The other day I found this recipe for banana muffins. I've made 2 batches in one week and have already eaten 3 from the last batch. They are quite tasty and homey and very comforting with a glass of milk and are, for me, pure comfort food. Makes you wonder how the banana, a tropical fruit, became an American staple. I mean our story is about apple pie, not banana cream, yet nothing says soothing goodness like banana nut bread, warm from the oven, slathered in butter. Am I right?
My mom used to feed us bananas sliced up in a bowl of milk. I'm not sure why. For growing pains perhaps, all that potassium and calcium? I don't remember, but regardless of the original intent what it became to me was the quintessential comfort food.
I remember once I was babysitting and one of the kids had fallen asleep on the couch. I woke her up and pointed her toward bed, halfway there she began screaming like she was on fire! I grabbed her trying to figure out what was wrong. She just looked past me and continued to scream and scream. It was horrible. In an act of desperation I gave her a shake and she finally looked at me, collapsed into my arms, and began to cry. She had been having a waking nightmare- walking around with her eyes open, but still caught in her dreaming brain. Needless to say we were all pretty shook up. We scrapped bedtime and went upstairs to the kitchen for some bananas and milk. We all needed a little comfort.
I, unlike some people, do not have cool dreams or if I do I don't remember them. In fact, as a general rule I don't remember ANY of my dreams, cool, horrible, weird, or lame. They all, usually, evaporate with consciousness... usually. About two years ago I had the most horrible dream of my life. I woke up in a cold sweat, sick to my stomach, and too freaked out to be comforted by a good ol' bowl of bananas and milk, a muffin, or anything.
I'm in an orphanage. I grew up here and have recently come back to be on staff and work with the children. I'm in the dormitory with the children and it's rapidly becoming dark and we're all frantically trying to move all the beds into the center of the room. I'm giving instruction to this child and that, "get that bed." "Move these together like this." "Hurry, it's getting dark!" I have it in my brain that we must make one giant bed out of all the beds, fit them together, make a place where we can all huddle together and be safe, but it must be done before dark. The children scramble around in the darkening room and I push and shove at the beds worrying there won't be time.
In walks Lilith or as some of you may know her: Bebe Nuewirth. In my dream she's simply Lilith, not an actress and not the character known as Lilith that she portrayed on Cheers and Frasier, but just Lilith, my childhood friend. We grew up here together and she's one of my closest friends and the orphanage administrator. She got me this job, something she reminds me of as she points out what a lousy job I'm doing. I'm scaring the children she says.
I remind her that the children have reason to be scared and it's not because of me. Horrible things have happened here. I know, I grew up here, I remember. Lilith says all those things were a long time ago and were blown out of proportion by our juvenile brains. I should know better she gently scolds. She continues to talk, making me feel foolish. She's the administrator of this facility now and would she, my dearest, oldest, bestest friend allow anything horrible to happen while she's in charge? She's gracious and smart, sophisticated and intelligent and I feel awful for adding to the children's panic and doubting my amazing friend. I stare at my shoes in shame.
"So a few children died," she says.
I nod, saddened by the memories.
"It happens," she whispers sounding, likewise, sad. And I know she's right. Children die sometimes. It's a terrible fact.
"So a few children got eaten."
My head snaps up. She smiles at me, but she's no longer my dear, elegant, life long friend. Her face has changed and twisted.
She's a demon.
I grab her head and begin to pray. I don't know what to pray I just know: I can't stop.
I woke up then. I could still feel her head between my hands, where my fingers had dug into her ears. If I stop and think about it, I can feel it still.
The dream rode around with me for a few days before I told Chris about it. By then it had lost some of it's alarm and just became "Beth's Creepy Dream". He agreed it was frightening- no wonder I remembered it! And that was that or so I thought. A few days later he told me that in curiosity he Googled: Lilith. She turns up in many old legends, across various cultures. Turns out that Jewish mystism holds that she was Adams first wife and that she left him to become the mother of demons. Some accounts say that in bitterness she seeks to destroy human children, she strangles them or EATS THEM WHILE THEY SLEEP!
Chris wondered: what if my dream wasn't an ordinary dream? What if my sleeping mind saw Lilith and put the face of the only Lilith I knew upon her, hence ol' Bebe? Scrabbling to push beds together before dark because children died in the night, children had been eaten in the night? Dream and legend sync up in alarming ways.
Muffin anyone? Bowl of bananas and milk? Go ahead, get some. I'll wait.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
God Bless America
Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wiped out their foul footstep's pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Happy Independence Day!
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wiped out their foul footstep's pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Happy Independence Day!
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Roll Out!
English composition, such a boring class. Had I taken the AP exams I coulda avoided it, but I didn't think I was going to go to college so what was the point? But Mom insisted so I spent the entire semester of my freshman year slogging through the monotony while sitting behind a massive dude named Brian.
Brian was big as a house. He was, in fact, so large that the teacher rarely noticed me sitting behind him. Don't misunderstand me; there was no fat on the man. Brian was a wall of muscle and not in a body building, oil-me-up kinda way, but rather a 6'3" broad shouldered brick privy way. He rode a motorcycle and would often wear full leathers and steel-toed boots to class, but for all his Terminator looks he was really just a big teddy bear. A single dad, trying to get his Criminal Justice degree and do the best he could by his kid.
Anyway, Brian had a tattoo (of course). It would peek out from under his sleeve and stopped just above his elbow. I stared at it all semester long and wondered what it could be because for the life of me I could not figure it out. Finally, on the last day of class I worked up the courage to ask if I could see it. Brian smiled sheepishly and lifted his sleeve.
It couldn't have been cheap. It was massive, covering his shoulder and bicep in full color. There, arms stretched above his head in victory, was Optimus Prime. "My daughter likes Transformers," he said. Whatever dude, your daughter's too young to know what Transformers are, I thought (by that time Transformers had been cancelled for at least two years). "You like Transformers," I said.
And why shouldn't he?!?
Matt, and the boys, and I have been looking forward to the movie coming out with drooling anticipation. Tonight was opening night and we were there ready and waiting to be blown away. It did not disappoint.
It was action and nostalgia packed start to finish. Couldn't tell you what thrilled me more- how true they remained to the characters I loved as a kid or how simply bitchin' the effects were, because damn! Never once did I stop to marvel at the CG, I was too caught up in the action and the story and squealing and bouncing up and down in my seat every time a character let fly a signature line. I truly can't remember a movie I enjoyed this much in a long time. I giggled, gasped, and cheered my way through the entire 2 hours.
Even if you weren't a fan like I was of the series, even if you've never laid eyes on the cheesy 80's cartoon, I'd still urge you to see the movie. It is this summers blockbuster hit and its scale must really be seen in the theater to be appreciated. It is chock-a-block with testosterone- cars, gadgets, soliders, weapons, bathroom humor, and robots who move like ninjas. And watching Optimus Prime and Bone Crusher go at each other on the freeway (kick ass!) worth the price alone.
Go see it. You won't regret it, hell; it might even be worth getting inked.
Brian was big as a house. He was, in fact, so large that the teacher rarely noticed me sitting behind him. Don't misunderstand me; there was no fat on the man. Brian was a wall of muscle and not in a body building, oil-me-up kinda way, but rather a 6'3" broad shouldered brick privy way. He rode a motorcycle and would often wear full leathers and steel-toed boots to class, but for all his Terminator looks he was really just a big teddy bear. A single dad, trying to get his Criminal Justice degree and do the best he could by his kid.
Anyway, Brian had a tattoo (of course). It would peek out from under his sleeve and stopped just above his elbow. I stared at it all semester long and wondered what it could be because for the life of me I could not figure it out. Finally, on the last day of class I worked up the courage to ask if I could see it. Brian smiled sheepishly and lifted his sleeve.
It couldn't have been cheap. It was massive, covering his shoulder and bicep in full color. There, arms stretched above his head in victory, was Optimus Prime. "My daughter likes Transformers," he said. Whatever dude, your daughter's too young to know what Transformers are, I thought (by that time Transformers had been cancelled for at least two years). "You like Transformers," I said.
And why shouldn't he?!?
Matt, and the boys, and I have been looking forward to the movie coming out with drooling anticipation. Tonight was opening night and we were there ready and waiting to be blown away. It did not disappoint.
It was action and nostalgia packed start to finish. Couldn't tell you what thrilled me more- how true they remained to the characters I loved as a kid or how simply bitchin' the effects were, because damn! Never once did I stop to marvel at the CG, I was too caught up in the action and the story and squealing and bouncing up and down in my seat every time a character let fly a signature line. I truly can't remember a movie I enjoyed this much in a long time. I giggled, gasped, and cheered my way through the entire 2 hours.
Even if you weren't a fan like I was of the series, even if you've never laid eyes on the cheesy 80's cartoon, I'd still urge you to see the movie. It is this summers blockbuster hit and its scale must really be seen in the theater to be appreciated. It is chock-a-block with testosterone- cars, gadgets, soliders, weapons, bathroom humor, and robots who move like ninjas. And watching Optimus Prime and Bone Crusher go at each other on the freeway (kick ass!) worth the price alone.
Go see it. You won't regret it, hell; it might even be worth getting inked.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Pork-a-rama
Bacon for breakfast and lunch, pork roast for dinner, and pork ribs for lunch the following day. I didn't plan such a pork-a-rama it just sort of happened.
