Life & Spirit | mulberryshoots

I was reading a follow-up article in the NYTimes this morning about chickens who are fed scraps from gourmet restaurants from NYC (trucked to an Amish farm in Pennsylvania) and how improved the flavor is over commercially fed birds. If it’s true for us humans that “we are what we eat,” then it should be little surprise that this holds true for animals as well, doesn’t it? In any case, I have been comparing the taste and texture of chickens available through our grocery markets ever since the original article was published last week. I try to avoid Perdue chickens in the supermarket because of the documentary a few years ago showing caged chickens in a filthy barn as one of the Perdue suppliers. Wouldn’t touch one after that. I’m tempted to order one of the D’Artagnan Green Circle chickens after these reports of incomparable flavor and juicy white meat, silky dark meat.

One of the letters to the editor wrote about living “on our frugal little farms” which made me laugh. Especially since my recent Bon Appetit magazine which arrived a couple of days ago featured a gorgeous spread about Mimi Thorrison who is half-French/half-Chinese, has beautiful dark hair and a slender figure even after bearing four children and cooks for a family of nine everyday filled with fresh foods from the farm markets, seafood, butter, chicken, cream, calvados and gougeres. In case you haven’t noticed, there is a wide breadth of life between living frugally on our little farms and living fully on a farm in Medoc, France with a husband who is a professional photographer and breeds Jack Russell and smooth haired terriers. At latest count, I think they have forty dogs running around the place. Mimi also favors providing the best wine you can afford, sets flowers all around with lit candles with beautiful bases. And, astonishingly, none of it looks or sounds pretentious at all, that’s the most amazing part of her aura.

It takes a lot to bowl me over since I read a lot and peruse magazines from the U.S., U.K. and Australia at the local bookstore, even keeping up with editorial changes which seem to be happening more often, or at least more quickly these days. There has been nothing close that takes my breath away as much as the description of the Thorisson family and photographs described on Mimi’s blog, Manger. Apparently, this is a shared response because there is a TV cooking show being filmed on site and she is writing a cookery book that will be published by Clarkson Potter in the Fall of 2014. I can’t wait.

Not only are the goings on so evocative and tenderly personal, they are written without being at all self-promotional (her two year old daughter, Gaia’s yearning for blackberries that she could reach [not spoiled by the foxes brushing by the low branches] and not finding them where she was sure there were some; then their father, Oddur [yes, that’s his Icelandic name] speaks earnestly to their son, Hudson, asking him to look carefully for patches of blackberries elsewhere on the property.) Which he does!, to everyone’s delight, yielding ten bowls of blackberries, which Mimi then makes into blackberry ice cream and blackberry souffles dusted with fine sugar and frozen blackberries on the top. It is so beautiful and yet so charmingly described (a fine line to walk) that the reader is entranced. Charmed by reading about and peering into such a very charmed life.

So, I wish the best for them, and have Manger on my bookmark bar (among the few) where I gain inspiration from people who are living their dreams (along with breeding so many dogs) raising a family with such thoughtful care and looking so beautiful amongst it all. What it has also done is to reinforce my awareness once again of how much beauty and bounty resides within our own homes: old wooden bowls collected over so many years and Shino glazed pottery plates and bowls that we use every day. Old copper pots, one a huge hammered one, is perfect for roasting a leg of lamb, turnips, carrots and onions now that the weather has cooled off. Yesterday, a friend brought a sheaf of freshly picked basil which I harvested and stored in the fridge with a slightly dampened paper towel. Tomorrow, I plan to make pesto with toasted pine nuts and pair it with whole wheat fettucine plus bella mushrooms. Trimming fresh basil leaves off an armful of two foot stems seemed like light work compared to cleaning ten bowls of wild blackberries!

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September 22, 2013

equinox . . .

newly planted chrysanthemums and perennial chinese lanterns

Autumn in New England is one of the most beautiful seasons of the year. This afternoon around 4 p.m. the autumnal equinox will occur: when the sun crosses the equator resulting in night and day being equally divided. A song was even written about it, “Autumn in New York.” Yesterday morning, I passed by a beautiful, huge chrysanthemum plant at the grocery store. It was a combination of russet and yellow blooms, the buds barely showing any color, tightly wound ready to burst into bloom in a few days. I kept thinking about it so I went back yesterday afternoon and bought it. G. and I made a patch for it (at least, G. did) and we wedged it into the front of the stone triangle garden in front of the house. His little stone gargoyle guy was set right under it, gnawing or playing his pipe.

