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Thank god. We all need this so badly. The world NEEDS this SO BADLY. An African American. An intelligent, thoughtful, charismatic, captivating, elegant organizer. A loving dad and seemingly sweet husband. A voice for peace, dialogue, moderation, global cooperation, international law, alternative energy, health care, human rights, diplomacy, economic fairness, integrity, and “hope”.
What a mess he’s inherited today. He’s a smoker. Though I hope he quits someday, now is probably not the time.
What can he really do??? My dear adopted sister Janelle said that “until Obama does more damage than W, he is the MESSIAH.”
I agree. Even if Obama does absolutely nothing, which is beyond unlikely…even if he just sits in that Oval Office and lets the status quo roll on, his presence as an African-American in the white house brings some healing to the country and the world. Just him sitting there is radical change. Thank god.
Of course, he won’t just sit there
We gathered, potluck style, at our Community Center around a wobbly pull down screen that loosely captured the projected Democracy Now streaming of the Inauguration. With no television reception in our rural neck of the woods, we patiently waited out the internet pauses.
What kind of person goes into a Long’s Drug store at 6:50 am on a Saturday – disheveled and asking for a pencil sharpener which she then buys for one dollar and forty nine cents using a $100 bill? I did. Today.
I was required to use that ancient artifact of the old world, the #2 pencil for my highly pleasurable CBEST exam this morning. After 4.5 hours of sleep, I drove 2 hours to sit for the 4 hour exam with two #2 pencils, well sharpened, in hand. In preparation for today, I purchased 6 environmentally unfriendly pencils last week. I stood for a long time staring back and forth between the eco-pencils and the flashy iridescent ones in enlivening colors. When it comes to standardized tests, I am shallow and indulgent. I feel excessively entitled to lots of rewards and comforts around the testing experience. So, I chose the bad pencils. Having done so, I highly recommend flashy and exciting pencils for any paper-based standardized test. They really pulled me thru some dull moments.
I was not being facetious when I called today’s test pleasurable. Maybe it is an indicator of how much my brain has been craving some other channels besides mommyland and miscarriage grief lately. It was also refreshing to take a standardized test that didn’t make me feel like I was being tricked. I either figured out the algebraic equation or I didn’t. I either comprehended the reading passage or I didn’t. I either knew how to read a table of contents, or, I didn’t. I think with most of the questions, I did.
I got a little carried away with the two essay questions. I love writing, that was part of the problem. I also felt a little thrilled at the unfamiliar experience of handwriting, in a flashy # 2 pencil, two entire persuasive essays. I pushed right through hand cramps and finally had to just cut myself off. I finally remember that the beleaguered test reader doesn’t really care what I think about diverting public funds to subsidize elite private schools.
On the way home from my testing revelry, I snatched up these ridiculous fluff balls … our 8 week old french angora bunnies. Soon, we’ll be moguls in the highly lucrative wool business….
This miscarriage business is complex.
We buried our “miscarriage” last night. Picking the right spot was tormenting… the first spot was too exposed; the second place was too far from the house and I cried about not being able to see it or protect it; the third spot, in the garden, was at least visible from the kitchen sink and dining room table so I could keep my eye on it. I like that it was within the fence and not just out in the wild. We named it “felt”.. the in utero nickname I’d been using for the past several weeks.
I remember one 15 year old client I was working with who miscarried at 8 weeks. She and her adolescent boyfriend and some cousins and pals crafted a small coffin out of a shoebox and lined it with velvet. They had a funeral and buried it. She was devastated. I was supportive and appropriate in my social worker way but I secretly thought it was very strange and way over the top.
As I buried my own little one yesterday, I thought about her. I don’t think she was strange or over the top anymore. She was authentic and heroic and brilliant for grieving so thoughtfully and doing what she felt she needed to do to deal with that loss. I am a mess. My condition makes her look stoic.
The etymology of the word “miscarriage” dates back to the 1300’s with “mis” meaning wrongly.. so to miscarry is to “wrongly carry”.. by 1527 the word came to mean “to deliver an unviable fetus”. It all sounds so active and implies some failure of the deliverer/woman.
It also seems a pale euphemism for what the “delivery of an unviable fetus” really looks like and feels like. A rougher word with more hard consonants or something might feel more appropriate….. maybe it’s not the word that is the problem. Maybe it is the relative silence around the experience that affects 1/3 of all pregnancies (that’s a lot of women, partners and families). For me, it is a bloody, painful, gut wrenching, mournful, dissonant, guilty, jarring, and isolating collision. I just keep thinking in disbelief, women go through this all the time.