I have become a bacon snob. I purchase a pound of thick cut bacon from the deli each week. It is far superior to ANYTHING you find prepackaged and not really that much more expensive. You get wonderfully meaty slices that, when cooked right are crisp yet still toothsome (I hate bacon that shatters when you bite into it). Buy it! Bacon lecture done.
So I fried up some bacon for breakfast. The boys and I each had a couple strips with our eggs and English muffins and then I set a couple of pieces aside for the husbands lunch along with a bit of the grease. Yes, some grease. Pork fat, some have said, rules. I don't know about that, but bacon grease is mighty useful stuff- part of the reason I buy a pound a week.
Some of todays by-product (like I said, or, erm wrote rather) was used for Matt's lunch. A couple of tablespoons were whisked up with a bit of red wine vinegar, brown sugar, mustard, salt, pepper, and a healthy glug of hazelnut oil. To this I added a can of drained garbonzos (Matt's favorite), several handfuls of baby spinach, and topped it all with the reserved strips cut into lardons (the Frenchy-French way of saying bacon bits). I packed it all into Tupperware and sent the boys out to deliver the goods.
While they were gone I heated up another pan and added the rest of the grease and in went a four pound salt and peppered pork roast for browning. Once a nice crust was achieved, also known as the maillard effect (thanks Alton), the wee piggy landed in my slow cooker. Why brown before braise? Because it tastes good and I hate the grey look meat gets when sitting in a crockpot all day. That's why! And can I take a moment to add that not all meat is the same and not every cut benefits from time in the crock pot. Sirloin will become tasteless shoe leather, same for pork loin. Stick to the cheaper cuts that benefit from a slow braise. Crock pot lecture done. Anyway, to the cooker I added a diced sweet onion, a bit of rosemary, a splash or three of red wine vinegar, a cup of chicken broth, and a cup of homemade cherry jam. Turned it on low and left it all day because that's what you do with a slow cooker. Talk about tender and the cherry glaze.... kickin'! Right up there with my peppercini pork roast and the Coke-a-Cola pork roast recipe let me tell you!
With three porky meals nestled in my tummy I began on the next day's lunch- pork ribs. Rub 'em down with New Mexican chili powder, corriander, all spice, black pepper, and some celery salt and leave them rest in the frig over night. Next day wrap in a double of layer of foil and bake at 250 for four hours (at least) or until fork tender. Slather on some sauce if you like and serve up with red cabage slaw and potato salad or, if you are a Code Monkey, a generous slab of ice cream cake.
Four meals in a row of porky goodness. Why? I don't know it just sort of happened. Good thing unclean animals were given the green light because those are some good eats. Of course, I'll be eating oatmeal and obscene quantities of produce the rest of month in an effort to keep my heart from completely shutting down, but that's ok. A pork indulgence is needed every now and then.
Pork blog done.
I have become a bacon snob. I purchase a pound of thick cut bacon from the deli each week. It is far superior to ANYTHING you find prepackaged and not really that much more expensive. You get wonderfully meaty slices that, when cooked right are crisp yet still toothsome (I hate bacon that shatters when you bite into it). Buy it! Bacon lecture done.
So I fried up some bacon for breakfast. The boys and I each had a couple strips with our eggs and English muffins and then I set a couple of pieces aside for the husbands lunch along with a bit of the grease. Yes, some grease. Pork fat, some have said, rules. I don't know about that, but bacon grease is mighty useful stuff- part of the reason I buy a pound a week.
Some of todays by-product (like I said, or, erm wrote rather) was used for Matt's lunch. A couple of tablespoons were whisked up with a bit of red wine vinegar, brown sugar, mustard, salt, pepper, and a healthy glug of hazelnut oil. To this I added a can of drained garbonzos (Matt's favorite), several handfuls of baby spinach, and topped it all with the reserved strips cut into lardons (the Frenchy-French way of saying bacon bits). I packed it all into Tupperware and sent the boys out to deliver the goods.
While they were gone I heated up another pan and added the rest of the grease and in went a four pound salt and peppered pork roast for browning. Once a nice crust was achieved, also known as the maillard effect (thanks Alton), the wee piggy landed in my slow cooker. Why brown before braise? Because it tastes good and I hate the grey look meat gets when sitting in a crockpot all day. That's why! And can I take a moment to add that not all meat is the same and not every cut benefits from time in the crock pot. Sirloin will become tasteless shoe leather, same for pork loin. Stick to the cheaper cuts that benefit from a slow braise. Crock pot lecture done. Anyway, to the cooker I added a diced sweet onion, a bit of rosemary, a splash or three of red wine vinegar, a cup of chicken broth, and a cup of homemade cherry jam. Turned it on low and left it all day because that's what you do with a slow cooker. Talk about tender and the cherry glaze.... kickin'! Right up there with my peppercini pork roast and the Coke-a-Cola pork roast recipe let me tell you!
With three porky meals nestled in my tummy I began on the next day's lunch- pork ribs. Rub 'em down with New Mexican chili powder, corriander, all spice, black pepper, and some celery salt and leave them rest in the frig over night. Next day wrap in a double of layer of foil and bake at 250 for four hours (at least) or until fork tender. Slather on some sauce if you like and serve up with red cabage slaw and potato salad or, if you are a Code Monkey, a generous slab of ice cream cake.
Four meals in a row of porky goodness. Why? I don't know it just sort of happened. Good thing unclean animals were given the green light because those are some good eats. Of course, I'll be eating oatmeal and obscene quantities of produce the rest of month in an effort to keep my heart from completely shutting down, but that's ok. A pork indulgence is needed every now and then.
Pork blog done.
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Allergy Blues
I can't breathe. That's why I'm up at four in the morning, unable to sleep... the sinuses are so clogged it feels like someone poured concrete in my head while I slept and my eyes are so itchy and gritty that it would be a mercy to put forks in them. So here I am Benedryl doused, water at hand to wash away the cotton mouth, and a hanky ready to mop up the tearing eyes and oceans of mucus. Bleh.
The worst part of hay fever is that I live in a constant state of irritation for 1-2 months each year and I'm a bear to live with. My poor family. I growl at little things and find that simple affectionate gestures which the husband and boys try to make in an attempt to soothe this allergy beast annoy me.
"Why are you standing so near me? I can't breathe and you're sucking up all my air!"
"I just wanted to give you a...hug/kiss/pat on the back (insert sympathetic gesture here)."
"Oh. Ok. Um, thanks." Beth then returns the gesture briefly before fleeing to a more oxygen rich part of the apartment.
Benedryl, Chlor Trimetron, Alevert, Clariton, Tylenol Severe Allergy, they're all a joke making barely a dent in the parade of horrific and disgusting symptoms. I've gone old school in an attempt to find some relief- long, long, scalding hot showers, eye drops, and this is new to me, snorting warm salt water. It's supposed to dry out the sinuses- works somewhat, but well, it also produces sputtering, hacking, and vomiting if swallowed. Geez.
This is the price I pay to live where I do. I never had such severe hay fever in California, but then I either lived on a big rock with lots of trees or on land that was paved right up to the ocean, either way no huge swatches of grass not like here. On no! Here, towns are strung together by rolling fields of hay. Shoot me. It's not all vineyards and hazelnut groves up here in the beautiful Northwest. Seems like any yahoo with a patch of dirt to scratch is planting hay. Last year living out at the farm we were surrounded by 90 acres of the stuff and every time Farmer Gary touched it (cutting, piling, baling) I wanted to claw my face off... and throw it at him.
Well, the sun has come up. Looks like it's going to be another beautiful day. Time to go brace myself for it.
The worst part of hay fever is that I live in a constant state of irritation for 1-2 months each year and I'm a bear to live with. My poor family. I growl at little things and find that simple affectionate gestures which the husband and boys try to make in an attempt to soothe this allergy beast annoy me.
"Why are you standing so near me? I can't breathe and you're sucking up all my air!"
"I just wanted to give you a...hug/kiss/pat on the back (insert sympathetic gesture here)."
"Oh. Ok. Um, thanks." Beth then returns the gesture briefly before fleeing to a more oxygen rich part of the apartment.
Benedryl, Chlor Trimetron, Alevert, Clariton, Tylenol Severe Allergy, they're all a joke making barely a dent in the parade of horrific and disgusting symptoms. I've gone old school in an attempt to find some relief- long, long, scalding hot showers, eye drops, and this is new to me, snorting warm salt water. It's supposed to dry out the sinuses- works somewhat, but well, it also produces sputtering, hacking, and vomiting if swallowed. Geez.
This is the price I pay to live where I do. I never had such severe hay fever in California, but then I either lived on a big rock with lots of trees or on land that was paved right up to the ocean, either way no huge swatches of grass not like here. On no! Here, towns are strung together by rolling fields of hay. Shoot me. It's not all vineyards and hazelnut groves up here in the beautiful Northwest. Seems like any yahoo with a patch of dirt to scratch is planting hay. Last year living out at the farm we were surrounded by 90 acres of the stuff and every time Farmer Gary touched it (cutting, piling, baling) I wanted to claw my face off... and throw it at him.
Well, the sun has come up. Looks like it's going to be another beautiful day. Time to go brace myself for it.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Friday, April 20, 2007
Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirk!
