Normally I do a huge list about the things I'm grateful for, but as a Goddess in training I decided this year I wouldn't.
Instead, I decided to go with the intangibles, like friendship and family.
Suzanne, Richard, Molly, Colleen, John, Paul, (not George or Ringo, not this time around), Raf, Stacie, Amanda. All the Boys (Richard's), all the girls (Suzanne's) and a few I can't mention here because it would open a whole can of worms I just don't think it necessary to open here.
I like the fact that I'm bright and that G-d, whoever that might be, gave me an active mind that likes to think and work things out.
I'm grateful for the fact that I'm really good with kids and babies. I am looking forward to using that talent in the medical field to help those children feel better.
I'm thrilled I'm part Native American and part Hispanic and can draw on the best of both cultures to make a stronger and more interesting Me.
When I was younger, I thought the best thing that could possibly be was to have all these people in your address book. Now I realize that the few I have will be there all the time and that's what counts the most.
It's good being me, most of the time, because no one else can ever be me.
In other words, I'm glad for all my uniqueness.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Flashbulbs
On September 11th, 2001 I was working for a nationally known company in corporate America. My group hadn't moved into the main building yet and were still working in its annex. The annex had stark interior with concrete floors and pipe and electrical cord ceilings. The space was always either too cold or too hot.
Ron, a big, strapping, 6 foot 7 tall man who shared my love of coffee and hatred of mornings had just walked passed me and said "the World Trade Center is on fire."
I didn't believe him. Not even ten minutes later, he was bringing a TV from the meeting room in and rigging it up so we could get SOME kind of news about it. All of us stood in front of that thing transfixed. Our TV time was cut cruelly and abruptly short by management who decided that the phones needed to be answered because "we're losing customers while you stare at the idiot box."
I remember heading back to my desk when Dianne said she had to go home. The school her children attended was closing and she had to pick them up. Dianne was fired for that the next day. The impersonal ways of corporate American nudges itself into our lives in such ruthless ways sometimes.
I am positive there are other stories one could hear. I'm fascinated by them all. It's not just 911 stories that grab my attention. I am also interested in stories people tell me of when Kennedy was assassinated, or what might have gone through some minds when Pearl Harbor was attacked.
In psychology these kinds of memories are known as flashbulb memories. It is a moment in time that is seared into our brains usually because of something traumatic and shocking. I'm sure there are people who have flashbulb memories of happy times, but as a nation, 911, the Kennedy assassination and Pearl Harbor unite us if only by reminding us that we share a culture.
My friend Kathy was in the 8th grade when Kennedy as assassinated. She said she and her class were outside in the playground waiting for the next class period. The school bell rang early and they were all instructed to go to the assembly hall. The principal of her school made the announcement. Schools were still segregated in her community and the hope that the Kennedy administration posed for Kathy and her people faltered for a while. Look magazine had already sent out the current issue - a full spread on the Kennedy family, including pictures of Carol and John Jr.
Camelot had been shattered.
My father was 10 when Pearl Harbor was attacked. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his parents having lunch. His father had just come in from work for the lunch hour. After a few beats of silence and stillness, my grandfather told both my father and my grandmother "we are at war."
Both parents burst into tears and it wasn't for another 20 minutes or so that my father was able to learn about what happened in Hawaii. It could have been the moon as far as my father new, but even a small 10 year old boy from a very small town knew it was a serious situation. My father is 75 now, and he remembers that day as if it were yesterday.
These stories are about ordinary people reacting to extraordinary events.
They hold my attention because it's the only way I have of honoring the victims of these events.
Ron, a big, strapping, 6 foot 7 tall man who shared my love of coffee and hatred of mornings had just walked passed me and said "the World Trade Center is on fire."
I didn't believe him. Not even ten minutes later, he was bringing a TV from the meeting room in and rigging it up so we could get SOME kind of news about it. All of us stood in front of that thing transfixed. Our TV time was cut cruelly and abruptly short by management who decided that the phones needed to be answered because "we're losing customers while you stare at the idiot box."
I remember heading back to my desk when Dianne said she had to go home. The school her children attended was closing and she had to pick them up. Dianne was fired for that the next day. The impersonal ways of corporate American nudges itself into our lives in such ruthless ways sometimes.
I am positive there are other stories one could hear. I'm fascinated by them all. It's not just 911 stories that grab my attention. I am also interested in stories people tell me of when Kennedy was assassinated, or what might have gone through some minds when Pearl Harbor was attacked.
In psychology these kinds of memories are known as flashbulb memories. It is a moment in time that is seared into our brains usually because of something traumatic and shocking. I'm sure there are people who have flashbulb memories of happy times, but as a nation, 911, the Kennedy assassination and Pearl Harbor unite us if only by reminding us that we share a culture.
My friend Kathy was in the 8th grade when Kennedy as assassinated. She said she and her class were outside in the playground waiting for the next class period. The school bell rang early and they were all instructed to go to the assembly hall. The principal of her school made the announcement. Schools were still segregated in her community and the hope that the Kennedy administration posed for Kathy and her people faltered for a while. Look magazine had already sent out the current issue - a full spread on the Kennedy family, including pictures of Carol and John Jr.
Camelot had been shattered.
