Thursday, March 16, 2017
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
Sunday, March 12, 2017
Hashing It Out
I've been eating hash for breakfast lately (of the meat/veg kind). There's no reason not to, but I've been doing so mainly because I've cut eggs out of my diet recently, as part of my endeavor to get down to the bottom of what's going on with my health issues. I highly doubt I'm actually allergic to eggs--they have been a staple of my diet forever--but they are a common allergen, and aside from that they can be problematic for lots of folks due to something called lysozyme, which can cross the human gut barrier and mess with our cells. For a better explanation of how it works, look here, or here.
Disclaimer: Part of the reason this dish turned out so well was that I used a cast iron skillet that had a little bit of seasoned pork fat left in it, which added a depth of yummy brown flavor. (Tip of the day: When cooking meat, strain and save any good fat skimmings, and leftover juices, and put them in the fridge or freezer in small containers (or make ice cubes). Pork roasts and chops are great for this, but beef roasts are good, too. Use the seasoned fat to add some pizzazz to fried potatoes, meat or fish, and use the juices to add depth to soups, stews, stocks, casseroles, roasts, etc. Don't waste the goodness!)
Ground Lamb and Rutabaga Hash with Kale
1 tsp fat of your choice - lard, bacon fat, beef tallow, butter, olive oil, canola if you must
1 c diced yellow onion
1 lb rutabaga, diced into 1/2 cubes
1 lb ground lamb
2 c chopped kale (I used dino, but any other kale or leafy green of choice would work)
1/4 c chopped fresh parsley (optional, but good)
garlic powder (I was out of fresh garlic, but powder was fine here if not better)
Tony's Creole seasoning (if you don't have this, you can substitute some chili powder, paprika, cayenne, plus more garlic, salt and pepper, but I would recommend picking up a can. It's cheap and very handy.)
curry powder
freshly ground black pepper
dried thyme
salt
In a 12" cast iron skillet, heat your fat. Add the onions, saute until just translucent and then add the rutabaga. Sprinkle with garlic powder, Tony's, curry powder, salt and pepper--just eyeball it, you've done this before!--and stir to combine. Cook the rutabagies over medium-high heat to brown them a little on the edges, turning occasionally. Once they've started to soften slightly, make a space in the middle of the pan, add the lamb, and season with garlic, thyme, salt and pepper. Let the meat brown on the bottom, then use your spatula to break it into smaller pieces as it cooks, while mixing it into the rutabaga. Cook until the meat has mostly browned, then add the kale and parsley and stir to combine. Let cook over medium heat for a few more minutes, until the meat is cooked through and the kale is tender.
I'm not telling you that you shouldn't put an over-easy egg on top of this, but I do know you won't be missing it if you don't. Serve with a side of tangerine slices, and fresh black (decaf) coffee sweetened with homemade maple syrup.
What's wrong with that? Absolutely nothing.
So, I'm off the eggs for now. I'm also cutting out dairy, nuts, seeds, and grains, for the most part, and I'm not eating any nightshades, which includes potatoes, tomatoes, eggplant, and peppers. This leaves the question of what to eat for breakfast... Until recently, I would often (5+ days a week) eat frittatas which contained some or all of the foods I am now excluding. With all those things off the list, meat, veg, and fruit is about all I have to work with, so... hash.
My version from last Sunday used ground turkey, leftover ground mild italian sausage, sweet potato, and arugula. Pretty tasty, but yesterday's variation, using lamb, rutabagas and kale, was by far superior... Savory, satisfying, energizing, nourishing, and super tasty to boot!
My version from last Sunday used ground turkey, leftover ground mild italian sausage, sweet potato, and arugula. Pretty tasty, but yesterday's variation, using lamb, rutabagas and kale, was by far superior... Savory, satisfying, energizing, nourishing, and super tasty to boot!
