In Grandma's Kitchen

Ask almost anyone to finish a sentence that starts, “In my Grandma’s kitchen,” and you’ll get a litany of memories that come forth in a rush. Making gingerbread men out of chocolate-chip dough, or basting the Thanksgiving turkey with Grandma’s secret brandy recipe. Mastering the art of whipping mashed potatoes and still keeping them lumpy. Feeling the coolness of linoleum under bare feet on the morning after a sleepover, or tugging on the pantry door that was just a little bit sticky to open.

Of my grandmother’s kitchen I remember the countertops. They were tile—pale, sunny yellow squares with aqua rectangles that rolled over the front edges. I liked that tile, its tidy geometry joined by creamy lines that darkened over time.

Next favorite was a knife—the one Grandma used to make ham and egg salad. Lots of mayonnaise. Some mustard. Celery and onion. Salt and pepper. And ham carved right off the five-pound roast that we’d had the night before—the flat, egg-shaped kind that somehow fit perfectly into a flat, egg-shaped tin that we had to open with a key that unwound a strip of metal all the way around the tin. It was like unwrapping an oversized cigarette or gum package, only I had to be careful not to cut my fingers on the metal and not to spill the ham juice all over the table.

Grandma would cube the cold, leftover ham on the counter and slice the hard-boiled eggs in her palm. The knife sliced easily through the ham slabs—click click click on the tiles. Soundlessly through the eggs. Scrape the side of the blade on the edge of the Pyrex bowl—the green one from the nested set. A lovely sliding chime of metal on glass to move all the smooshed egg yolk into the bowl.

After she was done, we’d wash the knife and dry it—“Blade side out from the sponge and towel,” said Grandma, “so you don’t cut your hand”—and then hang it on its metal rack of two magnetic strips. Mosu had screwed the rack to the side of the cabinet that held their Franciscan ware—dinner plates and bowls and cups in the Apple Blossom pattern. Service for 12. The cabinet had been painted off-white several times over.

The knives would stand at attention on the magnetic strip, handles up, cutting edges toward the window, backs flat, slapped against the magnet above the kitchen sink. I would hang a dried knife into its empty spot on the strip. Click-snap it would go into place like some kind of sucking magic was at work. I was always careful when I let the handle go, afraid that if I jerked it in my sometimes clumsy way that the knife would drop down like a guillotine and clatter into the sink and everyone would come running to see what the matter was.

That knife rack always gave me the willies. We’d do the dishes left-sink to right-sink, and I’d have to pass my hands under the rack to put the dishes in the strainer. I always did it fast, as if the strip would somehow lose its grip just at the moment I passed under its weaponry. But it always held, and the knives never fell.

I have that knife now. Its blade is no longer exceptionally sharp; its edge is scratched and slightly pitted from many inexperienced sharpenings (mine). The point is blunt. My palm curls easily around its wooden handle, around corners that are no longer corners but rounded and smooth and hand-oiled. The wood has lost its stain, bleached with detergent and washings to a natural gray-brown. Two brass rivets, gleaming golden, run through the sandwich of stainless-steel tang and wood. Their flat, embedded buttons feel cool to my thumb and forefinger. The rivets hold the blade true and firm. No hint of wobble in this knife.

Sometimes I still make ham and egg salad using this knife and the green Pyrex bowl. I’m usually halfway into the process before I realize why I’m doing it—because my spirit hankers for a connection to the childhood hours that I spent with my grandparents in the two-bedroom home that they’d had made specially for them in an assembly-line factory. (Grandma had even been able to choose the tile colors she wanted.)

The knife nestles into my adult palm, but it is Grandma’s hands that I see. Capable, thick-knuckled, manicured with false fingernails painted in the dark coral-red polish that was her best color. Grandma’s hands on the same knife, making the same motions of cutting ham and eggs, chopping onions and celery, scraping again and again onto the sides of Pyrex bowls, creating a tasty vat of nourishing, silent love.

Travel Dream Step 1: Sell House. Step 2: Gulp.

This past month, I’ve been busy. Busy making decisions. Busy crying. Busy letting go. Busy contacting realtors, friends, and others in the know about making big life changes. Busy realizing the amazing ease of becoming unencumbered, the astonishing strength of a support network that I’ve built while I wasn’t really watching.