I sent Blase to rent the dumbest romantic comedy he could find at our little store. He brought home a box that seemed to fit the bill with some nice looking couple on the front, smiling and stuff. The kids finally fell asleep and we turned it on. The opening scene looked to be set in the 50’s or 60’s and was of a woman, crying as she was wheeled into a hospital – having a miscarriage. The next scene was that same woman, again being wheeled into a hospital, screaming – for her second miscarriage. This repeated through her subsequent miscarriage – totally 7 in a row.
We were amazed. Neither of us could think of any movie in recent memory that even vaguely or lightly depicted miscarriage. On this day when we wanted only distraction from our loss and miscarriage pain, we’d somehow gotten this film. What were the chances???? ( It was a great film – check out “The Music Within” if you haven’t already.)
Anyway, the woman suffering the miscarriages was totally broken by her experiences; no doubt compounded by the historically insensitive (abusive) treatment of women by the medical establishment in decades past. Every year, she made a cake and decorated and had a birthday party for each lost baby. Every party ended with her unconscious on the table after overdosing on sleeping pills. This happened 7 times each year. The movie is based on a true story.
My unplanned but celebrated third pregnancy is now an unexpected miscarriage in process. All of the excitement, anticipation, imagining, and nurturing around this impending baby is now just incessant blood on a pad. It is simultaneously surreal and inescapably graphic. We were so curious about this new being and eager to meet him or her.
After 5 days of bleeding, crying, and hibernating, today, I showered, changed my aged clothes and broke the news to my 3.5 year old daughter. We anguished over how and what to tell her… finally, the moment and way arose. I was reading to her and somehow the story segued into a discussion of eggs and chickens. She was asking about how eggs get in and out of chickens and how eggs become chickens. After we’d momentarily exhausted her line of questioning, I explained that I learned something when I went to the doctor… that the egg in my tummy was a special egg and isn’t the kind that turns into a baby.
“Well, where will the egg go?”, she asked.
“It will come out eventually”, I answered.
“I want to see the egg,” she stated.
“That would be neat but with this kind of egg, it is SO small that we won’t be able to see it. Not this egg, not this time,” I ventured.
Seemingly satisfied, she insisted I resume reading.
At bedtime, she pulled up my shirt and placed her hand below my belly button to “feel the baby.” Breathing deeply, I reminded her that because of the special egg, we won’t be able to feel this baby.
I cannot sleep. For a change, this sleeplessness is NOT due to my beloved unplanned pregnancy but to the turbulent world’s suspense of all that hangs in the balance of today’s already unfolding events. I cannot think into the possibility of Obama NOT winning without feeling the hint of emerging hives. The spectre of another stolen election leaving us with the deadly wonder twins and their certain path of peril is so deeply depressing and ominous that I skip lightly over the thought in my mind when it arises.
I have had numerous conversations that remind me of the pervasive misconceptions and prejudices that will frighteningly play themselves out on a loaded national and international stage this election day. I remember an 18 year old who said he won’t vote for Obama because he’s an “iraqi”. Blase called an “undecided” voter who lambasted the democrats for their stupidity in choosing a “foreigner” for their candidate. NPR interviewed voters a couple of weeks ago who repeatedly said they wouldn’t vote for Obama because they “don’t trust him”. When pressed for reasons behind their stated mistrust, many said, “he’s Muslim”. After the interviewer’s correction, reminding the voters that he was actually Christian, more went onto say that they would rather vote for an “American who was born here”. Again, the interviewer clarified that Obama was actually born in Kansas. “Oh”, some replied, “well, I just don’t trust him…….he’s black,” they concluded.
Lately, when I drive to town to town to do errands, I torture myself briefly by listening to conservative (aka mainstream) radio stations for as long as my stomach can take it. This is usually a matter of 3-4 minutes but long enough to hear the repeated discussions of Obama as “barack HUSSEIN Obama”. You can really only hear the HUSSEIN part followed by a faint Obama. Listeners calling in repeat this again and again… “HUSSEIN Obama…” This manipulation and hate/fear mongering propaganda, though not suprising, is painful to hear.
Today is monumental. Let it be a day of massive change in a hopeful, sane direction. VOTE VOTE VOTE!!!
There was a wasp in my slipper this morning. When I slipped my groggy and cold foot into the warm comfort of the sheepskin lining, I felt the electrical zing of its sting. This is how Wednesday, October 15th began, with a shock. Like unexpected bookends, the day would end with a shock as well.
Cafe was busy as usual and filled with grateful diners. Storytime made it’s debut with a gaggle of sporadically focused toddlers milling around tiny chairs as a patient volunteer read book after book amid the din of dishes, conversation, and music that is the weekly soundtrack of the Lost Cafe.
I had a low-energy but invigorating run – my first in our new “neighborhood”. I panted through downtown and out North Fork Road which meanders alongside fairly dry riverbed and then slipped my tax return into the mailbox just before it was too late.
