Here's Your Hat, What's Your Hurry?

So I guess my mother has been on my mind since I cleaned out her recipe box last week. Actually, this past week has been full of those small coincidences that make you think the Universe is sending messages. For instance, yesterday, Andrea went out to the garden and returned with half a dozen cucumbers. "Where's your friend?" she asked. She knows that I don't even like cucumbers; I only grow them for my friend Kathleen, who loves them. "Oh, yeah, I haven't talked to Kathleen in awhile. I need to message her," I replied. I swear, it was only a minute later that a message from Kathleen popped up on Messenger! "We haven't talked in awhile. Are you free on Monday?" she wrote. So yeah, that happened.

But back to my mother. "Here's your hat, what's your hurry?" was one of Mom's favorite expressions. This somewhat contradictory phrase was used to rush some visitor out the door in a more polite way than saying, "Time for you to go now!" Why my mother used this phrase enough for me to remember her saying it (always as a joke) is rather puzzling, as we didn't have many visitors, nor did we visit others very often. But clearly, she loved the phrase. Her other favorite phrase was "God dammit to hell!" (My father's was "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!") I grew up on these exclamations and learned to pay attention to the tone of voice when they were uttered. You could say that I grew up in a very religious household, I guess?

Anyway, my memory of the phrase (thanks, Mom) comes at a time when people I love have been coming and going in a crazy hurry. After my daughter's North Carolina wedding, the rest of my family gathered here in New Jersey. And then the coming and going began. First, E left. Then C and J left, then S and A and L left. A and L returned, then J returned. Then J and A and L left, and tomorrow J and C return, only to leave again next week. And then K will come home for a few days. After that, I will be alone for the rest of the summer. (Do you know how hard it was for me to get that down in order?) I tried to make a word out of those initials, but all I could come up with was JACKELS, a misspelling of jackals. Well, look up "jackals" in Wikipedia and you will find that the jackal is frequently used as "a literary device to illustrate desolation, loneliness, and abandonment." Does the Universe send messages? I rest my case.

Oh, on a somewhat related note, my dove is back on her nest, and the male is sitting on the fence and boasting about it. I like knowing that those in love can be reunited. Thanks for the sign, Universe!

The Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library

About a dozen years ago, my mother moved from her apartment to a "ladies' home." We could no longer ignore the mental decline that Alzheimers had laid upon her. After a year there, we moved her to the New Jersey Veterans Home in Edison where she died four years later. It was the long goodbye.

But back to the move from her apartment. My brother and sister and I met there to remove Mom's belongings, a tedious and emotional task. While my sister and I sentimentalized over certain items, my brother was intent upon getting the job done. But when I watched him throw her recipe box into the garbage, I couldn't hold back. "No!" I yelled, retrieving the box. Soon after, my brother gave up the effort and left. I took my treasures home with me.

After my mother died, I took out the box, but was too overwhelmed to do anything with it. And so it sat on a shelf for the past seven or eight years. Until today.

I am intent on downsizing, getting rid of "stuff" that has collected in this house over thirty years. This morning, I cleaned out my own "recipe box," and then remembered my mother's. I will not get those two hours back, but I did get an idea for this blog. Here we go . . .

Although I didn't count, I would guess that there were probably a few hundred recipes collected in that big yellow box. And my guess is that my mother might have tried about 5% of them, if that. My childhood does not recall my mother being a good cook. Meals consisted of ground beef patties (no hamburger bun), a canned vegetable, and boiled potatoes. The only fish we ever ate on Fridays was Mrs. Paul's Fish Sticks. I have no memory of fresh vegetables. Thanksgiving had a turkey; that was exciting.

After my father died and her children had flown the coop, my mother became interested in cooking. Hence, the recipe box. There are still a few of her recipes that I have preserved and still use, like her "Make-Ahead Mashed Potatoes" or her "Baked Ziti Spinach Bake." I sat down at the kitchen counter to go through the yellow box in hopes of finding some other gem that I'd since forgotten.

