I Hide My Chocolate

Butternut Squash Panzanella

aka Butternut Squash Panda Elk

I have a lot of food rules. Whole grains! Less bread! Less sugar! No dessert! It’s exhausting.

In an attempt to be a bit more flexible with what I eat, and to reinstill my joy in cooking … and eating, I’ve been trying new recipes that I think both my husband and I will like. This winter salad is delicious. I adapted it from a recipe that was recently published in the New York Times and it is easily adjusted and reinterpreted to fit your taste and your mood.

It was a big hit and is now in regular rotation. When I texted my husband what we were having for dinner, “Panzanella” (bread salad) auto-corrected as “Panda Elk,” which is now our nickname for this dish.

Butternut Squash Panzanella

1 ¼ pounds butternut squash, peeled and chopped into 1/2” chunks

Olive Oil (about 11 Tablespoons)

8 oz bread (stale bread is traditional – I used a high quality loaf of not-stale sourdough), torn into 1/2” chunks

10 oz sugar snaps, trimmed

3-4 stalks celery, chopped fine

1 small bunch arugula, rinsed, dried, and torn into smaller pieces

3 Tablespoons red wine vinegar

1 Tablespoon chopped fresh sage

4 oz goat cheese (optional)

2-3 Tablespoons pignoli toasted (optional)

Heat oven to 425° F. Toss the squash with 2 tablespoons olive oil. Roast 25 minutes or until soft and caramelized at the edges, turning the chunks halfway through. Remove from heat.

Heat 4 tablespoons olive oil in a large, heavy skillet over medium heat. Add bread and toast until crisp, about 5-10 minutes. Remove from heat.

Steam sugar snaps in microwave for about 2-3 minutes, still a little crisp.

Combine sugar snaps, celery, sage, 5 tablespoons olive oil, 3 tablespoons vinegar. Let sit for 30 minutes. Celery will soften and absorb the vinaigrette.

Combine squash, bread, arugula, vinaigrette mixture. Add cheese and nuts, if using.

Serves 3 as a main course and 6 as a side dish.

January 29, 2016

Friday Night Dinner

Snow Day Lentil Stew

Dinner is a juggling act. My husband would prefer Spaghetti and Meatballs. Every night. Fortunately he makes meatballs regularly so they are on frequent rotation. My son is currently aligned with his dad, which is as it should be a 16. He thinks Mom is kind of strange. Loveable but quirky. Indeed. Nothing makes me happier than some vegetarian concoction and frequent breaks from pasta.

By Friday night, after a week of everyone going in different directions with different activities and different food cravings, we try to come together. Sometimes, now, it is just my husband and me. While he cooks the more traditional fare over the weekend, ideally with leftovers, Friday night is my territory. I try to find something quick (I’m tired!) and healthy.

Snow-bound on Saturday, I was in the mood for lentil soup and rummaged through the tired vegetables in the back of the vegetable bin to round it out. I hate canned soup (too thin, too salty, not enough flavor), but frequently make homemade soup/stew in the winter. Perfect for a weekend lunch or an easy Friday night dinner.

Snow Day Lentil Stew, with Potatoes and Celery

4-5 Tablespoons olive oil

4 cloves garlic, minced

4-6 stalks celery, chopped fine

(Onion and Carrot would be good also but I didn’t have)

1 small Idaho potato or 3 Yukon Golds, chopped fine (I pre-cooked the Idaho potato in the microwave for 2 minutes)

1 cup lentils (I prefer French Green lentils, they are smaller and the texture is more firm, less mushy)

5-6 cups of water

Thyme

1 teaspoon of salt

Pepper, to taste

1 teaspoon white wine vinegar

Plain Greek Yogurt (Fage 0%)

Heat olive oil in medium to large sauce pan

Saute garlic, celery, potato and any other vegetables in the back of your refrigerator. Take your time with this step, a good 10-15 minutes, stirring infrequently, so that everything gets a little bit crispy brown. When your wonder if you’ve gone too far and worry that it’s about to burn, it’s perfect.

