Think Of It As A Wake-up Call

Florida, in effect, doesn't have a Senate vote. Each seat cancels out the other on every issue. (Look up those voting records.) One Florida Senator is a Tea Party Republican; the other is a Democrat, left of center. My own congressman in the House of Representatives is Tea Party as well. Two extremes and no one in the middle. The candidates that I vote for never win.

As for me, I don't want to negotiate with blackmailers or back away from terrorists. Groups, no matter how patriotic they claim to be, who would consider shutting down the government in order to hold their President hostage are just that. Blackmailers and terrorists. Cowards who cannot fight against a principle-become-law fairly and squarely but must go postal - holding the nation at gunpoint. Assault rifles. 

It will be a long time before I call myself a Republican again or give the GOP candidates any campaign money. I'm ashamed that the Tea Party has made me feel guilty of right-wing closed mindedness by association.

I am not for big government. I cringe at the idea of a national health care system. I understand how and why (and that) the Affordable Care Act is going to become a hotbed of corruption, worse than Medicaid and Social Security Disability ever dreamed.  It isn't going to be cheaper, fairer, all-inclusive, or the answer to the insurance corporation/drug company/hospital profit-driven travesty that we have now. Don't shout. Just wait. You will see. 

I spent the day researching some of the key players in this week's political games. We voted them into office and it is they whom we trust with running our government. I wrote emails - much calmer pieces than what you are reading now. I tried to stay logical and professional. These people work for us. For me. For the country. 

I've ducked out of facebook for a few days. Frankly, all the signs, slogans, and hot-headed words were getting to me.  Don't tell me. Or the rest of your friends. Tell someone who can do something about it. Don't point fingers and call names. Make yourself useful. Email your elected officials; get involved; vote better next time.

The country is divided. I cannot guess where the silent majority is hiding. That group may be extinct from what I understand. What I do know is that talented, educated, charismatic leaders have acted like thugs and should be voted out of office - not for the principles in which they believe but for how they have behaved in a crunch - the ways in which they misused the power that is not theirs. They have shamed their constituents as well as their opponents in front of the whole world. 

Think of the actions of the last few weeks as a wake-up call, Tea Party. Because that is what it is. Form your own gang of nay-sayers. Honest, patriotic, and centrist Republicans don't want anything to do with you.  

Dreaming, Revisited

In answer to those of you (way more than a few) who messaged me after I posted Dreaming and asked me why I downplayed the importance of dreams in my life, I appreciate the fact that you are reading carefully.

What I call my seeking dreams don't seem, to me, to fall into the everyday dreaming category. Because of that, mentioning them didn't feel apropos the story that I was just now telling you. I never even considered them in the have you seen this man? context.

I generally categorize those other, telling, experiences as some sort of mild phenomena instead of dreams. I clip them together into  imaginary folders of their own, labeled something like "heightened intuition," and shove them into the "extrasensory cabinet" of my mind. What else can I do? If various factors in our lives run amok of our usual definitions, we need to name and think of them as something else.

I could be wrong and you could be correct, however, in warning me that by not speaking of those other dreams of mine, I missed a chance to comprehend that my have you seen this man? dream was somehow one of them. The whole event actually seems more logical when understood in that context.

So, here I am at the computer, in the middle of a beautiful fall night, analyzing my own analyzations. I hope you are each sleeping well - cozy and dreamless. It makes me happy to know that you are not only following but are also thinking about my posts! It's like the tree falling in the forest. If the blog were never noticed, would it actually be there?

Dreaming

I almost never swear, but I give you my oath. I knew nothing about any of this until yesterday.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I must digress. I only remember two dreams from my childhood and one was not a dream at all, for I was awake. In the second, I dreamed that I was a little girl about my own age and that I was a sister to one of the disciples. I was tattered and torn, following along, dirty clothes and worn-out sandals. The whole dream was a poem and I have never forgotten it. I was not the only child there. I was neither hungry nor thirsty. I was spellbound.

In my dream, I realized that I was taking part in the greatest series of events in all of history. Also, even dreaming, I promised to remember everything I saw and heard in that dusty place for the rest of my life - as I have done. 

When I was a young woman in my twenties, I boasted that I never dreamed. In fact, it seemed as if I died rather than slept. I never turned over in the night, nor got up for water, nor gasped, groaned, nor muttered. I woke up just as I had gone down; two hands under my chin, on my side, all curled up, probably smiling.

I only remember one dream from the time period of around thirty years old, but it recurred for at least a year. I spoke softly in Spanish; I don't know what I said. I came down a dark stairwell, terrified, as I was all alone and surrounded by a crowd carrying torches. I awoke, each time, just after thinking of the inquisition. I suspected, in my dream, that I must have said something about my childhood experience with Jesus and his disciples to someone without thinking. In spite of the fact that my experience, itself, had been only a dream, I was going to be burned at the stake for talking about it.  

