Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Turmeric: Spice of My Week


So this week I'm in love with turmeric. It gives conglomerations of food glorious color, it's full of flavors and nutrients, and it is so reminiscent of the smells and tastes of India. Turmeric is in the ginger family, and similar to its relation, it also is a rhizome.

Turmeric has many ayurvedic (medicinal Indian practice) purposes. Included in these are uses that include its antiseptic and antibacterial properties.

I have it in a handy and easy to reach glass vessel, throwing it in as the flexible and friendly bitter little spice that it is. This morning we engaged in leftover chimichurri sauce and turmeric eggs. It makes eggs just that much more sunny in the morning. And all of us here that live in Michigan know how welcome anything is that is reminiscent of sunniness. Come, spring equinox, come!

Even more interesting, what is your favorite spice right now? Do you have the pleasure of having one? If not, please, by all means borrow mine. And then look up Bong Mom's Cookbook to learn more!

Friday, March 14, 2008

Josh is having a Birthday Week

Josh turns 29 this week, so this means it is celebrate josh week- at least in my world. It's a busy month for him. He's in the midst of curating the upcoming show at Gallery Project in Ann Arbor, planning the exhibition and creating the two pieces he will contribute. But he came home a little early last night to humor my week of celebration and partake in a thursday night birthday dinner. The dinner consisted of Seared Ribeye with Chimichurri Sauce that I found on a great food blog, and extremely scrumptious and rich scalloped potatoes. Our theme was parsley, one of those obscure flavors Josh isn't terribly fond of, and porterhouse steaks cut thicker than my forearm. The parsley flavor was surprisingly a hit, savory and blended with multiple spices and extra raw garlic. Sometimes foods that are less appealing just need a bit of a makeover (like brussels sprouts, right dad?). To drink we had Red Snapper and a Cotes du Rhone wine. Delic.








And we split this chocolate guiness cupcake from Cake Nouveau for dessert.



A couple of months ago I met a photographer by the name of Marco Mancinelli at the Ann Arbor artist's market. I bought this print yesterday from him for Josh's birthday. Mother Teresa represents selflessness and real life to me. I love her starkness. The garb at her feet is what the nuns in Calcutta wore when Josh and I volunteered at Mother Teresa's. Good memories and inspiration for life are enraptured in this photo.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Sticky Buns



We woke to a snowy and cold morning, grayness making its way through the blinds, so I took action for our growling bellies and decided to make sticky buns. 31 hours later, we had sticky buns. Perhaps this will teach me to read ahead in cook books before I start such lofty, hunger driven adventures? Probably not, but in the meantime we can continue to highly anticipate our baked goods that actually take time to rise... multiple times.

These were mysterious and then delicious, rich and buttery and perfect for the following day which was similar in atmosphere and chill. The layer of stickiness forms to your buttered pan, the rolls cook on top of this pecan and sugar medley, and when turned over after being cooked you have the bun and the stickiness adhered into one scrumptious comfort food. This can now go down in the records as one of my first attempts baking bread. Who knew that sticky buns would be in the bread category for novices? Well, I suppose the The Joy of Cooking knew. And I could have too, if I had read ahead.



Thrift Finds



I've started collecting clothes from my friends and co-workers with the hope of selling them at a consignment store for profit, and then donating the money I receive back to non-profit. When I was dropping some clothes off last week (wearing a nice new sweater I circumvented from the pile) I came across these two beautiful kitchen pieces, a kettle and a cast iron pot perfect for scalloped potatoes. We made the potatoes the other night, scooping from its yellow depths, feeling as though we were partaking in something very special indeed- something to partake in on holidays in our forever. And the corning wear kettle is the size of three cups of chai, creamy milk from Calder Dairy, heated directly on the stove with this honey you see in the picture, produced by the hardworking bees of Petoskey, Michigan. Seeing this kettle on our stove always makes me want to call my mom. When I was growing up she was constantly reaching for her corning wear pots and pans. Not bad finds, I say. Something used made new to me! They make me oh-so happy.



Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Poignant People

Sometimes people drift into your life, and then they are there awhile before you realize the tides changed when they arrived. One such person sent me a note this weekend that made my spirit waver. He has seen me struggle both at work and with my health, and it meant a lot that he noticed and cared enough to say anything. And he made me think...


Within me is the worry that people born of my make and model are destined for torture. I’ve been deliberating specifically today on whether there is a life I can choose to lead that will bring me to a path of peace, not sickness and utter overwhelming life adherence to a burning notion of safety. Is it possible to choose a dedication that both sustains and inspires me? That alone should be the ultimate goal of humanity, but we tend to allow the forceful systems of society to assault us in an opposing trajectory.