I’ve decided to sell Whimsor. I feel sad and relieved and excited at the prospect. Sad to let go of this beautiful home that I put so much creativity and heart and self-expression into. Sad to turn away from the many wonderful projects I’d planned for the yard and interior. Sad to know that I have no control over what the next owner will do to the decor (so colorful and warm), to the surrounding woods and trees and stones (so sacred and shadowed), to the deer and racoons, hawks and owls that visit the property every day and night (so little space remaining for them already).

I feel relieved that soon I will no longer need to worry over the expense of the mortgage and the upkeep of roof, walls, and grounds. Relieved to let go of the myriad unstarted or semi-begun projects whose in-progress parts—purchases, sketches, scribbles of notes—have cluttered drawers, file folders, garage shelves, and a large part of the back of my mind for the past five years. Relieved to know that I can walk away from this custom home—a full, unique expression of my Self—without leaving my Self behind.

It’s that last prospect that holds the excitement of this choice. The awareness that my identity is no longer tied to Whimsor. I am not my home. My truest Self—joyful, creative, whimsical, laughing, adventurous—is with me wherever I go. Has, indeed, been calling me to my highest purpose, which has nothing to do with home ownership at this time.

This next phase of my life is about connection. About acknowledging the connection I have, always, with all others and all things as the God that we all are. This trip to Britain—closer than ever now that the house will be sold before I go—is my chance to experience that which I already know but have rarely practiced: how to lean upon a network of like-minded people (fellow TTouch practitioners, travelers, trekkers), upon the kindness of strangers, and upon the grace of a universe that always says “Yes” to any dream, to any hope, to any request. I get to practice asking others for help, for support, for directions, for lodging, for information, and for whatever else I’ll need as I travel day to day.

A Native American quote I once heard on NPR: “When you come to a chasm in life, jump. It’s not as far as you think.”

So here I am. At the chasm between home ownership and less encumbered living. Pause. Gulp. Take a deep breath. Jump. I’ll meet you at the other side.

Tangerine Teachings

I remember the trees of my childhood, five of them already planted as part of the San Diego tract home my Mom and step-dad bought in the mid ’60s.

The dwarf tangerine is the one I loved most. It stood alone near the northeast corner of our postage-stamp-sized backyard amid an expanse of scruffy, usually sun-dried grass. I grew up with that tree. Our black collie, Duffy, and I would chase each other around it when I was five.

At age six or seven, I learned the tree held an amazing secret: the seasonal transformation of tiny, hard, green balls into pliable orange fruits big enough to get my fist around. The flowers, white and fragrant, would crumple to a creamy brown and drop to darken into the earth. Then this little green ball would start up where each flower had been. The size of a pea, the color of the leaves. Sometimes I could find only a few, unless I looked really, really hard. In just a few weeks, I would spot them in all kinds of sizes.

I’d study them in all their stages of change. First green as Mexican limes, they’d blush to half-orange, half-green, then one sunny day there’d be nothing but bright orange rounds in the heart of the branches. The tree never looked like those pictures we all drew as kids—a big green circle with orange dots all over it. Instead, the fruit nestled in among the branches, hid under the leaves, hugged the trunk. Even though the orange was so bright, I was often surprised at how many I missed from one day to the next.

I remember being afraid to pick and eat the fruit at first. Was it OK to do? Was it safe? Could I really eat these pretty mini-orange sections? Mom said yes. The tangerines had lots of seeds. I didn’t like that. They weren’t always sweet or juicy, either. We didn’t water the tree much. Like the kids and the pets, the tree was left pretty much to fend for itself with whatever the elements would give it. Benign neglect was big in those days.

Picking the tangerines was easy. The tree was a dwarf variety, and even I could reach up into its middle with my little-kid height. Sometimes I’d get so many tangerines I couldn’t hold them all. Then I’d fold up the front of my T-shirt and carry them in a stretchy basket.

I learned they were ripe when just a nudge would drop them into my hand. If I had to pull too hard, the rind would rip, and the fruit wouldn’t be as tasty because it hadn’t been ready to come away from the tree.

Life can be a lot like that—push it, struggle to pluck its goodness, and you never end up with the best that it could have been. But let it ripen on its own, give it the least little prod, and all that we need falls into our hands in its own perfect time. No struggle. No coaxing. Just life at its best—ripe, ready, full of juice. For me, that tree was abundance.