Your results:
You are James T. Kirk (Captain)
Click here to take the Star Trek Personality Quiz
You are James T. Kirk (Captain)
| You are often exaggerated and over-the-top in your speech and expressions. You are a romantic at heart and a natural leader.  |
Click here to take the Star Trek Personality Quiz
Saturday, April 07, 2007
How I Came to Love Ashton Kutcher and Hate "New" Blogger
Well, perhaps love is a bit strong, but he did make me laugh. I've never really liked Ashton Kutcher(what kind of name is that anyway? Right up there with Blaine). He's the same joke over and over, but then I saw "Open Season" and he gotme. There's this one scene... well, I'd LOVE to show you, but ever since Blogger made me switch to "New Crappy Blogger" I get no joy fromYouTube- nothing posts. Zip! And don't get me started on what using the spell check does to my posts! GRAAAAAAH!
It's very frustrating. So while love maybe a bit much HATE isn't! HATE, HATE, HATE technical difficulties! They make my brain hurt. If you can't bang on the machine and make it work then what is the hard casing for?
Anyhow, if you need a smile and are interested in Aston's interpretation of my relationship with Starbucks you can check it out here. Funny stuff.
Grrrr, stupid Blogger... make me change over.... won't post....
*stomps off to bed grumbling*
It's very frustrating. So while love maybe a bit much HATE isn't! HATE, HATE, HATE technical difficulties! They make my brain hurt. If you can't bang on the machine and make it work then what is the hard casing for?
Anyhow, if you need a smile and are interested in Aston's interpretation of my relationship with Starbucks you can check it out here. Funny stuff.
Grrrr, stupid Blogger... make me change over.... won't post....
*stomps off to bed grumbling*
Monday, April 02, 2007
Toehold on Femininity
Time to blog again and once again I find myself hard pressed to get my thoughts into any kind of coherent order. I've been fighting with this entry for awhile now. My first draft was written, sheesh! I don't know how long ago. It was a couple of pages of frustration and sentence fragments. Every time I'd go into the draft to try and do a little editing I'd get all hot and bothered and overwhelmed by my inability to communicate clearly and would just close the thing in disgust. But lately my life has been one message after another about the importance of manhood, Godly manhood. Books, seminars, friends blogs, conversations, all have been pointing like flashing arrows towards the importance of this subject. Still I avoided my defunct blog draft (which was about contemporary gender roles by the way) and instead I worked on how I interacted with my sons and tried to encourage the men in my life to... reach for the goal of being a man like Gideon: a mighty man of God. To pray, to lead, to become spiritual warriors. Take responsibility. Be present. Be heroes for Christ. Then the collision came...
First I read this: "Shortly before the battle of Thermopylae, Leonidas was secretly asked how he had chosen the three hundred brave men for the suicide mission to defend the Hot Gates. After all, the men appeared to be an eclectic mix of odd choices- grizzled veterans of many campaigns alongside young men unbloodied in battle. To die for your city was the greatest privilege a Spartan could achieve, and all the warriors wanted the honor. Did he pick the bravest men, the best fighters, the greatest Olympic athletes? Or did he choose the fastest, the strongest, and the wisest men he could find?
Leonidas stated that none of those traits factored into how he chose the three hundred. Instead, he chose them based on the character of their wives and mothers. He reasoned Thermopylae would not be the deciding battle of the war- that would come later on the plains of Greece. Since all the men at Thermopylae were destined to be killed, their wives and mothers would be left for the rest of Greece to see. If these women were broken by the loss of their husbands and sons, then the Greeks would lose heart and fail to defend their homeland. But if these women exhibited courage and strength, then the Grecian people would be inspired and win the war. Leonidas said, 'these brave women are to be the new Mothers of Greece. All of the people will be inspired by their dry-eyed example of courage and sacrifice.' Apparently, these extraordinary women performed up to his expectations... as a mother, you have the ability, even the responsibility, to ensure that your son is raised up to be a man who will lead with courage and integrity. That's a huge responsibility, but one that women have been charged with since the beginning of time."
Then I heard a remake of Tom Petty's I Won't Back Down. It's been covered by both Pearl Jam and Johnny Cash and both of those versions are nice (check 'em out on You Tube). In fact I read a review of Cash's version that said:"when Petty sang, 'you can stand me up at the gates of Hell, but I won't back down' you think 'nice chorus'. When Cash sings the same line you know he means it and you take a step back." If that's true of Johnny Cash then it's doubly so of the Sam Elliot version I heard. As an actor known for his gravelly baritone Sam owned it and made all other versions seem like weak tea.
With that song stuck on endless repeat within my brain I spoke to a friend who was discouraged by a husband that doesn't so much honor and cherish as much as he bullies and ignores. Within that conversation I heard myself saying, "just because he's shoved his head up his ass doesn't mean you get to shove your head up yours. Regardless of what he does, YOU do what's right. You have no control over him. You DO have control over your own actions, thoughts, and feelings. Pray!" Then...
Today I was cleaning out my email inbox when I found a letter written by a friend of a friend, gosh, almost a year ago. In the correspondence we discussed the idea of heroes and manhood. He wrote: "I'm less understanding of [the term] 'hero'. Hero is a lot of pressure to put on someone (said the wimpy boy). I wonder how women would feel if held to similar standards/requirements." Can I tell you the choking noises and internal snarky comments that ensued over that?
But today all those things collided and smashed around in that big bag of weird that is my brain. How does a woman inspire? How does she teach or lead? How does a woman confront the Enemy? What is her role in marriage or motherhood? I began to examine the validity of that last emailed comment regarding women and thought, what does a female hero look like?
It's easy to stand back and say what I expect of my husband, my sons, my father, my brother, of any man of Christ, any man of honor, hell, of any man of my acquaintance, but what of women? Where are all the messages of life regarding MY place and gender? What is the role of a wife, mother, woman? Today's society paints a schizophrenic picture to be sure. Physically I'm supposed to be every man's fantasy- lithe and long, pouty and pert. Emotionally, I shouldn't need a man, I should be sufficient unto myself. A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle right? And mentally or spiritually, well hell, I practically am man because I'm his equal and somewhere along the line we confused "equal to" with "the same as". Anyone else see the irony? The modern female should be the desire of every man's heart, but have no need of a man because, for all intents and purposes, she is one. That's why "I'm ok, you're ok" because really you're me.
Egad.
And even as I see the absurdity of all that I know I have bought into it. It seems easy to stand back and look at masculinity and say "well of course" and "pony up." But perhaps all those flashing messages regarding the importance of Godly masculinity were not so much to instruct, but to point out, "Beth this ain't the way, not for you anyway. It's not your story. Look at what YOU have been given." Erm, what is that? I'm not sure I can recognize it. I can stand here and ask are you strong enough to be my man? But a better question, perhaps, is am I strong enough to be a woman and again, what does that look like?
I'm pretty sure it's not the 40-something, tanned and toned, pushed into Brittney fashions who trades in her dignity in a sad attempt to remain 20. The woman who C.S. Lewis described as "spending half her life trying to get to a certain age and the second half of her life trying to stay there." Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain and a woman caught up in retaining her physical appeal, aged 18, is sad. Nor is she a Ripley wanna-be tough in mind and calloused in spirit, emotions numbed or buried except the ones that tell her to be dissatisfied and pissed off. A wife of noble character who can find? I'll tell you where you won't find her: proudly touting a "bitch" bumper sticker on her rig- a woman lost in transit or translation? She's the wife who takes her vows seriously. Vows that can't be dismissed regardless of the circumstances under which they were uttered- youth, naiveté, desperation, or even hope. And regardless of the crap of life, she stays and she stands. She stands for her husband, her family, her God, for those things bigger then her selfish heart. She doesn't back down before the Enemy. To teach courage and integrity to our children, to inspire it in our men, one must first exhibit it, yes? She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue even when she is discouraged. Her children arise and call her blessed because she loved them more then her own comfort or her need to be right.
...and that's where I'm at. And as usual I'm not sure "where" that is exactly (a place of random thoughts held together with a lot of italics and ellipsis, perhaps). The Leonidas vignette keeps colliding with the idea and expectations of feminine heroics which causes me to stop and ponder what those are... helping hands, giving hearts, motherhood, wifedom, doing what's right regardless of how we feel? And before I can find an answer the thoughts morph and smash and change... I hold a responsibilty to raise spiritual warriors, I (woman) was given the ability to inspire, born to be a helpmate/a support, to be something that makes me pause even as I consider it. Eve was made last, the crown of creation some have said, but she was also the soil from which life would spring, she became a foundation as well as a crown, the first multi-tasker. My inheritance. And I know the Enemy seeks to steal that gift from me. He tarnishes it, tells me it's cheap, weak, lame, or (in a different tack) beyond me. I should want Adam's gift- it's better and I should become grasping and dissatisfied, but I'm tired of that idea. Another thought slams in, an old saying: "woman was made of Adam's rib, not his head to be above him. Not of his heel to be trod upon by him, but of his rib. Under his arm to be protected and close to his heart to be beloved." Beloved. Beautiful. Cherished. And the thoughts continue to churn and burn and, to quote the man, "fall down in the mud and the blood and the beer" and above it all the music plays: ...gonna stand my ground. Won't be turned around. And I'll keep this world from dragging me down. No I won't back down. You can stand me up at the gates of hell, but I won't back down...
I'm ready to own this place called femininity, to champion it, to not back down.
We shall see, hmmm? I'm scrabbling for a toehold here people even if it is only in my chaotic thoughts.
