The best cookbook ever

I have a confession to make. I love reading cookbooks.

Whereas some people peruse through magazines for leisure, when I’m not reading a regular book, you’ll most likely find me on a Sunday morning in my pajamas, cuddled up on my couch with a cup of tea in hand and a stack of cookbooks around me, and sometimes also a stack of crochet pattern books.

I’ll sit there in my soft aqua blue blanket with my dog curled up at the end of the couch and I’ll flip through page after colorful page of recipes. I’m usually equipped with a pen and notepad (so I can write down ingredients to buy and/or plan my meals for the coming week), my personal cookbook binder (in case I want to use a favorite recipe or add something) and sit there and fantasize about what I could cook.

Lately, I’ve been trying at least one new recipe a week. Last week I made glazed yams with brown sugar and butter and on another night I baked some mahi-mahi with white wine, herbs, lemon and butter.

I own a few good gluten-free recipe books. And I’m slowly amassing a binder full of heirloom recipes and recipes for dishes I return to frequently, but it’s hard to find a cookbook that has recipes that both whet my appetite and that I could eat or would be likely to make.

The other problem is I love the dishes prepared by a lot of cultures, but I’m too darn cheap to go out and buy a cookbook for each of the 50 or so cooking traditions that I love.

Well last week I went to the Takoma Library and found this book in the “new books” shelf.  I took it home and stayed up until 1 a.m. perusing its pages. I’m only half the way through the book and already more than half of the pages are folded in at the tab for me to come back to and copy down or try.

It’s called the Illustrated Kitchen Bible, 2008 edition.

I can’t recall ever being so excited about a cookbook.

Not only does it have recipes from all over the world, but out of the two or more recipes per page, I find at least one I want to cook, would find it relatively easy to cook and with ingredients I could eat. Dishes range from Borscht or how to make the perfect omelet, to Asian meatballs, fruit compotes and stuffed grape leaves. Yummers.

I think I’m going to try the recipe for swordfish with fresh herbs tonight.

YAY. Anyway, I’ve been copying down by hand several recipes in my little book, but I think I’m just going to indulge myself and buy the book online.

 

When was the last time you…

When was the last time you stopped and observed anything? I mean really observed.

When was the last time you stopped your mind from thinking, rushing, heading toward the next task, and stopped to be present to what’s around you in all its glory and ugliness?

It’s easy to stop and smell flowers and their sweet perfume, or to notice when a sewage drain on your block has been left open. But have you ever paid attention to the underlying basic smell of DC?

I’ve been on a bit of a spiritual journey lately and I’ve come to realize that I had numbed myself from paying attention to the world I live in: the sounds, smells, taste, physical vibrations and texture, among other things. I have a lot to work on personally, but this is an area where I believe change will be easier for me.

I was surprised how different my world appeared the other day when I took my “non-smoking break” and walked around the block where I work. I’m easily distracted by people when I make eye contact, so I fixed my eyes at a point on the ground a short distance ahead of me and walked, making sure to listen, feel and smell what was around me and pay attention to my body at the same time.

As I stood outside my office, it was like someone had turned up the volume on all of my senses. Seriously, as I stood there and made myself present to the moment, the volume on the sound I heard moved from a five to an eight. I inhaled and realized the city didn’t smell like cars or body odor, but more like hot, moist yet dusty, neutral yet somewhat car exhaust-tainted air. Then I smelled the spicy meat of the hot dog vending machine before I turned the corner. I tried to be aware enough to smell the potted flowers along the sidewalk but I couldn’t discern them from the other smells.

I turned to paying attention to my body as I walked. I felt my feet sink into my black heels and the pressure of my toes pushing off the concrete with each step.

The ground shook a little when groups of people walked by and their voices were clear in my mind, but not their words. I heard the tones of the voices.  Some were louder and dominated the conversation with high-falutin-tootin voices saturated with inflated egos, some were rushed and tired, some were hurt and needy and some were plain and uninspired.

I heard the ding of a bell as a door opened at a cafe I was passing.  And I thought to myself, “I didn’t know that door had a bell,” as the rush of cold air escaping the cafe pushes against my exposed arms and legs.

My bones moved and creaked with each step.