When you need a recipe today, what do you do? You google it, of course. And then you have your pick of a gazillion ways to prepare stuffed mushrooms or eggplant rollatini. Well, the Internet has not always existed, right? Back in the day, everyone had cookbooks. Also, recipes were clipped from magazines, like Woman's Day or Family Circle. Or from newspaper columns like "Hints from Heloise" or "Ann Landers" (and who can forget her famous meatloaf?) Or shared on cute little index cards handwritten with some recipe that was served at a friend's party to high acclaim.

And then there was the Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library or McCalls Recipe Collection or some other subscription service that mailed you some recipe cards every month. (The box was free.) My mother fell for it. Her well-organized yellow box had all kinds of magazine and newspaper clippings mixed in with the glossy cards that she'd paid for. I went through them one by one, and drew some conclusions:

~  Most of the recipes were meaty, saucy, high in carbs and calories. A lot of chicken, like maybe 150 ways to prepare it. Mayonnaise was an ingredient in anything designated "salad." And most of the dessert recipes called for Jello or Cool Whip or boxed cake mixes.

~  Trends were evident. There were at least a dozen quiche recipes. (Remember the best-seller Real Men Don't Eat Quiche?) Mom had quite a collection of the "Impossible Pies," marketed by Bisquick. And Bumblebee Tuna moved to the head of the class.

~  Despite the dozens of recipes for salmon, I do not think my mother ever purchased salmon or cooked it or ate it. I guess she had her dreams, but her wallet denied her that exotic delicacy. She did eat a lot of canned tuna, though.

I was fascinated by the recipes that caused me to wonder, "What was she thinking?" Like "Oatmeal Turkey Loaf" or "Hamburgers in Bordelaise Sauce." Although she might have once baked a "Fruit Cocktail Cake," I am fairly certain she never tackled "Mrs. Kantor's Fabulous Noodle Kugel." And even though the recipe does not call for alcohol, why would anyone want to prepare "Hot Punch - in a Percolator?" And most assuredly, my life-long Democratic mother would never prepare or eat "President Reagan's Macaroni and Cheese." And yet, she clipped the recipe.

Among the "Miscellaneous" recipes was one for a natural laxative. Hmmm. And one clipping titled "How to Fold a Fitted Sheet." I saved that one for my daughter Jenna, for whom I have folded more fitted sheets than I can count, as she claims incompetence in that skill.

My mother has been gone for nearly eight years. This morning, I contemplated her handwriting, her prized Underwood Typewriter, her magazine subscriptions, her organizational skills, and the dreams she must have had in which she was a gourmet cook. For a few hours, she was there in my kitchen with me. I enjoyed the memory, and then I placed all the recipes into a brown paper bag to take to the recycling center next week.

And I'm okay with it. My mother was no Betty Crocker anyway. She was just my mom, and she made a great baked ziti. With Ragu.

Empty Nest

The accompanying picture of the mourning dove and baby was taken yesterday. Today the nest is empty. For the last couple of weeks, I have been keeping an eye on that dove. The nest sits on a cross log under the eaves of my house, easy for me to see each time I go out to the garden (which is several times a day). About a week and a half ago, I could see the little one's head! I marveled at how the mama dove seemed never to leave the nest, but I have since learned that it's the male dove who occupies the nest during the day, while the female takes the night shift. You may recall that doves mate for life. Sounds to me like the rest of us could take a lesson or two from these love-birds.

In most cases, there are two eggs in a dove's nest, which, of course, makes me wonder why there was only one baby. Once a baby is born, it is pushed from the nest at around 10 - 12 days. Which brings us to today.

I was in and out all day, and I recall seeing the baby alone in the nest this morning. At some point in the early afternoon, I was aware of a lot of "woo-OO-oo, hoo, hoo, hoo" going on in the back yard. I walked out on the deck to see the mother (or father) dove flying from tree to tree, seemingly in distress. I looked toward the nest. No baby. I searched my yard in case the baby had fallen, but I found nothing. It is possible that the baby was up in the trees with its parents, but it's also possible that something interfered with this first flight. Predators of doves include hawks, snakes, squirrels, cats, and hunters. I have no cat, and it's not hunting season, but there are plenty of the other predators around, in addition to bears and coyotes and foxes.