My father was 10 when Pearl Harbor was attacked. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his parents having lunch. His father had just come in from work for the lunch hour. After a few beats of silence and stillness, my grandfather told both my father and my grandmother "we are at war."
Both parents burst into tears and it wasn't for another 20 minutes or so that my father was able to learn about what happened in Hawaii. It could have been the moon as far as my father new, but even a small 10 year old boy from a very small town knew it was a serious situation. My father is 75 now, and he remembers that day as if it were yesterday.
These stories are about ordinary people reacting to extraordinary events.
They hold my attention because it's the only way I have of honoring the victims of these events.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
IK Power!
I worked with this one woman for 10 years. In all the time I've known her she was easy to get along with, articulate and professional. A good corporate supervisor on all counts. Then one day I brought in a teddy bear I built at Build-A-Bear. She picked up my bear and looked at him, turned him around, looked at his clothes, petted his fur. This went on for minutes. MINUTES.
Then suddenly she put him down in front of me and blurted out "why'dja bring 'im t'work? He's bored."
My supervisor shrank! Suddenly she was five years old again and feeling sorry for a stuffed animal because "he's bored."
It was fun.
I see Inner Kids (IK's) coming out all over the place these days. It's in hints and glimpses here and there, usually when you least expect it. A look will slip out, perhaps, or a posture will be taken. Maybe a phrase will be uttered that sounds like total Kidspeak.
I love looking for those glimpses. I took my sister to Build-A-Bear a few weeks back. My sister is 40 (shhh! Don't tell her), a mother of two and holds a job with serious responsibilities. I haven't seen her act like a kid in ages. Suddenly BOOM! Out of the blue, she comes running (running!) up to me and says in fluent Kidspeak "um, can my bear be a gurl bear cuz I wanner t'have a pink dress."
It was fun, but honestly I would expect it from my sister. I never expected it from my colleague at work.
I think the IK stuff is catching on though. There is something appealing about, as Counselor Deanna Troi of Star Trek: The Next Generation puts it, "[having] a second childhood; without the pain of growing up again." We might all be grown ups on the outside, but somewhere inside is a little kid itching to get out.
Do you suppose that's why Anderson Cooper can occasionally be caught swinging his legs back and forth while doing his show? There's something infinitely "cute" about watching a high powered, star reporter kicking at the rungs of his chair while telling us about government officials accepting bribes.
Expressing your inner kid must be necessary to achieve your God- or Goddesshead.
I command thee: go forth and play!
Then suddenly she put him down in front of me and blurted out "why'dja bring 'im t'work? He's bored."
My supervisor shrank! Suddenly she was five years old again and feeling sorry for a stuffed animal because "he's bored."
It was fun.
I see Inner Kids (IK's) coming out all over the place these days. It's in hints and glimpses here and there, usually when you least expect it. A look will slip out, perhaps, or a posture will be taken. Maybe a phrase will be uttered that sounds like total Kidspeak.
I love looking for those glimpses. I took my sister to Build-A-Bear a few weeks back. My sister is 40 (shhh! Don't tell her), a mother of two and holds a job with serious responsibilities. I haven't seen her act like a kid in ages. Suddenly BOOM! Out of the blue, she comes running (running!) up to me and says in fluent Kidspeak "um, can my bear be a gurl bear cuz I wanner t'have a pink dress."
It was fun, but honestly I would expect it from my sister. I never expected it from my colleague at work.
I think the IK stuff is catching on though. There is something appealing about, as Counselor Deanna Troi of Star Trek: The Next Generation puts it, "[having] a second childhood; without the pain of growing up again." We might all be grown ups on the outside, but somewhere inside is a little kid itching to get out.
Do you suppose that's why Anderson Cooper can occasionally be caught swinging his legs back and forth while doing his show? There's something infinitely "cute" about watching a high powered, star reporter kicking at the rungs of his chair while telling us about government officials accepting bribes.
Expressing your inner kid must be necessary to achieve your God- or Goddesshead.
I command thee: go forth and play!
Sunday, May 14, 2006
I Want My Turn!
Ella Fitzgerald
Lillias White
I will never know what it's like to hold a crowd captivated by voice alone.
Nelson Mandela (Madiba)
Ernesto Guevara (Che)
I will never know what it's like to wrest an entire country free.
Wuthering Heights
Frankenstein
I will never know what it's like to write something that helps shape a culture.
Brittany Spears
Jennifer Lopez
I will never know what it's like to have a body men lust over.
Anderson Cooper
I will never know what it's like to be declared "the conscience of the nation."
Next time, it's my turn!
Lillias White
I will never know what it's like to hold a crowd captivated by voice alone.
Nelson Mandela (Madiba)
Ernesto Guevara (Che)
I will never know what it's like to wrest an entire country free.
Wuthering Heights
Frankenstein
I will never know what it's like to write something that helps shape a culture.
Brittany Spears
Jennifer Lopez
I will never know what it's like to have a body men lust over.
Anderson Cooper
I will never know what it's like to be declared "the conscience of the nation."
Next time, it's my turn!
Monday, May 01, 2006
I've been trying to think of a way to get around the fact that I want to write about Anderson Cooper. I don't want this blog to be some Anderson Cooper groupie thing, but he said something a few weeks back that struck me.
