New Eating

I have always been a very picky eater. Just ask my mother. I can see, now, how frustrating it must have been for her, working full time and coming home and cooking for us every day, only to have that one rude, whiny offspring refusing the fruits of her labor, always saying "I don't like that". At 38, I seem to be finally outgrowing the petulant scorn of foods "I don't like" even though I've never tried them. During the past few months, through really-well-prepared-food opportunities, and through cooking experiments of my own, I have found that many of the "I don't like"s were due to stubbornness, bad attitude, bad habit, and a conceit that said I knew what was good to eat, despite everyone else's opinions.

My partner's company's holiday party took place at Gourmet & Co, here in Johnson City. The Angus fillet I ordered was not so much different from what I was used to, albeit slightly less cooked. This, of course, just proved how much more tender and flavorful medium-cooked beef is, compared to even medium-well. The big surprise here was how I cleaned my plate of not only the beef, but also the haricots verts and potato-with-truffle. Wow, who knew green beans could be not only edible, but actually GOOD? My mother always served canned vegetables, so I grew up thinking I hated all cooked plant life. I had no idea that there would be such a difference between canned and fresh or fresh-frozen. And when prepared with an expert hand at seasoning, green beans become a dish worlds away from Green Giant flavored with margarine and salt. So now I know, and have been practicing with frozen haricots verts in my own skillet. Not exactly Gourmet & Co, but still.

Today I and my partner went to Cafe Lola for the first time for Sunday brunch. One of my student workers had sung its praises and informed me of the unlimited-Mimosas-for-$9 deal. I admit this latter was the selling point for me, but I was even more delighted with my food choice. I had never eaten Eggs Benedict and decided to give it a try. I should say, first, that while I am an egg fan, for almost all my life I would only eat them hard-boiled. And I mean hard-boiled, completely dry, no mushy yolk allowed at all. In 2009 we took a graduation trip to Cancun, to an all-inclusive resort that had the most amazing breakfast buffet I've ever seen. It literally filled a room. A big room. The smell of scrambled eggs with ham and cheese at one of the stations tempted me to try them, so from then on I've liked scrambled eggs. Especially with cheese and some type of pork product. Still, it was a pretty big leap for me to agree to spend $8.95 on a brunch entree I'd never tasted. Luckily, I fell a little bit in love. The presentation was absolutely beautiful: crispy English muffin, thin, smoky ham, fluffy poached egg, creamy pastel-yellow hollandaise, a sprinkling of fresh parsley. When I cut into the dish and the yolk ran out all over the plate, I admit to being somewhat alarmed. But I kept thinking of Julie in Julie and Julia saying that the only-slightly-cooked egg was like butter sauce and braced up and tasted it. Julie was correct, fortunately. The rich, saucy egg was buttery, and not at all slimy, as I'd imagined it. This was the first time I'd eaten hollandaise, too, and I was very pleasantly surprised (more butteriness). For some reason, I'd thought it might taste like mustard. I was wrong.

So now, thanks to the excellent chefs at Gourmet & Co and Cafe Lola, I can add a whole category of foods that I like. I also look forward to becoming adept at making them for myself.

I Want to Touch You in the Library

I want to touch you in the Library.
Let’s browse the rows and
Lightly finger the spines
And midwife the dust of our mothers.
The pearls of wisdom – don’t forget –
Must be created by the Oyster.
Do you think the Oyster doesn’t
Savor the Creation,
And (even more) relish the release?

Have you ever stroked a calf-skin binding –
Buried your face in the pages –
Opened to a random Truth?
Have you inhaled the
Fragrance of Timelessness
(“Eternity”, if you must), and
Felt the heft of information –
Of Formation –
In formations scientific?
Now, before our vision dims
And, with it, our most noble pleasure,
Our most valuable treasure,
I want to touch you in the Library . . .

Did I miss something?

She whispered a nothing to me once
Across two feet of scarred Formica –
A sound that burned like a hailstone
In the center of my cheek,
And, falling through my pause,
Was crushed irreparably
Beneath my clumsy, ignorant heel.

The Voice of the Oyster

The oyster says nothing
As she forms her pearl.
She keeps
And ponders in her heart
The secrets of her art,
The exultation of her creation.

Saying nothing (again),
When Man, pillaging, plucks the pearl,
Forcing apart her protection
Into a gaping, soundless scream,
Ripping her quiet masterpiece
From her center
With a hollow, animal shout of triumph,
With the slippery glee of violation rewarded.

Who asks the oyster,
“May I please have your pearl?”
Or
“What can I give you in exchange
For your essence, your core?”
Who asks the oyster anything?

She wouldn’t answer anyway, you know.
Not with words – words are for Man,
For the thief, the one with the knife
To prise open the secret,
Precious places.

But put away the blade, the insistence
And listen to the hush of the oyster.
A patient caress,
An appreciative ear,
And her resistant walls unfold.
Her armor opens willingly, shyly,
Mutely,
Almost.
Only a whisper,
A barely sound,
The breath of Life,
The murmur of a treasure
Offered.

Feminist's Confession

Feminist’s Confession

Bless me, Mother, for I have sinned:
It has been nine days since my last Confession.