Disclaimer: Part of the reason this dish turned out so well was that I used a cast iron skillet that had a little bit of seasoned pork fat left in it, which added a depth of yummy brown flavor. (Tip of the day: When cooking meat, strain and save any good fat skimmings, and leftover juices, and put them in the fridge or freezer in small containers (or make ice cubes). Pork roasts and chops are great for this, but beef roasts are good, too. Use the seasoned fat to add some pizzazz to fried potatoes, meat or fish, and use the juices to add depth to soups, stews, stocks, casseroles, roasts, etc. Don't waste the goodness!)
Ground Lamb and Rutabaga Hash with Kale
1 tsp fat of your choice - lard, bacon fat, beef tallow, butter, olive oil, canola if you must
1 c diced yellow onion
1 lb rutabaga, diced into 1/2 cubes
1 lb ground lamb
2 c chopped kale (I used dino, but any other kale or leafy green of choice would work)
1/4 c chopped fresh parsley (optional, but good)
garlic powder (I was out of fresh garlic, but powder was fine here if not better)
Tony's Creole seasoning (if you don't have this, you can substitute some chili powder, paprika, cayenne, plus more garlic, salt and pepper, but I would recommend picking up a can. It's cheap and very handy.)
curry powder
freshly ground black pepper
dried thyme
salt
In a 12" cast iron skillet, heat your fat. Add the onions, saute until just translucent and then add the rutabaga. Sprinkle with garlic powder, Tony's, curry powder, salt and pepper--just eyeball it, you've done this before!--and stir to combine. Cook the rutabagies over medium-high heat to brown them a little on the edges, turning occasionally. Once they've started to soften slightly, make a space in the middle of the pan, add the lamb, and season with garlic, thyme, salt and pepper. Let the meat brown on the bottom, then use your spatula to break it into smaller pieces as it cooks, while mixing it into the rutabaga. Cook until the meat has mostly browned, then add the kale and parsley and stir to combine. Let cook over medium heat for a few more minutes, until the meat is cooked through and the kale is tender.
I'm not telling you that you shouldn't put an over-easy egg on top of this, but I do know you won't be missing it if you don't. Serve with a side of tangerine slices, and fresh black (decaf) coffee sweetened with homemade maple syrup.
What's wrong with that? Absolutely nothing.
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Home Free
I worked a little too late today, trying to wrap my head around some data that I no longer care to think about....It's complicated.
After that, I made a little salad for lunch tomorrow, out of some fresh things I have on hand at the moment: local arugula, thin half moons of zucchini and radish, slices of mango and avocado, small quarters of cucumber, accompanied by a dressing of tangerine juice, red and sherry vinegars, and olive oil. I was assembling this while frying plaintains in a little coconut oil and beef tallow, not realizing how quickly the starchy sweet fruits would brown--or nearly blacken--but they turned out all right. After they came out of the skillet, in went two pork chops, to be nicely browned before going into the oven.
With this all squared away, I decided to run over to the thrift store near my house, which was closing in about 20 minutes, to see if I could find a few supplies for soap-making. Yes, I know, it's trite hobby, if that's an appropriate way to characterize it, but on the other hand, we all use soap on a daily basis. Making cold-process soap is an easy and satisfying endeavor, involving a minimal amount of effort, materials, and know-how, and it incorporates some things I enjoy dabbling with, like herbs and essential oils, and also fats.
Anyway, I was on a mission for a few things, namely a stainless steel pot and a stick blender, and possibly some spoons and spatulas, things to use as molds, etc. I found just the pot, and a stick blender too, which I put back on the shelf, initially, for various reasons, and walked back into the next aisle over, to look for some things that weren't there. What was there--or rather who--was an elderly gentleman who began to explain to me that he thought he was "home free", I believe were the words he used, in reference to an object which he pointed to, on the shelf below. It was a silverware box, a fairly large wooden one, nothing terribly fancy but sturdy-looking enough. He went on to tell me that he was 90, and just getting his house organized, and he had seen the box the day before but not bought it, and when he came back had thought it was gone, but then there it was, in the next aisle over. He'd thought he was "home free", with it no longer there, and I misunderstood him as trying to say that he lucked out, by finding it wasn't gone. Since I clearly was missing his point, he continued to explain that there are times when you feel a certain sort of relief, knowing that something is no longer available to you, no longer an option, and haven't I ever felt that way, he asked.