I didn’t want to return to the office but I had to. So I went inside, listened to the sounds of the elevator and slunked back to my desk to turn my mind back on and get some work finished.

Lately, I’ve also left my screened-in windows and door open at night to listen to the crickets, birds and other sounds of nature. It’s very calming to sit on my couch and read a book, or journal, sip some tea or other liquid with the soft background sound of the outdoors.

I don’t know how I lived before without that extra connection to nature and I am scared that all too soon, winter will come and I will be forced to keep those doors and windows closed all day. Perhaps when that day comes, I will take my dog on longer walks in the early morning and at night, just to be outdoors a little longer.

 

Screen on the Green 2009

So last year I only made it out to one of the Screen on the Green movie events on the National Mall, and this year I’m determined to see at least two.

Last night my sister, Mu, myself and Bradley attended the showing of Dog Day Afternoon starring Al Pacino.

My sister arrived early and we laid out a blanket, which was smaller than I’d remembered, and snacked on unhealthy junk food and grapes until the movie started.

As it turns out, we didn’t need to do much to entertain ourselves.

First, a man proposed to his girlfriend. As he and his girlfriend approached the lawn, the man acted like he was scanning the crowd. All of a sudden, a bunch of people in red shirts  stood up and held up cards that spelled out the marriage proposal. I wasn’t sitting at a place where I could see any of the letters other than a question mark on the end.

The crowd around us burst into cheers and the girl threw her hands up to her mouth in surprise. She was grinning and the couple hugged. I saw her nod and say what looked like “yes,” and then he yelled “she said yes.” and the crowd burst into claps and cheers again. It was a wonderfully romantic moment.

Also, there are inevitably a few people who gets a little too drunk at these festivals, although alcoholic beverages are prohibited on the National Mall, and start doing silly things at the front of the area near the big screen.

This man clearly was among that list. Here he is dancing to “American Woman.”  Although you can’t see it very well on the photo, I especially enjoyed how he had a strong wife-beater tan. At first, I was appalled at his dancing around. But then I couldn’t look away, and finally, I had to laugh and enjoy the brazen silliness of the man.

 

Mepkin Abbey part III: where I’m at

Things are changing for me, on the inside. I’m not really sure how to put it into words. But let me try.
In other words, blogging has not been a priority since I’ve returned from the monastery. Perhaps that will change as I continue to reshape my life and outlook.

I went to the monastery last month with many decisions to make and I ended up with one very strong answer — until my compass is set on God, I cannot possibly know how to proceed.

Now, for the first time in my life, I feel as if things are fitting in place. It’s as if my angst has been eased. I go about my day knowing my stated purpose and attempting to be present to the moment, even in performing the most mundane of acts.

My feelings are best summarized by Thomas Merton:

“A man knows when he has found his vocation when he stops
thinking about how to live and begins to live.”

With my spiritual compass turning toward the right direction, it’s as if everything else is starting to fit in place and assigned its proper priority, time and personal value.

Dreaming of tomorrow grows less and less appealing. The materialistic urges I once harbored: to go shopping, to get more stuff, to have a better….anything, etc, is fading. I again see how important it is that I attend to my spirit, heart and inner peace, so that I can eventually reemerge in this world as a solid being.

My spiritual journey at the monastery

I didn’t realize until my third day on the retreat that I had allowed myself to become spiritually numb and had allowed the busy pace of my Washington, DC, life to squeeze God out.

I did not get on my knees to pray until my last day at Mepkin Abbey. But once I did, I found myself returning again and a again to the tiny chapel in the back of the church to plead my case before God for myself, the Abbey and those I love, and to give thanks and read the bible and pray about what I’d read.

Because for days I did not feel I could pray with a deep seeded sincerity, it took me until Wednesday to address God directly, although I wrote in my journal, participated in the religious services and read from the bible during my free time.

Yet from the evening of the first day at Mepkin Abbey I found myself crying several times a day.

It was the oddest sort of crying.

Sometimes tears would appear on my cheeks out of an immense feeling of gratitude to be in such a wonderful spiritual place. Other times it was out of sorrow that I had taken so long to awaken. Sometimes my tears were for the joy I felt being spiritually alive when chanting the Psalms with the monks. Prior to going to the monastery, I feared my musical spiritual life had ceased with the close of the Master Chorale of Washington.