Darfur reminded me.
I don't know where he was. Somalia, Rwanda, somewhere out there. It couldn't have been an easy assignment. How can anyone see where entire villages of women who have been raped, mutilated and otherwise tortured? How many of us could watch children die because there is no food or even milk? These are the stuff of nightmares.
Now lets switch gears for a minute. Completely.
How many pictures do you have around you? I mean pictures. Pictures of your children or grandchildren? Those kinds of pictures.
In my bedroom (where I'm writing this) I see -
My great grandmother whose mother was pregnant with her while riding with Buffalo Bill's show in France. It's said she never did to slow down.
There's a picture of a young cousin of mine. She is now in her 20s. At the time the picture was taken she was four.
There is my father, both in a tiny little pocket sized photo and a full 8x10 that was taken when he was modeling.
There are others. I have pictures at my desk at work and in my wallet. I've even been known to keep a framed picture in my car. They're keepsakes, reminders of heart felt affection.
Now lets go back to Anderson Cooper in Somalia, Rwanda or even Darfur (you pick). It's hard enough for anyone to lose a child. Somehow we manage to live through it, even if we won't ever get over it. Some of us can even say "see that gorgeous person on the piano over there?" and we know who the smiling face in the picture belongs to.
The mothers of Somalia, Rwanda and Darfur don't have pictures.
And the only images that exist of a very precious few children are the ones Anderson Cooper took.
Is that the kind of picture you'd want on your piano?
Thanks Anderson
Darfur reminded me.
I don't know where he was. Somalia, Rwanda, somewhere out there. It couldn't have been an easy assignment. How can anyone see where entire villages of women who have been raped, mutilated and otherwise tortured? How many of us could watch children die because there is no food or even milk? These are the stuff of nightmares.
Now lets switch gears for a minute. Completely.
How many pictures do you have around you? I mean pictures. Pictures of your children or grandchildren? Those kinds of pictures.
In my bedroom (where I'm writing this) I see -
My great grandmother whose mother was pregnant with her while riding with Buffalo Bill's show in France. It's said she never did to slow down.
There's a picture of a young cousin of mine. She is now in her 20s. At the time the picture was taken she was four.
There is my father, both in a tiny little pocket sized photo and a full 8x10 that was taken when he was modeling.
There are others. I have pictures at my desk at work and in my wallet. I've even been known to keep a framed picture in my car. They're keepsakes, reminders of heart felt affection.
Now lets go back to Anderson Cooper in Somalia, Rwanda or even Darfur (you pick). It's hard enough for anyone to lose a child. Somehow we manage to live through it, even if we won't ever get over it. Some of us can even say "see that gorgeous person on the piano over there?" and we know who the smiling face in the picture belongs to.
The mothers of Somalia, Rwanda and Darfur don't have pictures.
And the only images that exist of a very precious few children are the ones Anderson Cooper took.
Is that the kind of picture you'd want on your piano?
Thanks Anderson
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Never Forget
The atrocities that happened during the Holocaust are atrocities we cannot allow to happen again. It's deeply disturbing to me when I hear people minimize the horror or even deny its occurance.
It happened. It was real, bloody and cruel and it happened. Over 12 million people were killed during the holocaust. Half of those people were Jewish. 1.5 million were children under 12 years old.
Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Martyrs' and Heroes' Remembrance Authority, was established in 1953. The goal of Yad Vashem, and it's a major one, is to document all the events of the Holocaust. The library and archives opened to the public in 1957 and I'm sure it's still working it's task.
In 1959 the Israeli Knesset passed a special law creating a Holocaust Remembrance Day. The 27th day of the month of Nisan, according to the Jewish calendar, was chosen as the date. This date coincides with the beginning of the heroic revolt against the Nazis by Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto in 1943. This year the date falls on April 25th according to the Julian calendar.
Today is Yom Hashoah.
Unless you're actually in Israel and have the honor of visiting Yad Vashem, lighting a candle and saying a prayer is the way remember the children of the Holocaust.
Time has passed and the people, men, women and children, who survived the Holocaust are growing old and dying. It is in the foreseeable future when we will have no one who directly remembers the Holocaust. Even the children who survived will be gone.
But they don't need to be forgotten.
Commemorate the children today.
And please. . .
NEVER FORGET.
It happened. It was real, bloody and cruel and it happened. Over 12 million people were killed during the holocaust. Half of those people were Jewish. 1.5 million were children under 12 years old.
Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Martyrs' and Heroes' Remembrance Authority, was established in 1953. The goal of Yad Vashem, and it's a major one, is to document all the events of the Holocaust. The library and archives opened to the public in 1957 and I'm sure it's still working it's task.
In 1959 the Israeli Knesset passed a special law creating a Holocaust Remembrance Day. The 27th day of the month of Nisan, according to the Jewish calendar, was chosen as the date. This date coincides with the beginning of the heroic revolt against the Nazis by Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto in 1943. This year the date falls on April 25th according to the Julian calendar.
Today is Yom Hashoah.
Unless you're actually in Israel and have the honor of visiting Yad Vashem, lighting a candle and saying a prayer is the way remember the children of the Holocaust.