We made our daily pilgrimage to the Briarpatch to save abundant vegetables from rotting in the garden. Such an amazing thing to inherit an established and thriving garden. The steady flow of piles of peppers, eggplants, tomatoes, squash, and greens means frequent late night canning for me. Jars of salsa, sweet peppers and tomatoes are multiplying and enlivening our otherwise drab kitchen coffers.
Despite piles of work to be done, everything stopped for the final presidential debate. Obama was steady, authentic, and sharp as usual. Did anyone else hear Mccain say Palin is a “breast of fresh air” during tonight’s debate? And then, somewhere amidst the banter about educational reform and Roe v Wade, there was this:
Yes, following in the footsteps of Sarah Palin, I am expanding the brood beyond a sustainable level.. my symmetrical and manageable little family of four (including grown ups) is expanding to FIVE.
Breathe……
I handed the omniscient, news-bearing stick without explanation or forewarning to my dear husband as commentators recounted the candidates remarks. He smiled broadly while changing our youngest’s soaked diaper.
Our beloved friends in the form of Sambada came for the world’s shortest visit to Petrolia and an outrageously fun show at our very own Grange Hall. The P-town Freaks made their endearing debut and Blase Bonpane graced the stage solo-style as well. By some miracle, my children fell peacefully asleep in the jogger at the concert, allowing me to dance ecstatically for joyous hours.
Sambada camped out on the bare floors and christened our new house, the Briar Patch. After filling them with espresso, frittatta, and a box of apples, peppers and tomatoes, we hugged them and packed them into their cozy van so they could roll off to their next gig.
Inspired by daddy’s performance, Ossian and Nola took their own musicianship to a new level. Check out the video.
Since waking this morning, I’ve performed 3 puppet shows, watched another two, filled a dustpan, participated in a “dance party”, washed a sink full of crusty dishes, read 3 books out loud to a very small and curious audience, made cheese omelets, flipped and served butterfly molasses pancakes, read the NY times headlines, and rolled out play dough pizzas. It is now 7:50 am, Standard Parent Time.
The middle of the day progressed into a typical swirl of disparate activities… more puppet shows, a few smoothies, a cascade of books read, phone calls to undecided voters, futile cleaning, intermittent interviewing of subjects for an upcoming story, a slow run in the fragrant rain, family band practice, laundry management, and dining on wooden food at my daughters’ “cafe”. I love Saturdays. Today is that day…we are afforded the luxury of two parents on deck instead of the usual tag-team of one.
Our friend Chris arrived today from Seattle to embark on mild renovations to the new house that just became ours last week. We loaded up and whisked him immediately over to tour our lovely triple-wide on 18 acres. The ample garden at the new house is laden with bursting tomatoes, dangling eggplants, and zesty, ready peppers. The girls and I exuberantly harvested and sampled our way down the aisles of beds until we reached the corn patch where Juicy dark berries peppered a familiar looking dark and leafy plant. Into my giddy mouth a luscious berry went. It was so sweet and good. Pie dreams filled my head as I picked another. “I wonder what these yummy berries are? Blase, do you know?” I asked in his general direction. “Um, if you don’t know, I wouldn’t eat it,” was his obvious answer. We both looked at the kids and non-verbally agreed that I should not feed them the juicy berries cupped in my hand.
I emerged from that moment shocked by my own capacity to experience a complete separation from reason and common sense and realized that this separation had led me to an embarrassingly odd and stupidly dangerous act.
Whoops… no pies tonight. Some of you might remember that this was not the first time I’ve nearly poisoned my own little family as a result of my recklessly blinding appetite for something delicious….
The seductive berry was Deadly Nightshade, a relative of the tomato, potato, and wolfberry. It also bears the deceptively romantic sounding alias of “Belladonna.” I learned that the Belladonna was believed to be one of the ingredients used by witches to make their flying ointment so they could fly around and hang out with other witches.
Quick to research my prognosis, Chris found an online recommendation that I drink a cup of warm vinegar and mustard. I rustled one up and started gulping it down. The challenging flavor forced me to pause momentarily and ask, “what will this do for me?” “It will make you vomit,” he replied. I defiantly spit it out and explained that vomiting was not one of my goals
“What other ideas do you have?” I pressed. Another website recommended coffee to counteract the narcotic effects of the non-lethal dose I had naively ingested. Jumping at straws, I filled the teakettle and pulled a cold bag of ground coffee from the freezer. 4 cups of espresso later, my nightshade-induced pseudo-trippy mental viscosity morphed into caffeinated weirdness.
Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your opinion of “housework”, my poisoned afternoon did not impair my ability to make messy glittered collages, assemble lasagnas, wash more sinkfuls of dishes, have another dance party, and bathe my earth-covered children.