First I read this: "Shortly before the battle of Thermopylae, Leonidas was secretly asked how he had chosen the three hundred brave men for the suicide mission to defend the Hot Gates. After all, the men appeared to be an eclectic mix of odd choices- grizzled veterans of many campaigns alongside young men unbloodied in battle. To die for your city was the greatest privilege a Spartan could achieve, and all the warriors wanted the honor. Did he pick the bravest men, the best fighters, the greatest Olympic athletes? Or did he choose the fastest, the strongest, and the wisest men he could find?
Leonidas stated that none of those traits factored into how he chose the three hundred. Instead, he chose them based on the character of their wives and mothers. He reasoned Thermopylae would not be the deciding battle of the war- that would come later on the plains of Greece. Since all the men at Thermopylae were destined to be killed, their wives and mothers would be left for the rest of Greece to see. If these women were broken by the loss of their husbands and sons, then the Greeks would lose heart and fail to defend their homeland. But if these women exhibited courage and strength, then the Grecian people would be inspired and win the war. Leonidas said, 'these brave women are to be the new Mothers of Greece. All of the people will be inspired by their dry-eyed example of courage and sacrifice.' Apparently, these extraordinary women performed up to his expectations... as a mother, you have the ability, even the responsibility, to ensure that your son is raised up to be a man who will lead with courage and integrity. That's a huge responsibility, but one that women have been charged with since the beginning of time."
Then I heard a remake of Tom Petty's I Won't Back Down. It's been covered by both Pearl Jam and Johnny Cash and both of those versions are nice (check 'em out on You Tube). In fact I read a review of Cash's version that said:"when Petty sang, 'you can stand me up at the gates of Hell, but I won't back down' you think 'nice chorus'. When Cash sings the same line you know he means it and you take a step back." If that's true of Johnny Cash then it's doubly so of the Sam Elliot version I heard. As an actor known for his gravelly baritone Sam owned it and made all other versions seem like weak tea.
With that song stuck on endless repeat within my brain I spoke to a friend who was discouraged by a husband that doesn't so much honor and cherish as much as he bullies and ignores. Within that conversation I heard myself saying, "just because he's shoved his head up his ass doesn't mean you get to shove your head up yours. Regardless of what he does, YOU do what's right. You have no control over him. You DO have control over your own actions, thoughts, and feelings. Pray!" Then...
Today I was cleaning out my email inbox when I found a letter written by a friend of a friend, gosh, almost a year ago. In the correspondence we discussed the idea of heroes and manhood. He wrote: "I'm less understanding of [the term] 'hero'. Hero is a lot of pressure to put on someone (said the wimpy boy). I wonder how women would feel if held to similar standards/requirements." Can I tell you the choking noises and internal snarky comments that ensued over that?
But today all those things collided and smashed around in that big bag of weird that is my brain. How does a woman inspire? How does she teach or lead? How does a woman confront the Enemy? What is her role in marriage or motherhood? I began to examine the validity of that last emailed comment regarding women and thought, what does a female hero look like?
It's easy to stand back and say what I expect of my husband, my sons, my father, my brother, of any man of Christ, any man of honor, hell, of any man of my acquaintance, but what of women? Where are all the messages of life regarding MY place and gender? What is the role of a wife, mother, woman? Today's society paints a schizophrenic picture to be sure. Physically I'm supposed to be every man's fantasy- lithe and long, pouty and pert. Emotionally, I shouldn't need a man, I should be sufficient unto myself. A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle right? And mentally or spiritually, well hell, I practically am man because I'm his equal and somewhere along the line we confused "equal to" with "the same as". Anyone else see the irony? The modern female should be the desire of every man's heart, but have no need of a man because, for all intents and purposes, she is one. That's why "I'm ok, you're ok" because really you're me.
Egad.
And even as I see the absurdity of all that I know I have bought into it. It seems easy to stand back and look at masculinity and say "well of course" and "pony up." But perhaps all those flashing messages regarding the importance of Godly masculinity were not so much to instruct, but to point out, "Beth this ain't the way, not for you anyway. It's not your story. Look at what YOU have been given." Erm, what is that? I'm not sure I can recognize it. I can stand here and ask are you strong enough to be my man? But a better question, perhaps, is am I strong enough to be a woman and again, what does that look like?
I'm pretty sure it's not the 40-something, tanned and toned, pushed into Brittney fashions who trades in her dignity in a sad attempt to remain 20. The woman who C.S. Lewis described as "spending half her life trying to get to a certain age and the second half of her life trying to stay there." Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain and a woman caught up in retaining her physical appeal, aged 18, is sad. Nor is she a Ripley wanna-be tough in mind and calloused in spirit, emotions numbed or buried except the ones that tell her to be dissatisfied and pissed off. A wife of noble character who can find? I'll tell you where you won't find her: proudly touting a "bitch" bumper sticker on her rig- a woman lost in transit or translation? She's the wife who takes her vows seriously. Vows that can't be dismissed regardless of the circumstances under which they were uttered- youth, naiveté, desperation, or even hope. And regardless of the crap of life, she stays and she stands. She stands for her husband, her family, her God, for those things bigger then her selfish heart. She doesn't back down before the Enemy. To teach courage and integrity to our children, to inspire it in our men, one must first exhibit it, yes? She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue even when she is discouraged. Her children arise and call her blessed because she loved them more then her own comfort or her need to be right.
...and that's where I'm at. And as usual I'm not sure "where" that is exactly (a place of random thoughts held together with a lot of italics and ellipsis, perhaps). The Leonidas vignette keeps colliding with the idea and expectations of feminine heroics which causes me to stop and ponder what those are... helping hands, giving hearts, motherhood, wifedom, doing what's right regardless of how we feel? And before I can find an answer the thoughts morph and smash and change... I hold a responsibilty to raise spiritual warriors, I (woman) was given the ability to inspire, born to be a helpmate/a support, to be something that makes me pause even as I consider it. Eve was made last, the crown of creation some have said, but she was also the soil from which life would spring, she became a foundation as well as a crown, the first multi-tasker. My inheritance. And I know the Enemy seeks to steal that gift from me. He tarnishes it, tells me it's cheap, weak, lame, or (in a different tack) beyond me. I should want Adam's gift- it's better and I should become grasping and dissatisfied, but I'm tired of that idea. Another thought slams in, an old saying: "woman was made of Adam's rib, not his head to be above him. Not of his heel to be trod upon by him, but of his rib. Under his arm to be protected and close to his heart to be beloved." Beloved. Beautiful. Cherished. And the thoughts continue to churn and burn and, to quote the man, "fall down in the mud and the blood and the beer" and above it all the music plays: ...gonna stand my ground. Won't be turned around. And I'll keep this world from dragging me down. No I won't back down. You can stand me up at the gates of hell, but I won't back down...
I'm ready to own this place called femininity, to champion it, to not back down.
We shall see, hmmm? I'm scrabbling for a toehold here people even if it is only in my chaotic thoughts.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
California I Here I Come...
...or rather here I am. Drove down Friday night with Moose and Manny and spent yesterday in a bleary haze. Mom and Dad graciously poked food into me then pointed me toward a bed. But I'm feeling much better now! So my itinerary wasn't really set until Friday hence my lack of contact with dear friends, but here it is now:
Sunday (today): family day in Ontario with grandparents, bro, niece, aunt, uncle, and the 'rents.
Monday: zoo day and puttering in Palm Springs with Mommsy-wuv and Dadums.
Tuesday: Legoland (amusement park during Spring Break? God preserve me). Tuesday night in La Jolla.
Wednesday: Beach walking in the shores then up to the mountain for din with the afore mentioned aunt and uncle.
Thursday: dinner with friends?
Friday: up at the crack of dawn and back home to the land of rain and moss.
So hanging out in Palm Springs 'cause that's were the folks live now so that's a must. Seeing family today and Wednesday and doing the Legoland thing also musts. Anyone wanna come to Legoland? No? Don't blame you. If you change your mind let me know.
The in-laws are still at the condo in Utah. So the only reason we're going to San Diego is 'cause it's close to Legoland. If anyone wants to hang out Tuesday instead or shoot, come to La Jolla with us just give a shout out. Wednesday day is also open for the same reason- we don't have to be at the shores. So Wednesday day work for you, great. In short, love to see you all in this short frantic period I have, but I know this is last minute so if you are previously engaged with other Spring Breaky things well perhaps next time yes?
Will be contacting that Happy Teacher today because, you know, I lub her, but also if the boys don't get to see Paul Bunyan I'll be hearing about it for weeks. Wanna coordinate? Give me or the cute freckled chick a call (meaning Holly not Kathie, though not to say that Kathie isn't both freckled and cute because, you know, she is. I didn't mean to imply otherwsie. I just meant... wow, I have derailed. I need another nap).
Smooch yourselves!
Sunday (today): family day in Ontario with grandparents, bro, niece, aunt, uncle, and the 'rents.
Monday: zoo day and puttering in Palm Springs with Mommsy-wuv and Dadums.
Tuesday: Legoland (amusement park during Spring Break? God preserve me). Tuesday night in La Jolla.
Wednesday: Beach walking in the shores then up to the mountain for din with the afore mentioned aunt and uncle.
Thursday: dinner with friends?
Friday: up at the crack of dawn and back home to the land of rain and moss.
So hanging out in Palm Springs 'cause that's were the folks live now so that's a must. Seeing family today and Wednesday and doing the Legoland thing also musts. Anyone wanna come to Legoland? No? Don't blame you. If you change your mind let me know.