Time has passed and the people, men, women and children, who survived the Holocaust are growing old and dying. It is in the foreseeable future when we will have no one who directly remembers the Holocaust. Even the children who survived will be gone.
But they don't need to be forgotten.
Commemorate the children today.
And please. . .
NEVER FORGET.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Anderson, oh Anderson!
I have become something of a news junkie. People who have met me more recently think this is the way I've always been, but it's not true. I remember a time when I was blissfully unaware of what was going on in the world. People at work would start conversations about this event or that to-do that was shown on the news that morning and I'd look at them blankly. I was usually more interested in when the next powwow was, or if Leisure Arts came out with a new crochet pattern.
Then we went to war with Iraq. I don't know what it was about that invasion, but I was hooked. I would come home from work and flip the TV on to watch it, turn up the volume so I could hear the most recent movements of the troops while I was cooking dinner. I resented having to work because that was 8 hours I couldn't keep track of what was going on in Iraq. The websites for MSNBC and CNN became my lifelines while I was away from home. At home, I was getting high off embedded reporters.
I'm not sure how, but I managed to pull myself away from the war. Maybe it was the murder of Lacy Peterson that turned me away. Just as likely it could have been some speech Bush gave. Whatever, my TV time started dying out. Thankfully. I discovered I had other things to do, including crochet. Life started going back to normal, but my addiction already started. It was just in remission.
Until Katrina. The Hell those people had to go through before help got to them broke my heart, as inane as that sounds. No one should have to make the decisions some of those people were forced to make. Our young shouldn't have to watch their mothers drowning while they scrambled for semi-safety on the roof. Our elders shouldn't be abandoned in their homes or nursing homes where they had no chance. Our response to their pleas for help shamed my Americanism, and I am not exactly a good little patriot. My eyes were glued to the news channels again. Specifically, CNN. Even more specifically, Anderson Cooper.
Anderson Cooper gave those people a voice the rest of us heard loud and clear and he's still doing it all these months after. He lent them dignity and maybe even a little hope that things would be told the way they were and not sugar coated. And he did it with sensitivity.
My addiction was reinstated during Katrina, but if truth be known, it's Anderson Cooper that's kept me coming back.
And this is the part, ladies and gentlemen, where I admit to having a major crush on the man. He's skinny and gray headed and can be cocky as all hell, but I can't get over him. He is also intelligent and sensitive to the stories he's covering. His way with people comes through no matter what the subject matter is about. He's got a quirky laugh and sometimes his staff play jokes on him that surprise him while he's on air.
My addiction to the news started because of the war and the fire was fed during the Hurricane Katrina coverage. But the hurricanes are over and the news has moved on to other things. Tonight I'm learning about how Target has a crime lab they let the authorities use. A few nights ago I learned that Mr. Cooper likes blogging.
And the crush goes on.
Then we went to war with Iraq. I don't know what it was about that invasion, but I was hooked. I would come home from work and flip the TV on to watch it, turn up the volume so I could hear the most recent movements of the troops while I was cooking dinner. I resented having to work because that was 8 hours I couldn't keep track of what was going on in Iraq. The websites for MSNBC and CNN became my lifelines while I was away from home. At home, I was getting high off embedded reporters.
I'm not sure how, but I managed to pull myself away from the war. Maybe it was the murder of Lacy Peterson that turned me away. Just as likely it could have been some speech Bush gave. Whatever, my TV time started dying out. Thankfully. I discovered I had other things to do, including crochet. Life started going back to normal, but my addiction already started. It was just in remission.
Until Katrina. The Hell those people had to go through before help got to them broke my heart, as inane as that sounds. No one should have to make the decisions some of those people were forced to make. Our young shouldn't have to watch their mothers drowning while they scrambled for semi-safety on the roof. Our elders shouldn't be abandoned in their homes or nursing homes where they had no chance. Our response to their pleas for help shamed my Americanism, and I am not exactly a good little patriot. My eyes were glued to the news channels again. Specifically, CNN. Even more specifically, Anderson Cooper.
Anderson Cooper gave those people a voice the rest of us heard loud and clear and he's still doing it all these months after. He lent them dignity and maybe even a little hope that things would be told the way they were and not sugar coated. And he did it with sensitivity.
My addiction was reinstated during Katrina, but if truth be known, it's Anderson Cooper that's kept me coming back.
And this is the part, ladies and gentlemen, where I admit to having a major crush on the man. He's skinny and gray headed and can be cocky as all hell, but I can't get over him. He is also intelligent and sensitive to the stories he's covering. His way with people comes through no matter what the subject matter is about. He's got a quirky laugh and sometimes his staff play jokes on him that surprise him while he's on air.
My addiction to the news started because of the war and the fire was fed during the Hurricane Katrina coverage. But the hurricanes are over and the news has moved on to other things. Tonight I'm learning about how Target has a crime lab they let the authorities use. A few nights ago I learned that Mr. Cooper likes blogging.
And the crush goes on.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Mari's Musings
I'm not quite sure why chocolate is addicting, but that's never stopped an addiction before. I know all the rumors that say it releases the same endorphins the body releases when one is in love and that's why it's so addicting. Maybe there's some truth in that, but for me, it's just plain dangerous!
