Smells Like Home

One of our neighbors came into our house one day several years ago. She stopped and turned her head side to side nostrils flaring as she sniffed this way and that. I’m sure I blushed thinking that she smelled the results of one of our bad puppies or some such unfortunate odor.

Instead, she said “Your house never smells like anything. Normally, you smell a little onion from last night’s dinner or something, but your house never has any smell. It doesn’t smell like anyone lives here.”

After my first sense of relief, I spent some time thinking about that. I had set up an ionizer air purifier (remember the bad puppy) and obviously it was working. But, in my quest to rid our house of bad odor, I had also gotten rid of the rich wonderful aromas that makes a house a home.

I think of this when I notice the fragrance of the hand soap from the bathroom or Paula’s perfume and yes the lingering aromatic memory of last night’s dinner. These are the olfactory signals that our house is a home. Even the intermingling odor of the unwashed pet or burnt food adds to the sense of home. If you take that away, you take away part of what makes us real. Our lives are all a mixture of sweet and pungent, and if you take away part of what makes us essentially human, you do an injustice to what is left.

I was never more reminded of this than this past weekend. I spent most of Saturday making homemade chicken stock for the upcoming holidays and trying my hand at making apple butter for the first time. First, I channeled my inner Ina Garten meets Anne Burrelle and went shopping for my ingredients.

I picked out 3 of the plumpest whole chickens I could find. Then going down the produce aisle, I selected a few bundles of fresh herbs, parsley, sage and thyme. The carrots, celery and onions came next along with a few lemons (thank you Anne), cinnamon sticks and garlic. While I was getting the stock ingredients, Paula was collecting some Fuji, Granny Smith and Honeycrisp apples for the butter. We met at the register and my “feelgood” feeling for this cooking project was already in full swing.

Saturday morning found me wide awake early anticipating the day’s culinary adventure. I put my brand new stainless steel 20 quart stock pot on top of the stove and began adding ingredients. The 3 chickens went in first, followed by a palm full of salt, about that much black peppercorns and a small handful of red peppercorns. Then I added the fresh herbs, a spoonful of red pepper flakes, a few spoonfuls of dried sage, and about 6 bay leaves. I rough chopped the carrots, celery, onions and cut the garlic bulbs and lemons in half. I grated a teaspoon or so of nutmeg and added 3 small cinnamon sticks to the pot finishing with 8 quarts of water. I brought all that up to a boil then set it to simmer away for about 5 hours.

After getting everything in the pot, I decided it was time for a coffee break. As I sipped my coffee, I set my mind toward the apple butter. Memories of my parents putting up cases of apple butter every fall conjured up visions of them using a colander to get just the right consistency. That just seems too much work to me.

I read several recipes and settled on a crockpot recipe I found on The Homestead and Survival Facebook site with a few changes. I like the idea of keeping the skins on and using the food processor to get the “butter” texture. I took away most of the sugar and added allspice with wonderful results.

I started with coring and rough chopping a total of 18 apples. This filled my Ninja Cooker almost to overflow, but I knew they would cook down. I added about a ½ cup of water, ½ cup of brown sugar, 2 heaping tablespoons of ground cinnamon, and 1 tablespoon of Jamaican allspice. That was it, so simple. Now everything was cooking and cooking and cooking.

I vacuumed the floor, straightened the living room, made more coffee. Then I sat down with my kindle. I had such a sense of wellbeing. By this time the house was smelling amazing. The chicken stock wafting a savory undertone punctuated by the sweet spicy notes of the apple butter carried me along on a domestic fantasy magic carpet ride. This is what home smells like.

 

In spite of my confidence in the kitchen, there are some things that really intimidate me as a cook. One is butchering an animal. That is a challenge for some future date.  A couple of other things were New Mexican style red chile sauce and chile rellenos. 

I have read all kinds of recipes for red chile sauce.  Many start with a rue and use some sort of broth for the liquid.  I have seen recipes that call for using a package of white gravy mix.  Maybe it was just all of the different things I had read, but my head swam every time I thought of trying to make it.

I absolutely love chile rellenos!  I could eat my way across the Southwest trying all of the different versions of this dish.  I did try one time to make some and was not at all pleased with the results.  I have since been content with satisfying my craving at restaurants.  Many times, they are less than spectacular and often they are downright terrible.

When Paula and I began planning our recent trip to Santa Fe, I was determined to de-mystify the red chile sauce and conquer the chile relleno.  From Tucumcari Westward, I tried green and red chile sauce at every meal. The red sauce varied in texture, color and intensity.  It was all delicious.  I was anxious to explore the Farmer’s Market in Santa Fe hoping to find some clues to the perfect red sauce.

The Farmer’s Market is in the Rail Yard district.  It is an area rich in history and culture and for me, rivals the downtown area as the place to visit while in Santa Fe.  After an early breakfast, we arrived at the market greeted with all of the sights and aromas you might expect. The smell of fresh baked bread and pastries gave way to the sweet and pungent fragrances of herbs and homemade soaps as I strolled up one long aisle and down the next.