Add lentils and water and thyme.

Simmer for an hour, until potatoes and lentils are soft. Add vinegar, salt, and pepper.

If too thin, you can take about a third of the soup and blend it. Return it to the rest of the soup to thicken the texture.

Top with 1-2 Tablespoons of plain Greek. Yum! This is the trick that adds creaminess and tang. My husband prefers his with parmesan cheese and Sriacha.

Serve as is with good bread or over brown rice or quinoa. Salad and wine round out the meal.

Serves 4

3 Comments

January 23, 2016

Panic or Exhilaration? Your Choice.

Viparita Dandasana

When I wrote my previous post, I was on a yoga HIGH. So high that I glossed over the moment where I almost had a panic attack. Almost. But didn’t. Maybe that’s why I was so exhilarated?

I’m not prone to panic attacks, so this was unusual, but I do tend to be anxious. Spend a few minutes in my brain around 2:17 am or 8:01 am or 3:33 pm or 9:15 pm and you’d be anxious also. It’s a constant struggle, alternating between worry that I am not good enough, fear that something bad will happen, and fantasizing about an unrealistic future. It goes something like this:

What if I get fired? I wonder if I could make a living with writing, teaching, and Reiki? What if we lost the house? My husband would leave me. Where would I live? Would I stay in New York or move somewhere else? Back to D.C.? Why isn’t my father answering the phone? What if he is dead? How am I going to deal with the house and all his stuff when he dies? I want to be near the kids. My son thinks I love my daughter more than I love him. I am a terrible mother. How could I let that happen? Dammit. I need sleep! So I don’t lose my job. I’m breathing in. I’m breathing out. Try chanting. Abahu purusakaram. I forgot to water the plants.

And so on. However, after years of therapy and years of yoga, I’ve discovered a secret. For me, anxiety is a habit, a go-to emotion that I can change, not a disability that is inherent in my nature. It’s a learned response based on my upbringing and how my parents dealt with their anxiety and enabled my anxiety. It’s gotten me out of stuff I didn’t want to do and gotten other people to take care of me. And, let’s face it, anxiety is a terrific motivator! (If it doesn’t paralyze you.) We all have anxiety. It’s what we do with it that can make the difference between living a circumspect life versus a more open and courageous life. My biggest fear is that I will die regretting that I didn’t do more. Well, no, my biggest fear is that I will lose a child. And that is the worst anxiety that grips me at 2:17 am.

Back to my almost panic attack. After we worked on lifting our ankles and stretching our armpits, among other things, we did some back-bending poses. Back-bending poses alleviate depression and are exhilarating, though they can increase anxiety. I was a textbook case on Monday. We did a pose, similar to the one pictured above, where we used the chair to support and encourage lengthening and flexibility in the back, opening our chest, throat, and neck. With a more familiar teacher and class, I might have stopped myself.

Sometimes, you need to get out of your comfort zone and do something different. Hear differently. See differently.

The teacher looked at me as I was wiggling my way into the chair, oh-so-cautiously preparing for the pose. (Frankly I was procrastinating.) He said he thought it might be good for my neck, providing a stretch, not a compression (as in headstand, which I currently don’t do). I was skeptical. And afraid, but proceeded. I got into the pose, and gently let my head lean backwards. My neck, throat, and heart open. Exposed.

That’s when the panic arose.