I get it in cravings. I'll be minding my own business innocently reading a book when suddenly BAM!!! If I don't get me some chocolate RIGHT NOW I can't be held responsible for the pandemonium that might ensue.
Any chocolate will do usually, but my all time favorite is Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. They have to be the actual peanut butter cups, though. Not the cheating "bites" you can get of most candies at the store anymore. Part of the addiction is the ritual. Ripping the candy cup out of its paper wrapper. Then you nibble the funny crinkly edges. Then you bite into just the outter skin of chocolate and with your tongue try to work the peanut butter out. (Careful girls, men have been known to go insane while watching a girl work out the peanut butter.) Once you've gotten as much peanut butter out as you possibly can, you collapse the whole thing with your front teeth and slide the disks onto your tongue and suck the stuff down to a ooey gooey mass.
Chocolate is a serious thing!
*Sighs hugely.*
Actually, I have a theory about Reese's. It's a reincarnation theory. The way I figure it is, I must have done something really awful to Harry B Reese in some previous lifetime. REALLY awful. Mr Reese felt the need to come back to life and invent Reese's Peanut Butter Cups knowing FULL WELL that I would become addicted to them.
When I tell you I have no control over my chocolate obsession, and am totally knocked senseless when it comes to Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I am giving you an accurate description. I HAVE NO CONTROL.
Harry, what could I have done to you and when will the karmic debt be paid?
Sorry folks. I'd finish this off more gracefully, but I have some peanut butter cups I need to finish eating!
I get it in cravings. I'll be minding my own business innocently reading a book when suddenly BAM!!! If I don't get me some chocolate RIGHT NOW I can't be held responsible for the pandemonium that might ensue.
Any chocolate will do usually, but my all time favorite is Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. They have to be the actual peanut butter cups, though. Not the cheating "bites" you can get of most candies at the store anymore. Part of the addiction is the ritual. Ripping the candy cup out of its paper wrapper. Then you nibble the funny crinkly edges. Then you bite into just the outter skin of chocolate and with your tongue try to work the peanut butter out. (Careful girls, men have been known to go insane while watching a girl work out the peanut butter.) Once you've gotten as much peanut butter out as you possibly can, you collapse the whole thing with your front teeth and slide the disks onto your tongue and suck the stuff down to a ooey gooey mass.
Chocolate is a serious thing!
*Sighs hugely.*
Actually, I have a theory about Reese's. It's a reincarnation theory. The way I figure it is, I must have done something really awful to Harry B Reese in some previous lifetime. REALLY awful. Mr Reese felt the need to come back to life and invent Reese's Peanut Butter Cups knowing FULL WELL that I would become addicted to them.
When I tell you I have no control over my chocolate obsession, and am totally knocked senseless when it comes to Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I am giving you an accurate description. I HAVE NO CONTROL.
Harry, what could I have done to you and when will the karmic debt be paid?
Sorry folks. I'd finish this off more gracefully, but I have some peanut butter cups I need to finish eating!
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Thanks!!!
A house to live in that's warm and comfy.
Clothes to wear, even if they're not always in fashion.
Plenty of food to eat.
A job, such as it is.
A father I've become very close to.
"Toys" to have fun with.
A sunny and warm day.
Friends.
I have a lot to be thankful for this year!
Clothes to wear, even if they're not always in fashion.
Plenty of food to eat.
A job, such as it is.
A father I've become very close to.
"Toys" to have fun with.
A sunny and warm day.
Friends.
I have a lot to be thankful for this year!
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Food or antidepressants?
I made fry bread tonight. It's such a basic comfort food to me that sometimes I just can't resist the urge.
Fry bread isn't truly a "Native American" thing. Well, it is, but I don't think it is a pre-Columbus thing. Maybe it is. It doesn't matter to me, it's a yummy thing no matter where it came from, but here's why I say it's "post-Columbian."
Fry bread is commodities rich. It includes flour, lard, dried milk and other ingredients readily gotten from commodities distribution. Richer recipes include fresh milk and sometimes an egg but those came into the picture later. The older people of my tribe think the milk and egg are cheating though. Whole milk gives the dough lighter taste and masks the heavy lard taste and the egg helps bring on a more consistent golden brown color. I still use the old recipe grandmothers, mothers and aunts taught me with.
No fresh milk or eggs with me. It's commodities all the way!
Fry Bread goes well with boiled or baked beans and fried potatoes, both of which are nice buys at the grocery store when you're on a tight budget. It also goes well with beef stew, when you can afford the beef to make it with. Fry bread is really good when you make Indian Tacos out of it. If you're needing something for dessert, whip up a pot of wojape and serve that up with a batch of hot fry bread and everyone at the table will be singing your culinary praises.
You know what? I can't think of anything fry bread doesn't go well with. It's even good with a bowl of posole, which IS NOT a Native American dish.
At a time the country is not standing on the most stable ground and terrorism is rocking the world, sometimes fry bread is a good antidepressant.
Cheaper than Prozac anyways.
Fry bread isn't truly a "Native American" thing. Well, it is, but I don't think it is a pre-Columbus thing. Maybe it is. It doesn't matter to me, it's a yummy thing no matter where it came from, but here's why I say it's "post-Columbian."