On occasion I cried because I felt indefinably overwhelmed, humbled and the need to purge all the negative things that I’d allowed to be penned in my mind.

Since returning from the monastery, I’ve determined in my heart to continue on the spiritual path I started. But change is slow.

Here’s what’s different now as a result of my time at Mepkin Abbey and my spiritual revival.

To maintain some interior solitude and peace, I’ve slowly added to the time that I spend in silence at home, at the church nearby my office and throughout the day.

And when I go for a walk at my lunch break, or go to the nearby church to pray and meditate, I allow myself to be alone in true solitude among the masses. Accomplished once, interior solitude is nearly as easy as walking with a purpose.
With my eyes at a fixed point on the ground ahead of me, I observe everything around me, but without hearing or assigning value or judgment on what is there. When I do this, I pay attention to the feeling of my clothing against me in the wind, of the ground shaking underneath me as a truck drives by, the squeak and bell of a door opening from a restaurant, etc., the feeling of my foot hitting the ground, the smell of the city and heat of the sun on my skin, it’s as if my sensor knob is turned up.

Also, I no longer listen to the radio in the morning but instead go about preparing myself for the day in silence or by singing a happy song, often of praise. At home in the mornings, my silence is occasionally broken by my bird squawking for attention or for a fresh handful of birdseed, or by my dog whining to go for a walk.

If I go to church, it is to pray or meditate and be nearly anonymous as I try to listen for the voice of God. I grew up with church attendance meaning the unsaid barometer of one’s spirituality. But now I’m not so sure that’s what I need to aid my walk.
I celebrate in the belief that I’ve finally figured out the spiritual formula that has been missing from my life. It is a joy that fills every cell.

My relationship with God works best when it is intimate, private and personal setting, preferably in nature.

Instead of craving the company of churchgoers, I find myself longing to read the bible and religious literature, primarily those of Esther de Waal and Thomas Merton.

I’ve decided to read the bible from start to finish and I’m slowly making my way through the first books.

Each day on the 20 minutes metro ride in to work, I pray, read some of the chapter of the Bible that I’ve reached. I then flip over to the Psalms, and in my head chant one or two of the chapters. Usually I pray again and then turn to whatever other spiritual book I have brought along.

There is one other big decision I’ve made in my life.

I’m no longer sure that my calling in life includes marriage.

Moreover, I have decided that I cannot possibly enter into a relationship with a man, or even consider one, until I have myself figured out, until my spiritual walk is on a surer path and my soul is adequately tended to.
You cannot imagine how freeing this is for me. I’ve been boy crazy since I hit puberty at 12 and it’s caused me heartache after heartache because I’ve never been grounded in myself or God.

It is my full belief that if God intends for me to date or marry, then it will be clear when and if the time comes. Until then, until I can meet a man and have a friendship with him without having other questions in my mind, I must be careful not to fall back into old patterns and allow myself to ignore the present by dreaming about what may be.

Anyway, that’s where I’m at right now.

 

Rest in Peace Joyce Mullins

Months ago I wrote a blog about death, and how one of the unsaid things about friendship is that you’ll be there for the person in life and death…you’ll attend their funeral.

My friend Joyce responded to that saying she understood and thanking me for our blooming friendship.

I have been told that Joyce died today.

I have asked her son to let me know details about her funeral service. And if I can obtain the day off, I will go.

Joyce and I met only a few times. We had a link in that we both worked for the dover post newspapers in Delaware, except I was her replacement at the newsdesk after she had a bad car accident, if I recall correctly. Joyce and I shared a love of many things and she regularly commented on my blogs. It was always well thought out and meaningful.

It’s weird how close two people can become without face to face interaction, but instead through writing and comments on blogs.

I will miss Joyce quite a lot.

Yet I cannot be entirely sad because I believe in an afterlife and that joyce will be able to again do the things she loved but that her body prevented lately. I have hope that she and I will be able to see each other again and go for big adventures together and long walks along the ocean or in the woods together.

Goodbye Joyce. I’m sorry your gone, and I’ll pray for those you’ve left behind.

Goodbye my friend. Goodbye.