I am trying not to think the worst. The mortality rate for first-year doves is 60 - 75%, so maybe my baby bird is okay. There's no point in mourning something that I do not know for sure.

I, too, have an empty nest. Well, empty except for me. My babies flew far away. While one is settled in North Carolina, the other two seem to move around a lot. One is currently in Thailand, soon to move to Colorado, and the other is road-tripping in New England before returning to his home in Colorado. They come back to the nest from time to time, and I enjoy their visits. But I also enjoy their independence, their sense of adventure, and their confidence in exploring the world around them.

When one has lived a long time alone
and listens at morning to mourning doves
sound their kyrie eleison . . . 
one hears them as inner voices,
when one has lived a long time alone.

~ Galway Kinnell

High Crimes and Misdemeanors (The Sting)

Like me, I suppose many of you are reeling from today's news. For me, the press conference in Helsinki coincided with a bee sting, to which I am allergic. I am grateful for Epi-pens, Benadryl, and a cell phone. As of this writing, I am doing well, a little sleepy, but I am not dead.

But that's just my little, personal drama. The much larger drama took place in Helsinki this morning, when our president, Donald J. Trump, avowed his love for Putin over the information available from our Intelligence communities, which had resulted in several indictments for tampering with our electoral process. If you are among those who are struggling to keep your cool amid this mind-boggling development, I know how you feel.

Our Constitution states that a President "shall be removed from office on impeachment for and conviction of treason, bribery, and other high crimes and misdemeanors." Needless to say, I googled those terms in order to better understand what might happen from this point on. Apparently, I was not the only one. Earlier this afternoon, dictionary.com tweeted out definitions of "patriot" and "traitor" after the site was inundated with requests for definitions. According to dictionary.com, a patriot is "a person who loves, supports, and defends his or her country." A traitor is "a person who commits treason by betraying his or her country." You pick which one tRump is.

There are several examples of high crimes and misdemeanors, including perjury of oath, abuse of authority, dereliction of duty, and unbecoming conduct. I think a good case can be made for tRump's behavior this week as being treasonous. It seems, however, that the Founders were somewhat intentionally vague as to whether or not a sitting president can be accused of being treasonous. "Senators are urged to look into their hearts -- rather than at constitutional scholarship -- to decide whether perjury and obstruction of justice warrant removal." Well, I know how I would vote . . .

Benjamin Franklin suggested that the power of impeachment and removal was necessary for those times when the Executive "rendered himself obnoxious," and the Constitution should provide for the "regular punishment of the Executive when his conduct should deserve it." If there was ever a case for a parsing of this directive, it would be now. Obnoxious? I think so. Deserving of punishment? Absolutely.

Finally, treason is a crime "committed by a person owing allegiance to the United States who . . . adheres to their enemies, giving them aid or comfort." Putin won this round. There's no way around that reality.

As of this writing, Jeff Flake (R - AZ), Paul Ryan (R - Wisconsin), John McCain (R - AZ), and Richard Burr (R - NC) have issued statements deploring the president's behavior today. I hope that by the time you are reading this, many more will have joined the chorus singing "Treason!" And let's just hope that this (and Mueller's investigation) leads to the removal of this clown who is destroying America. Our democracy depends on it.

Lucky Leaf

I mentioned in my last post that my daughter is in Chiang Rai, Thailand. This morning, I was awakened by a text message/photo from her, informing me that she had placed a "lucky leaf" with my name on it at the White Temple (Wat Rong Khun). Good timing, Jenna. I feel like I could use some good luck today. Or any day, really. We all could.

The White Temple is a dazzling sight. The white symbolizes purity, of course. But there are also mirrored glass mosaics that suggest reflection. You must cross a bridge to get to the White Temple, and there are thousands of hands rising up from the ground, eager to ensnare you. They represent worldly temptations, desires and greed. Inherent in this art is the age-old Buddhist wisdom of the Four Noble Truths. In crazy summation, (1) there is suffering, (2) the cause of suffering is desire, (3) the end of suffering involves ending craving, and (4) the Eightfold Path will lead to enlightenment. (The Eightfold Path includes eight "rights": views, intentions, speech, action, livelihood, effort, mindfulness, and concentration.) Complicated, but simplistic. Not that hard to master. Yay, Buddhism!