At ten, I remember reading that you can splice trees together—graft them—so that one kind of tree could be made to grow from another. I once took a knife to the side of the trunk and tried to graft a lemon branch to it, but the add-on died. A botanical Dr. Frankenstein I was not.

The tangerine tree is gone now—cut down two or three years ago to convert the always-scraggly yard into a lovely sanctuary of rose bushes, white rock, curvy tiled benches, and stepping stones studded with butterflies and frogs. While the yard makeover is beautiful, I do still miss that friendly tangerine tree and its sweet little surprises hidden in the branches.

Giving the Trip Shape

I talked with Mom a few months ago about my idea for this 3-month walking trip in Britain and realized I could give it more shape.

As I see it, I’m traveling mostly by foot, sometimes by train to get to new areas to walk. Perhaps taking a horseback tour, catching a natural history expedition, joining a literary walk, or taking a painting course along the way.

I have a smart phone for e-mail and phone access in towns that are connected, so I can check in every few days with stateside folks so they know where I am and how I’m doing.

I see myself staying overnight with friends of friends in each new town, or at places the locals recommend. Though I travel alone, I connect with people every day. Maybe Mom or others meet up with me on parts of the trip.

I am doing TTouch on my hosts’ animals, and more animal work comes to me while I’m there. This is one way I earn my room and board; I may do other odd jobs as well. I may stay in a place for a few days or only one.

I’d like to do the sea-to-sea walk across England that’s described in the Sept 2003 issue of Smithsonian. I’d like to return to the Cotswolds and the Lake District. York, too. I’ve never seen Cornwall or Canterbury. I’d like to go north into Scotland and the Hebrides. West into the wilds of Wales. Perhaps walk the Thames or Hadrian’s wall.

So much to see!

It’s like the ultimate Serendipity Drive. Following my nose and my heart and my feet, and giving in to wanderlust and to whatever happens next.

A Word from Goethe and Rick Steves

“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness, concerning all acts of initiative (and creation). There is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would come his way. Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now.” — Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

I’ve always loved that quote, ever since I got a copy of it from Whitney in our Aldus days. It came to mind again this weekend while I was driving to the barn. I turned on NPR and found myself listening to Rick Steves talking all about Britain with a Blue Ribbon Tour Guide from London, plus call-in listeners.

Yowsa. I’ve only recently put out my full intention to create this trip, and already the material assistance I need is coming to me, this time in the way of information. A few great tips I added to my mix:

• In Britain, the saying goes, “There’s no bad weather, only inappropriate clothing.” Have Gortex boots and layer clothes.
• The London locals like to take off for Rye and Burford (sp?) for their weekend getaways. The Sussex area, I think, en route to Canterbury (a place I’d like to see). Rye is particularly quaint and inviting, according to the Blue Ribbon Tour Guide.
• Walking across private lands is legal; Britain’s law requires landowners to offer right of way to all foot travelers. Look for stiles in the fences and walls for safest passage.
• Book B&Bs in advance, even on a walking trip.
• For walking tours, get specific-area guidebooks, such as Guidebook to the Cotswolds. I’d love to return to the Cotswolds. Green, green, green.
• While small villages aren’t usually train stops, the taxi service is usually good, even in the rural areas. Twenty to thirty dollars will get me to the nearest station.
• If I were so inclined to stay in one place instead of tour, Britain offers some sort of worker program for up to 6 months; one caller said she worked in a pub in London through the program and enjoyed the chance to meet the locals and make some money instead of spend it on her vacation.
• If I intend to tour Buckingham Palace (the “Buck House”), do it in August or September, when the Queen’s away and the whole place is open to the public. She opened the Buck House several years ago to pay for the repair of Balmoral Castle after the fire (not wanting to use Brit tax dollars to refurbish her own home); the concept brought in so much cash that she’s moved out at the end of every summer since then, even though the Balmoral bill’s been paid a few times over.
• Stay out of the Britson area of London—not safe.
• Half-price ticket booths for theater performances are all over Leicester (sp?) Square. Be sure to go to the white building with the clock on it—that’s the reputable sales site; other booths can be shady-handed. See last year’s hits for half the cost; this year’s hits won’t be available this way.
• The British Museum is free. I keep forgetting that.
• When visiting the London sites, do the churches in the afternoon to avoid the crowds (tours usually run in the mornings). Try the Tower in the morning (tours usually run in the afternoons). If doing the Tower, go to the Crown Jewels first—usually people go there last, so it’s more crowded.