Fry bread is commodities rich. It includes flour, lard, dried milk and other ingredients readily gotten from commodities distribution. Richer recipes include fresh milk and sometimes an egg but those came into the picture later. The older people of my tribe think the milk and egg are cheating though. Whole milk gives the dough lighter taste and masks the heavy lard taste and the egg helps bring on a more consistent golden brown color. I still use the old recipe grandmothers, mothers and aunts taught me with.
No fresh milk or eggs with me. It's commodities all the way!
Fry Bread goes well with boiled or baked beans and fried potatoes, both of which are nice buys at the grocery store when you're on a tight budget. It also goes well with beef stew, when you can afford the beef to make it with. Fry bread is really good when you make Indian Tacos out of it. If you're needing something for dessert, whip up a pot of wojape and serve that up with a batch of hot fry bread and everyone at the table will be singing your culinary praises.
You know what? I can't think of anything fry bread doesn't go well with. It's even good with a bowl of posole, which IS NOT a Native American dish.
At a time the country is not standing on the most stable ground and terrorism is rocking the world, sometimes fry bread is a good antidepressant.
Cheaper than Prozac anyways.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Shakespeare and Science Fiction
I've decided that Shakespeare was the first science fiction writer there ever was. Ok, maybe not the first, but he has to come pretty doggone close to the first.
And the name of that sci-fi piece is "The Tempest."
Why, you ask, did I decide "The Tempest" is sci-fi, even if it was writen entire centuries before sci-fi even started?
And you may ask, and I will answer -
BECAUSE IT'S WEIRD!
Monsters, innocence, faeries, magic, isolation, love, goblins...it's perfect for that sub category that sci-fi holds: fantasy!
And that, jadies and lentlemen, is all I have to say on the subject.
And the name of that sci-fi piece is "The Tempest."
Why, you ask, did I decide "The Tempest" is sci-fi, even if it was writen entire centuries before sci-fi even started?
And you may ask, and I will answer -
BECAUSE IT'S WEIRD!
Monsters, innocence, faeries, magic, isolation, love, goblins...it's perfect for that sub category that sci-fi holds: fantasy!
And that, jadies and lentlemen, is all I have to say on the subject.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Coffee
I love coffee.
Its strong flavor and fragrant aroma usually manage to cheer me up, if only for the few minutes it takes to sip the inky stuff.
It isn't the coffee itself, it's the whole experience. Setting up the coffee pot to brew - putting water on the stove to warm, grinding the beans and finding that one cup that seems to work best with the coffee - these are all a part of the ceremony. One cannot perform sacred actions without preparation, and Coffee Making is definately sacred. Waiting for the water to heat up to almost a boil (coffee is best released from the beans if the water is just off the boil) creates a good time pocket in which to wake up. Pouring water into the French press with ground up beans floating loosely in the container and watching the grounds turn the water from clear to a transparent brown to a dark liquid that promises only good things. This alone can help set the tone of the day. Once the coffee is ready, there is a certain speed for pushing the plunger down and herding all the grounds, or most of them anyway, to the bottom of the press. Finding that speed is essential in learning to make coffee. Some say it that speed adds to the flavor while others argue it doesn't. I say it's just one of the many rituals that is important in Serious Coffee Making.
Coffee is a serious experience and must be approached with reverence.
Then comes the first whiff.
After getting that first whiff it's usually a good idea to put the coffee pot down, or at least level it off, so you don't spill it. Go ahead. Take a few seconds to smell it.
Purr.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee is the ideal, early morning experience. It can create a day or destroy it, depending on the circumstances surrounding it. If you're in too much of a hurry to enjoy that first whiff, you may never get rid of the crankiness that was born from forcing yourself out of bed at 4am in the #@%&*(^$#@ morning (yes, I really do get up that early). With enough time to let the heavenly fumes creep into your nasal passages and work its way into your psyche, the challenges that face you at your despised job can turn merely unimportant.
Skipping that first whiff is like going straight to communion without having been confirmed a Catholic. Sinful at best.
But the critical part of the Early Morning Coffee Routine is the sitting in favorite spot and sipping it. Me, I choose the lower right hand corner of my bed. I sit "Indian style" on it, my elbows resting on my knees, my cup of coffee floating between both hands. It's the perfect position for me because it allows the aroma of coffee an uninterrupted path to my nose and mouth.
It usually takes me about 15 minutes to enjoy that first cup of coffee in the morning. It's private time. A time for me to create a truce with the fact that I had to drag myself out of a warm cozy bed when I may or may not have been sleeping and face a world where numbers are the only thing that matters. The minor jolt of caffeine also helps kick start systems that have been in idle for the last few hours and get things going with a minimal amount of trauma. The extra time also helps me define my priorities for the day.
Weekends are different. Specifically, Saturday mornings are different. You're not confined to having ONE cup of coffee squeezed into a mere FIFTEEN minutes of time. You can enjoy TWO cups of coffee over the New York Times, a bagel or two and absolute silence to sustain you. For this reason, Saturdays (or their equivelent) become the High Holy Days of a Coffee Addict. This is the time for serious enjoyment of one of the simpler pleasures of life to be experienced and thought about.
