christmas eve

This is the first whole Christmas eve I spent with my kids. It felt enchanted, healing some part of me that was grieving. A part of me that had been silenced for too long. I remember when they were younger and sent to a friend's house so my ex-husband could have my complete, undivided attention. And without considering what I wanted, I always agreed to that plan. After all, I reasoned, when others were happy and satisfied there would be time for me to consider my own happiness and satisfaction. I was wrong: guilty of self-neglect I have only now, this year begun to ask myself: what do I want? what makes me happy? what fills me to the brim and overflowing with joy and gratitude? Slowly I realize that I was just surviving. Focused on the dreams of other people around me, I had lost touch with my own dreams and possibilities. They had all morphed into the familiar habit of wanting to please other people, people I wanted to love me. When I talked with my kids about our celebration we shared our ideas, and tried to imagine all of them happening at sometime during the weekend. We wanted to allow time for plans to change if necessary or desired. And we wanted to allow plenty of space for simply "hanging out", being quiet together. Time to say good bye to last years nonsense, and resentments was included. We want to start the new year as light hearted as possible. Remembering how much freedom we have in our worlds. How much joy and space for growth. All the opportunities open to us, the value of our contributions to our communities and friends.

paradise happens

Imagine: you're exhausted right down to the insides of your bones, but you keep plugging away over-riding your natural inclination to stop. And imagine that you do not injure yourself, so that when you say "thank you" and "good-bye" to the last patient there is a space in your life that stretches out and feels like the Grand Canyon. You can do anything you want with the next 36 hours before you start the whole week all over again. And you have a car, the snowy Minnesota roads are clear and dry, and the sun is shining full of promise. I headed to the Landscape Arboretum. And realized as I pulled into the parking lot that I have never been here alone. Walking into the building I melted into a crowd of people I had never met, looking through items in the gift shop, sitting in the tea room, watching the wild turkeys, preparing for a wedding, laughing, fighting, missing their naps to look at the gingerbread house displays...The fireplace was inviting and I plopped down on the empty couch just for a moment to decompress. 3 hours later I was still curled up with a book, a cup of tea, and thinning crowds. Stretching my legs I wandered into some areas I had not explored on previous visits. Finding myself surrounded by blooming orchids, I gazed at the colorful birds of paradise. There were two blooms right next to each other as if they were dancing together, mirroring movements in flight. Seeing them growing with their leaves in a generous pot was stunning to watch. Easy to see where they acquired their names. I felt like I was in paradise especially after spending so many hours with patients living with chronic pain of auto injuries. It surprises us to experience such excruciating pain, yet listen to a doctor reading an MRI or X-ray report confirming that there is no significant damage: no broken bones. One starts to feel a bit crazy as the pain moves around, and there is no relief in sight. Prescription drugs simply mask the symptoms. Desperation quickly sets in. Various options are explored and discarded. With luck their auto insurance covers massage, bringing them to my services. Thus my exhaustion. And my devotion to self-care. Being around plants, out in nature, watching the critters, or curled up with a pet are all effective tools of self-care. Just the simple act of walking around the block, noticing the changes in landscape, gardens, and creatures jump start my process of rebalancing.

milestones

Some milestones are easy to recognize. The first tooth, first kiss, first steps, first haircut, first day of school, graduations, driver's license: all are noted and celebrated and become a part of one's identity. On the night my ectopic pregnancy ruptured, my past life didn't flash before me, but my future life, the one I would be missing if I bled to death, my daughter's milestones I would consequently miss, flashed through my consciousness. I was overcome with a longing to be part of her growing up, graduating, flowering. I wanted to observe her creating her life, holding the reins and riding her journey into her future. It was delightful to sit in the waiting room at the Southdale DMV as she registered her first vehicle. With new confidence, new competence we celebrated with another first: Happy Hour at "Salut." As a Virgo, it is possible my daughter has as over-developed sense of perfection. And no matter how valuable this aspect is when she is writing or editing it seems to cause her some anxiety in other areas. How does one recognize and let go of the less helpful, unreasonable expectations, yet maintain the high standards necessary to succeed in one's area of professional endeavor. And pay the bills, to produce the revenue to explore one's creative process? To integrate abundance with discipline is not an easy task. It requires practice. Perhaps lifetimes of practice. As I watch her explore cross her milestones, I feel my heart open a little wider with longing and gratitude.