And of course tons more tips available at his site, www.ricksteves.com.

Thank you, Steves. Go, Goethe!

The Big Bhang and Other Brownie Moments

I’m making my first batch of hemp brownies tonight. Yes, the kind that’s interspersed with actual Cannabis sativa seed—those happy little nubules that would, when not suspended in a bowl of chocolate lava and subjected to 350° heat in a Maytag oven, blossom into marijuana (aka bhang), ripe with the promise of ropes, joints, and hashish.

I laughed when I saw the box on the co-op’s dessert shelf: “Hemp Plus™ Brownie Mix” from Nature’s Path. Organic and “Quick & Easy” into the bargain. I’ve never tried pot or any other recreational drug, but the box brought back memories of the ’70s when baking hashish into brownies was all the rage. I still remember that Barney Miller episode when Wojo’s girlfriend brings a plate of brownies to the precinct and all the detectives get giddy, not knowing the stuff is spiked with hash.

While I don’t expect to get happy off of anything more than the chocolate, I did doctor tonight’s mix with a generous tablespoon of extra cocoa (organic), another of wheat germ (just for the heck of it), and two eggs (per the box’s instructions for added moistness—not much is worse than a dry brownie).

At this point in my life, I dare to call myself a brownie aficionado. OK—a brownie snob. At least of the boxed kind. Duncan Hines was the best when I was a kid. Moist, chewy, chocolaty. Hands-down better than what that upstart Ms. Betty Crocker or that puddin’-bellied Pillsbury boy could muster.

Then I discovered Ghirardelli’s at Costco a few years ago. A typically humongous box that I could barely palm in one hand, but packed with three—count ’em, three—floppy plastic bags full of a magic brown powder that cooks up into the most gloriously fudgy gooey cakey brownie that has ever come out of a home oven. I could eat my way through a pan in two days flat—but usually manage to stretch it to three.

The mix is studded with bits of Ghirardelli chocolate—none of the sissy Hershey’s or Nestle’s chips here. These brownies are like eating a chocolate cake candy bar—meltable yet chewable, thick enough to cleave your tongue to the roof of your mouth, but not so cloying as to take your teeth with it. A close-your-eyes-and-moan kind of brownie.

For several years I always had at least one triple-bag box of Ghirardelli brownies stashed in the cupboard. It came in handy for an emergency dose of chocolate on a Saturday after a long week. Baking up two bags at once made a fast, sure-fire 13x9 offering at any party or potluck. So I was pretty pissed at Costco when they recently replaced the top-notch Ghirardelli brand with a mix by the more pedestrian Hershey people. It’s like being able to drive a Porsche for years and then one morning finding a Kia in my garage.

Those Ghirardelli’s brownies are the closest thing I’ve gotten to reclaiming the delight of splitting a slab of mouth-watering brownie with my husband on the sidewalk outside of Harrod’s in London. We’d spent a long day touring London’s streets and wandered into the Food Halls at Harrod’s. The Food Hall itself is a destination site. This was in the mid ’90s, in the days before upscale grocery stores began catering to the fresh-food takeaway crowd in the U.S. Even today, you wouldn’t go to Nordstrom’s or Sears to buy meat and cheese for the evening’s supper. You can at Harrod’s.

We inevitably gravitated toward the dessert counter, where we breathed on the curved glass and oohed and aahed over the delectable offerings. Cheesecake wedges and petit-four squares, domed truffles and flat cookies, rounds of fruit tarts and miniature trifles, and—oooh, yummy! A whole tray of fresh brownies. Our mutual weakness.

The squares were big enough to tile a bathroom. They were also frosted. I usually steer clear of frosted brownies because the only reason to frost them is to try to salvage a dry brownie—and there’s not much worse than a dry brownie. But, hey, this is Harrod’s. We have to try it.

So the lady wraps a square of waxed paper around the biggest brownie in the bunch and exchanges it for our British pound notes over the glass case. I am surprised at the heft of this brownie. It must weigh half a pound. We grab napkins and look around for somewhere in the Food Hall to sit and share our booty. No such luck. No tables. No benches. Not a chair in sight. Irritated at this lack of nicety in a food hall, we thread our way out of the store in hopes of finding a bench outside. No such luck. No benches. No nearby park. Not even a stoop to sit on.