Whoa! My head is heavy. Body scan. Does this hurt? I don’t think so. But it should hurt! Breath tightens, fear arises. Is it okay? Body scan. Does this hurt? I don’t think so. But it should hurt! Breath tightens, fear arises. Can I get out of the pose? When can I get out of the pose? What if I can’t get out of the pose? Breath tightens, fear arises. Should I ask for help? He’s busy helping other students. Maybe I should get out of the pose. I need help! Breath tightens, fear arises. God Damn Iyengar Yoga. Why do they hold poses for so long? Body scan. Hmmm, maybe it doesn’t hurt. Breathe. I’m breathing in. I’m breathing out. Oh! I think I just felt my ear open up a bit. No, I must get out of this pose. Now! I’m going to regret this tomorrow. What if I really hurt myself? Breathe. Oh! I just felt my neck release. When is this pose going to end? How am I going to lift my head out of this pose without hurting myself? I must get out of this pose. Now! Breathe. I’m breathing in. I’m breathing out. Oh! My neck released some more. Phew. Pose is over. I am not doing it again. There’s no fucking way I’m doing this again. But. How about that. Hmmm. I did it!

That’s when the exhilaration arose.

There is new research released recently that studied the brains of people undergoing stress and anxiety. The brains of highly resilient people were demonstrated to acknowledge the stress and anxiety but to dampen the response. Those who were not resilient, who succumbed to the panic, didn’t respond to the anxiety and the stress until it was too late. Breathing became difficult and they overreacted, making the situation worse. One conclusion is that through mindful breathing exercises, you can become more tuned into your reactions and more able to control your response without overreacting.

Breathe. Feel. Feel fear. Feel panic. Feel exhilaration. Feel love. Feel joy. Breathe.

Photo Credit: Viparita Dandasana by Bobby Clennell

10 Comments

January 18, 2016

Lift Your Ankles!

Expand Your Heart

I decided to spend today’s holiday at my office even though it was closed. I have been very anxious about my workload as I more enthusiastically embrace a strategic role that involves interacting with high level decision-makers, not easy for an INFJ who would really be very happy quietly thinking by myself, at least most of the time. It was a good decision. The office was empty and I was able to concentrate and prepare for an upcoming meeting. After 4 hours, which was the equivalent of about 104 hours of a regular day filled with meetings and distracting emails, I decided to balance the day with a yoga class at The Inyengar Institute, a studio that is not particularly convenient so I don’t go very often. It is not my “home” studio and I don’t know the students nor the teachers. It took some coaxing to get myself there.

It was a Level 2 class. You’d think by now, after all these years of practicing yoga and teaching yoga, I’d have advanced to at least a Level 3. But it seems that the more yoga I do, the more I’m aware of how much I can still learn from a Level 1 or Level 2 class. And how unwilling I now am to overdo it in a more advanced class and get hurt.

The class was filled with Manhattan yogi’s. But that doesn’t mean what you might think. They weren’t young, athletic, competitive, flexible. They were Iyengar yogi’s, which are a slightly different breed, mainly older. Perhaps wiser, because they’ve dealt with injury. There were a variety of body types and abilities. What struck me was that everyone stood straight, looked you in the eye, and was welcoming. Iyengar yogi’s. A good bunch.

The teacher, a thoughtful and inspiring Matt Dreyfus, greeted me, listened to me share my physical ailments and quietly observed my anxiety and tension and physical pain. He made sure I was safe the entire class, all while keeping track of about 30 other students.

Class began. A completely normal Iyengar class. Who knows when the completely normal class that might be ho hum for one person feels transformational for another? We chanted. So slowly that the OM reverberated through my body. We started working on poses. In Iyengar Yoga, (unlike Vinyasa where you move and flow dance-like from pose to pose with the breath), you hold poses, using props, and building toward a peak pose. It is perhaps boring. The endless and precise instruction. Or it can be exhilarating. Today it was exhilarating. Matt implored us to lift our ankles! We explored the subtle movements that this entailed. We watched him lift his ankles. We laughed at the absurdity of lifting your ankles. And then we felt how different we felt when we lifted our ankles. How our legs became longer. How our spine became longer. How our chest, our heart, expanded. How our breath moved more freely. Wow.

Then we worked on back-bends, those heart-openers that alleviate depression and remind you that it’s good to be alive. Helpful when so many are dying. We worked with the chair. I found myself slightly panicking. Worried about my neck. Worried I might fall. I breathed into my fear. And felt my neck relax. Exhilarated that I did it.

