Simultaneous realities II - The Kitchen

     The second snowstorm in three days has passed, and fortunately (for me) there is no ensuing snow day.  Andrew reminds me as I drop him off at school this morning that there are only three days left before Christmas vacation. The mild panic that rises motivates me, but where to begin?  I have a blog post to finish, assorted household chores (the never-ending kind), shopping still to do before the kids are around full-time, and -- ah yes -- a batch of shortbread to bake by 1:30. 

     By late morning I find myself standing in front of a 1954 Kitchen-Aid stand mixer, creaming butter and powdered sugar and vanilla, scraping and becoming frustrated by how it is sticking to the tines of the mixer and getting all over. I am just trying to get through this, my mind on the mess on the dining room table that I need to clear away, and who is going to pick up Anna. Everything is just totally disorganized, and on top of it all, any minute Meg's friend is going to walk in.

      And suddenly I see the whole scene differently. When Meg's friend walks in, she'll find a kitchen bright with sunshine and woodstove warm. She'll see a mom baking Christmas cookies in a comfortably disheveled kitchen, carols playing quietly in the background. This is... this is ideal! This is what the holidays, and family, and friends are all about! I'm doing it, and I didn't even see it. I had to get out of my head! 

     Two realities – the very same scene but different perceptions – exist right in my kitchen. And I have a choice (I always have a choice): be conscious in the present moment, non-judgmental, accepting, or live in my mind's unattainable construction of what should be. So here I am baking Christmas cookies for a dear friend, my happy family's chaos evident in its blessed abundance of laundry and advent calendars and clothes drying by the stove, and it is good. Very good.

Simultaneous realities I – The Window

(written this past weekend)

     Today, our first big winter storm is howling outside the kitchen window.  Last night when we walked the dog, sugar snow was starting to fall.  By this morning, there were maybe eight or nine inches on the ground.  As I wash the dishes and look out the window, bushes are laden with snow, snow blows off the roof, all is white and frozen.

     When I shorten my gaze, I look into a plexiglass box that sits just in front of the winter window. In that box five weeks ago were the dormant vestiges of fall: small evergreen plants including one with red berries*; some mosses and lichens; three withering herbaceous plants**; the soil they are rooted in; a piece of rotting wood hosting the lichens; acorns; decaying leaves; and a stone. It looks like a piece of the forest was lifted and settled into the box, like a diorama. In those five weeks, nothing changed.

      But something was happening. I knew it would, because I've done this before. I knew spring would come to the box, but I didn't know when or how.

      And now in the midst of a snowstorm a moth has emerged, just as two green spikes of Canada mayflower (Maianthemum canadense) have pierced the soil. Over in the Oxalis corner, a little stem with a tight crunch of embryonic leaves has appeared, and I expect 

later today it will open its three shamrock leaves like the moth opened its wings, ready for sunlight.

      I don't know if there even was winter in my box, or if it went from fall straight to spring. But just on the other side of the window, winter lives ferociously in the dragon wind of this storm. It seems miraculous – or like cheating – that here on this side, is spring. I can stand here washing dishes, and witness two realities simultaneously while I am living in the dry protected warmth of a third.

* clubmoss (Lychopodium sp.), a white pine seedling (Pinus strobus), a balsam fir seedling (Abies balsamea), partridgeberry (Mitchella repens), and wintergreen (Gaultheria procumbens)

** starflower (Trientalis borealis), bunchberry (Cornus canadensis) and wood sorrel (Oxalis montana)

The Abundance of Quiet

     And suddenly, it's quiet.  It's a surprise, this trough of unactivity.  I am alone in the house; they have all gone out, some to a show, one to visit a friend.  The evening here has laid itself down to rest.  The couch is mine, and I sit down gladly.