The in-laws are still at the condo in Utah. So the only reason we're going to San Diego is 'cause it's close to Legoland. If anyone wants to hang out Tuesday instead or shoot, come to La Jolla with us just give a shout out. Wednesday day is also open for the same reason- we don't have to be at the shores. So Wednesday day work for you, great. In short, love to see you all in this short frantic period I have, but I know this is last minute so if you are previously engaged with other Spring Breaky things well perhaps next time yes?
Will be contacting that Happy Teacher today because, you know, I lub her, but also if the boys don't get to see Paul Bunyan I'll be hearing about it for weeks. Wanna coordinate? Give me or the cute freckled chick a call (meaning Holly not Kathie, though not to say that Kathie isn't both freckled and cute because, you know, she is. I didn't mean to imply otherwsie. I just meant... wow, I have derailed. I need another nap).
Smooch yourselves!
Saturday, February 03, 2007
While In The 'Verse...
| Your results: You are Derrial Book (Shepherd) Even though you are holy you have a mysterious past. | ||
 Derrial Book (Shepherd) | 80% | |
| Zoe Washburne (Second-in-command) | 80% | |
| Wash (Ship Pilot) | 70% | |
| Alliance | 60% | |
| Jayne Cobb (Mercenary) | 50% | |
| Malcolm Reynolds (Captain) | 50% | |
| Dr. Simon Tam (Ship Medic) | 45% | |
| Kaylee Frye (Ship Mechanic) | 40% | |
| Inara Serra (Companion) | 30% | |
| River (Stowaway) | 30% | |
| A Reaver (Cannibal) | 10% |
Click here to take the "Which Serenity character are you?" quiz...
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monkey. Monkey. Underpants?
Wow, January is nearing it's end. Crazy. Wasn't it just November? It's probably for the better, I guess. I'm not much use in January (or February or March for that matter). Something about the winter months slows me down. Some I know suffer from seasonal depression, me I suffer from a justified reason to be indoors with a blankie reading a book. Baby, it's cold outside! To that end I don't do much during this time of the year beyond eating soup. I used to think that if reincarnation were a real thing then I was most likely oxen in another life. That's right, not one but two (two I say!) very large beasts of burden. Considering my complete lack of gumption or anything resembling productivity during this season I might revise that reincarnation thought. Perhaps I was something that hibernates like a bear or a badger or a something... hmmmm... a what? Wait, it'll come to me.
Well, I should post something I suppose it being over a month since I posted last and all. However, since it is January and since I cannot seem to post anything of consequence two posts in a row I will leave you with a view into my brain courtesy of the CW and Lauren Graham.
Lorelei: ...my brain is a wild jungle full of scary gibberish. I'm writing a letter, I can't write a letter, why can't I write a letter? I am wearing a green dress, I wish I was wearing my blue dress, my blue dress is at the cleaners, the Germans wore grey, you wore blue, Casablanca, Casablanca is such a good movie, Casablanca, the white house, Bush, why don't I drive a hybrid car? I should really drive a hybrid car, I should really take my bicycle to work, bicycle, unicycle, unitard, hockey puck, rattle snake, monkey, monkey, underpants.
Rory: Hockey puck, rattle snake, monkey, monkey, underpants?
Lorelei: Exactly! That's what I'm saying, it's a big bag of weird in there.
Oh! A Tasmanian pygmy opossum!
Well, I should post something I suppose it being over a month since I posted last and all. However, since it is January and since I cannot seem to post anything of consequence two posts in a row I will leave you with a view into my brain courtesy of the CW and Lauren Graham.
Lorelei: ...my brain is a wild jungle full of scary gibberish. I'm writing a letter, I can't write a letter, why can't I write a letter? I am wearing a green dress, I wish I was wearing my blue dress, my blue dress is at the cleaners, the Germans wore grey, you wore blue, Casablanca, Casablanca is such a good movie, Casablanca, the white house, Bush, why don't I drive a hybrid car? I should really drive a hybrid car, I should really take my bicycle to work, bicycle, unicycle, unitard, hockey puck, rattle snake, monkey, monkey, underpants.
Rory: Hockey puck, rattle snake, monkey, monkey, underpants?
Lorelei: Exactly! That's what I'm saying, it's a big bag of weird in there.
Oh! A Tasmanian pygmy opossum!
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Ball In Play!
Wrote most of this several weeks ago, thought I should finally finish it up and publish it...
So I've been trying to write this blog for a few days now, but just can't seem to... what? Spit it out? I get caught up in describing my love of Oregon (the trees, the rolling landscape, the farming, the wine, and don't even get me started on sweet potato fries or the hazelnut milkshakes) or I start thinking about the weather (muuuuu-uuuddy and cold and wet. I know, there's a shocker), which, of course, makes me think of my love of soccer, especially on foggy days (running in the cool mountain air and crashing into people, occasionally kicking a ball... good times), and thinking about cool weather gets me to thinking about how I'm holed up in my room with the perfect writing conditions (blankets, laptop, cup of coffee and a pint of Dove Caramel Pecan Perfection with a ganache layer! The ice cream not me. And the sound track to BSG: Season 2 playing "Roslin and Adama" on repeat. Like I said, perfect). Pecans get me to ruminating on my plans for Christmas (I had about a kijillion cookie recipes lined up in preparation of a baking fit that, sadly, did not happen), thinking of Christmas gets me to thinking about the movie I just watched called Joyex Noel (which was good, weird Scottish brothers aside, I'd recommend renting it) and wondering how exactly one pronounces Joyex Noel... but man! If you give a mouse a cookie, or moose a muffin... I mean really! All this stuff, all this fluff is just a cutesy way of segueing into what I really want to write about.
I learned something about myself this week.
This is big news as I'm generally a kinda out of it gal. A bit obtuse to the world around me? Perhaps. Living in my own pink haze? Closer. A big dumb Labrador of a human being swinging along through life enjoying the view from a wreaking ball chain? Ooo, that! Anywho (again with the side tracking. Geesh! If you give an animal a baked good they're just going to ask for a beverage. Am I right?), since I'm not Miss Sharp 'Round the Edges, self discovery is always a bit of a what? Surprise? Mostly. A painful surprise? Sometimes. A painfully hard to explain surprise? There you go. And as with any self-discovering-kind-of-thingy it's easier to move through the epiphany explosion going on in your being than to describe it to others and not sound like a... kooky person? No. A cookie person? Only at Christmas or if there are mice around. A person who avoids painful confrontation and accountability by following endless tangents? Ouch, I'm getting there. First the baked good, then the beverage, then all sorts of demanding woodland animal meets stupidly accommodating human hyginx! There's a progression here people, stick with me.
Sunday I talked to friend about a heartache.
Monday I talked to a stranger about the unknown.
Wednesday I talked to a family member about loss.
It was a chatty week. And what did I bring to the table, to the topics of conversation? Gems like: "we will refer to him as the runt from here on out and we will eat vast amounts of ice cream (with a ganache layer) asap" or "what!?!" or the favorite: "ball in play, sister." This is why they call me Beth the Wise- my scintillating and thought provoking verbage. Here's the thing though, that lame "ball in play" thing got me to thinking. Yes, about soccer and Oregon weather and Christmas and cookies and mice and mooses, but also about how fear of loss, the unknown, heartache, life, can stop us dead in our tracks, or rather me.
See, prepping for a catering gig has the ability to freak me out (yes, I know I don't cater anymore and that's true, mostly, but follow along here anyhow). A lot of planning and hard work goes into each job, into making each event perfect, or as perfect as I can get it. And perfection requires some heavy lifting. The clients happiness and my pay check are at stake and if I blow it? Let's just say, yikes. So stress and anxiety build till the event begins and then well, the ball is in play and I have no more time to worry. It's time to do the job for better or for worse and let the outcome worry about itself because I have stuff to do. Ball in play. Here's the kicker- outside of a gig fear of loss, the unknown, heartache, or just plain not doing things right leave me paralyzed. And I know you're thinking, "oooo, wow, some epiphany... the paralyzing fear of perfection." But by not doing things "right" I don't mean perfection (though up until a minute ago I thought I did) I mean fear of failing God's will.
Crap.
I know, I mean, I KNOW Jesus didn't promise me a rose garden, but there it is. I have this fear that not doing things right, His way, will lead to discomfort or pain. Which it can, but it also sometimes doesn't. Just like following His will can lead to joy or it can lead to painfully stretching ourselves, myselves. Right Sybil? Crap, and again I say, crap! Two for flinching Beth, and two more for doing it all the time, and two more for telling other people they shouldn't, and another one because...
One of my favorite quotes is by Oliver Wendell Holmes (I know, your world just tilted) who said: "I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving: to reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it -- but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor." I, of course, paraphrase that into, "God can't steer a boat that's standing still." ...and your world just righted itself. How many times have I stopped dead not knowing what to do, where to go, how to act, who to be, what to be, where to be? My life has been a spastic lurching trail. Fear leaves me indecisive and at a stand still, then circumstance comes and tumbles me along.
So I fear failing God's will or missing it. Because if I get it just right, do the thing He wants life will be smooth sailing? HA! Why do I hesitate, panic, then hesitate some more whenever life changes up? The ball is in play, the ship is at sea, life is happening and God's will be done in the playing, the sailing, the mixing of metaphors!
So the car gets crashed.
So the business is an unknown.
So that boy's a jerk.
So the other car won't run.
So the family frustrates the hell out of you.
So the pay check isn't stretching as far as it should.