I've never had much luck understanding human kind, for all that I'm considered by most to be a human. I've never really had much luck understanding the male of the species. Curtis managed to show me what romance and deep love can taste like, but even he turned out to be substandard in the end. The corporate word? FAGEDDABAHT it!
But I'll always have coffee.
Its strong flavor and fragrant aroma usually manage to cheer me up, if only for the few minutes it takes to sip the inky stuff.
It isn't the coffee itself, it's the whole experience. Setting up the coffee pot to brew - putting water on the stove to warm, grinding the beans and finding that one cup that seems to work best with the coffee - these are all a part of the ceremony. One cannot perform sacred actions without preparation, and Coffee Making is definately sacred. Waiting for the water to heat up to almost a boil (coffee is best released from the beans if the water is just off the boil) creates a good time pocket in which to wake up. Pouring water into the French press with ground up beans floating loosely in the container and watching the grounds turn the water from clear to a transparent brown to a dark liquid that promises only good things. This alone can help set the tone of the day. Once the coffee is ready, there is a certain speed for pushing the plunger down and herding all the grounds, or most of them anyway, to the bottom of the press. Finding that speed is essential in learning to make coffee. Some say it that speed adds to the flavor while others argue it doesn't. I say it's just one of the many rituals that is important in Serious Coffee Making.
Coffee is a serious experience and must be approached with reverence.
Then comes the first whiff.
After getting that first whiff it's usually a good idea to put the coffee pot down, or at least level it off, so you don't spill it. Go ahead. Take a few seconds to smell it.
Purr.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee is the ideal, early morning experience. It can create a day or destroy it, depending on the circumstances surrounding it. If you're in too much of a hurry to enjoy that first whiff, you may never get rid of the crankiness that was born from forcing yourself out of bed at 4am in the #@%&*(^$#@ morning (yes, I really do get up that early). With enough time to let the heavenly fumes creep into your nasal passages and work its way into your psyche, the challenges that face you at your despised job can turn merely unimportant.
Skipping that first whiff is like going straight to communion without having been confirmed a Catholic. Sinful at best.
But the critical part of the Early Morning Coffee Routine is the sitting in favorite spot and sipping it. Me, I choose the lower right hand corner of my bed. I sit "Indian style" on it, my elbows resting on my knees, my cup of coffee floating between both hands. It's the perfect position for me because it allows the aroma of coffee an uninterrupted path to my nose and mouth.
It usually takes me about 15 minutes to enjoy that first cup of coffee in the morning. It's private time. A time for me to create a truce with the fact that I had to drag myself out of a warm cozy bed when I may or may not have been sleeping and face a world where numbers are the only thing that matters. The minor jolt of caffeine also helps kick start systems that have been in idle for the last few hours and get things going with a minimal amount of trauma. The extra time also helps me define my priorities for the day.
Weekends are different. Specifically, Saturday mornings are different. You're not confined to having ONE cup of coffee squeezed into a mere FIFTEEN minutes of time. You can enjoy TWO cups of coffee over the New York Times, a bagel or two and absolute silence to sustain you. For this reason, Saturdays (or their equivelent) become the High Holy Days of a Coffee Addict. This is the time for serious enjoyment of one of the simpler pleasures of life to be experienced and thought about.
I've never had much luck understanding human kind, for all that I'm considered by most to be a human. I've never really had much luck understanding the male of the species. Curtis managed to show me what romance and deep love can taste like, but even he turned out to be substandard in the end. The corporate word? FAGEDDABAHT it!
But I'll always have coffee.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Honor and Experience
I love to travel. I like hearing different languages being spoken, tasting different foods and working out different kinds of money. I like seeing how different countries have solved the same idiotic problems we have, like window locks, or electricity outlets. Traveling opens your eyes, expands your horizons and helps to make you more broad minded.
Ok, I'll stop with the cliches.
I caught the travel bug in 1992. I was invited to participate in a youth conference being held in Brazil. Some 600 students and young adults from around the world were given the onerous task of solving the world's problems in 10 days or less. To do that, we were taken on an "exposure." I'm thinking the purpose of this exposure was to underline the more obvious problems, poverty, environment, education, with the challenges of holding onto culture.
My group shacked up for 12 days with the Kura-Bakairi. A tribe of Indians native to Brazil. They've been there since the beginning of time and have a highly complex culture which is both harsh and gentle at the same time. I found them to be accepting and caring, easy to get along with. Their ways were familiar some how, but then, I am myself a Native American.
The Kura-Bakairi start their days with a morning ritual that includes, for lack of a better term, prayer. Their shaman goes from house to house to see that everything went well through the night and to accept offerings of food and drink for the Gods. A short ceremony brings the community together to discuss the days events and tasks before the village separates into individuality to get on with the complexities of living in the Amazon rain forest. The food that was offered to the Gods in ceremony is then distributed to families and friends who might not be as well off as some of the others, thereby addressing and helping the poorer members of the community without degrading their humanity.
I found it an elegant solution to a problem a lot of communities have. When I got to the conference proper, I tried to include ways to deal with desperate situations with dignity in our discussions. No one likes asking for handouts and giving them can be just as embarrassing. Why not find a simple way to help people get what they need while granting them their own humanity?