It reminded me of the power of yoga. When you change your body – Stand up straight! Lift your ankles! Stretch you armpits! Expand your chest! Feel your heart! Soften you eyes and your tongue! – you change your mind. The worries of the day-to-day seem petty when compared to the vastness, the divinity of humanity.

Matt spoke about the purpose of yoga. Most of us are so absorbed in our thoughts and attach great importance to them: worrying, fantasizing, planning, hoping, regretting, wanting. Always wanting. With yoga, we focus on the breath and bring attention to the poses which allows us to take a break from all that chatter in our minds. When we can pause and find stillness, we can begin to observe all those crazy thoughts and begin to realize that they are just thoughts. They are not real. They are biased by our experiences.

He encouraged us to feel spacious. Larger than ourselves, larger than our thoughts. When you feel spacious and larger than just you, you feel connected to others and are more able to stand straight, make eye contact, and be welcoming to all. You take your yoga off the mat and into your world. A little bit closer to Martin Luther King’s dream of freedom for all.

Drawing: Downward Facing Dog by Lovetta Reyes-Cairo

4 Comments

December 31, 2015

Sankalpa

May I Be Open

Thank God Christmas is over! Too much food, too many people, too much to do. The austerity of cold and bracing January beckons. Hunker down and resolve to achieve. After all, disciplined effort is where I excel.

Funny though, how all those years of new year’s resolutions haven’t made me happier. I am still the same person at my core. Intense, curious, anxious, becoming happier, more relaxed, more generous and loving and confident. My cuticle-picking has improved slightly. (Good God, I remember resolving to not pick my nails back in college. I’m DONE with that resolution!) I don’t need to lose weight (disciplined effort is where I excel), and I’ve cut out all the meat I’m going to cut out.

So, what’s on deck for 2016? Goals? Teach more yoga! Become a Reiki Master! Take my blog to the next level! Meditate, every day! Learn to sing a new song every month! Write more thank you notes! Yes, good goals. I will work towards them. But they are still outward-facing, achievement-oriented goals with tasks attached.

What if, instead of deprivational lifestyle changes or ambitious goals that imply I am not good enough or have not achieved enough, I started with the premise that I am good enough? Just as I am? Perfect in my imperfection? What would I do?

What if you are good enough, just as you are? What would you do?

Maybe I would smile more. Laugh more. Be more open and inviting to other people. Worry and complain less. Judge less. Compete less. Say Thank You more. Forgive.

Maybe I wouldn’t need to gossip or provoke other people to gossip in order to feel good about myself. Maybe I could simply accept other people for who they are and where they are on their journey, right now, instead of wishing they were different or would change. Because maybe they are good enough just as they are. Imperfectly perfect.

What a relief!

There is a fragile moment of choice before acting. It’s a choice between being open and shutting down. Making eye contact or looking straight ahead. Saying yes or saying no. Choosing to scorn with judgment or empathize with compassion. We rely on habitual patterns of behavior and thought and expectations of what we should do or should think. But what if, at that moment of choice before acting, I checked in with my heart and gut and listened. Choosing compassion, honesty, joy, love. To decide to do the right thing, for me, not the expected thing.

There is a girl. She is painfully introverted and socially awkward. I see her walking in her bubble with her earbuds. She’s odd. Perhaps her parents are odd. It’s easy to judge, to laugh, to scorn. I’ve been that girl. With the odd parents. Afraid to make eye contact. Hoping no one notices me. They will think I’m weird! Maybe they are dangerous! How much happier I would have been if I had worried less, feared less, and smiled more, greeting my fellow humans with openness. When I put myself in her shoes, I want to smile and wave, somehow convey to her that she is okay. But she looks down and I keep my safe distance.