He was wearing a turquoise ski jacket that was quite dirty on the front, over a turtleneck and flannel shirt which were both blaze orange. His hat was a little hard to describe, sort of a modern fedora, off-white fabric trimmed with dark green piping. He looked, but did not smell, like a homeless man, and he was clearly a little bit out there...It had been at least 2 minutes I suppose, at this point, and I was feeling anxious to go back and get that stick blender before the store closed, and I regretted it for the rest of my life (or not).
He went on, telling me about his son in California, and his four children born between the years of 1957-1961, and about the woman at the other store earlier that day who had given him five dollars, and when he asked her why, said it was because she missed her dad. He told me about the little concertina that he found there, with ivory keys, which he knew how to play because he survived the war in the Bavarian Alps, where he learned the folk music. When he went back to the store later, he said, the woman had left a bag for him, and told the clerk he'd left it behind. It wasn't entirely clear if the concertina was in it, and with my attention level wavering between compassion and the urge to remove myself from the situation, I didn't pepper him with questions.
It was probably worth $75 dollars new, though.
He looked me straight in the eye as he spoke, in the way that some people still do. I stepped back a little, to keep my distance, and better prepare to round the corner and leave him behind. She missed her father, and he knows what that's like because his own died when he was very young--4, no, 1--and talking of blessings and God and what-not and the usual slightly crazy talk that you get from old lonely people. He finally introduced himself as Gabriel, of course (I think?), and said that he is close to God and he would talk to God, about me, if that's all right with me. I said that was fine, thanked him, and wished him well.
It was a brief conversation--though perhaps longer than a typical one with a random stranger--and he was neither offensive nor completely nutters (believe me, I've met a few.) but actually rather kind, in a very peculiar way. His face is memorable to me, oddly, the color and shape of his pale blue eyes, the dark age spots on his cheeks. He did not speak with hesitation, or with haste.
I wrangled myself away at this point, and tried to keep my distance, as I browsed for a few more things. I stopped to check my phone on my way toward the checkout and he passed me in a bit of a hurry, with his hat in one hand and his hair disheveled, saying that his [phone] said it's 9:01... I said yes, I noticed that as well, and asked if they were closing. It's nice to [have someone let you] know how much time you have, he said. It was something to that effect.
I paid for my things: a pot, a blender, and the rolling pin which I'd just picked up and was considering, when the old man had approached me. I'm sure there are those who would judge, or misconstrue both his meaning and mine, in telling this story, but there was something oddly moving to me, about this brief encounter, almost as if I'd been the sole audience to a theatrical performance of an existential conversation between Life and Death... I looked over at him and his wooden chest with a little sadness, as I left the store. Did he have a home? Did he really live through the war learning Bavarian folk songs? When did he last see his children? Do any of us know how much time we have?
I miss my dad, too, sometimes, even though he's still alive.
Back in my wagon and not entirely satisfied with my own take, I decided to try my luck at the dollar store next door, where I found a couple silicone spatulas and plastic stirring spoons--an imported waste of resources, admittedly--which, after an extended period of deliberation and wandering, seemed to be just what I was looking for... I paid my $2.19 in cash and left, while the cashier talked to the teenager behind me about the time her own daughter's pacifier went missing and by the time she found it in the bassinet a week later, her daughter no longer needed it, and she was so mad... Have a good rest of your night...
There was a small metal bell taped by its handle to the middle of the door.
But wait. I forgot to get a bottle of vinegar. Do I go back? No going back. Do I go to that awful red place where everything seems wrong, somehow? Ugh, not now. The little grocery down the street probably isn't open this late, the drugstore is too expensive, the hardware store is surely closed by now, but if I'm making soap tonight--as I had intended to--it would just be stupid not to have vinegar on hand, in case of an accident involving lye. Not worth risking burns or blindness.
My last best option, at this hour, is the big grocery store. I pull in to park and have this passing sentimental feeling, about seeing that old man, whatever his name is... I walk in through the out door and make a bee line for the vinegar, grab a jug and head back to check out, when I glance to my left.