The Kura-Bakairi were curious about me also, which surprised me. They found out that I am a Native American and specifically asked if I could be included in the delegation assigned to them. It was an honor I was not expecting and still am not sure how to express that honor some 13 years later. I was moved by their invitation and tried my best to do my own people proud. I offered them a medicine wheel. A religious symbol my own people use to remind them "who's boss in these here parts." I was privileged to a unique ceremony the Bakairi performed to introduce the new symbol to their own spiritual forces.
There are times when words miss the point. "Honor" no longer had the strength to hold up the experience.
I was hooked, addicted to travel in a way most people miss. It isn't just about seeing the world. It's about mixing with the people and getting to know their way of life. Attitudes change when you travel, and you have to allow the experiences change you, shape your beliefs. If you're not willing to change, you can't enjoy the experience.
Ok, I'll stop with the cliches.
I caught the travel bug in 1992. I was invited to participate in a youth conference being held in Brazil. Some 600 students and young adults from around the world were given the onerous task of solving the world's problems in 10 days or less. To do that, we were taken on an "exposure." I'm thinking the purpose of this exposure was to underline the more obvious problems, poverty, environment, education, with the challenges of holding onto culture.
My group shacked up for 12 days with the Kura-Bakairi. A tribe of Indians native to Brazil. They've been there since the beginning of time and have a highly complex culture which is both harsh and gentle at the same time. I found them to be accepting and caring, easy to get along with. Their ways were familiar some how, but then, I am myself a Native American.
The Kura-Bakairi start their days with a morning ritual that includes, for lack of a better term, prayer. Their shaman goes from house to house to see that everything went well through the night and to accept offerings of food and drink for the Gods. A short ceremony brings the community together to discuss the days events and tasks before the village separates into individuality to get on with the complexities of living in the Amazon rain forest. The food that was offered to the Gods in ceremony is then distributed to families and friends who might not be as well off as some of the others, thereby addressing and helping the poorer members of the community without degrading their humanity.
I found it an elegant solution to a problem a lot of communities have. When I got to the conference proper, I tried to include ways to deal with desperate situations with dignity in our discussions. No one likes asking for handouts and giving them can be just as embarrassing. Why not find a simple way to help people get what they need while granting them their own humanity?
The Kura-Bakairi were curious about me also, which surprised me. They found out that I am a Native American and specifically asked if I could be included in the delegation assigned to them. It was an honor I was not expecting and still am not sure how to express that honor some 13 years later. I was moved by their invitation and tried my best to do my own people proud. I offered them a medicine wheel. A religious symbol my own people use to remind them "who's boss in these here parts." I was privileged to a unique ceremony the Bakairi performed to introduce the new symbol to their own spiritual forces.
There are times when words miss the point. "Honor" no longer had the strength to hold up the experience.
I was hooked, addicted to travel in a way most people miss. It isn't just about seeing the world. It's about mixing with the people and getting to know their way of life. Attitudes change when you travel, and you have to allow the experiences change you, shape your beliefs. If you're not willing to change, you can't enjoy the experience.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
I'm here.
My name is Marisol. When I was growing up, people called me "Sol" (pronounced "soul") which means "sun." I acquired my current nickname, Mari, while I was traveling through South America in the 1990s. Mostly that's what I go by now, although you can still find people who call me Sol.
I just turned 37 a week ago. I feel old even though people tell me I'm not. I love good strong coffee, smooth chocolate and really expensive scotch. Coffee I have every day. Chocolate I try to put off, but sometimes I'm not successful. Really expensive scotch is only a very occasional treat.
I am somewhat sophisticated, pretty well read and educated and enjoy a variety of things. I'm bright, if I do say so myself. ;) I like writing. I use writing as a way to think things through and explore ideas. I've kept a journal on and off since I was 8 or so. My father keeps saying I should do writing for a living, but I'm not sure how to go about doing that. It might be nice making money off what I write about. The big question is, is what I write about really interesting enough for others to read and want to buy?
*Shrugs.*
I have one Blog at another website, but I don't anticipate too many people from here reading that one. I've liked keeping that Blog though, so I thought I'd try this one. I like to write, and the WWW seems like the "in" place to do that now.
Now I just have to think of what to write for my next entry.
Any suggestions?
M
I just turned 37 a week ago. I feel old even though people tell me I'm not. I love good strong coffee, smooth chocolate and really expensive scotch. Coffee I have every day. Chocolate I try to put off, but sometimes I'm not successful. Really expensive scotch is only a very occasional treat.
I am somewhat sophisticated, pretty well read and educated and enjoy a variety of things. I'm bright, if I do say so myself. ;) I like writing. I use writing as a way to think things through and explore ideas. I've kept a journal on and off since I was 8 or so. My father keeps saying I should do writing for a living, but I'm not sure how to go about doing that. It might be nice making money off what I write about. The big question is, is what I write about really interesting enough for others to read and want to buy?
*Shrugs.*
I have one Blog at another website, but I don't anticipate too many people from here reading that one. I've liked keeping that Blog though, so I thought I'd try this one. I like to write, and the WWW seems like the "in" place to do that now.
Now I just have to think of what to write for my next entry.
Any suggestions?
M
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