So when one goes to the White Temple, one can purchase a tin ornament for 30 baht ($1.99 USD) on which to write a name or a wish. This donation to Buddha guarantees you a place in heaven. So thank you, Jenna! She placed an ornament with my name on it outside the temple, and I am golden!

This afternoon, while sitting on my front porch, I observed not one, but two Great Blue Herons fly overhead. I am accustomed to seeing Great Blue Herons all the time in Florida, but not so much here in New Jersey. So when they appear, it is a startling and welcome sighting. The Great Blue is my bird, symbolic of something very dear to my heart. I could not help but attach this sighting to Jenna's wish for good luck for me.

And further contemplation assured me that my world is full of promise and hope and peace. It's been a crazy couple of weeks, involving a road trip, a wedding, houseguests, and a resident dog. Things have quieted down now, and I am searching for that peace that evolves from an uncluttered mind, a meaningful purpose, and an open heart.

Lucky leaf. Although I want the whole tree, I am grateful for the leaf. I want the whole world, but I am grateful for a couple of hearts. I hope your world has at least one lucky leaf to offer peace of mind. Namaste.

Chiang Rai

It is pure coincidence that my daughter is presently in Chiang Rai, the location of the heroic rescue of twelve boys and their soccer coach in some nearby caves. Jenna is hosting a National Geographic Student Expedition program (Thailand Community Service) for high school students. She has been there for the last week, making preparations for the students, who leave New York today for the long flights to Chiang Rai. I asked her how the city was reacting to all the attention, but she was not aware of any inside information. She chalked that up to the fact that she doesn't speak Thai. Duh. Again, just coincidence that she is there.

We are all aware of another coincidence which has taken place in the past week. While the world was riveted on the cave rescue and looking forward to the boys' reunion with their parents, a much larger group of young people were also awaiting a reunion with their parents right here in the United States. These children did not wander into a cave. These children were forcibly taken from their parents by a heartless administration's "zero-tolerance" policy on border control. Although it was Jefferson Beauregard Sessions who announced this strategy designed to prevent illegal border crossings, it seems that White House senior advisor Stephen Miller is the brains behind the inhumane policy. You know Miller -- presently in the news for throwing $80 worth of take-out sushi in the garbage after a bartender at the restaurant flipped him two birds. Yep, Miller's the kind of man I want advising our leadership. Not.

As of this writing, 57 of the 103 children under five have been reunited with their parents. The administration failed to reunite all of them by yesterday's deadline, a ruling issued two weeks ago. Still separated from their parents are nearly 3000 children over the age of five. An order demanding those children be reunited with their families has a deadline of July 26. What are the chances?

Whether you are Asian or Latino or European or African or any other ethnicity under the sun, there are certain human needs that apply to all of us. This is a no-brainer. Children belong with their families. The stupidity and arrogance of this administration equals pure evil. Yes, let's celebrate the successful rescue of those young Thai boys. But let's not be silent about the children still being warehoused (in cages instead of caves) right here in our own country, separated from the only security they have known, the love of their parents.

Oh, and fuck you, Stephen Miller. I hope you choke on your sushi.

The Plot Against America

Philip Roth, who, up until quite recently, my daughter Katrina claimed was the best living author in America, died on May 22 of congestive heart failure. He was 85 years old. I've read a few of his books, and I think Katrina makes a valid argument. In reading some reviews upon his death, I kept seeing references to The Plot Against America, Roth's 2004 "counterfactual history" novel. Conveniently, Katrina had left her copy of the book in my condo, so I began reading it . . . aloud . . . to my friend and fellow liberal, Ed. We were captivated. The book blew my mind.

Roth's story is somewhat autobiographical, taking place in Newark, New Jersey during his childhood in the 1930s and 40s. His characters bear the names of his real family, so one feels that the novel is a memoir, full of sentimentality about his stamp collection and his neighborhood. When the "counterfactual history" kicks in, Charles Lindbergh defeats Franklin Roosevelt in the Presidential election of 1940, denying FDR his third term. Lindbergh, of course, was an American darling, having completed the first solo transatlantic flight in his plane Spirit of St. Louis in 1927 at age 25. But there is also evidence of Lindbergh's anti-Semitism. And . . . wait for it . . . he served as a spokesman for the America First Committee, a non-interventionist group intent on keeping the United States out of the war in Europe in 1940.