companion

Dark chocolate cake: not the best, not the worst, but the one with me today. Indulgence, or necessity, I hadn't planned on this purchase. But the shop was right next to the hardware store where I bought 50 pounds of "ice melt." AIt was a kind of indulgent gesture of enjoyment in the face of my changing, aging body. Am I doomed to die thinking, "whoops, I wish I had eaten more cake"? So much of my life has been spent counting calories, working out, pumping iron and a lot less has been simply trusting my own longings, and intuitive desire to taste, to savor for my own personal enjoyment. And I am trying to teach myself something new: a healthy enjoyment of the opportunities I have in my current situation for expressing a moment of sheer delight, and minimizing the guilt. An opportunity to short circuit my sense of shame around the circumstances of my current life to deal directly with my inaccurate belief that I am a bad person for eating chocolate cake on a icy Monday afternoon in November...and that bad people don't deserve pleasure. Or that I am a person who still hasn't managed to follow the rules or use her common sense when it comes to my family history of heart disease and diabetes. I brought this piece of cake back home, where my son was working on his MacBook. As we shared it, he commented on the pleasing moistness of the creation. I explained that this was the first piece cut out of the cake, so naturally, we could expect it to be moist. That's when I noticed the cake itself, instead of being caught in my emotional baggage about eating cake for lunch without any explanation, excuse or justification. I confess: it was an impulse buy, totally unplanned, shared with someone I love, who loves me...on the first day of the week of Thanksgiving, after teaching an inspiring Yoga class, and before working for the rest of the afternoon. And I am so grateful for that opportunity, with a full set of my own teeth, and the ability to taste the subtle flavors, to smell the aroma, to look at some of my own issues again, with a measure of compassion and gentle humor, perhaps healing some part of myself that is overly, unnecessarily identified with an obsolete past. I hugged the man who is my son. This man who is so carefully respectful of waiting until I have the first bite. And then I went back outside, to sprinkle kosher salt on the icy front sidewalk and steps, as fresh snow drifted around my Sorels.

love this time

"I chose to love

this time

for once

with all my intelligence"

We are deep in transition what was and what will be: between knowing what is coming, totally unable to control it. Last week I longed to be outside, running in the loving sunshine, knowing it would be gone. A fierce wind has replaced those sunbeams shaking every last leaf from the trees. Last week I ran through a fairy forest of gold and bronze, today I am inside looking out. Rain comes down in sheets and it is difficult to love this time. I dress in layers, but my nose is still cold. My monarchs are gone, enjoying the warmer southern climates where temperatures are more inviting. There is a sense of grief that permeates the cells. An inconsolable grief I am unable to comfort with promises of spring. Can I love this cold wind? Can I find glory and gratitude in it's efforts to sweep away the illusions we harbor of a mild winter, and a seductive autumn. I rely on the collective intelligence, far more knowing than the puny intellect. The intelligence intrinsic to my very being and loving in it's ferocity. The same intelligence which repaired my ankle and M's collarbone and turned my backyard into a jungle paradise filled with butterflies. What is the wind talking about? Is it clearing the way for another season of wonder? Normally I would crank up the heat, check the airfare to warmer places of endless summer and resist the place I'm in, resist the wind, and pretend it isn't happening. I would chose to disassociate from the event and my feelings. But today I refuse these givens, these old habits and patterns born from an instinct to survive, to individuate. I chose to be with this fierce wind because it is here and now, rather than live in the memory of last week's sun or next summer's butterflies. This moment is enough time, the perfect time, to love in glory and gratitude.

Splittings

Splittings

from The Dream of a Common Language

by Adrienne Rich

1.

My body opens over San Francisco like the day –

light raining down each pore crying the change of light

I am not with her I have been waking off and on

all night to that pain not simply absence but

the presence of the past destructive

to living here and now Yet if I could instruct

myself, if we could learn to learn from pain

even as it grasps us if the mind, the mind that lives

in this body could refuse to let itself be crushed

in that grasp it would loosen Pain would have to stand

off from me and listen its dark breath still on me

but the mind could begin to speak to pain

and pain would have to answer:

We are older now

we have met before these are my hands before your eyes

my figure blotting out all that is not mine

I am the pain of division creator of divisions

it is I who blot your lover from you

and not the time-zones or the miles

It is not separation calls me forth but I

who am separation And remember

I have no existence apart from you

2.

I believe I am choosing something now

not to suffer uselessly yet still to feel

Does the infant memorize the body of the mother

and create her in absence? or simply cry

primordial loneliness? does the bed of the stream

once diverted mourning remember the wetness?

But we, we live so much in these

configurations of the past I choose

to separate her from my past we have not shared

I choose not to suffer uselessly

to detect primordial pain as it stalks toward me

flashing its bleak torch in my eyes blotting out

her particular being the details of her love

I will not be divided from her or from myself

by myths of separation

while her mind and body in Manhattan are more with me

than the smell of eucalyptus coolly burning on these hills

3.

The world tells me I am its creature

I am raked by eyes brushed by hands

I want to crawl into her for refuge lay my head

in the space between her breast and shoulder

abnegating power for love

as women have done or hiding

from power in her love like a man

I refuse these givens the splitting

between love and action I am choosing

not to suffer uselessly and not to use her

I choose to love this time for once

with all my intelligence.