During all the time that I was growing (mostly) dreamlessly older, science was making great strides. The general public soon realized that sleep has patterns and that everyone dreams every night. That didn't worry me. I thought that I must be one of those who don't remember dreams instead of (as I had formerly believed) a rarely participating dreamer. All the better for me, I thought. Psychologists and others began to try to interpret the sleeping activities of their patients/clients. Dreaming was de rigueur.  I, myself, seemed to be exempt.

When I was forty years old, or so, I began to have those simple little dreams that everyone experiences. I chalked it up to a new marriage, business responsibilities, and mild performance anxiety. You know. I was falling. I hadn't studied for the test. I couldn't find Mother, I was in a burning house trying to get out. Those dreams.  I didn't often have one. When I did, I realized what stresses were causing them.

In the past few years, I have more and more remembered that I have dreamed. Lately, I have also remembered what I have dreamed. I know, for example, that I live in a whole other world while asleep. I dream of friends, strangers, and those who have passed on.

In my recurring dream-world, I live alone in a huge, Italian-style apartment building with balconies, gargoyles, and an ancient elevator. I ride a bicycle; sometimes, a motorcycle. I have friends who own a restaurant on a beach near the sea. In reality, I've never even seen them. The ocean is on my left side when I face north instead of my right. It is as if I lead a double life. 

I remember what I dreamed last Monday night. I was in my sunny apartment opening the windows to the balcony. Corey was there but, as I was talking to him, he became his Dad. Nothing to worry about. I'm used to that happening in my dreams. At second glance, I realized that it was neither of them but was Danny, my facebook friend who committed suicide this year. Characters often become blurred in my dreams.

We (whoever the other party really was and I) were going to an optical trade show. I'm used to that. I see a lot of old friends in my dreams. There wasn't much of a storyline in this particular nocturnal scenario. I attended a meeting, was late arriving, and was elected treasurer of something. Danny got some food for each of us. We were betting whether or not our bikes would be stolen before we got back to them. Ordinary. In my dreams, my bike seems to have a starring role. Sometimes, I do stunts. I never get winded. While dreaming, I am young and strong.

Suddenly, without warning, and to my right side, I saw a drawing hanging in my field of vision. I turned my head so that it was hovering in front of me. I saw the image of  a woman whom I've never seen. She wouldn't get out of the dream so that I could continue it. She just hung there, a sketch on a white sheet of paper.

I startled myself awake. Something about that face. Red pigtails hugging both sides of her head. I thought of Three and a Half Men. What's her name? Berta. No. This woman had such a blank expression. She frightened me for some reason. Nothing like Berta. Dangerous to know, somehow. Seeking something of me.

I could/should/would have forgotten the dream, but that face (like a police drawing, really) kept popping into my mind - etching itself there. Like a caricature or a cartoon gone bad. Something just not right about her. 

Yesterday, on my facebook page, a friend posted an article about collective dreaming and about a hoax thought to be perpetrated by a website http://www.thisman.org/.

I read the blurb and popped the page up innocently enough. Obviously thousands of dreamers world-wide have supposedly dreamed of this one man - causing his features to spread by happenstance (or not) throughout our collective consciousness.

I could have screamed. The man appears as a line drawing. Yes I have seen him in my dream. Only in my dream, he is a woman. Same face, same expression, same eyes, nose, and chin - but a woman due to a pair of red braids casually added on.

I'm sure it can be done. Somehow, someone may have subliminally superimposed an image among the things we routinely see on the internet.  Yet, for some reason not clear to me right now, I never want to dream of that face again. Even as I posted the website for you to see what I saw, I never re-opened it and I won't. Hoax or innocent prank, mysticism striving to be heard or a new reality emerging,  I don't want to dream what others dream. Or even what they believe they dream. But yes, I have seen this man. 

   

Cookbook Review: Olives and Oranges

Olives and Oranges: Recipes and Flavor Secrets from Italy, Spain, Cyprus, and Beyond by Sara Jenkins

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I always say if you glean one or two recipes from a cookbook that it was worth the price you paid for it.

If you saw my copy of Olives and Oranges, you would recognize the handwritten notes in the margins and realize that this book belongs mostly to me, now, and has very little to do with Jenkins and Fox.

I don't usually claim to have read books on Goodreads that I bought before I joined. Since I cannot remember how long that has been, I thought that I would add this cookbook and recommend it to you.

The insights and the photos alone are worth the purchase. Also, some of us simply like to read cookbooks. For fun. Never mind the actual feeding of the family.