There, near the cigarette counter, reading a newspaper, is Gabriel.
Chance is a strange companion.
I found my missing earring tonight, too.
After that, I made a little salad for lunch tomorrow, out of some fresh things I have on hand at the moment: local arugula, thin half moons of zucchini and radish, slices of mango and avocado, small quarters of cucumber, accompanied by a dressing of tangerine juice, red and sherry vinegars, and olive oil. I was assembling this while frying plaintains in a little coconut oil and beef tallow, not realizing how quickly the starchy sweet fruits would brown--or nearly blacken--but they turned out all right. After they came out of the skillet, in went two pork chops, to be nicely browned before going into the oven.
With this all squared away, I decided to run over to the thrift store near my house, which was closing in about 20 minutes, to see if I could find a few supplies for soap-making. Yes, I know, it's trite hobby, if that's an appropriate way to characterize it, but on the other hand, we all use soap on a daily basis. Making cold-process soap is an easy and satisfying endeavor, involving a minimal amount of effort, materials, and know-how, and it incorporates some things I enjoy dabbling with, like herbs and essential oils, and also fats.
Anyway, I was on a mission for a few things, namely a stainless steel pot and a stick blender, and possibly some spoons and spatulas, things to use as molds, etc. I found just the pot, and a stick blender too, which I put back on the shelf, initially, for various reasons, and walked back into the next aisle over, to look for some things that weren't there. What was there--or rather who--was an elderly gentleman who began to explain to me that he thought he was "home free", I believe were the words he used, in reference to an object which he pointed to, on the shelf below. It was a silverware box, a fairly large wooden one, nothing terribly fancy but sturdy-looking enough. He went on to tell me that he was 90, and just getting his house organized, and he had seen the box the day before but not bought it, and when he came back had thought it was gone, but then there it was, in the next aisle over. He'd thought he was "home free", with it no longer there, and I misunderstood him as trying to say that he lucked out, by finding it wasn't gone. Since I clearly was missing his point, he continued to explain that there are times when you feel a certain sort of relief, knowing that something is no longer available to you, no longer an option, and haven't I ever felt that way, he asked.
He was wearing a turquoise ski jacket that was quite dirty on the front, over a turtleneck and flannel shirt which were both blaze orange. His hat was a little hard to describe, sort of a modern fedora, off-white fabric trimmed with dark green piping. He looked, but did not smell, like a homeless man, and he was clearly a little bit out there...It had been at least 2 minutes I suppose, at this point, and I was feeling anxious to go back and get that stick blender before the store closed, and I regretted it for the rest of my life (or not).
He went on, telling me about his son in California, and his four children born between the years of 1957-1961, and about the woman at the other store earlier that day who had given him five dollars, and when he asked her why, said it was because she missed her dad. He told me about the little concertina that he found there, with ivory keys, which he knew how to play because he survived the war in the Bavarian Alps, where he learned the folk music. When he went back to the store later, he said, the woman had left a bag for him, and told the clerk he'd left it behind. It wasn't entirely clear if the concertina was in it, and with my attention level wavering between compassion and the urge to remove myself from the situation, I didn't pepper him with questions.
It was probably worth $75 dollars new, though.
He looked me straight in the eye as he spoke, in the way that some people still do. I stepped back a little, to keep my distance, and better prepare to round the corner and leave him behind. She missed her father, and he knows what that's like because his own died when he was very young--4, no, 1--and talking of blessings and God and what-not and the usual slightly crazy talk that you get from old lonely people. He finally introduced himself as Gabriel, of course (I think?), and said that he is close to God and he would talk to God, about me, if that's all right with me. I said that was fine, thanked him, and wished him well.
It was a brief conversation--though perhaps longer than a typical one with a random stranger--and he was neither offensive nor completely nutters (believe me, I've met a few.) but actually rather kind, in a very peculiar way. His face is memorable to me, oddly, the color and shape of his pale blue eyes, the dark age spots on his cheeks. He did not speak with hesitation, or with haste.