Lite Bleu

Is it a coincidence that it's the same color as her first bike? I remember how she struggled to master the two wheeler, with her Grandmother's encouragement and guidance. It seemed like she would never get the hang of it, find her balance and master her fears. High expectations stood in her way. And at 26, after breaking her collarbone and 2 near brushes, she has graduated to 4 wheels and 2 gas tanks. A truck with room to spare. Imagine her, with canoe on her rack, headed for the BWCA. It wasn't an impulsive decision, there was considerable research, like a well crafted paper. Pros and cons turned over and over before falling asleep. Encouragement from outsiders, input from friends, until it became as easy as falling off a log. And once she was behind the wheel, she melted. We never forget our first car, our first truck, our first kiss. The look on her face as she took me for a ride, as she offered me her keys was unforgettable. An obstacle removed from the journey to her dreams. New responsibilities in exchange for freedom, comfort, and convenience. Another great opportunity for growth.

Swaddling the roses

A day for deep healing:

went to the arboretum with M, to run a little,

picnic a little,

and say good-bye to the roses.

Those beauties are all wrapped up,

ready for hibernation,

yet it hasn't frozen yet

and they are all still blooming.

M compared them to swaddled babies...

A is excited about the Phoenix Marathon

on 1/16/11.

I will plan to go with him

and hope for some sun and inspiration.

He is moving out on November 1st,

not far, maybe 5 blocks.

We had brunch together this morning

at Lucia's Bakery

Not St. Honore but, decadent chocolate cake.

Until today

I could pretend winter would skip us this year

Now it's pretty obvious it has us on it's list,

closer to the top than comfort allows.

The heat is on and I will fill up the humidifier before I fall asleep.

dead heads

Is it too late? The truth is : we don't know when it will freeze, snow or how much more blooming will happen before cold occurs. All we know is that the mums and asters need water and that they still have buds-just like the roses-and they are not afraid of lower temperatures. I move through my day, hoping this is not the last, refilling the birth bath and removing the faded flowers, the dead heads, the make room for the new buds as they unfold. My feet are saying good-by to summer as I crunch through the leaves piled on the sidewalks and take note of my neighbors decisions to drain their fountains for the new season. I watch as they bag their leaves and plant next Spring's tulips. Like my friends, I add new bulbs, a ritual for me that turns my attention more firmly to the future. I imagine myself on the other side of our Minnesota winter. Yet I look forward to the magical landscape of ice and snow. I savor my plans to eat roasted root vegetables and buttery squashes, the fragrance of harvest filling my cozy kitchen. I plan to take longer, leisurely lunches with lovingly prepared food and a glass of crisp chardonnay, as if I were my own private chef preparing a meal for my beloved child. Dreaming menus, shopping in my imagination, relaxed and at ease in my own body. After years of restricting my food consumption to maintain performance weight, I am so grateful to be at peace with food. No more weird diets, senseless self-denial and tasteless empty calories. Gratitude and joy are my guidelines at the table.

Patisserie 46

Patisserie 46 was anticipated with delight. When Rustica left the neighborhood I felt betrayed and abandoned. I had come to depend on their scones to appease my longing for London. I know clotted cream will be more difficult to replace, but at least I had access to heavenly scones like the ones we ate in the basement cafeteria of the Tate Britain. Patisserie 46 held the promise of decadent pastries like the ones eaten at LaDuree on a drizzly evening ending a day of retail therapy at Harrods. It was the first full week of July that I noticed people sitting outside the south Mpls location, suggesting to passers by that it was open for business. I recruited my son to assist me with an initial assessment. The pastry case held a limited assortment of selections, but there were many breads from which to choose. I decided on a coconut cream creation with a traditional macaroon on the side. Sitting under the trees on the East side of the building was a welcome moment in my adjustment to the boot cast weighing down my broken left ankle. I swung my heavy metal and plastic contraption, secured with 5 wide bands of Velcro, up and onto an extra chair next to the rose colored impatiens. The metal running up each side of the cast hit the iron garden chair with a satisfying clanking not unlike a jail cell door slamming shut. Looking at my iron braced broken ankle propped awkwardly, I slowly leaned back to catch the sun filtered through the leaves on my face. Sipping iced mango green tea, sharing my maiden voyage to eat pastries in a new rival for my LaDuree loyalty, I listened to a man who loves me and relaxed. It is easier to let go of my resentment around Rustica's move when I have a choice like Patisserie 46. Perhaps that is the secret of letting go: noticing what you have now, in this breath.