In Roth's imaginative rewriting of history, upon election, Lindbergh soon begins putting policies in place to marginalize Jews, and yet the people still love him, cheering for him at his rallies. Young Philip's father, Herman Roth, is highly disturbed at Lindbergh's fascist behavior. "The man is unfit. He shouldn't be there. He shouldn't be there, and it's as simple as that!" Hmmm . . . sound familiar?

At times while reading the book, I would substitute "Trump" for "Lindbergh" or "Putin" for "Hitler" or "Russia" for "Germany." Made perfect sense. At least once, Ed didn't even realize I'd done that, so accurate was the revised wording. We would initially laugh at the similarities . . . and then realize how not funny they were.

Roth, in an interview prior to the 2016 election, did not take to the comparisons between Lindbergh and Trump. Pointing out that Lindbergh was an established American hero before the events in the novel, he had this to say: "Trump, by comparison, is a massive fraud, the evil sum of his deficiencies, devoid of everything but the hollow ideology of a megalomaniac." In support of the comparison, Ezra Klein of Vox suggested that "isolationism and xenophobia are powerful tools in the hands of a charismatic political outsider, and there is nothing in the human heart that inoculates us against the allure of a demagogue." I might take issue with the word "charismatic," but otherwise, Klein's assessment rings true.

Last week, with the resignation of Scott Pruitt, head of the Environmental Protection Agency, Andrew Wheeler was named Acting Director. I'd just finished reading the part in The Plot Against America where Lindy disappears and his Vice-President becomes Acting President. The guy's name? Burton Wheeler. Creepy!

Do I recommend this book? Absolutely. Will it disturb you? Absolutely. Just keep in mind that truth is stranger than fiction. And scarier.

The Night the Stars Fell

You may know about the night the stars fell. It was on November 12, 1833 that the skies were lit up across the country by meteor showers in a dazzling display. But there were no meteor showers here in northwestern New Jersey on the night of July 3, 2018. There was, however, a dazzling display of light in the fallow field across the road from my house. Fireflies. Lightening bugs. A galaxy of sparkles to mesmerize and enchant anyone fortunate enough to wander out after dusk.

There is no light pollution on my road. The further we wandered deep into the fields, the more spectacular the twinkling celebration became. Our eyes were drawn to the grassy surface where most of the glitter was gathered. But an upward gaze into the treetops revealed a magical dance of glowing splendor. It was almost too much to bear. We lost the ability to speak beyond words like "twinkle" and "sparkle." We became children again, awed by nature's generous gift of bioluminescence.

Several years ago, I took my kids to Vieques for the December holiday, an escape from the memory of Christmases past, when our family was in tact. Vieques is an island off Puerto Rico, once home to a naval base used as an Atlantic training site for air, sea, and land maneuvers. Despite that ominous history, Vieques is also home to Mosquito Bay, arguably one of the most spectacular places to view the watery bioluminescence in the dark night. Blue light shimmers off one's skin like silvery liquid metal. It's pretty damn awesome.

The fireflies showing off in the field the other night were more awesome.

"Bioluminescence" simply refers to light created by living organisms. In the case of fireflies, of the 2,100 species that exist in the world, the eastern United States is home to Phausis reticulata, which emits a steady blue light. The males fly around, shining their light to attract the female glow-worms on the ground. It's a mating ritual to rival that of mere humans, don't you think? Because fireflies are easily recognized and not thought of to be pests, they are among the few insect species to be considered "charismatic." Sparkles and charisma . . . take a lesson, guys.

Glow fly. Moon bug. Golden sparkler. Fire devil. Big dipper. Blinkie. Whatever you call them, catch them while you can. Fireflies are in decline due to lawn and agricultural chemicals, disappearing open grass and weed areas, and light pollution. I will resist the urge to comment on the present state of the EPA. Instead, I'll thank my lucky stars that they can fall in my own back yard.