Tonight, while we fed corn and cucumbers and green noodles to our reluctant children and their sweet friend Nicky Noo, a kitten was born in the depths of a weathered LL Bean canvas tote bag, half-filled with diapers, raincoats, decaying snack bars, and a dusty water bottle.
From nowhere, a kitten emerged last night to yowl and claw and pound at our windows, begging to be loved and let in. Our real cat, orange Waylon, had to be restrained and cajoled and distracted with mice so that her subsequent yowls would not wake our sleeping children. Blase and I took turns carrying the kitten outside the fence and depositing it in the driveway in hopes that it would disappear to some happy reality elsewhere.
The next morning, the kitten continued to rush the door. When it was time to leave the house, she jumped into the car. I carried her 20 yards away from the car and then sprinted back to drive away before she could outrun me. She outran me anyway and jumped on top of the car. When we got home, she was trying desperately to climb into the house thru the dryer vent. Seemingly exhausted, she settled for curling up in our tote bag, leaning against the front door.
It was there that the kitten gave birth to a kitten. Of course, when we realized that she was a homeless underage mother, we moved the canvas bag containing her and her strangely small litter of one into our guest room. Within an hour, she had moved her baby into an open dresser drawer to hide amongst inherited family silverware.
She seemed to be wildly disinterested in the baby whenever we would tiptoe into the room. As a lactating mother, I began to worry about their breastfeeding trajectory. The kitten clearly wanted to nurse with its blind, high-pitched searching squeak-meow and clumsy big pawed groping. The mama cat, just a kitten herself, seemed aloof. I inappropriately intervened and repeatedly put the baby to the mama’s ample supply of nipples in hopes that this amateurish lactation consultation would allow the baby to latch on get fed.
I had forgotten how small kittens are… I never see them anymore since spaying and neutering became all the rage (hallelujah). When I was a little girl, a wild cat that we knew only as a feral blur in our forest suddenly appeared in my room in the middle of a balmy summer night. She pushed through my ajar second story bedroom window and made a ruckus in my closet. When I crept in my nightgown to spy on her, I found her with three bloody and furry little animals on my sweater pile. Horrified, I yelled, “mom, dad come quick!!!! That wild cat is in my closet and she’s eating baby mice!!”. Groggily they came and corrected me, “jenny, those are kittens.” I lived with that cat until she was 23 and I was 29. She even went with me to college.
If we had a newspaper out here on the Lost Coast, the headline would read “Frozen Food Giveaway Makes Every Customer a Lottery Winner Thanks to Broken General Store Freezer.” As I ran down Lighthouse Road pushing 55 pounds of sleep-resistant youngsters and their wheeled chariot, I was stopped by numerous vehicles driven by excited friends asking if I’d heard about the frozen food giveaway at the store. I don’t think there’s been any news this big since a sperm whale washed up on the beach. Our little store’s freezer is on the fritz so Bobby was giving away most of the contents. By the end of our run, the jogger was filled with frozen organic vegetables and oozing ice cream.
I heard that at the evening’s poker game, the table was buzzing with talk of what frozen delights people had scored at the store. Tots and ice cream were being traded for burritos and enchiladas.
The other big news around here, besides the relentless wildfires that have periodically choked our blue skies with smoke for more than two weeks now, is the parched river. The Mattole is at a record low which is tragic news for struggling salmon and not so good for any of us other creatures -large and small, nearby and beyond – either.
On a trivial and positive note, if you come into some ripe plums, as we have recently, you must make this cake. We first created it for Blase’s birthday and I’ve been selling it at Cafe for a few weeks since. It’s an indulgent use for plums…..
Plum Upside Downey
1.5 sticks (12 TB ) room temp butter
1 cup packed brown sugar
1 TB honey
6 large plums – or a bunch of small ones – cut into wedges
1.25 cups flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp salt
1 cup sugar
1/8 cup flax powder
1/8 cup ground almonds (or walnuts or pecans)
2 large eggs
3/4 tsp vanilla
1/2 cup milk (any kind you want, I like rice milk)
- preheat to 350
- Stir 6 TBS of the butter, brown sugar, and honey in heavy skillet over low heat until melted, blended, thick and smooth
- Pour into 9 inch cake pan with 2 inch high sides
- Arrange plums on top of goo in pan in overlapping circles or whatever dense pattern suits your fancy
- Mix flour, flax, nuts, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt in medium bowl
- Beat remaining 6 TBS butter in large bowl until light
- Add sugar and beat til’ creamy
- Add eggs and beat til’ fluffy
- Beat in Vanilla
- Add dry ingredients alternately with milk, mixing just til’ blended
- Spoon evenly over plums
- Bake until golden and tester comes out of center clean …about one hour and 5 minutes
- Cool completely before loosening edges with a knife, placing plate on top, and inverting onto plate
- EAT IT AND LOVE IT