There is a yoga concept, Sankalpa. It means to make a promise to yourself. To resolve to act. Act on your most innermost desire, according to your life purpose. It honors that you are imperfectly perfect just as you are. That you will make mistakes. Like meditation and yoga, you will come back to the breath and try again. While it might involve breaking a negative habit, like nail-picking, or creating a new habit, like meditating daily, it comes from a deeper place of resolve from within, to love and be your best you. You need to be very still and listen to your soul to determine your sankalpa.

So, this year, instead of wishing I were something other than I am, I will pause in that fragile moment. Remember that I have a choice. I will listen to me, not what I think others expect. I will reach out to others more and worry about myself less.

Perhaps, just perhaps, it is as simple as what my friend posted about what she has learned from her dog. (Thank you Kirsten.)

Life Lessons from Beau

Wake up each morning convinced it’s going to be the best day EVER. Become giddy with excitement each time someone you love enters the room. Go for as many walks as possible. But don’t growl at the cat, because that’s not nice.

Oh, and when I forget, I will be kind. Kind to myself, kind to others, kind to my family. (It’s so easy to forget to be kind to one’s family – when really, we should greet them with giddy excitement every time we see them, like Beau.) And when I forget, I will try again.

Credit: Heart of Gold 2, by Shannon Grissom

4 Comments

December 19, 2015

I Need Nothing More

‘Tis The Season for Kindness

In this hectic, busy busy busy season – a time of year when I rage against the crowds, the spending, the too high expectations I set for myself, and counter the stress each year by gradually allowing myself to do less and less and buy less and less – I dashed out of the house without my wallet yesterday.

This realization hit me, hard, as the train conductor came by to check tickets. Damn! I cursed, frantically searching my bag. I explained my predicament. He recognized me, pondered what to do, walked away to check more tickets, came back, and gave me a bye. My seat partner, a complete stranger to me, offered me her subway metrocard. Who does that?! I thanked her profusely and told her I didn’t need it. We smiled. A connection made.

I walked to my office. One of my office mates noticed that I seemed disconcerted. I explained my predicament. She and every other colleague proceeded to whip out a $20 for me. I was turning away money! At the office holiday party that afternoon, my Secret Santa gave me Adele’s new CD and B.K.S. Iyengar’s Light on Yoga. Now that is a thoughtful person who knows me. Music and yoga? I need nothing more.

I was pretty sure my luck would run out on the commute home. I arrived at Grand Central at 5:03 and ran to catch the 5:04. The conductor came by to collect tickets. I explained why I didn’t have my monthly pass. He muttered, “Show it to me next time.”

And there you have it. A day filled with kindness. I need nothing more.

Thank you. Thank you everyone.

Photo Credit: Red Ribbon by SK Pfphotography

November 14, 2015

We Hurt Everywhere

May We Go On

I understand anger. Kill them all! I feel anger.

I understand fear. Don’t go there! I feel fear.

I understand despair. There is no hope! I feel despair.

More than anything, I feel despair.

What now? How do we make sense of another 129 people dead? How do we go on?

I’ve gotten used to saying good-bye in the morning, after 9/11, whispering I love you, and wondering. Will I come home tonight? Will you? I no longer have burning ambition for my life. I am okay. What will be will be.

But I am heart-broken for my children. I want them to want to travel. I want them to want to change the world. I want them to want to bring children into the world. But what world is this?

The hatred is palpable. Why do they hate us so much? Why do we hate them so much? Why is there us and them? Aren’t we all human beings living on Earth? The last I read, there is very little DNA difference between us and chimps and virtually no difference between us and them.

If we kill them, they will kill us back and then we will kill them back and then they will kill us back. Is that what it will take? The apocalypse? We will kill ourselves. And our Earth.

More than anything, I feel despair.

I sympathize with the angry warmongers. But I want to believe the spiritual leaders who tell us to pray. For that is all I can do today. Pray for Paris. Pray for us. Pray for them. Pray for love. Pray for peace. Pray for my children and their children and their children and their children. May we go on.

“later that night

i held an atlas in my lap

ran my fingers across the whole world

and whispered

where does it hurt?

it answered

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere.”