So
So
So
So if the ball is play, the girl is gonna want to play soccer, and if she plays soccer she's gonna wanna play on a muddy field, muddy fields can be found in the very wet state of Oregon, Oregon has lots of hazelnuts, hazelnuts are good ground up in chocolate shakes, if the girl drinks a hazelnut chocolate shake very fast (which she will because she gobbles her food) then she will get a headache, her headache will remind her of her friend's heartache, which will make her think of loss and fear and God's will and, oddly, sailing. She will think of life and how it is rarely smooth sailing, but that's ok because the ball is in play and that is what matters. And that's why, children, you never give a mouse a cookie, a moose a muffin, or a Beth a blog.
So
So
So
So play soccer in the mud and fog.
So plan a plethora of Christmas cookies.
So eat sweet potato fries with lots of salt and ice cream with a ganache layer.
So mourn with friends.
So sympathize with family.
So encourage a stranger.
So trite.
So true.
So there.
Whew!
So I've been trying to write this blog for a few days now, but just can't seem to... what? Spit it out? I get caught up in describing my love of Oregon (the trees, the rolling landscape, the farming, the wine, and don't even get me started on sweet potato fries or the hazelnut milkshakes) or I start thinking about the weather (muuuuu-uuuddy and cold and wet. I know, there's a shocker), which, of course, makes me think of my love of soccer, especially on foggy days (running in the cool mountain air and crashing into people, occasionally kicking a ball... good times), and thinking about cool weather gets me to thinking about how I'm holed up in my room with the perfect writing conditions (blankets, laptop, cup of coffee and a pint of Dove Caramel Pecan Perfection with a ganache layer! The ice cream not me. And the sound track to BSG: Season 2 playing "Roslin and Adama" on repeat. Like I said, perfect). Pecans get me to ruminating on my plans for Christmas (I had about a kijillion cookie recipes lined up in preparation of a baking fit that, sadly, did not happen), thinking of Christmas gets me to thinking about the movie I just watched called Joyex Noel (which was good, weird Scottish brothers aside, I'd recommend renting it) and wondering how exactly one pronounces Joyex Noel... but man! If you give a mouse a cookie, or moose a muffin... I mean really! All this stuff, all this fluff is just a cutesy way of segueing into what I really want to write about.
I learned something about myself this week.
This is big news as I'm generally a kinda out of it gal. A bit obtuse to the world around me? Perhaps. Living in my own pink haze? Closer. A big dumb Labrador of a human being swinging along through life enjoying the view from a wreaking ball chain? Ooo, that! Anywho (again with the side tracking. Geesh! If you give an animal a baked good they're just going to ask for a beverage. Am I right?), since I'm not Miss Sharp 'Round the Edges, self discovery is always a bit of a what? Surprise? Mostly. A painful surprise? Sometimes. A painfully hard to explain surprise? There you go. And as with any self-discovering-kind-of-thingy it's easier to move through the epiphany explosion going on in your being than to describe it to others and not sound like a... kooky person? No. A cookie person? Only at Christmas or if there are mice around. A person who avoids painful confrontation and accountability by following endless tangents? Ouch, I'm getting there. First the baked good, then the beverage, then all sorts of demanding woodland animal meets stupidly accommodating human hyginx! There's a progression here people, stick with me.
Sunday I talked to friend about a heartache.
Monday I talked to a stranger about the unknown.
Wednesday I talked to a family member about loss.
It was a chatty week. And what did I bring to the table, to the topics of conversation? Gems like: "we will refer to him as the runt from here on out and we will eat vast amounts of ice cream (with a ganache layer) asap" or "what!?!" or the favorite: "ball in play, sister." This is why they call me Beth the Wise- my scintillating and thought provoking verbage. Here's the thing though, that lame "ball in play" thing got me to thinking. Yes, about soccer and Oregon weather and Christmas and cookies and mice and mooses, but also about how fear of loss, the unknown, heartache, life, can stop us dead in our tracks, or rather me.
See, prepping for a catering gig has the ability to freak me out (yes, I know I don't cater anymore and that's true, mostly, but follow along here anyhow). A lot of planning and hard work goes into each job, into making each event perfect, or as perfect as I can get it. And perfection requires some heavy lifting. The clients happiness and my pay check are at stake and if I blow it? Let's just say, yikes. So stress and anxiety build till the event begins and then well, the ball is in play and I have no more time to worry. It's time to do the job for better or for worse and let the outcome worry about itself because I have stuff to do. Ball in play. Here's the kicker- outside of a gig fear of loss, the unknown, heartache, or just plain not doing things right leave me paralyzed. And I know you're thinking, "oooo, wow, some epiphany... the paralyzing fear of perfection." But by not doing things "right" I don't mean perfection (though up until a minute ago I thought I did) I mean fear of failing God's will.
Crap.
I know, I mean, I KNOW Jesus didn't promise me a rose garden, but there it is. I have this fear that not doing things right, His way, will lead to discomfort or pain. Which it can, but it also sometimes doesn't. Just like following His will can lead to joy or it can lead to painfully stretching ourselves, myselves. Right Sybil? Crap, and again I say, crap! Two for flinching Beth, and two more for doing it all the time, and two more for telling other people they shouldn't, and another one because...
One of my favorite quotes is by Oliver Wendell Holmes (I know, your world just tilted) who said: "I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving: to reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it -- but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor." I, of course, paraphrase that into, "God can't steer a boat that's standing still." ...and your world just righted itself. How many times have I stopped dead not knowing what to do, where to go, how to act, who to be, what to be, where to be? My life has been a spastic lurching trail. Fear leaves me indecisive and at a stand still, then circumstance comes and tumbles me along.
So I fear failing God's will or missing it. Because if I get it just right, do the thing He wants life will be smooth sailing? HA! Why do I hesitate, panic, then hesitate some more whenever life changes up? The ball is in play, the ship is at sea, life is happening and God's will be done in the playing, the sailing, the mixing of metaphors!
So the car gets crashed.
So the business is an unknown.
So that boy's a jerk.
So the other car won't run.
So the family frustrates the hell out of you.
So the pay check isn't stretching as far as it should.
So
So
So
So if the ball is play, the girl is gonna want to play soccer, and if she plays soccer she's gonna wanna play on a muddy field, muddy fields can be found in the very wet state of Oregon, Oregon has lots of hazelnuts, hazelnuts are good ground up in chocolate shakes, if the girl drinks a hazelnut chocolate shake very fast (which she will because she gobbles her food) then she will get a headache, her headache will remind her of her friend's heartache, which will make her think of loss and fear and God's will and, oddly, sailing. She will think of life and how it is rarely smooth sailing, but that's ok because the ball is in play and that is what matters. And that's why, children, you never give a mouse a cookie, a moose a muffin, or a Beth a blog.
So
So
So
So play soccer in the mud and fog.
So plan a plethora of Christmas cookies.
So eat sweet potato fries with lots of salt and ice cream with a ganache layer.
So mourn with friends.
So sympathize with family.
So encourage a stranger.
So trite.
So true.
So there.
Whew!
Friday, November 03, 2006
More BSG Coolness!
Say what you want, but jumping into atmo to release fighters then jumping out? Simply AWESOME!!! Oh, and the soundtracks (season 1 and 2) have tako drums even! Tako drums!! Sci-Fi Friday my house at 9. Toaster lovers welcome.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Pumpkinpalooza is Saturday October 28th!
It's that time of year again! Time to come hang out with the Foxes and wallow in the glory of the pumpkin (or punkin if you'd rather). Each October we purchase a glut of pumpkins (last year we were up to 30) then invite a bunch of people over for carving and eats. This year we will continue with our all pumpkin menu, but we will also try on few new traditions. That said....
Something old:
Dinner will be around 7ish and yes, our menu will remain the same with the traditional pumpkin sausage pasta, baguette, and tossed green salad with pumpkin seed viniagrette. Dessert will feature pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin cream puffs, chocolate pumpkin orange cupcakes, and yes, pumpkin pie. Wanna bring an appetizer? Some bread? A beverage? Another dessert? That would be great! Give me a jingle.
Something(s) new:
Carving will begin around 4. We will provide a few carving implements, plenty of sharpies and newspaper and, if you need one, a pumpkin. You provide the skill, inspiration, and any special tools (i.e. stencils, exacto knives, leather/ceramic tooling kits, or electic helps such as jigsaws, drills, or extension cords).
This year will mark our first judging of the carved goods. If your jack-o-lantern wins you shall be dubbed High Pumpkin Mucky-Muck! To acknowledge your superlative pumpkin carving skills and incredible creativity we will slap your name on a tacky trophy and grant you one year of bragging rights. Afore said trophy will accompany you home where it will be kept in a highly visible place (we think your mantle or kitchen table best) till next Pumpkinfest. Huzzah!
After bellies are full of pumpkiny goodness and the jack-o-lanterns are all lit, we'll sit and sip on cider and listen to tales of pumpkins... scary, silly, short, long, fictional, or real it doesn't matter. The only rule is your story must have the word "pumpkin" in it or somehow, in someway pertain to pumpkins. Best story will be met with laughter (or tears as it might merit).
Something borrowed:
Cool thing about having had a catering business is we have all sorts of entertaining goodies like chaffing dishes, serving pieces, linens, and just mass quantities of silverware and plates. What we lack are CHAIRS! Please bring a couple of folding chairs if you can. They will be MUCH appreciated.