Today, on Sunday, the 22nd of September, the morning began overcast and grey, although the blue morning glories on the deck greeted us from the kitchen window as we had breakfast and read the morning papers. Then, G. went off to Boston to do a couple of piano tunings and I settled back to write a letter to a potter friend in Australia.

I thought how nice it would be to pick up a few smaller pots of mums in different colors and to plant them all (including the huge mother plant) into the ground. There was also a bag of mulch sitting around all summer, too heavy for me to move into place to spread it (or at least that was my proffered excuse to myself.)

At the Stop and Shop, I found three bushy mums in yellow, russet and a warm dusty rose. Putting on my sneakers when I got home, I used a big garden fork and spade to dig holes for the plants. Weeded and cut thick, woody roots. Planted the mums and mulched them with ye old bag of mulch. Swept the porch steps and watered the plants with a fine spray from the hose still outside. It felt satisfying to have acknowledged the equinox with this bevy of mums in the garden, especially with so much human drama occurring all around us every day.

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September 21, 2013

“death be not proud” . . .

In the last week, a close friend and high school teacher colleague of my daughter’s who was fondly called “Doc 5” lingered from a dread rare type of cancer and died on Thursday, the 19th of September as the full harvest moon rose in the sky. He had been a teacher of Classics, fluent apparently, in Greek and Latin which he quoted in a “booming voice.”

Touching testimonials flew in on his CaringBridge guestbook from students near and far. One Dad wrote that he had a four-year-old daughter whom he hoped would be as lucky as he was to have had a teacher as inspiring as Doc 5. Another wrote that she was writing her Ph.D. thesis and that M. in high school had been the best teacher she had ever had. Someone also wrote that the one teacher he always came back to visit every year in person was Doc 5.

Here was a man who found his calling and carried it out, influencing circle upon circle of students year after year. He had good friends too. Loyal and true who stood by him everyday and loved him. In the end, everything seemed to come together on the day he died. He had the gift of reading letters and looking at photographs of weddings and children sent to him by former students. In a way, his was a living epiphany while he was dying. The word, epiphany is used often. But in this case, it seems particularly apropos.

Here is John Donne’s poem, “Death Be Not Proud” as acknowledgement of M.’s passing.

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings and desperate men,

And dost with poison, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

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September 19, 2013

unmasked . . .

Hey, I just discovered something interesting. At least to me. Which is that unwittingly and unknowingly somehow, I have thought it was my job in life to know-it-all. That’s probably because I figured out at a young age that to be able to contribute to a situation or to people was to know more than anyone else so that I could help out. This may also have had to do with feeling that just being myself wasn’t sufficient enough to get along in life.

Guess what? It didn’t work. Oh, in some ways, it did because I was able to provide a living for myself and my daughters when they were in college. I wondered also if it’s a partly cultural thing because I’m Asian. You know, performing in school and getting all A’s because that’s what was expected without anyone ever mentioning it aloud. Also studying to be a concert pianist and wanting to be a neurosurgeon or something when others were playing sports and going to proms.

Wow, those were high expectations of another era, or a bunch of eras ago. Now, nobody cares about knowing stuff because all you have to do is click onto Google. The fallout for thinking one’s purpose in life is to be the smartest one in the room though, is that people run away from you as though you have the plague. Nobody seems to like being told what to do, even if I’m just being a Chinese Tiger-Mother to my kids. Poor things.

As for my husband, G., I am in awe realizing his love for me because he has kindly borne with me and my opinions for over two decades. Now that I realize that I don’t have to know it all in order to fix things, I can relax and maybe begin to enjoy life a little. All those romances on TV where people look into each other’s eyes and say that they want to get married so that they can grow old with each other? Well, that’s what G. and I are doing right now, being married and growing old together, a lifelong dream. Lucky us.

Roast chicken and twice-baked potatoes for dinner tonight. Along with yellow string beans, his favorite.