I wrangled myself away at this point, and tried to keep my distance, as I browsed for a few more things. I stopped to check my phone on my way toward the checkout and he passed me in a bit of a hurry, with his hat in one hand and his hair disheveled, saying that his [phone] said it's 9:01... I said yes, I noticed that as well, and asked if they were closing. It's nice to [have someone let you] know how much time you have, he said. It was something to that effect.
I paid for my things: a pot, a blender, and the rolling pin which I'd just picked up and was considering, when the old man had approached me. I'm sure there are those who would judge, or misconstrue both his meaning and mine, in telling this story, but there was something oddly moving to me, about this brief encounter, almost as if I'd been the sole audience to a theatrical performance of an existential conversation between Life and Death... I looked over at him and his wooden chest with a little sadness, as I left the store. Did he have a home? Did he really live through the war learning Bavarian folk songs? When did he last see his children? Do any of us know how much time we have?
I miss my dad, too, sometimes, even though he's still alive.
Back in my wagon and not entirely satisfied with my own take, I decided to try my luck at the dollar store next door, where I found a couple silicone spatulas and plastic stirring spoons--an imported waste of resources, admittedly--which, after an extended period of deliberation and wandering, seemed to be just what I was looking for... I paid my $2.19 in cash and left, while the cashier talked to the teenager behind me about the time her own daughter's pacifier went missing and by the time she found it in the bassinet a week later, her daughter no longer needed it, and she was so mad... Have a good rest of your night...
There was a small metal bell taped by its handle to the middle of the door.
But wait. I forgot to get a bottle of vinegar. Do I go back? No going back. Do I go to that awful red place where everything seems wrong, somehow? Ugh, not now. The little grocery down the street probably isn't open this late, the drugstore is too expensive, the hardware store is surely closed by now, but if I'm making soap tonight--as I had intended to--it would just be stupid not to have vinegar on hand, in case of an accident involving lye. Not worth risking burns or blindness.
My last best option, at this hour, is the big grocery store. I pull in to park and have this passing sentimental feeling, about seeing that old man, whatever his name is... I walk in through the out door and make a bee line for the vinegar, grab a jug and head back to check out, when I glance to my left.
There, near the cigarette counter, reading a newspaper, is Gabriel.
Chance is a strange companion.
I found my missing earring tonight, too.
Here I go.
I haven't been well, physically. Every morning as my consciousness bludgeons my cells into a waking state, my body pleads: don't go to work today. Please do not make me spend another day in close contact with a computer, sitting at a desk, forcing all my thoughts through a corporate funnel. The desk, the lights, the sound, the smells, the pain in my arms and wrists, my hips and neck, my guts. My eyesight, my vision. My imagination, my well being, my health. I'm used up.
I'm not going to try to tell you it's as bad as working on an oil rig or a garbage truck; that would be absurd, and stupid. You can make a joke about a tiny violin, and I can tell you to go fuck yourself. Millions of people in this country and around the world work in environments like mine, which are essentially human holding pens, the homo sapien equivalent of rows upon rows of chickens and turkeys in cages, beaks removed, shut away from sunlight and fresh air, force fed toxic shit until they no longer have any vitality, and are consumed.
I'm tired of telling myself or being told to be grateful, that it's really a good job, that it affords me all sorts of flexibility and benefits, it pays the bills, yadda blah blah. That's all true, but it doesn't matter, when the real bottom line is that there are not enough hours in a day for me to make up for what I lose each day I go to work. I'm tired of hearing myself or someone else tell me that if I don't like it, I should just change it, as if it's just that easy to come up with a whole new occupation of your own volition, or build an entirely new career in your mid-40s, on your own. Yes, this is my fault, for not knowing better, for not finishing college, for not being more ambitious and smart and creative, for not being braver, for not choosing something better for myself, and I can't deny that I am almost entirely responsible for the circumstances I now find myself in. I can and do accept that and I am living with it, every day. But just barely.
Ironically, the song stuck in my head this morning goes something like "every morning there's a halo hanging from the corner of my girlfriend's four-post bed"...Argh, thanks alot, sub-consciousness! That's really cute. And yeah, I still have a few fragments of hope and some ideas left, some of which I am developing. Attitude adjustment in progress...