      What a Thanksgiving it was!  Meg is home from college, and Andrew and Anna had half the week off too.  There were comings and goings: appointments, lunch with friends, movies, shopping. On the Big Day itself, fifteen cousins, aunts, uncles, and a grandmother gathered around the table. In the door came squash and pies and wild rice and fresh baked rolls, cranberry sauce cooked on a woodstove, salad, creamed spinach – and outside a turkey turned on a spit over the grill in the driveway. Afterwards we played charades in the living room. As they finally rolled out the door saying goodnight, we made more plans for the next day.

    In the morning light, wine glasses remained by the sink unwashed as ten pairs of bread lined the counter and became turkey sandwiches. Two hours later, ten people and four dogs began an ascent of Pleasant Mountain. The lakes and foothills of Maine's western mountains rolled out to the horizon under a blue sky so clear it crackled. We spent the day taking pictures, crossing the ridgeline, eating nuts and clementines and sandwiches, telling stories in pairs on the trail, and even as the sun set on our descent, we gripped each other and the glorious day, unwilling to let go. And we didn't. We came home and piled on the couch to eat pizza and watch a movie, eager to keep the connection going.

     At what point does the hunger for indulging in family and the stream of our activity become gluttony? Sometimes I feel like the Gross Domestic Product, mindlessly pursuing more, more, more.

     But wait: suddenly here I am on the couch; the dog is asleep by the woodstove; there is nothing to prepare for or clean up from; and it is in this moment of quiet, of no family and no activity, that gratitude walks in. It's like sliding out of the current and into an eddy: when you're out of the flow, there is the space to turn around and see the current for what it is.

 

     It is important to stop. To be alone, with the dog, the woodstove, the night sky, or a mug of tea at the kitchen table before dawn. Don't read the paper or make a list or fill the moment with a screen. Instead, find out if the quiet is full or empty, or if it's soft. Is it the color of cinnamon? Are you in the quiet, or is it in you?

    Outside now, I hear the wind rising; snow and sleet will come tonight. The dog breathes evenly. The refrigerator chuffles off its cooling cycle and the room settles even more to quiet. Soon enough the family will be home again, and I will happily hear their stories burble and cascade through this space. But for now I am grateful for the abundance of quiet circling around me like a blanket, a place of calm from which to finally see clearly the joy of our Thanksgiving.

 

Monarch butterfly update

     The news just came to my inbox that the monarch butterflies have finally arrived at their roosting site in Mexico!  They are late this year, and still coming in.  According to the citizen-science website Journey North (in this case Journey South!), the numbers are down.  Counts and measurements will happen in December, which will give a real picture of the North American population, since they all roost in this one spot.  To see pictures of their arrival, and the trees where they spend the winter, visit this website and click around: http://www.learner.org/jnorth/monarch/fall2013/update111413.html#news.  Meanwhile, let's plant butterfly gardens next spring, and start thinking about those "weedy places" that host milkweed as vital nurseries that shouldn't be mowed or bush-hogged until October.  
     May the overwintering monarchs be safe from storms and cold.  May we all be safe from storms and cold.

Divide and Conjure

     Everything was all set.  This was Family Weekend at Meg's new college.  The hotel reservation was made, the housesitter lined up, the tickets to Meg's Friday evening choral concert waiting for us at Will Call, and dinner reservations for five – five! – made at the restaurant she chose. It was picture-perfect.

      Then, in a remarkable week, not only did the Red Sox win the World Series, but Anna's Varsity soccer team beat a higher seeded competitor in the State championship quarter-finals, and they would be playing in the semi-finals for the first time in fifteen years! On Saturday! At 5:00! Right during Meg's second concert two hundred miles away!

      “It's all right Mama, I understand, you should go, I know how much you want to hear Meg sing,” Anna told me. With her permission, I could keep the picture I had been carrying in my heart intact. Meg in a long black dress, singing classical choral music on risers, the rich sounds of men's and women's voices rolling out over the concert hall. And the next night, Meg in a group of twelve women, singing “Bennie and the Jets” a capella, their short skirts and animated faces keeping time before a full house of cheering students and families.

      Except, Anna wouldn't be there.

