Adoption Day poem...

This is really my family--at least one part of my mom's side; I'm the 11th kid from the right in the second row-- my mom is 6th from the right in the 2nd row from the top. You can click on the picture to enlarge it...my grandmother and great-grandmother are there, too...

Family

Laughter, first.

but also

disagreement and compromise;

breakfast, lunch, and sharing.

Being together , being apart.

Soccer games and baseball

and drama, always drama.

Inside jokes and secret smiles.

Chores and jobs and the peripatetic car.

Washing windows, mowing lawns,

riding bikes and jumping rope;

and laundry, oh, the laundry!

Late-night movies, Saturday cartoons.

Hot chocolate on a winter’s day,

and popsicles in the summer.

Being part of something bigger

than yourself alone.

Teasing and scolding;

flower gardens and backyard swings.

Toys and hand-me-downs,

roller skates

and notes from the teacher.

Forgotten homework, remembered birthdays,

Grandma, Grandpa,

aunts, uncles, cousins.

Holidays and holy days,

Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day --

and

for all the rest of the year,

hearts around a kitchen table.

Family.

Back to Work

I can tell that fall is here, because, once again, requests are coming in for the services of the poet laureate. Yesterday, I visited Hammond Middle School; I have a poem pending for Adoption Day (if the requester ever contacts me again...I failed to write down her name and number, and instead, asked her to email me with the details. Still waiting.) In addition, I have a reading scheduled for another group next Tuesday, and had a request this morning that I was obliged to turn down, due to a prior family commitment that week.

Little did I know, when I first applied for the position, that it would be so popular. I had envisioned beating the proverbial bushes for venues and for groups before whom I'd preach the poetry gospel. I was mistaken. After almost three years of simply responding to requests, it's clear that Alexandria has a desire for poetry, at least for its schools, its children, and its observance of special events. Add to that the individual interest exhibited by senior center groups and social contacts that I've made, and it's clear that Councilman Ludwig Gaines knew what he was talking about when he championed the establishment of the office.

Over the past few years, I've had a chance to observe what people seem to want of me. Accessible poetry is one thing: something they can understand and relate to. (There may be a bit of bias on my part here.) Secondly, involvement in the community. That involvement can mean appearance in our classrooms, or participation in local events, like the Alex Awards or the Birthday Celebration, or the dedication of buildings, or the celebration of our own citizens' accomplishments, whether they be elementary school students or City Councilmen. Oddly enough, though it was emphatically not listed as part of the duties of the office, what I've enjoyed most is the challenge of writing "occasional" poetry--i.e. poetry to commemorate occasions in the life of the city. Both the research involved and the immersion in the subject have been a surprising pleasure for me.

There are, of course, some aspects of the job that I will happily leave behind. No pleasure is unadulterated. But, for the most part, I have been enriched by the position and feel myself fortunate to have been in the right place at the right time to participate in this effort.

Windows

We are just back from San Diego--where the sun seems to shine non-stop, the scenery is beautiful, and there is room--and time--to think and dream and play and laugh. This trip, all those things devoutly-to-be-wished were accentuated by the presence of our daughters and granddaughter, as well as assorted friends. It made me think that, perhaps, in our 'normal' life, we are far too encumbered by things.

At the house in SD, we have only the bare-bones essentials. There is no need to worry about what placemats to use when you only have two. Or waste a lot of time over meal-planning when your cookware is likewise limited. Knowing that our time there is finite, we can even manage to keep the pantry and refrigerator simple. Can we use it up in five days? If not, it won't make the leap into my shopping cart. Even our wardrobes are simplified--as is our packing. Jeans and shirts, a pair of sandals, a 'dress' outfit for the rare occasion that requires it...these are all in the permanent SD closet. Thus, packing pretty much consists of books for the trip and the odd piece of clothing we might need to suit the weather.

Of course, the relaxing nature of these trips is also due to the fact that many of the items on our 'to-do' lists are not do-able long-distance. And we have not encumbered ourselves yet with volunteer work, church affiliations, serious social obligations, or other necessary evils that gobble up our days, weeks and months here at home.

Don't get me wrong. I love my life here in Virginia. But the ease of California has much to recommend it as well. These trips remind me that there are many things I can do without, and many things I still enjoy outside the realm of my day-to-day peregrinations. These trips are a sort of window on my life: a place to stand outside, looking back in and figuring out what is truly necessary, and how much is merely habit and inertia.

Things

In the process of decluttering my house--a Sisyphean task, for sure--I keep encountering things that I've saved because of their stories: where I got them, who gave them to me, the places they remind me of...I know, I know: memories are in your head, and getting rid of the THINGS doesn't rob you of them. But. There's something to be said for being surrounded by your memories and souvenirs. I don't know about anyone else, but I tend to forget things. Sometimes it takes something concrete to cause that memory to bestir itself. A book, a picture, a piece of jewelry--they all are able to kick-start a trip back to wherever they came from. They are a sort of portal to the past, where people and places and experiences come alive again.

A History of Things

Who will know,

when I am gone,

that this hooked rug was the one inside the door

of your great-grandmother’s pantry,

or that this turquoise stone and silver

spiral ring

was the first present your father gave me

on our honeymoon, as we browsed through Santa Fe?

Will anyone see this rug we found in Seville,

or remember buying the rabbit painting in Detroit

when we were killing time before the Farley wedding,

or tell the story of the Dutch “painting” and Windsor rocker

we found in Rancho Santa Fe?

Who will name the faces in the album

and the scenery we captured,

or know how we bought this wooden bowl

at that shop in Lake Louise,

or that I won this red enamel cookware

in a contest on a TV show?