By taking Pride in my feminism, I have ignored the problems of those who lack access to it.
By giving way to Envy, I have competed with my Sisters.
By Gluttonously taking more than my share, I have denied resources to those less fortunate.
By seeking to fulfill my Lust, I have slept with the enemy or encouraged the enmity of the enemy of my enemy.
By giving way to Anger, I have limited my human resources.
By Greedily seeking the material, I have denied my faith.
By my Sloth, I have left many tasks undone.

For my penance,
I will cultivate humility, and “in humility I will listen”.
I will focus on the Goal.
I will forgo privileges, that others may enjoy rights.
I will evaluate my reasoning and choices.
I will open my mind to others’ ideas.
I will ignore the worldly in favor of the world.
I will be my own motivation to work against the Right, for what is right.

In the name of the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone,
Amen.

June Bugs

Does anyone else remember playing with June bugs? For some reason, the memory popped into my head today. When I was a kid, we lived just up the hill from my mother’s parents, and in their yard, at one side of the house, June bugs flourished every summer. I and my sister and my younger aunts and uncles, along with any visiting cousins, etc., got a big kick out of playing with June bugs. If you don’t know what a June bug is, think of a Japanese beetle, about three times bigger – all slick green and hard, with black, scaly legs. They made wonderful toys – they didn’t even need batteries. Mamaw would cut off a length of stout thread – about two feet, I guess, and you’d catch a June bug and tie the thread to one of its legs. If you were squeamish about it, Mamaw would tie it for you. Then you’d fling the bug out, holding the other end of the string, and fly it like a short kite. The bugs made a loud, angry buzz as they tried to get away from the string, and we spun in circles or ran across the yard, pulling them through the air. Sometimes your bug would take a notion to land on you with its scratchy, clinging legs, so you’d have to shriek and dance until you made it take off again. If you had to go to the bathroom, or if you ran through the patch of fallen chinquapin needles and had to sit down and pick them out of your calloused foot, you could just tie your bug to the doorknob, where it would usually hang, resting for a few minutes before rising up again in its funny, zigzag flight. This game could go on all afternoon – none of us ever thought about going inside until we had to – and by the end of the day, the bugs were worn out, way more than we were. Sometimes they got away; other times you got hold of a weak playmate who couldn’t last all day, so had to be discarded and replaced, quite casually, with a fresh one.

I know that many, many people talk about “the good old days” and how much different it was for kids “back then”. I know everyone has heard it a thousand times. But it really is incredible to me when I see and hear of how kids “play” now. The toy must be electronic, it must be the latest version, it must be expensive. I think of the play of my own childhood: picking wild berries and honeysuckles, gathering mown grass and molding it in a plastic butter bowl to make a bird’s nest, catching lightening bugs, twirling around with a June bug on a string. The next time you or your kid is bored, when all the video games have been played to death, or, god forbid, the internet connection is down, try catching a June bug. Don’t mind the scratchy feeling on your palm – I promise the bug can’t hurt you. Hold it firm with your thumb on its back and your forefinger on its belly, and have someone tie a piece of heavy thread around one of its back legs. It has to be tight, now, or the leg can slip out. Take a firm hold on the thread and throw the bug up in the air, and take a few steps back. Feel the vibrations hum through the string to your fingers; see how long you can keep up the flight. . .

List 2

Works I Wish I Had Written

Poems:
This is just to say
Recuerdo
The Weather-Cock Points South
Matilda, Who Told Such Dreadful Lies and Was Burned to Death

Songs:
Drops of Jupiter
Feed Jake
Hand in My Pocket
Collide

Literature:
The Open Window
March (or, I really just wish I’d thought of the idea)
Summer Sisters
Cold Sassy Tree

list

Things I Really, Really Liked That Are No Longer Available to Me Because the Universe is Against Me

Chicken McSwiss
Choc-o-lite candy bars
Richard’s homegrown produce
Sizzelean
Dairy Queen’s small cheeseburgers
My great-grandmother’s chicken dumplings
Planter’s Cheezballs
Steak-Umms wraps (bacon cheddar)
Ephedrine
Dairy Queen’s cherry shakes made with that awesome syrup (I think it was grenadine), not that slimy, disgusting sundae topping
Krystal’s cherry shakes (ditto)
Orange Hooch
Zima XXX Hard Orange
Zima Citrus
Holly Hobbie & Strawberry Shortcake dolls not dressed like gansta hos

which one of these people do you want to be?

"Now, in the days of petticoats, there were three different ways you could tell a girl that her petticoat was below her dress. You could tell it as a kindly friend who felt it a duty to help get matters righted as soon as possible before anyone else noticed it, but who felt a sympathy with her as the victim of an accident which might happen at any time to yourself. You could tell it as a disinterested onlooker who had no real concern with the affair but wanted to do as you would be done by. Or you could tell it with a certain suppressed venom and triumph, as if you rather delighted in catching her in such a scrape and wanted her to know you saw the fatal garment and had your own opinion of any girl who could be so careless." ~L. M. Montgomery, A Tangled Web