― Warsan Shire

Image Credit: World Map in Orange and Blue by Michael Tompsett

1 Comment

November 8, 2015

Ruth’s Sriracha Shrimp Over Coconut Rice

My Version

I love Ruth Reichl. Love. Love. Love. So much so, that for a long period of my life I wanted to BE Ruth Reichl.

(When you are not so happy with yourself, you spend a lot of time and energy wanting to be other people. People who you imagine are happier and more successful than you and who embody qualities you wish you had. As you become more happy with yourself, more kind to yourself, you realize that these other people are a-jumble, just like you.)

Not that Ruth is a-jumble. Well, actually she is and she admits it, but no more a-jumble than me, or you, or anyone else. Which is another reason why I love Ruth. She is real.

She was at the forefront of the California food trends of the 1970’s and 1980’s. Cooking more fresh, local, organic foods. Experimenting, traveling, discovering. Her food-themed memoirs with lively and lovely personal stories have been a big influence on me. Her curiosity seems insatiable as she goes exploring all over to try delicious food. I’m always awe-struck when she describes hunting down some obscure restaurant in a sketchy part of the world – something I would never have the nerve to do. She had several of my (many) dream jobs: Restaurant critic for the New York Times, and my ultimate dream job, Editor of Gourmet Magazine.

I grew up with Gourmet and slaved over many of its complicated recipes in the 70’s. Somehow I poured my obsession with food into cooking it because I would not allow myself to eat very much of it.

I worked at Condé Nast when she was at Gourmet and one of the things I loved about her was that she was real. Unlike many (well, most) of the iconic editors there, she came across as petite, friendly, open, genuine. I still stammered on the few occasions when I got to speak with her. Fandom leaves me speechless.

When her latest book released recently, My Kitchen Year: 136 Recipes that Saved My Life, I rushed out to buy it. I could completely empathize. Depressed, angry, directionless after the closing of Gourmet, she retreated to the kitchen to cook. The book is personal. Each recipe has a story and one of her special food haiku’s. And, perhaps most personal of all, each recipe is one that she really cooks and really eats. How better to know someone than to cook and eat with them?

While I am loving the memoir-aspect of the book, I am less enamored of the cookbook-aspect of it. Physically, the book is hard to cook from because it doesn’t open flat. But most of all, I don’t want to cook and eat like Ruth. At least, not any more. Too much meat, too much butter, with sometimes time-consuming details (that I am sure make all the difference in the flavor, but I don’t want to bother). While she cooks for flavor, I cook more for health.

It was with some difficulty that I found a recipe I wanted to try that I thought I would like (meat-free and relatively healthy!) and that I thought my husband would also enjoy (spicy!).

I made it last night and it was completely and absolutely luscious and delicious. The only change I made to the recipe was to use Brown Basmati Rice instead of White Basmati Rice (more nutritious!).

Here is the recipe, (my version), with her haiku:

Ruth’s Sriracha Shrimp Over Coconut Rice

Spicy Shrimp. Fiery red heat of

Sriracha. Cool jumble of asparagus,

garlic, ginger. Onions, gentle tropical

sweetness of coconut rice. Good!

-Ruth Reichl

Coconut Rice

1 Tablespoon Butter

½ can or 7 oz Unsweetened Coconut Milk

7 oz Water

1 cup Brown Basmati Rice

One of the tricks I learned from Ruth is to rinse rice before cooking. I have never done this. It makes a difference!

Heat 1 Tablespoon butter in sauce pan. Rinse rice. Add to saucepan. Stir into the butter and heat for a few minutes until rice is coated with the butter and just beginning to toast. Add coconut milk and water. Bring to a boil. Simmer for 50 minutes. Let sit for another 10 minutes until all liquid is absorbed and rice is no longer hard and crunchy but about to transform from chewy to soft.