crabgrass isn't crabby

A broken ankle slows you down. It changes your perception to the world, especially your world, and your activities. And the value you place on the things you do. Some are obvious like your gross weekly income and itemized expenses. The others are subtle, with value which is easy to miss, like watching the butterflies in the garden or releasing the flies that have gotten into the kitchen but do not know how to get out. They find their way to the screen and bang their bodies against the net until they are exhausted and drop to the sill. I can almost hear their whimpering, "let me out, someone, anyone, help me." I think poorly of them. Scornfully assessing their intelligence as less than the butterflies caught in my front porch. I notice that I am more eager to assist the hysterical creatures fluttering against the glass in confusion-and I do not blame them for their mistake. I'm just as convinced of their virtue as I can guarantee that those flies are up to no good, simply waiting for an opportunity to bite me. I have no photos of flies or their younger siblings, the maggots. I rarely acknowledge their value. Images of English roses, cardinals, monarch butterflies, French pastries all have space on my hard drive. Yet a broken ankle provides an opportunity to observe what has been unnoticed, not worthy of noticing, for so long-and to compare monarchs to houseflies, and roses to crabgrass.

Like a Bridge...

Each of us is a bridge spaning destinations. We are not the destination itself, although we may pause to catch our breath part-way across. But then we move on. I was quite fond of the story about the 3 Billy Goats Gruff as a child and never tired of hearing the descriptions of the horrible hungry troll perpetrator and the innocent goat brothers trying to get to the other side. The guardian ad litem program has crossed a bridge of it's own. No more independent contractors, and the kids previously assigned to contractors have been re-assigned to volunteers. Like me. The United States and Somalia do not recognize children's rights, and we have no plan to cross that bridge in the future. Kids in the child protection system rely on guardians ad litem to speak for their best interests. In the meantime, when they are lucky, their parents are willing to whole-heartedly work a court ordered case plan to prevent their parental rights from being terminated. And the kids receive services to help them recover from sexual abuse, violence, and neglect. Most people look the other way, missing impressive ability for resilience our children exercise. Our children, not those children, those people. These kids are my kids friends, they interact with each other they will carry the world on their shoulders together when it is their time. They will build bridges and maintain our communities. And they will find a place for the hungry, desperate trolls in our lives so that all the goats can eat.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_Billy_Goats_Gruff

Broken Ankle at Chez Jules

"When I got divorced many years ago, I wondered whether I had just made everything up -- including myself."

And that's exactly what we do: make it up. Sometimes alone, but mostly our creations overlap other people's creations and these creations change at different rates and in a variety of directions. It feels little like "Calvin-ball", with the rules changing and no notice. And we make up our own reactions to other people changing their rules, breaking their contracts, wanting something more, or different. If this is true, then we also make up constipation, broken ankles, and child slavery. Sometimes it isn't intentional, it's just a side effect, but it can still be uncomfortable. Not a problem if uncomfortable is something to which you are acclimated. Take DV. If domestic violence is your lived reality from childhood, you will believe it is normal and perhaps inevitable, and make up a life that fits into that system. When you reexamine the belief you may replace it with something different. A broken ankle is a horrible thing, painful and inconvenient. Loss of income i rides shotgun. No one would want to make up something like a broken ankle. I wouldn't, and I didn't, but I did want the summer to slow down and seem to last forever. I wanted a stay-cation, to watch DVDs,and hang out with my peeps. I wanted fires in the fire pit, less time on the road, and daydreaming. I wanted someone else to clean my house, buy food, and make pitchers of iced tea. I wanted to read for fun, be in the garden without gardening, and go over my accounts without falling asleep. And I wanted a pilates personal trainer to tell me what to do for a change. I wanted to write for hours instead of squeezing it in between tasks on my to do list. I wanted to sit on the back deck and watch the goldfinches in the bird bath. And I wanted to be free of guilt, shame, and self-reproach.

Do we make up our marriages, our divorces, our relationships, ourselves? We certainly make up our own parts, and hope they fit with what other people around us are making up. And then, if they don't work together, if we are unhappily cast as a domestic violence victim, instead of a respected business partner someone's identity falls away. Usually some measure of pain is involved, like with my broken ankle. But, as usual, it could have been so much worse.

Crema Cafe Chocolate cake a la mode coconut

The day I broke my ankle I was on my way to Crema: June 20th, Father's Day was especially lovely. We were walking. As a single parent my kids celebrate both Father and Mother's Days with me. After sharing a meal we were on our way to dessert. Visions of cakes and a generous selection of Sonny's premium ice cream danced in our heads. There is something so right about dark, dense layers of chocolate cake held together and sealed with chocolate ganache. Some of us like the ice cream on the side, barely touching the cake, forming a pool around the slab as it melts. My personal preference is ice cream on top, so it soaks into the cake as it melts. Carefully moving the ball of frozen cream, eggs and sugar to the peak of the cake slab, I wait until it is soft enough to spread. It melts evenly, more or less, and is absorbed, and consumed slowly. After each bite there is a pause to notice the explosion of flavors, textures, temperatures. Five of six bites is enough for the moment. And, as I pack the remaining portion "to go" I bring my attention completely to the present moment. It is more than enough: sitting in the late afternoon sunlight, across from the man-boy who loves me. I relax, sensing the underlying value and truth of being. This experience is enough, we have enough, I am enough. It seems so obvious and easy in this kind of situation, but I am not always aware of my incredible privilege without comparing situations. Lucky me, I broke my ankle and discovered I am still enough. In pain, frustration, and limited mobility, I am still surrounded by sunshine, flowers, and

the people who love me.