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September 15, 2013

zen day (sun-day) . . .

One reads about the middle way, neither too yin nor too yang. Not one extreme or the other, but follow the golden mean. Take not gain nor loss to heart. Stay calm and do our best. Every day. Fret not about what we can’t affect. Influence modestly when we can. Doesn’t that sound calming? It takes the struggle from contention. It neutralizes fear because if we do our best, fear becomes a waste of energy.

This weekend, my daughter, C. visited and we made blueberry muffins because it was Sunday morning. A new recipe I found online with small bits of unsalted butter mixed in with the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. Then eggs and milk. Blueberries and orange zest. Baked and sprinkled with lemon zest and sugar on top: the crowning glory of flavor. They were delicious, especially with cups of hot coffee while we read articles aloud to each other from the New York Times. Not too big like supermarket muffins sometimes are. C. remembered when we used to make blueberry muffins from Duncan Hines box mixes on Sundays when the kids were growing up. I forgot about that somehow.

We talked about friends, some in need, and what we might be able to do to help. Played some Scriabin and Beethoven on my incandescent Steinway grand piano (“Victor”). The tone so clear as a bell and resonant too. Then we ordered a small mushroom pizza, getting gas for her car on the way to pick up our lunch. More munching and talking about teaching, kids cyber-bullying and wondering what comes over girls during adolescence?

C. folded up the sheets, blankets and quilt in a neat pile which will be put away until her next visit. . . soon we hope.

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September 12, 2013

easy . . .

You know how sometimes life can feel like it’s really hard? Well, recently, I’ve decided that it would be a lot nicer for it to be easy instead. Not to worry, you know? Not to run around as if you really have to. Just look around. Take it easy.

Not try so hard. Be thoughtful. Give things a second chance. Or a third. Give up old grudges. Especially since it doesn’t do any good to have them anyway. To think about those who are old. Consider the people we know who are really sick. Wonder whether people would be helped simply by seeing if they have a deficiency like iodine or potassium that might help their bodies rest, regenerate and balance out instead of stuffing themselves with chemo, anti-depressants, sleeping pills and the like. Appreciate being able to be cool inside when it’s sweltering hot and humid outside. Be honest and true. It’s easier than pretending anything else.

Watched part of the new version of the film, “Anna Karenina” yesterday. Saw parts of it where Keira Knightley is SO MISERABLE. Paranoid she will lose her true love. Shunned by everyone. Yearning after what she can’t have. Not wanting to give up even though he can’t make up his mind. Until she falls in front of a train and dies. Boy, was I glad that G. and I married each other after seeing that movie! We didn’t have to but we both wanted to after a few years together. It’s been over twenty years now since we met because the lyre on my Steinway piano wasn’t put back by the movers properly. Fate or Karma or something like that. Destiny. Shows you don’t have to make that much of an effort in life because surprises are the things that change its direction anyhow. And it’s not of your own doing. Many of the most important things that have happened to me have been due to events outside of my control, both good and bad. Not on the radar screen by a long shot. So, why worry? Maybe taking it easy a long time ago might have increased my life span. I’ll never know, will I?

I know of people who can’t sleep because maybe they are worried they won’t wake up again. I can understand that fear in the very old or in the very sick. But, it’s not up to our will. So we might as well sleep. Slumber. Give into life. It will hold up. It always has, come to think of it.

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September 6, 2013

control . . .

How about that? You can’t control much in life. That’s what I am learning this week. The most I can do is learn and understand more as time goes along. Everyone seems to be doing their own thing these days, for better or for worse. So much so that it seems like the world is in some kind of everyday anarchy: people are on TV talking about the most mundane things. Shootings and kidnappings abound. Suicides inside jail and out. Watching national news is like reading People magazine but worse. There is no real news. Each station features the exact same thing about the exact same list of features but with a slightly different tone or tongue in cheek. Who are these news readers who get younger and younger, have opinions and ask (naive) bright young questions about really serious matters? Is this what the network honchos think will draw younger viewers? What about us old viewers who really want to know what is going on in the world, as distasteful as it might be?