I was drawn to a particular booth that had baskets of red chile powder packaged in simple ziplock bags labeled with their level of heat.  She also had varieties of heirloom beans originating in the New Mexico area, pasole and chicos, a smoked and dried sweet corn. She had an obvious pride in her product that made me want to try everything.  She explained to me that she and her husband grew all of the product and processed it as well.  She beamed as she showed me a photograph of her husband standing beside their clay oven used for smoking peppers and corn.

I found myself asking her all kinds of questions, particularly about the red chile powder.  I told her of the many recipes I had read and that I was confused as to where to start to make this sauce.  She reached out to touch my arm and shook her head.  “It’s so simple” she said. “Just add water and maybe a little salt.  Remember, it’s a dehydrated vegetable.” Well, that just floored me.  With that statement, she explained what all these recipes had not.  I was thinking of the red chile powder as a spice, not a vegetable. I couldn’t wait to get home and try this.  I knew it was going to work.

Later that evening, on the recommendation of a friend of ours, we tried a restaurant in the Tesuque Village.  There I had the most beautiful chile relleno I have ever had. Here’s the thing, it was not battered, it was not fried. The poblano pepper was lightly charred, relieved of its seeds and filled with yellow squash, mushrooms and toasted pine nuts.  The finished pepper rested on a pool of red chile sauce and was topped with a smattering of white cheese.  Beautiful, simple and delicious!

After arriving home, I thought of the red sauce all week.  On Friday, I made the sauce.  In a small sauce pan, I put the powder, some water and a little bit of salt.  I heated it to a boil then turned in down to simmer and thicken.  When it was the consistency I wanted, I covered it and put it in the refrigerator until the next day. Saturday turned out to be a cool rainy day.  I sat on our porch watching the steam rise from my hot mug of coffee. I had put red sauce on the stove to heat.  I was making cheese enchiladas and chile rellenos for dinner.  I had already roasted the poblanos on top of our gas stove and they were waiting in a covered bowl to be seeded.

As I sat there drinking my coffee, enjoying being home and breathing in the aromas wafting out of my kitchen I was reminded of our wonderful time in Santa Fe and my life with Paula.  We don’t have a glamorous life. Our life is full of friends, our fur kids and each other.  I spent most of my youth chasing after who I thought I was supposed to be, what I thought I was supposed to do.  It all seemed so complicated back then.

This trip to Santa Fe had been the best.  No fancy hotel or fancy dinners.  Just time with my love, laughing, being quiet, being silly, talking. Just time doing whatever we wanted to do. It was so simple. Something has clicked for me. Life really isn’t so complicated.

 I went into the house to finish dinner.  I sautéed the squash with some onion and mushrooms and stuffed the peppers and full and I could.  I topped them with the toasted pine nuts and some white cheddar cheese, then put them in a hot oven just long enough to melt the cheese. I placed the pepper in the midst of the pooled sauce I had already spooned onto my plate.  So beautiful, so simple. 

My life is good.  All I really need is some water and a little bit of salt.

My New Comfort Food

I started this blog to explore the idea that sharing food was about relationships.  I still believe that.  I do believe that the fellowship of a shared meal is like none other.  My big square dining table comfortably seats 8 people for a family style meal.  I truly love sitting at the table all together passing platters of food back and forth.  I get a great deal of satisfaction watching people enjoy the food I have prepared for them.  I think of it as passing my love to you, and watching you enjoy it fills my soul.

I have struggled most of my life with choosing appropriate relationships with people.  I would friend most anyone who showed me attention and let them into the innermost parts of my life and my heart, often to my own detriment.  I was confused by superficial kindness and underlying intentions.  I entered into one relationship after another with friends or lovers who just did not treat me well.

Slowly, through years of introspection with a good therapist, I began to make better choices in my friends.  A few years ago, with a great deal of delight and not a small amount of amazement, I realized that I no longer had people close to me who mistreated me in any way.  Not that my life is without conflict, but there is no one in my inner circle of friends who would willfully manipulate or degrade me.

The structure of my friendscape has changed dramatically over my lifetime.  Now those most close to me are those I choose to be close to me.  I no longer give just anyone access to the most tender parts of myself.  My life is rich and full as a result.  I surround myself with quality friends who nurture me.

In thinking of how my relationships with people have changed, I have begun to reflect on my relationship with food.  I’m not sure I thought of it that way before, having a relationship with food.  I have allowed foods that superficially make me feel good to have a place of great importance in my life.  You know…comfort foods.  For me this is mostly carbohydrates.  Potato soup, crusty bread and butter, a plate full of spaghetti; all of these are comfort foods for me.  The thing is, I don’t feel so great after eating these foods.  I feel sluggish and I don’t sleep well after a large meal heavy with starch. 