Cherry Pie from Chez Jules

Where I come from cherry pies are a big deal. And pie crust is made from scratch. My dwarf Montmorency cherry tree is nearly 20 years old-slightly younger than my kids-and overshadowed by a nearby birch tree. The tool to remove the cherry stones reminds me of a stapler, reminds me of the sexual imagery associated with cherries and reminds me of the three million+ daughters who are victims of genital mutilation each year, violence against women by women, grandmothers, mothers and daughters; elder sister against younger sister. Visions-impaired, the pattern continues. The natural state of a woman's body becomes taboo. Sexual pleasure and gratification become entangled and confusing. Childbirth occurs with increasing discomfort and pain. All births are surgical procedures in the most primitive form. Female mortality rates increase as women bleed to death. The red juice, blood of the cherries, spatters my skin as I work my way through the over-ripe fruit. Then cornstarch and sugar sweeten and thicken the juice which cannot coagulate on it's own. Rolling out the butter dough for a flaky, melt in your mouth crust we move from middle to edge, turn, repeat, turn, repeat, turn, repeat, occasionally flipping it over and sprinkling with flour. It becomes a meditation; this becomes a prayer: tender pie crust, tender mercies, tend our children.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/jul/05/female-genital-mutilation-kurdish-iraq

Breakfast at Victor's 1959 Cafe

"This old man, he played one, he played nick-nack on his thumb with a nick-nack, paddy-whack, give the dog a bone, this old man came rolling home."

This 83 year old man came rolling into my home after celebrating his cousin Bill's 80th birthday. Bill's living in long-term nursing care at the present moment: wheelchair, diapers, seeing impaired, hearing impaired, speech impaired, eating impaired. I remember him from his earlier years with the St Paul police department, but haven't seen him for 35 years. The two cousins had lost track of each other until a lovely day in late June. It rocks the world as my Dad watches his generation drop away. Each funeral triggers his inner alarm clock and brings him to the state of awareness, grace, and gratitude: last meal, last trip, last embrace, last chance. Our time together is often at a table with food. Last time we were together we decided on Victor's. Cuban. His first time. Maybe his last. My Dad takes food and meals very seriously. He grew wondering when the next meal would appear. He was blessed: he didn't actually miss many meals except by choice. And to this day he makes an effort to show up at the table, not just on time, but a little bit early. Not eating is an indication of ill-health, decline or deterioration. "Off your feed" is his expression. Eating out enhances the ritual. There is a playful reverence in the gesture. Picking the restaurant, selecting your meal, choosing companions. Witnessing his cousin's limitations caused anxiety, increases his awareness of the present moment. and intensifies his gratitude. "I'm older than he is," he reminds me. "Please don't let that happen to me."

http://www.victors1959cafe.com/food.html

Turtle Cake from Cafe Latte

Maybe it's a second child thing: a familiar cafe, familiar selections, and yet, he says, pointing, "I've never had that in my whole life." And thinking back I realize it's true! He's 23, a food-a-phile, and never tasted Cafe Latte's signature Turtle Cake! A downside of domestic violence is that everyone's attention is focused on the perpetrator. We watch for signs of coming rampage: the quivering lip, increasing volume verbal abuse, tension in the throat. We walk on egg shells when he's in the house and we are so skilled at anticipating mood swings that we don't even know we're doing it: enabling the violence with the illusion that we can control it by eliminating the triggers. Allowing it to shape our activities and dreams, we stop exploring and growing, repress our natural flow of emotions and impulses to create. We avoid trying new experiences. And we lie to ourselves and consequently to the people around us. People we love and wish to nurture. I refused to see the world from my son's eyes. As we shared a generous portion of turtle cake, drenched in caramel, fudge and pecans, I sipped Jasmine tea and wondered in awe at my blessing, my great good fortune. We are alive, recovering and loving every moment of freedom.