So we use the nearest thing onto which we can hitch a seat bone—a 3" beveled ledge that’s built into the side of the Harrod’s building and that’s far too low to be truly comfortable. We half prop, half push ourselves straight-legged against the wall, unfold the wax paper from the brownie, and realize that neither of us thought to grab forks.

No mind. Thumb and fingers dig into the frosting and the brownie’s soft underbelly as we each ease off a piece to pop it into our mouths. Heaven. Absolute heaven. Fudgy and cakey and just enough sweet. Squeeze it through the teeth, swish it out of the cheek folds, chew it and melt it at the same time. Smile and lick fingers and catch crumbs from falling—we don’t want to waste any of it. We linger half an hour over the luscious lump and are buzzed for the rest of the afternoon. Definitely a 10 in both brownie legend and travel memories.

And as for the hemp brownies I made tonight? A bhang gone bhust. I’d hate to find out how dry they would have been without the eggs I added. I give them a 4 and won’t do them again.

In the Beginning Was...The Dream

I once wanted to move to Scotland. Some 20 years ago it was, when I was in my early twenties and living in the ever-sunny San Diego. I laid the plan aside to get married, have a couple of cats, pursue a career, and build a home and a (now single) life in the Pacific Northwest, where the overcast weather and the perpetual green were as close as I'd get to the moist green fields of that small country across the water.

My yen to live in Scotland has since evolved into a more general longing to see all of Britain (and so many other countries) up close and personal. On foot. At a slow pace. One on one with the land, the people, the animals of a place. The hours I've enjoyed most on my travels abroad are those spent just ambling around...wandering a city or an estate or an open-air market, stumbling upon whatever site there was to experience, opening myself to the opportunity to talk to strangers and find that we're not such strangers after all.

So here I am, speaking out the intention to embark on the longest trip I've yet taken: a three-month, solitary, serendipitous, mostly-walking sojourn in Britain in summer 2006.

The thought is both exhilarating and (when I let it be) frightening. So many logistical questions would stop me if I let them. How to see that the house and cats are cared for in my absence. How to pay for the mortgage, boarding for my horse, and other constant costs while I'm gone for three months at the same time that I'm trying to cover the same during the interim months until I leave. How closing my writing business for a season might affect my ability to start it up again (quickly) upon my return (presuming I'll be ready to return from such a wanderlust adventure). How to fund both the trip and other dreams like the TTouch training I'm pursuing. Where to find the courage to throw myself upon the universe and know that the needs of each new day will be met with unlimited, unconditional supply and support.

It is that last point that draws me forward. The desire to conquer my fears and follow my heart wherever it leads me on this planet, knowing that all is well and that I am safe and provided for no matter where I go. The proof to my Self that I need not fear meeting new people or landing in unfamiliar territory. That every moment holds a treasure when I let go of All That Isn't and yield myself to All That Is.

So I embark on this intention with an eager if sometimes quavering heart, still gathering ideas of what to do, where to go, how to fund it all as I choose to Be Into The Plan, instead of to Do The Planning.

And so it begins.

Gestalt & Pepper

OK, OK, so I’m finally on the web. About time, no doubt. Here I am—a born writer, making a living by putting everyone else’s ideas into words—and it’s taken me the entire history of the Internet to sit myself down and put my own story out there for others to read. I was just too chicken until now.

All of us have one. A story, I mean. Actually lots of ’em, all gathered in memory like so many beads tossed in a bowl. Fiery glass tubes. Lumpy clay blobs. Sparkling crystals. Big wooden rounds in primary colors. Occasionally we rake up a handful and string them together in whatever order suits us, as if creating some sort of personal rosary that reminds us of who we are. We wind strands together and call it a Lifetime.

That’s what this particular blog is about: A chance for you to join me on the front porch of the Internet as I stir through the bowl of my own memory beads and share what comes up.

I may free-write about a particular word of the day, or record a truth that I woke up remembering. Perhaps post a poem that came to me on a walk, or a vision that rose from a meditation, or a dream that stayed with me til morning. You may also find snippets from my journals and an occasional soapbox delivery.

And sometimes I’ll just post the rambling, “nothing” kind of talk that defines all our days—the meeting with a friend over supper, the fragrance of a rose I’d never noticed before, the bite of Thai basil plucked fresh from the bush and sent zinging around my tongue.

So come on in. Grab a cup and a chair and stay a while. Even I don’t know what will pop up next in this place.