I decided this week to surrender to this breeze that swept by. I heard slight sounds of encouragement speaking, softly parading ideas of simplicity and solitude. In an honest and earnest moment I realized that I haven’t truly been alone in what feels like years. And now that I see this, I have the chance to grasp the best of two worlds I have known; the world of withdrawn dissolution, spiritual, lonely, yet productive, and the world of quiet companionship, full of acceptance, dedication and sacrifice.

There are lives out there that are honorable influences for us all. And while there is no perfect answer to the meaning of being alive, felicity is a human quality that is not only achievable, but also natural. So by stripping away skin that is not natural, the complexion of the spirit cleanly and smoothly reveals itself.

When life, death, and regret face you with its unreadable glassy eyes, thoughts begin to resemble understanding in a truer sense. Material things, false words, crazy fallacies begin to lose their grasp. I remember facing death 6 years ago, my hunger and realization of the world around me became only a charade and hallucination. People, words, advertisements, money danced around me and I was the ghost lingering in the center, staring at Josh cemented to a hospital bed. When I thought he was going to die, time itself began to move in slow motion. Nothing more mattered that whole year, not angry kids I worked with, not awkward wedding plans, not the size of my jeans or condition of my car. When you see life at its most vulnerable, you yourself have the opportunity to become vulnerable and reflective.

There are no enemies to be had, only enemies to be made. I know I can hold no one but myself accountable for my feelings or the sick setting my surroundings can become. Because change should be for the good, it shouldn’t be feared. I don’t dismay that my body won’t sustain, but I do grudge the passing of time. So this should be an inspiration to live moments for moments, to hold ourselves accountable for these moments, and to hope our moments seep into the spatial quality of our world. Our light then can diffuse through our cracks, not be sucked from our cavities.

Awareness is a gift. Now we just need the gift of a trampoline to bounce us when we jump, shooting us wherever it is we will land.

Our Recent New York, New York Journey









This beautiful face you may not recognize is that of our friend Michelle that joined us in the travels. She was about to partake in her first genuine skateboard display shop/sushi bar sake bomb.



Wednesday, February 06, 2008

South Indian Dinner



Sunday we spent some time with some friends of ours that are originally from southern India. We introduced ourselves five years ago when we recognized their accents as being from that region. When we met it didn't seem like our trip to India had been that distant, but now time has definitely lapsed.

It's been 8 years since Josh and I first started getting to know each other. I can imagine where we were eight years ago today, the beginning of February. It was just starting to get really warm in India, we were probably on the train to Maduraii by after spending a month in Nagercoil, preparing for classes in Indian Geography, Religion, and History. Evenings were spent on rooftops drinking King Fisher beer, listening to our (tape!) walkmans, writing emails to family that rarely made it past Indian electrical glitches, and eating homemade curries, briyanis, and dosas.

Anytime we spend with our Michigan Indian friends we are transported to the days of sweat on our brows, cameras by our sides, thoughts racing through our heads about global issues. It's good to remember days that were so molding to who we are now and to the relationship that we have.

Here are photos of our friends and the day we spent- them trying to teach us about cooking, and an afternoon with bloated rice bellies, watching Bollywood films and nodding off to the smell of tea and curry.





Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Pain to Peace

Let's just be honest here. I'm a slightly prideful person. But I have a feeling that everyone, in some way, has a bit too much pride for healthy existence. My husband and I seem to have a clear channel of communication even when our single selfish selves get the best of us. We come around, apologize, remember the days before we were married that we swore fighting could never happen between us. And I certainly don't have a lot of pride with my appearance anymore. The staff at work laughed at me on Friday because of my attire. I had to explain that the shiny black button up shirt was from a friend of my sister's five years ago, the pants were from my housemates sister, the tshirt was from a festival Josh and I went to, and the boots are a hiking staple bought back in 1998. But when it comes to putting my stress on other people by asking for help, it stresses me out even more.

The past six months have been really tough in that this healthy 28 year old has had to eliminate exercise beyond walking and deal with feeling shabby about 70% of my days. I've had the flu and a case of mono that just went on and on and on. I'm not sure if it was brought on by the late nights, getting home between 3-5am, or the gray, cold Michigan days, or the stress of lifestyle changes. But 70% of the past six months has been spent full of exhaustion, disbelief, and cold and flu symptoms. So this weekend, when I started to get a cold, I decided to amp up my vitamins, oregano, kumbucha, and sleep. Because I was so congested I boiled some water on the stove, threw a towel over my head, and stuck my head in the cavity made by towel and pot. I was really enjoying my own personal steam bath until I dropped my towel in the water and then decided to drop the towel directly on my leg. As a result I've burned myself. To what degree, I have no idea. I should just call my childhood best friend's husband who is a surgeon, but no, here's the pride I was talking about earlier. This morning, 15 hours after the episode, I walk around in circles in the kitchen, I call my father who is a family minister, my sister who is a veterinarian (and does know some things), my husband who is an artist, but I don't just dial Joseph the surgeon's number. But really, he's not my personal surgeon. It's not like he doesn't work 60 hours a week as it is.