      “It's ok Mom, you should be there for Anna,” Meg said on the phone. She had played in championship high school games, and she knew how important it was to have her family in the stands. She was giving me permission to imagine a new picture of my weekend, one with Anna's team in their uniforms and cleats, and parents filling aluminum bleachers and wild cheering and watching the scoreboard and being ready for the emotional elation or despondency afterwards. And then coming home with my girl in the front seat next to me, sleeping in the next morning, being there with her. It was a good picture, just different.

       Each of my daughters was ready to divide their sense of wholeness – of the family that roots for them – for the other. Because of them, I began to conjure up a third possibility in which I could spend one day with each. The details filled in, thanks to Bob and Andrew, the house-sitter, team-mates' families, and a Prius. The distance was not so far. I had a new picture in my heart as Friday approached, not of a heart divided in two, but of two wholenesses.

      The way it turned out was that Meg lost her voice over the course of the weekend, and Anna's team lost the game. But it was a great weekend. I think we all would agree.

Attending to Fall

(This is a "raw" write. It is the result of a writing practice I do to explore my inner world; not meant for an audience, it is jagged and honest. Rarely will I share one, but the unapologetic quality seems to fit my morning's view of the coming season, and perhaps it will serve as an invitation to try writing from the place of spirit. An FYI: the mountain that suddenly appears is one we hiked this past weekend – changes in voice or pace often occur with this kind of writing.)

      The shadows in the woods are different these days. It is dappled, porous, and the sound of the air shimmering the leaves that remain rides on the flattening light. Summer's depths of shade and green have thinned. In my memory the foliage of June and July seems succulent – now it is crunchy and kicking along with my footsteps as I walk the dog on the familiar trails across the street.

      My heart starts to thin too in the fall – at least, it feels like it has risen out of the depths of the near-decadent wallowing it does in the sounds and smells and ripeness of full summer. I feel it thinning out in the coming cold, gripping in tension as color fades from the landscape. I am more shut inside, turn inward to tasks to keep my mind off the change, and yet – and yet – there is a knowing that finally when we come to rest in winter, that will be the time of letting go, the time of dreaming. And so this transition could be something else, not so brittle, if I actually turn and attend to it straight on. What if I just go down into the field and lay in the grass, feeling the cold earth beneath, listening to what is, what is – not aching for what was?

      This is the practice then, the practice of being present to the isness of the transition, neither looking behind nor ahead. And might I find that in fact it is not an in-between, it is itself? Yes, yes, my head is telling me I already know this. So what is it? (It is so much easier to find excuses than to do the work.) What is it about fall? OK, gloves off – I don't like the colors: they are too bright, too showy and they have stolen my green. – I don't like to be cold, at all. I loved the heat of the summer. In coldness, I become more lifeless. And just what do I mean by lifeless? It's that thinning again. I am not in my body, I bump into mental and spiritual walls and back out of living to the level of lists.

      Walking, walking up the mountain I begin to warm. Some woods feel good – I imagine these leggy diseased beech trees pillowed in deep snow and think I would like to come snowshoeing here in the whiteness and sunlight of February. Then the old uncut spruce forest, gaping darkness, softness and quiet – I feel the ancientness here, church-like, not a place to settle into, though. Then the krumholz near the summit, the gruff dwarves of the mountains' trees, old but short and gnarled, apprehended by ice and wind over and over, and yet tenacious. And then it is Bob and me standing on the bald rocks, and – exposed to the wind – the layer of sweat near my skin begins to chill. I put on more and more coats, but my instinct is to tighten inward, find shelter, hide. There is no glory in this, no invigoration. And that is just what is, for me. Maybe I don't need to befriend the cold. Maybe just turning and attending to this season will only reveal that indeed, it is not my story, there is no fecundity here, it just is, for awhile, and I will be in it, cold earth below, night-sky clarity above, and be thin.

The Democracy of Pie

       

     Pie crust.

      Just thinking of it makes my mouth water: honey-colored pastry over fruit, deepening just a bit to the ambered edge – always my favorite last bite because of the slight crispiness to it.