Sriracha Shrimp

1 lb Wild American Shrimp, shelled and deveined

3-4 Tablespoons Lime Juice – squeeze 1 lime

3-4 Tablespoons Sriracha

4 Tablespoons Olive Oil

1 (small) Onion, chopped

2 Garlic Cloves, chopped

1 Tablespoon Ginger, chopped

1 lb Asparagus, peel stems and cut into 1 inch pieces, discarding thick, hard ends of the stalks

Marinate shrimp in the lime juice and the Sriracha for 15-30 minutes, while the rice is cooking.

Heat oil in large frying pan. Sautée onion, garlic, ginger until soft and beginning to brown – about 5 minutes. Add asparagus. Cook for about 5 minutes until it begins to brown. Cover pan and turn off heat until asparagus softens. This step might not be necessary if the asparagus is very thin. When rice is done and you are ready to eat, turn up heat and add shrimp with the marinade. Cook until shrimp is barely done, about 3-4 minutes. It is crucial to almost undercook the shrimp, so that the shrimp doesn’t get tough.

Divide rice into bowls or plates. Spoon shrimp and asparagus mixture over the rice. Serve with extra Sriracha and lime wedges.

YUM! Toast Ruth. (We drank an inexpensive chianti with a bit of bite.)

Serves 2 enormous portions or 3 normal portions or 4 polite portions. (My husband and I split it – but were quite full afterwards.)

2 Comments

October 29, 2015

Too Old To Dress Up

Being Someone Else

“Hey Mom, maybe I’ll just wear some vampire teeth. Mr. C said he would be disappointed if I didn’t dress up.”

My son lets this announcement drop so quietly I could have missed it.

At 16, he is self-conscious and wants to fit in and be cool. Even though, secretly, I know he loves Halloween and dressing up. Well, we can’t disappoint Mr. C! Off we go to find some vampire teeth. (And maybe a cape? And maybe some makeup?)

As a little boy, he would dash from house to house shrieking with delight and dressed up (memorably) as Thomas the Train, Indiana Jones, or Captain Jack Sparrow. I would put all kinds of glow-in-the-dark devices on him, terrified of cars, but there was no stopping him. And who could blame him? A child let loose at twilight, allowed to be someone else, with unlimited candy! What could be more thrilling?

But then the shift happens.

“I don’t think I’ll go trick-or-treating. Maybe I’ll just decorate the house this year.” This announcement dropped like a thud about 4 years ago. We got the sticky, stretchy cobweb stuff for your bushes, a giant mechanical spider that drops down in an alarming way, a very cool fog machine, and a few other tacky and extravagant knick knacks that spend 50 weeks a year in the attic.

The following year it was, “I think I’ll just pass out the candy this year.”

Slowly the willingness to put yourself out there with enthusiastic and ridiculous abandon diminishes. I am no help. I used to love dressing up but now am too busy busy busy to be bothered. Halloween becomes another chore. Decorate. Undecorate. Buy candy. Figure out costumes. There was the year I spent all weekend laboriously crafting a handmade costume for my 2 year old daughter, when all she really wanted was to hang out with me. Do we really need to carve a pumpkin? My husband used to create the most fabulous carved pumpkins, inspired by the kids’ drawings. What happened?

Oh and to state the obvious: A holiday devoted to excessive amounts of candy is a nightmare for someone with eating issues. I used to binge on Halloween candy. Enough to make anyone hate candy for the rest of their life. Here is a useful tip for those of you who haven’t mastered this trick. Convince yourself you hate a food item and then it will become easier to avoid eating it. I HATE HALLOWEEN CANDY! Um, that’s not entirely true. I actually like Reese’s Peanut Butter cups and allow myself about 1 on Halloween. Maybe 2.

I digress.

So when that casual nonchalant comment about dressing up this year dropped in my ear so quietly I almost missed it, I jumped at the chance to reignite my son’s childhood love of Halloween as he transitions through murky adolescence. Maybe he will even go trick-or-treating! I can just see them. A few gangly 16-year-olds, towering over their childish counterparts. They probably won’t be wearing elaborate costumes. Their “trick-or-treat” will come from newly deep voices. They may have a bit of scrubble on their faces. No longer children. Not quite men.