I'm not going to try to tell you it's as bad as working on an oil rig or a garbage truck; that would be absurd, and stupid. You can make a joke about a tiny violin, and I can tell you to go fuck yourself. Millions of people in this country and around the world work in environments like mine, which are essentially human holding pens, the homo sapien equivalent of rows upon rows of chickens and turkeys in cages, beaks removed, shut away from sunlight and fresh air, force fed toxic shit until they no longer have any vitality, and are consumed.
I'm tired of telling myself or being told to be grateful, that it's really a good job, that it affords me all sorts of flexibility and benefits, it pays the bills, yadda blah blah. That's all true, but it doesn't matter, when the real bottom line is that there are not enough hours in a day for me to make up for what I lose each day I go to work. I'm tired of hearing myself or someone else tell me that if I don't like it, I should just change it, as if it's just that easy to come up with a whole new occupation of your own volition, or build an entirely new career in your mid-40s, on your own. Yes, this is my fault, for not knowing better, for not finishing college, for not being more ambitious and smart and creative, for not being braver, for not choosing something better for myself, and I can't deny that I am almost entirely responsible for the circumstances I now find myself in. I can and do accept that and I am living with it, every day. But just barely.
Ironically, the song stuck in my head this morning goes something like "every morning there's a halo hanging from the corner of my girlfriend's four-post bed"...Argh, thanks alot, sub-consciousness! That's really cute. And yeah, I still have a few fragments of hope and some ideas left, some of which I am developing. Attitude adjustment in progress...
Monday, March 6, 2017
Bygone
Passing thunderstorms here today, and an as yet unconfirmed tornado--a record for the earliest to touch down in the state, in any year.
It's strange to think about how things have changed, are changing. We've turned a deaf ear to the voices of islanders from places where water levels have already risen high enough to push them out of existence--or at least, out of the existence they have always known--while we are, in fact, all of us, facing such prospects. It's not just that we have become accustomed to the seasons of our lives; we are them, and they are us. We know when to wake and sleep, when to plant and harvest, how to hunt and where to forage, what to build and to tend to, to survive. We are informed of all these things by the places in which we live. We have learned where there is water that is safe to drink, what it means when the clouds move in a certain way, the language of the animals and all living things with whom we share the land, the air, the water. We know these things, by heart, by stories, by generation, by evolution.
Yes, change is constant, but these changes that are happening now, are happening too quickly for us to respond, before the next consequence. Suddenly another river goes dry, a mountain disappears, a species is driven to extinction, a new poison is spilled.
It's not just tragic; it's idiotic, really, that all of this nonsensical destruction--ALL OF IT.--has been driven by greed, and what liars and fools like to refer to as "economic growth". It's pathetic, disgusting, disturbing, disorienting, inhuman, unkind, degenerate, and, truly, insane. It's a shame, that humans are so supremely adaptable, that we can eat our own shit and poison our own children, and call it "progress". Progress toward what?
On our tiny islands, in this vast sea of life...where on Earth can we sail? How will we get there? And what will we know?
It's strange to think about how things have changed, are changing. We've turned a deaf ear to the voices of islanders from places where water levels have already risen high enough to push them out of existence--or at least, out of the existence they have always known--while we are, in fact, all of us, facing such prospects. It's not just that we have become accustomed to the seasons of our lives; we are them, and they are us. We know when to wake and sleep, when to plant and harvest, how to hunt and where to forage, what to build and to tend to, to survive. We are informed of all these things by the places in which we live. We have learned where there is water that is safe to drink, what it means when the clouds move in a certain way, the language of the animals and all living things with whom we share the land, the air, the water. We know these things, by heart, by stories, by generation, by evolution.
Yes, change is constant, but these changes that are happening now, are happening too quickly for us to respond, before the next consequence. Suddenly another river goes dry, a mountain disappears, a species is driven to extinction, a new poison is spilled.