At least the Red Sox are hitting. The score was 20-4 the other night–we were watching “Chopped” on another channel when the score went from being tied at 4-4 to 10-4 after a grand slam home run (I hate missing those!) Then, the other ten runs occurred in a hitting fest that hasn’t been seen in awhile. They continued to hit last night against the Yankees although they lost a big lead and barely squeaked by in the 10th inning. John Farrell, the coach who replaced Bobby Valentine has transacted a kind of miracle. He actually plans ahead for a rotation of players who get to rest, know when they’re up again and why. That shows a regard and respect for the players as individuals. You can tell the team is happy just to be playing baseball again, never mind that you never heard of half of the names who come up to bat. Even Dennis Eckersley, who was a former pitcher and filling in for the poor guy whose son is up for murdering his girlfriend, is doing well. Usually, I cringe at his half-hearted attempts at humor. Now, his comments are incisive and interesting, using some jargon about hitting that I’ve never heard before now. “Grinding” the pitcher is one of them–that is, hitting lots of foul balls to make the pitcher throw a lot and wear him out.

Grinding is a good term to describe what sometimes happens in life too. I find that when I am isolated and sending emails that it could be perceived by recipients as some sort of grinding too. Or asking about things that other people don’t want to listen to or hear about could also appear to be grinding. Well, now that I know how that term is used in baseball, I can see how it might be annoying in real life too. It doesn’t even matter that your intentions are naive or innocent.

People will do their own thing and can be persuaded or influenced easily by other people’s lifestyles. I am always afraid about that but not to worry, I can’t do anything about it anyhow. No need to stick my finger into that dike hole. Fighting the inexorable is futile. Just like trying to have some influence or control over others. They will do their own thing no matter what, especially in this free-for-all kind of culture that we are living in right now.

Values are what this is about. And the only thing I can do for myself is to adhere to my own values, and not spend time worrying about anyone else’s. That’s a lot of self-control to have, don’t you think? And all we might need too!

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September 2, 2013

awareness . . .

“everything’s coming up roses!”

The other night, we watched a dated movie (“Somewhere in Time” – 1980) of Christopher Reeve asking a stoical librarian to dig out old magazines in order for him to see a photograph of his old love. Now, we can “Google” topics, creating an instant research network for just about anything that we’re interested in learning more about.

After the first breakthrough a couple of days ago, I’ve had a few more. I had been reading about some OCD tendencies that I have myself. I was astonished to come across an exact description of worrywart anxiety that I have experienced for decades. Some companion behaviors were right there too. I was relieved to learn that there are some simple ways to smooth the rougher edges of OCD behavior. The basic one was awareness. A common, natural compound taken in moderate amounts might also help.

When I look around me, it appears that everyone has bits of something. There’s no longer a red line between us and those who are depressed, bipolar, manic depressive, Aspergers, OCD, borderline or are agoraphobic some of the time. Stress exacerbates behavioral oddities and normalcy reappears when things calm down. I wonder if this seesaw effect makes it harder to see patterns over time, especially if we think of ourselves as “normal.”

OCD is an anxiety disorder manifested by questioning relationships, constantly seeking reinforcement, hoarding, compulsive spending, a cycle of behaviors all directed at feeling less anxious. Like an octopus, tentacles of fear tighten so that anxiety becomes heightened, not decreased by OCD behavior. That’s an irony I didn’t understand very well until now.

At least, paring things down, turning off the spigot of spending (including food we can’t keep up with cooking before it spoils) may help. Relationships may be improved just by ceasing to question them ceaselessly. It’s a big sense of relief to think things through and finally make more sense of our world, such as it is. If you haven’t tried it yourself recently, I’d highly recommend it.

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August 31, 2013

breakthrough . . .

Don’t you agree that the term, “breakthrough” is sometimes overused? Perhaps it’s because life is harder now after 9-11: real and imagined economic, political strife, personal feelings of fear, anxiety and worry about ourselves, our families, our country. It has felt like that to me during this intense summer of heat, humidity, drought, wildfires, floods, sinkholes, never mind the state of the world, whatever that is. Shopping doesn’t seem to help for very long either.

I’ve been feeling a little besieged myself by old memories fraught in the past brought on by a memoir writing class but mostly by feeling like I am running out of time. When I stop and think about it, that’s really a dumb way for me to spend my time–worrying about running out of it while wasting it while I’m worrying about it. If that isn’t silly, I don’t know what is. Still, it feels normal.