Please no camp chairs. Wielding a knife and managing a heavy gourd while perched in one of these flopsy bits can be a messy undertaking and we live a long way from the nearest hospital.
Something blue:
You. Please dress warmly. We're hoping that with Saturday's forecasted clear weather and some hot cider we'll be able to pull this shin-dig off outside. We'll have a roaring fire inside should the need for warmth and shelter be neccessary, but the bulk of activities are going to occur in the backyard so bring a jacket, your favorite lap blanket, and warm socks.
In short, this night is meant for good friends and good food and the sounds of merriment, oh, and pumpkins... which have for too long been missing from our home...
Listen! the wind is rising,
and the air is wild with leaves,
We have had our summer evenings,
now for October eves!
- Humbert Wolfe
RSVP to Beth
Something old:
Dinner will be around 7ish and yes, our menu will remain the same with the traditional pumpkin sausage pasta, baguette, and tossed green salad with pumpkin seed viniagrette. Dessert will feature pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin cream puffs, chocolate pumpkin orange cupcakes, and yes, pumpkin pie. Wanna bring an appetizer? Some bread? A beverage? Another dessert? That would be great! Give me a jingle.
Something(s) new:
Carving will begin around 4. We will provide a few carving implements, plenty of sharpies and newspaper and, if you need one, a pumpkin. You provide the skill, inspiration, and any special tools (i.e. stencils, exacto knives, leather/ceramic tooling kits, or electic helps such as jigsaws, drills, or extension cords).
This year will mark our first judging of the carved goods. If your jack-o-lantern wins you shall be dubbed High Pumpkin Mucky-Muck! To acknowledge your superlative pumpkin carving skills and incredible creativity we will slap your name on a tacky trophy and grant you one year of bragging rights. Afore said trophy will accompany you home where it will be kept in a highly visible place (we think your mantle or kitchen table best) till next Pumpkinfest. Huzzah!
After bellies are full of pumpkiny goodness and the jack-o-lanterns are all lit, we'll sit and sip on cider and listen to tales of pumpkins... scary, silly, short, long, fictional, or real it doesn't matter. The only rule is your story must have the word "pumpkin" in it or somehow, in someway pertain to pumpkins. Best story will be met with laughter (or tears as it might merit).
Something borrowed:
Cool thing about having had a catering business is we have all sorts of entertaining goodies like chaffing dishes, serving pieces, linens, and just mass quantities of silverware and plates. What we lack are CHAIRS! Please bring a couple of folding chairs if you can. They will be MUCH appreciated.
Please no camp chairs. Wielding a knife and managing a heavy gourd while perched in one of these flopsy bits can be a messy undertaking and we live a long way from the nearest hospital.
Something blue:
You. Please dress warmly. We're hoping that with Saturday's forecasted clear weather and some hot cider we'll be able to pull this shin-dig off outside. We'll have a roaring fire inside should the need for warmth and shelter be neccessary, but the bulk of activities are going to occur in the backyard so bring a jacket, your favorite lap blanket, and warm socks.
In short, this night is meant for good friends and good food and the sounds of merriment, oh, and pumpkins... which have for too long been missing from our home...
Listen! the wind is rising,
and the air is wild with leaves,
We have had our summer evenings,
now for October eves!
- Humbert Wolfe
RSVP to Beth
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Because Kathie Asked...
So went to visit Kathie in Idaho last weekend and I bought some groceries foolishly thinking that I might do some cooking. PLeeZe! Between all the pumpkin beer, chips, and chocolate (oh yes, and the candy corn- musn't forget that) who had time or stomach for real food?
Anywho, one of the things I left in Kathie's frig was a mess of radishes and she wanted to know what to do with 'em. Well, you can clean and stem them then submit them to the ranch dressing treatment, but that is so boring and for some people raw radishes are too peppery. Me, I like to cook them in some butter with a clove or two of diced garlic and some salt and pepper. Cooking them mellows the flavor considerably and the garlic, well, makes them garlicy.
I don't have exact measurements because this is really one of those from the hip kinda dishes. Just make sure your radishes are about the same size, if you have to cut some of the larger ones in half go for it. How much butter? As much as you want it's your heart, though I find 2-3 tablespoons sufficient. Cook the radishes with the garlic until the radishes are pink and tender-crisp. Don't cook on too high a heat or you'll burn the garlic, but a little carmalization on the radishes is a tastey thing. Salt and pepper to taste.
I like this dish because 1) you can always find radishes 2) they are always cheap and 3) no one ever thinks to cook 'em which makes them fun to serve to guests. Grill up some chicken (rubbed with olive oil, salt, white pepper, maybe a little cumin for Holly), make some rice (like that rice dish you make in the wee birdie casserole), warm up a loaf of good bakery bread (or if you're feeling all Martha-y bake some), put some heavy cream and a bit of salt in a mason jar and have a guest shake it into butter (cheap party trick that you can eat- always the best kind of trick- the kind you can smear on your warm from the oven bread) while you cook up the radishes (they don't take but a few minutes) and look, you have a party!
Anywho, one of the things I left in Kathie's frig was a mess of radishes and she wanted to know what to do with 'em. Well, you can clean and stem them then submit them to the ranch dressing treatment, but that is so boring and for some people raw radishes are too peppery. Me, I like to cook them in some butter with a clove or two of diced garlic and some salt and pepper. Cooking them mellows the flavor considerably and the garlic, well, makes them garlicy.
I don't have exact measurements because this is really one of those from the hip kinda dishes. Just make sure your radishes are about the same size, if you have to cut some of the larger ones in half go for it. How much butter? As much as you want it's your heart, though I find 2-3 tablespoons sufficient. Cook the radishes with the garlic until the radishes are pink and tender-crisp. Don't cook on too high a heat or you'll burn the garlic, but a little carmalization on the radishes is a tastey thing. Salt and pepper to taste.
I like this dish because 1) you can always find radishes 2) they are always cheap and 3) no one ever thinks to cook 'em which makes them fun to serve to guests. Grill up some chicken (rubbed with olive oil, salt, white pepper, maybe a little cumin for Holly), make some rice (like that rice dish you make in the wee birdie casserole), warm up a loaf of good bakery bread (or if you're feeling all Martha-y bake some), put some heavy cream and a bit of salt in a mason jar and have a guest shake it into butter (cheap party trick that you can eat- always the best kind of trick- the kind you can smear on your warm from the oven bread) while you cook up the radishes (they don't take but a few minutes) and look, you have a party!
Monday, October 02, 2006
A Clash of Addictions
So with the season premier of Lost on Wednesday and the season premier of Battlestar Gallactica on Friday I am all a-quiver! Man, if only they would bring back Firefly my TV watching experience would be complete. Anyway, I found this the other day and laughed my head off. This is for the rest of you Battlestar Lost freaks (meaning Chris and Lisa):
Dwight Schrute's Blog: Lost Battlestar
Dwight Schrute's Blog: Lost Battlestar
Sunday, September 24, 2006
The Summer of Pops and Clicks
So Uncle Vic says I need to post something. It's been awhile, I know. So much has happened I'm not sure what to post about. It's been a crazy summer. I worked myself into brokenness. Seriously. In May we moved to a 120-acre farm, where we hope to stay until we can afford to buy a farm of our own and June! Well, June was all about jumping from one thing to the next and it's where I got broken, or rather finally broke...
Life became: cooking for a gig, meeting with a client to set a menu, handling emails, cooking again, heading to a prayer meeting, setting curriculum for Sunday school, prepping to teach, teaching, cooking, cleaning the commercial kitchen, pulling messages and answering phone calls, cooking for the fam, cleaning the house, laundry, laundry, laundry, shopping for a gig, unpacking from the move, then cooking for a gig, meeting with a client to set a menu, handling emails, cooking again, heading to a prayer meeting, setting curriculum for Sunday school, prepping to teach, teaching, cooking, cleaning the commercial kitchen, pulling messages and answering phone calls, cooking for the fam, cleaning the house, laundry, laundry, laundry, shopping for a gig, unpacking from the move only to start cooking for a gig, meeting with a client to set a menu, handling emails, cooking again, heading to a prayer meeting, setting curriculum for Sunday school, prepping to teach, teaching, cooking, cleaning the commercial kitchen, pulling messages and answering phone calls, cooking for the fam, cleaning the house, laundry, laundry, laundry, shopping for a gig, unpacking from the move, cooking and so on and so forth it went, or rather I did, like the proverbial hamster.
I had no time to rest, no time to think, or pray, or be because there was always something waiting for my attention, waiting to be accomplished or dealt with. But I should be able to do all these things I reasoned. With Christ I can do all things yes? Open wide your mouth and I will fill it He said. Hadn’t God done that? My life was full, full to choking. If only I was more dedicated, faithful, responsible I could do what needed doing, I could keep from choking on my blessings I reasoned and again I would plunge into the busyness.
About the middle of June I found myself catering a wedding for 230 guests. It was really a strange gig. When I first met with the bride and the groom they assured me the reception was going to be for around 150 people and as we got closer to the date the numbers kept going up. That just doesn't happen. Numbers go down usually by about 20% not up, but we pressed on with a shrug and a fake-it-till-you-make-it philosophy.
When the night before the wedding we found out that the tablecloths that had been ordered were, in fact, napkins and we couldn't get a hold of the linen guy we scrambled, found new tablecloths, and pressed on with a these-things-happen-and-it's-all-in-how-you-handle-it attitude and a smile.