It's not just tragic; it's idiotic, really, that all of this nonsensical destruction--ALL OF IT.--has been driven by greed, and what liars and fools like to refer to as "economic growth". It's pathetic, disgusting, disturbing, disorienting, inhuman, unkind, degenerate, and, truly, insane. It's a shame, that humans are so supremely adaptable, that we can eat our own shit and poison our own children, and call it "progress". Progress toward what?
On our tiny islands, in this vast sea of life...where on Earth can we sail? How will we get there? And what will we know?
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Alone
I wanted snow. I needed it, as much as the trees do, as much as rivers and soils do, as mushrooms and flowers, as seeds and the birds that eat them...As the night does. As a poem, the whisper of an icy sunrise, a hoofed snort of awakening. I ache to be alive in the cold, protected by blankets of white. Winter, my love, didn't come to me this year.
I'm homesick here, in my own home. I long for another soul, a shared meal, a conversation started by another voice, the look of another's eyes, a walk together to nowhere in a hurry, an idea not my own, a cup poured for me, a hand. It's not cabin fever. I'm not stir crazy. It's not seasonal affective disorder. I'm just plain old lonesome today. I woke up with a hole in my heart, made of worry, and dreams...
After puttering around the house and getting little accomplished, I went out for a walk this afternoon, in the warm windy grey. An old man of about my father's age approached, walking a dog of similar years, both of them wearing little white beards. The man looked at me as I passed, and offered a kind "hello". The first words spoken to me all day.
The next came from a couple of adolescent girls who stood in the parking lot of a small apartment building. As I passed them, one was squatting, looking at the ground, and talking to someone on the phone, oddly. They seemed somewhat childish, but old enough to mind their own business, and I passed them without making any contact as I turned away to cross the street. It's a quiet part of town, and I assumed that when I heard one of them ask "Are you a soccer mom?" she was talking to someone else. "Hey, are you a soccer mom?". I turned back as I kept walking. The tone wasn't unkind, but the question itself was questionable. No, I said, I'm not a mom at all, sorry...and walked off.
I wish I'd had a better answer, but my head is in a fog today. Instead of having something smart and friendly to offer in return, I carried on the next leg of my walkabout with a heart just slightly heavier, wondering how a woman old enough to be a soccer mom (and look like one, apparently) could feel put down by a a twelve year old--and pondering why, on a day like this one, these were the words the Universe had to offer to my lonely ears.
Of all the things I would have liked to hear today, that I cannot say to myself...
"Hey, are you a soccer mom?"
Nope, I'm not, thankfully, but I do appreciate the fashion advice.
So it goes...Yesterday was pleasant, serendipitous, even sweet; perhaps tomorrow will be, too. Perhaps.
After puttering around the house and getting little accomplished, I went out for a walk this afternoon, in the warm windy grey. An old man of about my father's age approached, walking a dog of similar years, both of them wearing little white beards. The man looked at me as I passed, and offered a kind "hello". The first words spoken to me all day.
The next came from a couple of adolescent girls who stood in the parking lot of a small apartment building. As I passed them, one was squatting, looking at the ground, and talking to someone on the phone, oddly. They seemed somewhat childish, but old enough to mind their own business, and I passed them without making any contact as I turned away to cross the street. It's a quiet part of town, and I assumed that when I heard one of them ask "Are you a soccer mom?" she was talking to someone else. "Hey, are you a soccer mom?". I turned back as I kept walking. The tone wasn't unkind, but the question itself was questionable. No, I said, I'm not a mom at all, sorry...and walked off.
I wish I'd had a better answer, but my head is in a fog today. Instead of having something smart and friendly to offer in return, I carried on the next leg of my walkabout with a heart just slightly heavier, wondering how a woman old enough to be a soccer mom (and look like one, apparently) could feel put down by a a twelve year old--and pondering why, on a day like this one, these were the words the Universe had to offer to my lonely ears.
Of all the things I would have liked to hear today, that I cannot say to myself...
"Hey, are you a soccer mom?"
Nope, I'm not, thankfully, but I do appreciate the fashion advice.
So it goes...Yesterday was pleasant, serendipitous, even sweet; perhaps tomorrow will be, too. Perhaps.
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