So I'll call him. I promise. It's just rough when you feel like you don't have much to offer in return, like, "Hey! joseph! Give us a call if you ever have any questions about Robert Smithson or Richard Serra! Or if I can help you understand the difference between ales and lagers. We're your experts!" I suppose it feels like I'm asking Joseph to be responsible for the fact that we don't have health insurance. And that's not fair. But they always tell me to call, never worry, it's always fine. I should believe them. And I should move on to one more thought, the title to this post.

I finished another book by Paulo Coelho, the author of the Alchemist. This book that I read comments on pain and how if you avoid the pain, and if you don't allow yourself to live that pain through until the pain can no longer be felt, until you've risen about that pain, you can't have the value of peace that comes through the pain. These past months, as I've labored on in less then perfect health, there have been thoughts, processes that I've worked through, that I wouldn't have had time for if it wasn't for the pain. I have a long way to go, but I realize that I've been given the gift of a different perspective because of all this irritating sick time. I didn't succumb to hours spent in a gym or running (knowing that my body could handle the muscle recovery), and I didn't spend hours busying myself with tasks that swaddle themselves in lies about needing to get done. I simply stayed quiet and still and read many books in the time that I couldn't be rushing. And so while I hate that my immune system is weaker than any other 28 year old I know in my functioning society, and I hate the fact that I somehow pored boiling water on my knee, I can move past that. I can simply hate the fact that I don't have health insurance, yet embrace the fact that life has surrounded me with knowledgeable and loving people who as much as I hesitate asking for help, are always willing.

And I love the fact that when I feel most rushed and as though the world will cave in if I don't finish all those tasks on my list, but then am pounded to my bed by the weight of sickness or burns, peace kind of sidesteps in. And I think I'm just going to let it. And call my personal surgeon.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Making Mayo Makes It Better



I’m not one to suggest people must see things as I do, such as love the feel of warm compost on the softest part of the hand, or love the folkiest of music. To make grand statements gesturing that others should land in the same sentiments as I land is presumptuous, if not risky. After all, it only makes sense that different shoes taking different steps lead to different outcomes. That being said, forgive this one presumptuous and slippery thought- you and everyone you know needs to make mayonnaise.

There, I’ve said it, my inner and true thoughts. I think that it is a great loss to any individual who never makes homemade mayonnaise in his or her lifetime. The anticipated moment when the mixture transforms from oily to silky is a segment of time when all is beautiful, regardless of war and weather. The moment makes you feel like a kid who’s experiment finally just proved itself- the kid knows it is good. Just after that moment where the whisking leads to the smooth texture of subtle yellow, lip smacking wonder, you spread the goo on freshly toasted, slightly steamy bread. Voila, you have a delicious version of something you once thought you had to buy from a stranger, a mass producer.



So round up your partner, neighbor, spouse, housemate, sister and make yourselves some mayonnaise. Whisk some egg yolks together, and remember that the fresher, more local, more organic the egg the more scrumptious the whole endeavor. Mix those eggs with one or tablespoons of vinegar or lemon juice, some salt and some pepper. Whisk, whisk, whisk. This is where a friend comes in handy: One person whisking and one slowly dripping oil into the mixture. You’ll drip up to about 1/3 cup of oil into the whole thing before it really starts to solidify and strengthen, and then slowly drizzle the remaining 2/3 cup of the oil while continuing to whisk steadily. You and your partner together will beam with the beauty of this yellow French concoction. After you are fully satisfied with the whisking you can add Dijon mustard, yogurt, salt, pepper, etc to eternity. This condiment just keeps on giving! It’s so easy, so exciting, and so not necessary to buy from a big producer in a big jar with a big lid. Good luck. Everyone should learn to make mayonnaise with a friend and then eat some stacked BLT’s. It will make this endless winter a little more bearable.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

A Noble Cause

You ask what we were doing over there all those years: what it was all about? I'll tell you pure and simple: it was a noble cause. -- Ronald Reagan