Chocolate Fondue Chatterbox Cafe Mpls

Hot, dark chocolate ganache. served with two kinds of cookies, two kinds of bars and ripe strawberries. How do we celebrate life? How do we create joy and meaning out of trauma. Loving and letting go: how do we balance those two actions/ideas so they are one? My primitive idea about love is to protect the one I love from all everything my ego defines as unpleasant: emotional abuse, rejection, injustice, bullets, biking accidents...Yet I'm not willing to be with her 24-7 (Nor she with me) Si all I can do is be available, within reason, and be confident in her ability to grow and trust the process. The chocolate fondue celebrates the bittersweet reality of our changing relationship. When she said, "I had a bike accident", I imagined the worst case scenario. Consequently, watching her dip slices of juicy strawberry in hot ganache was reassuring. It fascinates me how each new trauma reopens past experiences. Like an almost forgotten dream or a sense of deja vu. Sharing food provides ingredients for comfort and healing at every age. It is an opportunity to reestablish a sense of security. All is right with the world and we are exactly where we need to be to experience the confident awareness of the value of our lives.

German Chocolate Cupcake

German chocolate creations take me back to 1973, my wedding reception at the La Playette, St Joseph, Minnesota USA. My boyfriend and I had eloped on Oct 9th, my sister's birthday. It was a short, simple ceremony in Waite Park, west of St Cloud, with a justice of the peace and two witnesses. The JP lived in a trailer/mobile home with her husband and two perfectly groomed standard poodles.  There are no photos of the event and I don't remember exactly what we did after our vows, aside from eating and drinking together in our tiny apartment. At the time his drug use didn't concern me. I assumed it was a passing phase and he would grow out of it. When our friends found out about our marriage they insisted on organizing a reception. The wedding cake was 3 tiers of German chocolate, dripping with caramel, coconut and pecans spread generously between the sweet, dense chocolate layers and crowning on top. It was a magnificent creation, and, at that point in my unsophisticated, low-budget life, it was the peak of decadence. It was very fresh, seemed to melt in the mouth and creamy milk chocolate, rather than the deep, cloying dark chocolate so popular now. It was a truly festive occasion filled with the innocence of youth and care-free life ahead. We planned to travel, working along the way and dance was our primary connection. We improvised and choreographed together, playing and experimenting more than intellectualizing about the Art. We didn't have a business plan or even a clue about how to proceed toward financial stability, We believed we would simply model our teacher's example and duplicate her success. I realize now that he was stoned most of the time and had no intention of changing that part of his life. In fact, he was an active advocate for the legalization of marijuana, his substance of choice. He was fascinated with the Native American traditions, learning and performing many of the dances. He had a solid sense of rhythm in addition to an intrinsic musical approach to movement; a flair for comedy; every one's silly little brother. He reminded me of my beloved younger brother. My family commented on the similarity of the two relationships. Our 3 years of play ended on the West Coast: he became violent, and perhaps that alarmed him. It was too easy to blame me for his anger. Was I someone who was fascinated with overturning rocks, watching the creatures who live in cool darkness scurry for cover? Did I feel more powerful, believing I could provoke that kind of violence like the lion tamer who believes he controls the beast within the cage. Meanwhile the beast simply waits, watching for an opportunity to destroy or escape, or both. Yet my charming husband knew he had free will. He packed up his drugs, got into his pick-up truck and drove away, carrying his violence buried in his soul, sleeping until next awakened.

chocolate source

After doing a fair amount of research on the cacao industry and the sources of the beans I moved to the fair trade sources. This is one of my favorites and the Wedge coop has it in the chocolate section. The website is linked to their partners and supporters and has an appealing online shop. As a Wedge member, I get an automatic 10% discount on a case of 12 bars: my purchase for lent. I am watching the movie "Chocolat" this evening, story within the story, or stories, everything including domestic violence, children's rights, homelessness, vandalism, religious fanatics, paganism, globalization, and creativity. "Equal Exchange" also offers coffee and tea, both attractive products.

http://www.crsfairtrade.org/2010/02/18/its-lent-so-why-think-about-chocolate/

Flourless Chocolate Espresso Cake from Gigi's

Late afternoon, low blood sugar, long workday and grey skies. Tomorrow brings daylight savings time and we lose an hour until we find it next fall. This purchase was lovely, although my companion was more critical than I of the flavor. He claimed it was too bitter, that it tasted of burnt coffee beans. We agreed that the texture was melt in your mouth so we did find some common ground. My practice seems to be bearing fruit in that today I ate two bites and then put my fork down and retrieve a "to go" box. The second portion, over half is sitting in the refrigerator and I feel content, simply to know that it is there waiting for me while I research the slave trade on the Ivory Coast: 12 year old boys indentured to harvest the cacao beans consumed by an impressive percentage of the world. Yes mixed into our chocolate consumption is the monster we call child slavery. At 12 my mother insisted I babysit her friends children. I was paid fifty cents an hour. The boys work for about a year to pay off their contracts of $38. Monstrous. I paid $5.50 for this slice of cake. I wonder how much of that made it back to those boys, assuming the chocolate wasn't fair trade, organic and that the source was unconfirmed. The irony of slaves imported to the new world to harvest various crops and the crops, such as cacao, imported to Africa to be cultivated and harvested by slaves in their own back yards. Perhaps we decide it was less expensive to take the cacao to the labor force than the brutality of bringing the labor force/forced labor to the New World. The chain from source to product makes it a challenge to be certain that the laborers have been paid a living wage. And unless you are purchasing a product from a place like the Wedge how do you know where those ingredients have come from to reach your plate? And how does one simply trust, with confidence that personal happiness, and indulgence has not been the source of someone else's suffering? The garnish of whipped cream, the woman behind the counter, the dishwashers in the back room: no separation, each holding the hand of the one next in line all the way back to the origin, where ever you choose to define the beginning. Intimately connected in our experiment, across oceans and back again. Looking forward to breakfast and sending those boys my concern. Is it safe to assume that the girls are involved with other services?