When all the church ladies who offered to help with the reception and my hired assistant didn't show up to help until 40 minutes before "go time" I freaked, sloppily begged (as only a truly desperate person can) a couple of friends into helping, and pressed on with a go-with-the-flow-even-if-the-flow-is-a-rip-tide-that-will-ultimately-drag-you-into-shark-infested-waters, er... calm.
When the mother of the bride decided to forego the standard Jordan almonds wrapped in tulle wedding favor I applauded. When she then COMPLETELY filled the frig with 230 mint green boxes of Parisian macaroons and told me that they had to stay refrigerated and could I put them out for the guests just before they arrive I did my best to summon that Ninjitsu-earth-student-just-learn-to-endure-gracefully-like-the-rock-endures-the-slashing-storm spirit, a sort of stoic professionalism, but when faced with cooking for 230 with just a barbeque and a microwave (because that's all the reception facility had) with a short staff and now no refrigeration? Well, my head popped off. Clean off. "POP!" Just like that. No more head.
I don't know how audible the pop actually was or if anyone noticed that my head was missing 'cause I just kept on keeping on. It's hard to get worked up about the buffet getting trashed because people are behaving like piranha having a go at a water buffalo carcass when your head is missing. And I kept on moving through crisis and calm, prepping and plating food, clearing tables, washing dishes, directing staff and volunteers well into the night while, again I remind you, completely headless. I finally got to go home and rest for a day before the next evolution began, the next gig and was sorta thinking that perhaps my head would grow back sometime in the night, because it always had before.
My life had become chaotic, so completely immersed in the busy that I had become used to being used up, never fully rested, feeling like I was not so much accomplishing anything as just surviving, enduring, pressing on, pressing through, walking around without a head, a zombie life. Strange thing to get used to really. So I awoke waiting to feel something again, something to let me know that my head had grown back and that I cared again- tiredness? Frustration? Hopeless? Uselessness? Patience? Grey emotions sure, but emotions nonetheless right? Well, I'd like to tell you they were there with the new day, but they weren't. There were no emotions, no thoughts, just existence and I moved through my days filled with a static-y white noise. Occasionally I'd mourn my lost emotions, but it's hard to cry when you have no head so mostly I'd just move on to the next thing waiting. And I was half thinking that someone would notice, you know, my lack of a head, but no one really seemed to. I'd hear, "you look/sound tired" and I would want to laugh. Just tired? Is that what decapitation looks like? And I'd wonder if they were missing their head or maybe just their eyes.
I was finally broken. I had stopped caring and you can’t run a business when you don’t care because you stop answering the phone and responding to email, but you also can’t have a life without rest and there had been none for me. There was never rest just avoidance; just telling the waiting projects and to-do lists to hold while I rested my eyes a bit. It wasn't intentional this lack of attention to my business and responsibilities it was more like an involuntary reflex, like closing your eyes when you sneeze or bracing for impact. And now here we are. It’s been about 3 months since the night my head popped off and my emotions fled. I’d like to tell you that my life has dramatically changed, that I have learned to simplify and feel in technicolor once more, and just oh so many other new and uplifting things, however, life doesn’t slow down just because you do, rather it sweeps you a long, ass over tea kettle, for a time.
The catering business is no more. The only thing left to do is clean our stuff out of the commercial space and I confess that I have little energy or caring for that task. And there are other responsibilities that pull on me still, however, the other day I was looking over a project and it was pointed out to me that it wasn’t a one Beth job, that it in fact required at least 11 other people to help. No amount of one person’s initiative or faith can make this project a reality, but hands, many many hands. And something clicked and I felt hopeful. So that’s something, right? Who knows maybe my head is growing back? It’ll be nice to wear a hat again.
Life became: cooking for a gig, meeting with a client to set a menu, handling emails, cooking again, heading to a prayer meeting, setting curriculum for Sunday school, prepping to teach, teaching, cooking, cleaning the commercial kitchen, pulling messages and answering phone calls, cooking for the fam, cleaning the house, laundry, laundry, laundry, shopping for a gig, unpacking from the move, then cooking for a gig, meeting with a client to set a menu, handling emails, cooking again, heading to a prayer meeting, setting curriculum for Sunday school, prepping to teach, teaching, cooking, cleaning the commercial kitchen, pulling messages and answering phone calls, cooking for the fam, cleaning the house, laundry, laundry, laundry, shopping for a gig, unpacking from the move only to start cooking for a gig, meeting with a client to set a menu, handling emails, cooking again, heading to a prayer meeting, setting curriculum for Sunday school, prepping to teach, teaching, cooking, cleaning the commercial kitchen, pulling messages and answering phone calls, cooking for the fam, cleaning the house, laundry, laundry, laundry, shopping for a gig, unpacking from the move, cooking and so on and so forth it went, or rather I did, like the proverbial hamster.
I had no time to rest, no time to think, or pray, or be because there was always something waiting for my attention, waiting to be accomplished or dealt with. But I should be able to do all these things I reasoned. With Christ I can do all things yes? Open wide your mouth and I will fill it He said. Hadn’t God done that? My life was full, full to choking. If only I was more dedicated, faithful, responsible I could do what needed doing, I could keep from choking on my blessings I reasoned and again I would plunge into the busyness.
About the middle of June I found myself catering a wedding for 230 guests. It was really a strange gig. When I first met with the bride and the groom they assured me the reception was going to be for around 150 people and as we got closer to the date the numbers kept going up. That just doesn't happen. Numbers go down usually by about 20% not up, but we pressed on with a shrug and a fake-it-till-you-make-it philosophy.
When the night before the wedding we found out that the tablecloths that had been ordered were, in fact, napkins and we couldn't get a hold of the linen guy we scrambled, found new tablecloths, and pressed on with a these-things-happen-and-it's-all-in-how-you-handle-it attitude and a smile.
When all the church ladies who offered to help with the reception and my hired assistant didn't show up to help until 40 minutes before "go time" I freaked, sloppily begged (as only a truly desperate person can) a couple of friends into helping, and pressed on with a go-with-the-flow-even-if-the-flow-is-a-rip-tide-that-will-ultimately-drag-you-into-shark-infested-waters, er... calm.
When the mother of the bride decided to forego the standard Jordan almonds wrapped in tulle wedding favor I applauded. When she then COMPLETELY filled the frig with 230 mint green boxes of Parisian macaroons and told me that they had to stay refrigerated and could I put them out for the guests just before they arrive I did my best to summon that Ninjitsu-earth-student-just-learn-to-endure-gracefully-like-the-rock-endures-the-slashing-storm spirit, a sort of stoic professionalism, but when faced with cooking for 230 with just a barbeque and a microwave (because that's all the reception facility had) with a short staff and now no refrigeration? Well, my head popped off. Clean off. "POP!" Just like that. No more head.
I don't know how audible the pop actually was or if anyone noticed that my head was missing 'cause I just kept on keeping on. It's hard to get worked up about the buffet getting trashed because people are behaving like piranha having a go at a water buffalo carcass when your head is missing. And I kept on moving through crisis and calm, prepping and plating food, clearing tables, washing dishes, directing staff and volunteers well into the night while, again I remind you, completely headless. I finally got to go home and rest for a day before the next evolution began, the next gig and was sorta thinking that perhaps my head would grow back sometime in the night, because it always had before.
My life had become chaotic, so completely immersed in the busy that I had become used to being used up, never fully rested, feeling like I was not so much accomplishing anything as just surviving, enduring, pressing on, pressing through, walking around without a head, a zombie life. Strange thing to get used to really. So I awoke waiting to feel something again, something to let me know that my head had grown back and that I cared again- tiredness? Frustration? Hopeless? Uselessness? Patience? Grey emotions sure, but emotions nonetheless right? Well, I'd like to tell you they were there with the new day, but they weren't. There were no emotions, no thoughts, just existence and I moved through my days filled with a static-y white noise. Occasionally I'd mourn my lost emotions, but it's hard to cry when you have no head so mostly I'd just move on to the next thing waiting. And I was half thinking that someone would notice, you know, my lack of a head, but no one really seemed to. I'd hear, "you look/sound tired" and I would want to laugh. Just tired? Is that what decapitation looks like? And I'd wonder if they were missing their head or maybe just their eyes.
I was finally broken. I had stopped caring and you can’t run a business when you don’t care because you stop answering the phone and responding to email, but you also can’t have a life without rest and there had been none for me. There was never rest just avoidance; just telling the waiting projects and to-do lists to hold while I rested my eyes a bit. It wasn't intentional this lack of attention to my business and responsibilities it was more like an involuntary reflex, like closing your eyes when you sneeze or bracing for impact. And now here we are. It’s been about 3 months since the night my head popped off and my emotions fled. I’d like to tell you that my life has dramatically changed, that I have learned to simplify and feel in technicolor once more, and just oh so many other new and uplifting things, however, life doesn’t slow down just because you do, rather it sweeps you a long, ass over tea kettle, for a time.
The catering business is no more. The only thing left to do is clean our stuff out of the commercial space and I confess that I have little energy or caring for that task. And there are other responsibilities that pull on me still, however, the other day I was looking over a project and it was pointed out to me that it wasn’t a one Beth job, that it in fact required at least 11 other people to help. No amount of one person’s initiative or faith can make this project a reality, but hands, many many hands. And something clicked and I felt hopeful. So that’s something, right? Who knows maybe my head is growing back? It’ll be nice to wear a hat again.
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