As I walk through

this house of small memories

that built the life I’ve loved,

I can read so many stories:

the places, people, trips, events,

and bits of everyday…

Perhaps I should mark them all

with tiny unobtrusive notes,

for who will remember as they pack my things?

Perhaps not even I.

Cooking 101

I am beginning to figure out that, after 40 years of doing it, I know very little about cooking. This is absolutely inexcusable, particularly considering my scientific background. For forty-odd years, I have been assembling and mixing ingredients and accepting that sometimes things work, and sometimes they don’t. You’d think I might have had just the least smidgen of curiosity about my failures—but…no. I just put those recipes behind me and tried something different. What happened to my spirit of experimentation, my scientific method, the old routine of isolating variables and pinning down the guilty parties in the experiment? I dunno. I guess that I fell prey to the generally-accepted-by-students ‘cookbook’ style of experimentation. I guess there’s a reason for that terminology.

Behind this epiphany is a confluence of two events: first, I watched Alton Brown’s program on the Food Network. The guy is a nutcase, but he has an engaging way of actively researching a recipe and figuring out what makes it tick. The episode I caught was his quest for the perfect cupcake, which took him from today’s obsession with designer cupcakes back through the history of cupcakes, and finally, to what makes the perfect cupcake. The historical and cultural trivia reeled me in, and his cupcake analysis taught me a number of lessons that I’m itching to put into practice the next time I’m called upon to produce cupcakes. Which may be never.

Second, I picked up a magazine: American Classics, put out by Cook’s Illustrated. Okay. I admit it. One of the things I NEVER make is fried chicken. I am incapable of producing decent fried chicken. And, while I know it’s not good for us, I would like occasionally to be able to serve it. Where better to find a foolproof (and I mean that literally) recipe than in a magazine purporting to deal with American Classics? I got more than I bargained for.

As I paged through the magazine, I found recipes for all sorts of items, but…in addition to the recipes, I found serious articles explaining the characteristics most prized in the dish and how to obtain them. This was serious research and experimentation, analysis of methods and ingredients and procedures. These food scientists were actually cooking, evaluating, discarding and re-working recipes until they got the desired results. After all these years, someone was doing the science!

Naturally, I was stunned by this approach. One would have thought that I’d have embraced it long ago—but the fact is that cooking is too labor-intensive and time-dependent for me to work at a recipe till I got it right. Far easier to try, fail, blame the recipe and find one that works better. Far easier to forsake experimentation (where one’s family might tire of the search for the perfect corn muffin) and move on. Which is what I have done for lo, these many years.

In any case, I read the background on key lime bars, and followed the trail of the intrepid food scientist who was tracking the perfect crust, the perfect filling, the perfect garnish. Along the way, I learned why she did what she did. I followed her procedure, and produced the best key lime bars I’ve ever tasted. Man, there is something TO this science thing!

Who knew that key lime juice and fresh Persian lime juice could be used interchangeably? That the bottled variety of either produced a trace of bitterness in the filling? Why do you use condensed milk in this stuff? Who knew that a little cream cheese helped the consistency of the filling—or that an egg yolk improved it, but a whole egg didn’t?

What makes this all even more interesting is that I now see why certain recipes have specific directions—and I can guiltily remember taking shortcuts and being disappointed with my results. Telling me authoritatively to do something encourages me to rebel; telling me WHY to do something in a particular way gives me the option to take the shortcut, but lets me know why it might not be the best idea.

I am now ready to plunk down my money for a subscription to Cook’s Illustrated, and cancel my ladies’ magazines. (Well, I might have to keep Southern Living and Sunset: they have test kitchens…) I am far more interested in their analyses—and recommendations!-- of ingredients and tools than I am in what Julia Roberts has to say about being a mom, or whether Brad Pitt changes diapers in the Brangelina household. This is science I can use.

I’m a tolerable cook now, but with the strength of science behind me, I might become an amazing cook. I might even learn how to produce that American classic—fried chicken.

...And another poem...

Hack

I have a cough…

or the cough has me:

a tickle, a prickle, a reflex:

undeniable, unavoidable,

muffled and smothered

for a moment

but exploding without warning

of its own accord.

in its own sweet time and place.

It clears the airways

of amorphous obstructions

in repeated blasts--

making way for welcome clarity

which never lasts for long.

It is a painful experience.

It can be faked—if all you want is attention—

(Ahem!)

but the best kind is productive

and comes from deep within,

irrepressible,

in the dark of night or the light of day,

deep and natural,

assertive

and meaningful.

It is a sleep thief--

at its worst early and late--

is loud and disruptive,

aching, exhausting,

and can be contagious.

(Writing is a cough.)

Lucky

I think it's time to buy a lottery ticket. I've had an extraordinary run of fortunate occurrences in the past week--perhaps to make up for the miserable coughing bug I have been harboring since the end of July, though I never expect things to be evened out quite that neatly. In all sorts of minor ways, good things have been happening. Recipes have been turning out well, plants have cooperated by blooming when they were supposed to, normally arduous appointments have turned out to be less so. Stoplights wink green when they see my car approaching, rain confines itself to when I am indoors, my cleaning lady returned from vacation a week earlier than I expected..and parking spaces amazingly appear when I need them. Funny.

I'm beginning to suspect, however, that it may not be luck that is following me, but--more likely--an attitude adjustment. Like the proverbial 'half-empty, half-full' argument, so much depends on our point of view. Who knows but that, as my ceaseless coughing dials back, I'm more optimistic and am seeing more of the good side of things? It also may be the eternal optimism of September, when everything revs up once more, and we are all convinced that this year will be different. It may be the relief from the oppressive heat and humidity of August, when nothing seems easy or worth pursuing. Whatever it is, though, I am glad of it.