Chocolate Hazelnut Praline Cake from LaDuree in Harrods London

In November 2008 my daughter wrote to me about LaDuree at Harrod's. Her actual move to London was different than she had anticipated. More challenging, less profitable. And I missed her more than I imagined possible. My heart strings were stretched to their limit and I lay awake at night, listening for her psychic voice whispering across the miles of ocean. I stalked the LaDuree website constructing a new order each day, working my way through the entire menu. I described the weather and the circumstances of my meal on this blog, convincing many readers that I was actually writing from factual experience rather than my over-active imagination . This exercise was my way of dealing with my desire  to participate in her experience without wanting to live it for her or influence her decisions. Mid February I boarded a plane, crossed the Atlantic and floated through the Heathrow gates to her smiling face. She carried herself with complete confidence, directing me to purchase an Oyster card. In no time at all I found myself holding a plate of chocolate hazelnut praline cake, sipping jasmine tea while sitting across from my beloved daughter, In a dreamlike  state my virtual visits and blog entries mingled with jet lag producing a sense of Deja-Vu. To be able to just reach across the table and touch her seemed miraculous. Photos are forbidden at LaDuree, forcing us to exercise our artistic licenses. This document was accomplished via the creative neural pathways of my daughter's companion, giving a visceral understanding of the phrase "under the table".

Triple Chocolate Cheesecake from Chang Mai Thai

He was fascinated by food: my son was born with a discerning palate. Shortly before his third birthday he began to request the latest issue of Gourmet magazine as his bedtime story. Our list of "firsts" are predominantly food events. From his first meal at Chez Panisse and his first trip to the Napa Valley to his first time at Chang Mai Thai for their "Happy Hour". This triple cheesecake followed a full selection of appetizers, enough to cover our tabletop.  Half of the filling was dark richly colored and flavored chocolate, the other half delicate, subtle white chocolate surrounded by a puddle of warm milk chocolate sauce. Gone are the days when he stubbornly insisted on eating exclusively milk chocolate. He now consumes a wide range of dark chocolate with a wide variety of cacao proportions. He has followed the product from pod to bar through each messy, painstaking step. He is a veritable walking encyclopedia of chocolate, highly opinionated and his cacao curiosity is boundless. Perhaps one day, he will move out of my basement, heading for more adventures in chocolate. Until then, and sometimes impatiently, I continue to savour our relationship over chocolate.

Signature Turtle Cake from Cafe Latte

Chocolate Raspberry Dacquoise from Bakery St Honore

Double Chocolate Cupcake from Butter Bakery

Chocolate Rollup from La Chocolaterie

Flourless Chocolate Cake from Rustica Bakery

Chocolate Mousse Cake from Whole Foods Bakery

Chocolate Raspberry Cake from Patrick's Bakery

Spoonriver Flourless Chocolate Cake with Passionfruit Sorbet

German Chocolate Cupcake from Butter Bakery

Mexican Chocolate Cake from the Wedge Coop Bakery

Double Chocolate Cake from Gigi's

As a child I "gave up chocolate" for the time leading up to Easter. It was difficult and not very successful. My heart simply wasn't in it and my motivation was low. This year I decided to eat chocolate cake for lent. Mindfully. With great awareness of it's sensual pleasure and history as an aphrodisiac. To paraphrase Virginia Madsen in the movie "Sideways": With each slowly consumed morsel I like to think about the life of chocolate. I like to think about what was going on when the beans were growing., how the sun was shining if it rained. All the people who tended and picked the cacao, and the sugar cane and if it's older chocolate, how many people might be dead by now. I like to think about how chocolate production has  evolved  and how the flavor changes with temperature and manipulation. Sometimes I cut a slice of chilled cake and leave it on my desk and eat it throughout the day noticing the changes as it warms to room temperature. It appears to be alive and constantly evolving, gaining complexity.It peaks with the first bite so by savoring, and spreading out consumption of that one piece I feel like each bite is the first. Until I reach the inevitable last crumb. I try to vary my selections and the sources, thinking about the bakers and service people who make my experience possible. And the countries who build their economic structure on the ingredients. I try to buy fair trade, organic and wonder about the cows and chickens who contributed to the product. Were they treated humanely, with dignity? When possible, I walk to the "bakery of the day" so the purchase becomes a pilgrimage for me, too. Silly perhaps, but much better than the fasting and self-flagellation of my previous years.  