I fell asleep last night with thoughts of a shaky and scotch ridden man (M.) lingering in my mind. He comes in almost daily to the pub and, depending on the time of day, he drinks red wine, pitchers of iced tea with lemon, or watered down scotch on the rocks. He is accompanied by a large wallet and an intimidating bag of meds. Generally he is a pleasant being to encounter, calling you “buddy” and chatting about your school studies, the weather, or his time spent in Vietnam. I haven’t actually seen him in weeks; he tends to patron the business during the daylight hours in winter, I think. But last night I turned the corner into the smoking room and he was leaning over booth 55, cash in hand, expressively and emphatically talking to two twenty-somethings. I knew I needed to watch carefully as to why he was interacting with another table, money falling from his hands, and that if it was anybody else I would interfere and more than likely ask him to leave. But when he had finished talking with the table I stopped by to make sure they weren’t uncomfortable and then sat down with M., smoke from his cigarette pouring around my cheeks. I counted his money for him, all $1021 of it, and inquired as to why he was trying to give it away to customers and why they refused it. His hopes were that these guys, his age while he was in Vietnam, would take the $2 as retribution for going to the VA Hospital and talking to the veterans there.

M. found out yesterday that his compensation from the US government is increasing by $53 monthly. They have finally found research to prove that an herbicide used in the Vietnam War can cause mental and physical dysfunction. M. is 54 and takes 31 medications everyday. M. is pissed. Well, as pissed as a kind, sick, drunk, traumatized and underpowered person can be. He showed me the paperwork he received in the mail. The government is taking responsibility for about 10% of M.’s ailments, like his neurological disorders, the lack of function and feeling in his extremities, and maybe even his cancer. Why is he emotionally charged about this government, the very organization that awarded him sergeant status and placed him in leadership of 60-120 troops in 1973? Because his life is comprised of medications, a torn apart family, and a wait for death- from his own words- that has only just begun to be validated.

The herbicide that was used in Vietnam was called Agent Orange and was created and distributed by the very masterminds that currently hold the patents on most of our seeds and the chemicals that they sell with those seeds. This corporation is as powerful as ever and has been held responsible for a minuscule amount of the damages- something in millions of dollars.

US service men, who at most only served a few months tour of duty, have suffered from cancers, skin disorders and liver disorders. In an out-of-court settlement in May 1984 the manufacturers wore forced to pay $180 million in damages for exposure to Agent Orange, little more than 'nuisance value'. Monsanto as the key defendant was forced by the presiding judge to contribute 45.5% of the total pay-out.

Vietnam won’t stop seeing the damages done to their country for generations still, and M. won’t stop feeling the repercussions until he is laid in the grave. There are millions of affected people, let alone the parched Vietnam landscape, and Monsanto receives a slap on the wrist.

These Agent Orange births are normal for us ... Every now and then we have what we call a foetal catastrophe - when the number of miscarriages and deformed babies, I am afraid to say, overwhelms us. -- Dr Pham Viet Thanh, Tu Du hospital

“The Vietnamese surprisingly bear no animosity to the US aggressors and their allies who destroyed their country. The aggressors were the victims, it was the US who slunk away completely demoralised with their tails between their legs. Noam Chomsky has always taken a different view, the Vietnamese may have won the war, but their country was defeated. The Americans achieved their objectives by destroying a country that dared demonstrate a different political system than that which the US wished to impose on the world. Vietnam is now once again being destroyed by US Imperialism as the vanguard of US transnational corporations move in to mop up what little is left. All done in the name of the new imperialism, globalisation.”

I know it seems like a wayfaring concern, but everyday you are affected by those that control our food systems. Those of you that live in the great plains drive through fields of corn that are doused in the very chemicals that are driven by money, not human and environmental well-being.

It should never be forgotten that the people must have priority. -- Ho Chi Minh

And M. wanders the streets of Ann Arbor with anxious thoughts, shaky hands, and a bundle of medications. He’s not angry for himself so much as he is the others, the past victims, and the current state of affairs. The war being fought in vain and based on more lies.

Never again must the US or any other country interfere in another country's affairs. -- Len Aldis, secretary Britain-Vietnam Friendship Society

My hope is that we try- we try to know where our food comes from, what our money represents and supports, and why we are sending troops to Iraq. I don't want to be passive, to hide my head, close my ears, and hope it goes away. It is here to stay, never to be resolved in my lifetime, inflicting those that return without arms or legs, those that don’t return, those that returned years ago with ageless consequences, and those that are natives in a pillaged land. And we are afraid to admit that cause might not be so noble after all.

Credit for quotes (distinguished by italics): The Legacy of Agent Orange