Note: Never download a cookbook. You miss too much that way. My copy of Olives and Oranges, sometimes covered in a light dusting of flour and permanently olive oil smudged, wouldn't be nearly as valuable if I couldn't prop it up on my kitchen counter or grasp it in my arms while I check the pantry for ingredients.



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When the Pope Phoned Petrini | Slow Food International - Good, Clean and Fair food.

When the Pope Phoned Petrini | Slow Food International - Good, Clean and Fair food.

Arrosto Morto

I looked online for images of the dead roast, arrosto morto, that famous Tuscan herb-encrusted and garlic-infused, slow-roasted pork shoulder. I really need to get into the habit of photographing the results of the cooking revisions that I'm making due to the Michael Pollan "natural history of (food) transformation" book Cooked. The photos I found look nothing like my end result which screamed "Taste me, I am perfect!"

I've used a lot of recipes, over the years, for the arrosto. Currently, Olives and Oranges by Sara Jenkins and Mindy Fox is in the batting box - although I have annotated the page until I could probably call the recipe my own.

This method of roast pork shoulder does not produce the pulled-pork which is all the rage today. The oven temperature (250F) is low enough, but the time is wrong. Or vice versa. The time is long enough (five hours) but on a higher heat.

I roast in an Emile Henry (clay over who knows what) casserole that can also be used effectively on the electric cooktop. Up there and with the lid on, pulled pork would have been the result. I'll bet it would have also been delicious. Making a note for the future.

I made several changes to my cooking method for this delicious pork dish and, yes, the difference in the results was remarkable. Adhering to the methods that I learned in Cooked, I salted the pork the night before. Really salted. Copious amounts. And no. The finished product was not too salty. Many thanks to Pollan's own cooking instructor, Samin Nosrat.

Also, a la Pollan's premise that all cooking with liquid (braising) begins with some sort of dice, according to the nationality of the dish, of pertinent vegetables and/or herbs, I sat the roast on a slightly sauteed (olive oil) mixture of onion, garlic, sage, thyme, and rosemary. This was in addition to infusing the meat itself with a fresh supply of the herbs listed. The recipe calls for slitting the meat, but I simply inserted the various herbs and the garlic into the fatty portions of the pork.

Then, working against the suggestions of the cookbook: after I bound and tied my roast, I removed my completed mirepoix. I browned the whole piece lightly, stovetop, in the cooking pot. This step, according to Nosrat, imparts yet another layer of flavor to the dish.  I added a splash of the white wine allotment to gently loosen anything stuck to the bottom of the casserole dish - way ahead of the suggestion in the recipe to add the wine altogether after two hours. I then re-added the sauteed bed of succulent goodies and placed the roast on top.

The recipe calls for a (to me) mystery ingredient called wild fennel pollen which should be added to the fresh herbs, noted below, and used to impart the true flavor of Tuscany into the dish. I've never had this herb. Remind me to look online later and see who may be shipping it. That little touch might just become the piece de resistance of the dish as I am now making it. Who knows? (Note: Later. California organic fennel pollen on the way via Amazon. And yes, the shipper called the herb "that secret ingredient" and a superb "dish finisher.")

To continue, and without said herb,  the cookbook directions call only for simply cutting slits in the meat, adding one's herbs and garlic, salting and peppering, and laying the roast (after tying) flat onto the uncovered cooking vessel.

Two hours in, I added the remainder of the dry wine, brushed the arrosto with more olive oil, and closed the oven door. At this point I started basting every half hour, as per Jenkins and Fox, for three more hours. (Red wine would have resulted in a wilder, gamier flavor. I haven't tried the red on the palate of the six-year-olds.)

It was the best arrosto morto ever. I added, uninvited by any cookbook, red potatoes and carrots to the mixture at about three hours in. The vegetables were not cooked to death (morto). The carrots retained a touch of crispness while the potatoes were perfectly done but not mushy.

The family said "mmm, good pork roast" and were not much impressed with the incredible flavor changes. Or the meat that sliced without any hint of the overdone mushiness of the pulled variety. Or the slices, fork tender on the plates. Then again, it is my own experiment, not theirs. They are interested in having dinner, after all. Note here that both Jack and Tom asked for seconds on a roast infused with "strange" flavors and cooked with wine! That is victory enough for me!



 

Rambling Thursday

By the time I got my camera out, I was back home again in my own neighborhood. Maybe that's why I've been so slack about having adventures. With the passage of time my own streets are becoming canopy roads. My views are beautiful.

Thursday has been designated  Rambling Days by the reclusive Yours Truly. I set out to go left on Mahan. I was looking for a spot that I never found. What I did find was the Automobile Museum and made a mental note. I kept on driving! 