Thank you Mr. C for giving my son permission to dress up for Halloween.

October 25, 2015

The Bowl

A Gift of Love That Can’t Be Broken

Emily, the bowl broke. The one you gave me us as a wedding gift nearly 22 years ago.

I was in the bathroom when I heard the crash. I knew exactly what it was. I had enlisted my son and his friend to do the dishes. It becomes a game when you’re not the one who does the dishes every night after night after night and you have a friend over to help. They were happy and having fun. It’s good I was in the bathroom. I had time to pause and think about my reaction. Not like my husband who blurted out something like “What the hell are you thinking?!” I didn’t know he cared about the bowl. He is surprisingly sentimental and attached to the stuff of our life together.

We received a lot of bowls as wedding gifts to celebrate our marriage. We call it the wedding of the bowls. And why not? The symbolism of a bowl ready to be filled with food, life, and love is apt. I broke a beautiful large handmade pottery salad bowl the first time I washed it. It was heavy and the soap made it slip right out of my hands. It was a gift from a dear friend. I was crushed, unsure I was going to be good at this marriage, and fretted that I would not be able to reciprocate all the dinners she hosted for me. We break out a lovely Nambé bowl on the occasions when we have friends over for dinner. There are the attractive and useful pasta bowls that we use all the time. And there’s the really ugly bowl that is probably still in the basement in its box.

Yours, dear Emily, was special. A set of two handmade bowls by an artisan ceramicist in Chapel Hill. We used the smaller one, the one that broke, just about every night. It held the evening’s sugar snaps, or cantaloupe chunks, or little red potatoes, or rice and beans, or my daughter’s crop of eggplant from the last summer before she went to college. Usually it held Sally’s Salad. We still have the larger one, but it’s the smaller one that was so much a part of our daily life, with its pretty fluted rim.

As I paused in the bathroom, I pondered the symbolism of the broken bowl. The lovely vessel given to me us by my oldest friend, more a sister to me. The container that held so much of our family dinner, our family life, our family love. Is the broken bowl a harbinger of a broken marriage, a broken friendship? Will our marriage survive the transition to dinners with just the two of us? No children? No bowl? Is the break a referendum on how I do friendships? Busy busy busy and self-absorbed, geographically distant. How does anyone sustain deeply meaningful relationships anymore?

I can’t believe we thought you would make it to the wedding. Three weeks after giving birth to your first-born. It didn’t seem possible to set a different date that would work better for you. As we become adults, the relationship with our partner becomes the priority relationship over other relationships. We move to be with them. And then if and when the children arrive, nothing is more important than the next generation. We think we have time. Like a college student traveling in a foreign country who thinks they will come back and have time to appreciate the exotic destination. We think next year I will make time to visit my friend. Next reunion I will make time to catch up with my friends. But before we know it, we run out of time.

After 22 years of marriage and 42 years of friendship, however, the bonds are deeper than ever. More forgiving of past transgressions, more tolerant of differences, more appreciative of shared history, more interested than ever in each other’s lives.

I leave the bathroom, anxious to let the boys know I understand the broken bowl is an accident. I know they feel badly. After all, it is the gift of love represented by the bowl that is what matters, not the bowl itself.

Thank you Emily for all you have given me.

Japanese Bowl

I’m like one of those Japanese bowls
That were made long ago
I have some cracks in me
They have been filled with gold

That’s what they used back then
When they had a bowl to mend
It did not hide the cracks
It made them shine instead

So now every old scar shows
from every time I broke
And anyone’s eyes can see
I’m not what I used to be

But in a collector’s mind
All of these jagged lines
Make me more beautiful
And worth a higher price

I’m like one of those Japanese bowls
I was made long ago
I have some cracks you can see
See how they shine of gold.
-Peter Mayer

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