I’m just human, though–so after looking outside myself for answers, I began thinking this morning about a situation that has been so problematic that I had thought of running away from it altogether. Gradually, though, I could see certain parts of the puzzle floating in front of me until suddenly, they seemed to click together to communicate a very different picture altogether. Then, I started researching online to understand it better. As I continued to read, the realization of what was really going on, and probably had been going on for a long time gradually dawned on me. Everything fit into this new picture. I was dumbfounded.

I also felt calmer. Understanding something for the first time was grounding. Even if it was difficult (and it still is,) it nevertheless seems less threatening than not being able to grasp a situation or feeling like I don’t know what to do about it. To me, acceptance is only possible when one truly understands a person or a situation. Everybody talks about compassion all the time, but I don’t believe you can have true compassion without understanding. Until the brain is willing, none of the other synapses that control action will fire away in constructive, rather than destructive pathways.

It’s rather humbling to realize that one’s actions can be ill-directed even though one feels well-intentioned.

A breakthrough is defined as “An act of overcoming or penetrating an obstacle or restriction.” I feel lucky that I had one today because it is making a huge difference. I am also reminded that the quality of how we live and feel about life is dependent upon how we think about it within. That old lesson again.

I don’t know why this particular breakthrough arrived today. It feels like the one I didn’t know I was still waiting for, though. Thanks, Helpers!

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August 30, 2013

the sound of music . . .

This post is not about the movie, the play or the book, “Sound of Music.” What it is about is what happens to the human spirit when the sound of music is heard live, in person, in the presence of the music being made, heard and then falling away.

A few days ago, I received an email from some old friends of mine with whom we had lost touch. We would say we would get together soon but somehow never managed to. You know how that goes. In any case, they wrote to me to ask a favor. A neighbor of theirs was planning to celebrate an 88th birthday for their father who was visiting them from out of town. It turns out that 88 is also a magic number for the number of black and white keys on a piano keyboard. The birthday celebrant loved classical piano music, and my friends wondered whether I would play some pieces for him as his “birthday gift.” They also wanted to make a gift of some sort made out of old piano keys, which G., my husband who is a piano restorer, brought over to their house yesterday to play around with.

In the meantime, we had to hustle because it turns out that the favorite piece of this classical music lover was Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini.” If you are familiar with it, you’ll laugh out loud like I did because: a) it’s very difficult; and b )it’s written for piano and orchestra. Undaunted, G. found a reduction (simplified) version of the score at the Holy Cross music library aided by a piano friend who is on the faculty there. Even with the score easier to see, it is still hard to read and play, given that it is written for five flats!

This is Tuesday and I’ve put together a tentative program according to the Juilliard model (baroque/classical/romantic) in that order: Bach, Scarlatti, Chopin and Rachmaninoff. Practicing yesterday, I noticed that although I hadn’t played or practiced in quite awhile, that I felt both stronger and freer while going through the pieces.

This afternoon, G. will tune the piano that hasn’t been serviced for awhile and meet the fellow who will be congratulated on Thursday evening, although he probably doesn’t have an inkling of all these surprises in store for his birthday.

Thursday evening: The party was a hit! Chuck spoke about the first time he heard the Rachmaninoff Rhapsodie on a Theme of Paganini when he was twenty years old in a church during World War II. His relating the story after I played the piece brought the experience full circle–and so I did a reprise of it for him. When I asked him if there was any other piece he’d like to hear, he shook his head and said that he was happy with the program and with hearing the Rachmaninoff piece live. Now, there’s a rarity–someone who is satified and knows it.

What a great treat to be able to play this music for him! I’m grateful for the invitation to participate.

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mulberryshoots

Category: Life & Spirit

September 26, 2013

a romantic cook . . .

September 22, 2013

equinox . . .

September 21, 2013

“death be not proud” . . .

September 19, 2013

unmasked . . .

September 15, 2013

zen day (sun-day) . . .

September 12, 2013

easy . . .

September 6, 2013

control . . .

September 2, 2013

awareness . . .

August 31, 2013

breakthrough . . .

August 30, 2013

the sound of music . . .