It was a beautiful day for an exploration. I began to turn off onto County, then country, roads. I had sunglasses, spiced tea, and some caramel creams. The bag said "quality since 1895." In the '40's and '50's these treats were 9 cents a pound. This 12 ounce bag was over $3.00 and worth every bit of that. Caramel creams are still delicious. I have not had them in ages. 

My camera was in my purse but it didn't matter. This was to be an image without a photo shoot anyway because my narrowing route had no places to pull over. 

I began to have very little idea where, exactly, I was. The deeper in I got, the more relaxed my neck and shoulders became. I learned a long time ago. It's hard to get lost. After all, I am in Florida where all roads lead to home and most of them, to a super highway.

At one point, there was a cow pasture on my right and a huge field of flowering goldenrod to my left. The air smelled of sun-drenched grass and, I could swear, honey. I drove on. Honestly, if I had seen one spot on which to park, I would still be there.

I turned off the air conditioning and opened the car windows. Yes. Let Il Barbiere di Siviglia serenade the livestock while they munch on that green grass. Yum. Free range. Music can only help. A bee flew into the car (maybe I did smell honey) and danced around Rosina's (sung by Maria Callas) head.

I spent all afternoon alone, with my music and my snacks, in the Florida countryside. I could have grabbed the phone and taken some photos for you through the car window but, honestly, I was simply living the experience in lieu of wanting to record it.

When I arrived home, as I always do, I took a good look at the tree-lined streets. These familiar neighborhood byways are equally intriguing to me. There are also plenty of turn-arounds and pull-off spots. I stopped a minute and grabbed the camera. 

I wanted someone at the art show last night to ask me where I took the photos for one of my pieces, Seasons. "All in my yard or on the cul de sac," I would have answered. I don't have to travel far for nature's beauty.

Rambling Thursday, however, is going to be a wonderful addition to my life.     

  

Book Review of Killing Jesus by Bill O'Reilly

Killing Jesus: A History by Bill O'Reilly

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I don't watch Bill O'Reilly on Fox anymore. You know how he is. Yet, when I listened to him talking about writing his three books Killing Jesus, Killing Kennedy, and Killing Lincoln on 60 Minutes, I was intrigued. After all, I read and enjoyed Zealot by Reza Aslan this summer. I gave it four stars.

This is not a comparison between the two books. The bibliographies are, by necessity, the same. Just so much information on the subject of Jesus and the times in which he lived is available. No more. Unless someone discovers new material, the outcome will always rest on the interpretation, by the author, as to what information is, in fact, truth.

That is where comparison comes in. Aslan tended in his book, Zealot, to regard everything written by the historians of the time of Jesus as accurate. On the other hand, he doubted almost every biblical account in the New Testament, making excuses for why the gospels were inaccurately written.

Yet, the reader should take note. What we all know is that Jesus was crucified. Neither of the two authors are speaking of religion. Aslan was not writing for the "folks" as O'Reilly sometimes calls us. Aslan was talking to scholars, seeking to prove his hypothesis that Jesus might have been a zealot.

Bill O'Reilly knows that it took a zealot and that Jesus most certainly was one. Yet he never uses that word. Instead, he pulls you deep down into those dangerous times and final days of the Nazarene.

O'Reilly is dramatic and plain-spoken. He weaves the history of the day, the writings of the historians of the time, and the accounts found in the Bible (both Old and New Testaments) into a cohesive, believable, and heart-felt account of why and how Jesus met his death.

O'Reilly's notes also made good reading and he supplied us with a list of pertinent reading material in case we want to do further research of our own. His own research assistant, Martin Dugard, is extremely thorough and is the co-author of all three of O'Reilly's books.

Three stars for organization of facts and perspective. One star for that factor that is recognisably Bill O'Reilly.



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Yesterday

I was quiet about it yesterday. I read, cooked, and enjoyed my garden. September 30th would have been Wayne and my thirtieth anniversary. Yes. 30.

This morning I dug out the old polaroid picture that the magistrate had taken of us after the marriage. We eloped to St. Augustine. Both of us were on our second chance.

The picture she took with Corey has lightened with age and didn't transfer well to the computer. He was five years old, a cutie who took a clean shirt and (before we got back to our little reception at Jacksonville Beach) needed it. He signed his name in pencil as a witness. He had a coke and some chips.

Us Three.  September 30, 1983

If Wayne had lived to see his retirement, we would have chosen a home south of here, maybe in Sopchoppy - hunting and fishing, growing veggies and smoking game - with a little acreage and some chickens. Perhaps, a goat. I could never tell if the goat was a real promise or a joke.

Things don't always work out the way you plan them. My disappointment lingers although it has been seven summers for me here in Tallahassee. Yet, I know that my life is as good as it is because of him, the things he taught me, the things he did for me, and the encouragement that he gave me to be me.