      “You're giving away our pie crust recipe?” Andrew is incredulous that I'm writing this post.

      “Why, is it a secret?” I ask back.

      “Well, no, but then everyone will be able to make it,” he says.

      Yup. That's the point. Pies are a democratic species, unpretentious and elegant in their simplicity. A basic dough becomes a container of ripe and savory cooked fruit (I'm leaving out the gooey pies for now). But for some reason, people fear pie-making. Pie-making contests and pie-only bakeries have raised the pie-bar to a level of specialty that seems out of reach. At family dinners or potluck suppers where I often bring a pie, people have said to me “I could never make this.” The truth is, anyone can make a pie, a good pie. And there is no reason to fear the crust.

      This pie crust recipe came to me from my mother. She says that when she used it to make a wild blueberry pie for her beau nearly sixty years ago, it cinched the deal. My father still gets one from her every year on their wedding anniversary.

      I believe in pie. So I'm doing my part to erase the elitism around pie-making by divulging a big secret: this crust is very, very easy to make. And the rest is just fruit, sweetened a little, spiced sometimes, covered and baked.

      One last thought: I'm no super-duper cook. But I believe that good homemade food can glue together families and friendships. Some of the most sacred times we share involve sitting around a table and eating together. Let's do this more often. In fact, let's teach our sons to make – and share – pie. 

     May the smell of warm pie fill your kitchen.

Stir 'n' Roll Pie Crust

Prelude: Make your filling.

1. Sift a bunch of flour into a bowl. (If you don't have a sifter, stir it through a mesh strainer, or spoon it lightly into the bowl to fluff it up.) 

2. Measure 2 cups of the sifted flour into another bowl.

Add ½ tsp salt. Whisk it together to mix.

3. Measure ½ cup vegetable oil (not olive oil) into a 1 cup measuring cup. Add ¼ cup cold milk. Don't stir!

4. Pour liquid into flour all at once.

 

5. Stir with a fork until evenly moistened. (From now on, handle the dough just enough to do the job; a gentle touch keeps it from getting tough.)

6. Form dough into a ball. Cut it roughly in half.

7. Have four sheets of wax paper ready. Place the larger half of the dough (if one is larger) between two sheets. (To keep the bottom sheet from slipping, moisten the counter under it slightly.)

8. Flatten the dough just enough that you can start rolling it into a disk between the two sheets.

 

9. Roll the dough about an inch wider than the pie dish you are using. (The larger the dish, the thinner the crust will be. Start with a smaller pie dish until you are used to working with the dough.)

 
10. Peel off the top sheet of wax paper. Have your pie dish ready, and gently invert the bottom sheet so the dough disk is centered on the plate. Peel the wax paper straight back, easing the dough into the dish. (If the dough breaks, don't worry: use overhanging pieces to mend, or push and seal the dough together.)

11. Roll out the top the same way, but only a little wider than the dish. (It doesn't have to settle into the dish, just lay on top. A little extra gives you room to make a mistake.)
 
12. Fill the pie (you did prepare the pie filling first, right?)

13. Dot the fruit with butter.

14. Lay the top crust over the fruit and peel back the wax paper.



15. Seal the edges by either a) trimming the rim with a knife and then pressing a fork along the edge (it helps to occasionally wet the fork) or 
b) rolling the overhanging dough up onto the rim and pinching and fluting it.

16. Cut vent slits in the top.
 
17. Bake at 400 degrees for about an hour. (Put it in the middle of the oven with a baking sheet on the shelf just below to catch drips. It is done when the crust is no longer pale but mottled golden brown, and the fruit is steaming or bubbling. If the edges are getting too dark, fold a rim of foil over them and continue baking until the rest of the pie is done.)
 
18. Cool the pie. The longer it cools, the more it “sets” (less liquid), and the less chance of burning your mouth.


So here's the condensed version of the recipe I carry around. See how simple it is?