(See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flagellation)

Chocolate Caramel Cake

incentive

On the way to Country Manor, where my mother is currently a resident of the long term care center, I pass the Puma store. And usually I fantasize about leaving the freeway, parking in the glorious Spring sunshine and finding my favorite shoe in a wide selection of colors at a fraction of the retail price.

But I don't.

 

Until today.

Motivation is an elusive thing. Sometimes I discover that am motivated by fear, confusion, a desire to procrastination, to gain peer approval. And today, as I approached the exit, I heard my old inner voice saying there was no time for this Puma detour. And today I took a moment to simply relax and trust the  journey. I could feel a shift in my motivation from wanting to "do it right" to "resting in joy", feeling the sunshine on my face and in my hair. 

snicker salad

Overhearing a discussion about snicker salad I wondered how salad greens and snicker bars came to be paired up in the same dish. What kind of dressing would be the most suited for such a concoction? Is it served as an appetizer, a first course or as a palate cleanser? And is it accompanied by champagne or a lighter still wine? Or a shot of Jack Daniels, but no, probably Cuervo gold would be the wiser choice. As I tuned into the culinary conversation other questions came up. Who would make (and serve) such a concoction and is the recipe open to adaptations: Perhaps Kit Kat or 3 Musketeers instead of Snickers? I was given the recipe: Cool whip, chopped green apples, and broken up Snicker bars, mixed together and chilled until serving, or transporting to the annual family reunion. My sister is the Queen of snicker salad and all similar creations. With a family history of diabetes, alcohol and breast cancer it is easy to glance down the road and predict her future fairly accurately, assuming there is no deviation from the current path. No intervention. No wake up call. We are free to make choices which shape our experience and this is hers: the snicker salad lifestyle. At one time we were "facebook" friends, "cafeworld" neighbors. Her daughter stayed with me for the weekend when she was 3 years old. Growing up in Gaylord, MN, we shared a room for a time.  And now, with our mother in "long term care/skilled nursing" she removes me as her "facebook" friend. Silliness in the midst of trauma, possible elder abuse of our mother. What is it about family relations that prevents healing, recognizing the benefit of diversity and insists on blind compliance or imposes the sentence of abandonment. How is her identity threatened by my desire for a more compassionate approach to our parents aging? Has she simply worked in family law for too long? Is there a way to reach the same conclusion without objectifying our mother's existence, and simply warehousing her body?

Wild Mind

Parenting gets more complex as I continue to let go. The process reminds me of flypaper. I am so impressed and inspired by my kids and yet, I get so tangled and drawn into making contributions to their projects without really examining too deeply whether my contributions are appropriate and healthy. It certainly isn't healthy for our adult relationships to be centered around constantly helping them at my own expense? Before I think about my own needs and enjoyment. One thing I neglect is what I call "wasting time". Taking a nap falls into this category. So does reading for pleasure, and playing cafeworld. And my personal quest for the perfect chocolate layer cake. Yet I love participating in the accomplishments and milestones of their attempts into creativity. I just haven't learned to be more demanding of their financial stability. Is it too early? Am I wrong? Do I have unrealistic expectations of them, and myself? Last year I was in London at this time. And that was something of am assessment trip: wanting to see if rescue was in order. And what measure or kind of rescue was appropriate. Like my mother: is a wheelchair too much? Is a walker enough? Assisted living or long term care? The process is subtle and self contained. And there are moments of partnership or parentship in these two very different relationships that are blissfully satisfying. In spite of the conflicted feelings, in spite of not knowingness, in spite of my self-doubt and tendency to second guess my decisions. I have an opportunity to recognize my old feelings and respond to them with trust and confidence in the creative process. Knowing that there is some good, some beauty, some of freedom in each of these decisions. I look back at the beginnings of Quartet with awe and recognition of the importance of timing. And the changes that needed to happen for that performance to occur as it did two weeks ago. What a surprise! I felt so relaxed and trusting. So satisfied with the imperfections and limitations of the dancers. And our schedules; and my budget. I remember productions where I was so stressed and obsessed and over worked trying to be everywhere and do everything all at once. This was a huge improvement over the old approach. Yet I am still as demanding as ever, it just doesn't bother me as much when I don't get everything. I feel like I am more realistic in my expectations.