, sort-of . . . a lot nervous. Even with several batches of my secret weapon, Nanny’s Never Fail Pie Crust, chilling in the fridge, things could go wrong. I prefer to “make corrections” without witnesses. . .
Who'd a thunk a chilled bottle of rum punch serving as rolling pin could result in such a fine lattice work top for a cherry pie? Adele, my mom-in-law gifted me with the bottle her grandmother used as a rolling pin.
We made a grand pie making adventure of it yesterday, Mimi and me. Mimi measured and mixed, stirred and washed while I rolled and crimped and fussed over each crust. Into each pie, along with the sugar and spice, fruit, flour and TT shortening substitute, we stirred memories—wisps of every holiday past and every person of them: my nanny, her mom and mine, our kids, our friends, our lives.
Thanks for the memories!
Sunday “Morn’n Morn’n” Trini-Style
How quickly new becomes norm. . . Our Sunday morning routine, for example. It came about as a form of penance. One Sunday morning we decided to pay for our night before indulgence with a hike up Lady Chancellor Hill, a long, shady, winding road rising up from the city of Port-of-Spain.
It’s named for Lady Sylvia Chancellor who “was born the year Queen Victoria died”, 1901. From what I could dig up, Lady Sylvia was a philanthropist who lived and died in England, so I have no clue why the hill is named for her, except that her obituary said she was a “tough” old bird and her hill, 3.2 k long with an ascent of 600 feet from base to look-out, is a “tough” old hill.
On a clear morning the view from the look-out is spec-tac-u-lar!
It has to be way early Sunday, don't ya know, for the road through St. James to be this empty.
On the drive to "the Hill"—either to fortify himself and/or postpone the impending punishment—Curtis pulled up beside a road-side stand in St. James selling “doubles.”
Vendors wake in the wee hours to cook up a batch of curried chickpeas and fry up stacks of bread for the day.
Popular doubles vendors will have a crowd around. "One for here, one for take-away" and they sell out early.
Doubles sauces include mango, shado beni (a green sauce made from a cilantro-like herb), tamarind, and pepper sauce, if desired (I like it “slight” meaning a dash, Curtis likes more)
Wrapped and twisted in wax paper, my doubles ready to take-away
Doubles is? are?* hands down and dripping with sauce, the most popular Trinidadian street food. A "doubles" is a curried chickpea sandwich, really, but so much more: a shot-put sized round of flat bread, called “bara” is topped with a dollop of curried chick peas, splashed with sauces, and a second “bara” is placed on top.
According to Wikipedia (my go-to source for quick info) “Doubles was invented in Princes Town, Trinidad by “Emamool Deen (a.k.a. Mamoodeen) and his wife Rasulan in 1936.” They started by topping a single round of bara with curried chickpeas. However, customers would ask them to “double the bara, hence the name ‘doubles’ evolved”
We bought a couple of doubles (2 for $8, about $1.30 U.S.) drove part-way up the hill to the Horticulture Society parking lot, sat on the edge of a planter, gobbled down our doubles, then hiked the hill.
The next Sunday we did it again. And now it’s “what we do.”
While we walk/climb/creep up Lady Chancellor, because "Trinis", Trinidadians, we pass, regardless of age or how winded, calls out “Morn’n Morn’n!” or “Guh-day! Guh-day” always two times—doubles—we do that too.
“Morn’n Morn’n!
* Is they is or is they are? My friebor Brian pointed out that doubles singular or plural is still doubles
Popsicles
What Inspires: POPSICLES I’m waiting in my dermatologist’s office to have my annual “mole check.” (Moles? Creepy name, always makes my skin crawl. . . Is one more burrowing up from under my skin right now???) Anyway . . .
There is a brochure on the table for a non-invasive fat melting procedure called “Cool Sculpting.” (Oh please, do not pretend you wouldn’t pick up a brochure promising “fat melting”, too.) The explanation inside explains that the revolutionary discover which lead to “Cool Sculpting” technology came because someone noticed that children with dimples eat more popsicles.
Who do you suppose that “someone” was? And how was the data gathered? Did someone race around after Ice Cream trucks? Or did someone take playground to playground surveys.
Genetically speaking: “Dimples are visible indentations formed as a result of the underlying flesh of the cheeks. . . actually the manifestations of a birth defect resulting from a shortened facial muscle. A dimple is the outcome of a fault in the subcutaneous connective tissue that develops during embryonic development.” (From a BRAIN TRAIN post about dimples.)
Genetic’s aside: It seems the icy popsicles being sucked against the inner cheek of the child over an extended period of time kills fat cells in the cheek. Makes um less “cheeky” (If I’d known that I might have sent a couple certain someones chasing the Ice Cream Truck more often.)
Which jives perfectly with more from the BRAIN TRAIN: And sometimes, “A variation in the structure of the facial muscle zygomaticus major is known to cause dimples.” And leads us back to “Cool Sculpture”:
Does this mean that people with only one dimple only sucked popsicles on one side? And did that someone tally statistics to find out if there are more right-side suckers or left-side suckers? Or is the split pretty much fifty-fifty dreamsicle-style? If that’s the case, fair jurors could be almost guaranteed (if we limit the drawing pool to folks with dimples in both cheeks.)
I always wanted dimples. I used to stand in front of the mirror with my cheeks sucked in wishing I had them. I wonder: If I start sucking popsicles now, can I grow some dimples? (Or is it lose?)
And what about people with dimpled chins? Where do they suck their popsicles?
Remember the adage “Dimple in chin, Devil within”? Is “Devil” a euphemism for unflavored popsicles (otherwise known as icicle)? Weather-wise it’s been called devilishly cold—so cold it feels hot as the devil.
Dimpled knees?
Dimpled butts? ………………………………..Fudgesicles? (I know, I shouldn’t have . . .)
Or Dimpled feet? …………………………………… Say maybe what’s the idea behind Michael Frank’s odd-but-catchy ditty: “Popsicle toes are always froze . . . ”
Popsicles . . .