My old relationships with people led to depression and degradation, my relationships with these comfort foods lead to low energy, high blood sugar and weight gain.  As I had to change my thinking about who were my friends, I now find myself rethinking what exactly comfort food is to me.  As now, I choose friends who nurture my life; I want to choose foods that nurture my body.

One of the foods I have recently discovered is Blood Orange infused olive oil.  A friend introduced me to a new store  Olive & Co. This is a store devoted mostly to olive oil and different vinegars.  As you walk into the store you come across two long rows of metal urns.  One side has flavor infused olive oils and the other side is olive oils from different regions of the world. 

You do a tasting much like you would at a winery.  They will mix and match the oils with the vinegars until you find exactly what you want.  I left with a bottle of Blood Orange Olive Oil and White Balsamic Vinegar infused with Pear.  This is a wonderful combination.  I have been experimenting combining these flavors with all kinds of greens and other ingredients. 

My favorite is a bed of arugula with thinly sliced red onions, orange segments, slivers of almonds and crumbled Danish Blue Cheese.  These flavors topped with the blood orange/pear vinaigrette are just magical!  The sweet, bitter, earthy flavors all come together and offer a great deal of…yes…comfort.  This food nurtures by body as well as my soul.  It is true comfort food.  I served this salad alongside seared salmon finished with a generous drizzle of the blood orange oil.  It was a beautiful meal, and it left me feeling beautiful. 

I find myself excited to explore this new thinking of comfort foods.  I realize that I don’t have to give up creative cooking to lead a healthier lifestyle.  We can still gather around my table and pass platters of beautiful, satisfying food; basking in the comfort of our love for one another.

www.oliveokc.com

  Olive & Co

Victim or Advocate

To be a victim or an advocate, the accuser or the defender:  that is my conflict.  Emotions are roiling around in my gut till I don’t know which end is up.  I think I think too much.  I think that is why I keep my mind constantly busy planning my next project or the next meal I will prepare or the next party I will throw.  If my mind is busy thinking of what ingredients I need to gather and purchase, how many stores I need to visit to do so, and of all the steps it will take to create the most complicated dish I can think up, then my mind is not free to wander.  It’s not free to ask questions.  Am I a victim or an advocate?  Is my job to be the accuser or the defender?  I keep my mind busy with the details of our next meal in part to keep myself from pondering these questions.

What if I went to the Asian Market, one store, then purchased a salmon fillet, a head of cauliflower and some brown rice.  Then what if I came home and prepared these three ingredients simply.  First, I add 1 cup of brown rice and 2 cups of water in a pot, bring to a boil, cover and simmer for half an hour or so until the liquid is absorbed.  In the meantime I cut the head of cauliflower into ½ inch slabs, drizzle the slabs with olive oil, salt and pepper and roast them in a 450 degree oven for 20 minutes, turning after ten minutes.  Then I sear the salmon in a screaming hot cast iron skillet for 3 or 4 minutes each side, no oil, no seasoning, simply salmon.  This meal is extremely simple. It is also beautiful, satisfying and healthy.  Why complicate things by adding steps and techniques and seasonings?

As a child, I was incested by two men in my family.  Two men that should have protected me took advantage of my innocence.  No, not together.  They didn't know about each other.  Though the time span of the abuse overlapped a bit, it happened at different times.  I have been in years of therapy dealing with this issue.  It has colored and shaped my life in more ways than I can imagine.  Not all bad.  I am more compassionate for my experience.  I have delved into my very soul with introspection.  I have learned not to judge other people because I don’t know their past experiences or current motivations.

Recently, I have been following an issue with a local church that I sometimes attend.  There is word of a registered sex offender who wants to be a part of the fellowship of this church. There are numerous folks, members of this congregation, who have suffered at the hands of sexual predators in one way or another.  As a fellow survivor, I know the pain these individuals’ experience.  I know the anxiety, the anger, the fear and the hurt.  I know the cold sweats, rapid heart beating, sleepless nights.  I understand the distrust of anyone who in any way reminds you of your perpetrator.  I get this, I really do.

I also know that none of us is perfect.  Think of the very worst thing you have done in your entire life.  Imagine being judged by that one act for the rest of your life.  All anyone will ever know about you is that one slice of yourself.  I think that would be a horrible fate.  No chance for repentance, no opportunity to redefine yourself.

The ambivalence I feel about the circumstances surrounding this church right now brings back the ambivalence I feel about my two perpetrators.  In my early 30’s, I was able to confront both men, bringing light to the darkness of their deeds.  The first man wept.  He took full responsibility for his actions.  I felt his pain as he apologized.  He owned what he had done so many years ago, no excuses, just sorrow.  In the short time before his death a few years later, he and I were able to develop the beginnings of a healthy relationship. 

The second man’s reaction was so different.  He did not accept that his actions were bad.  He said that all he did, he did out of love.  He blamed Oprah for everyone getting so upset about things now.  He took no responsibility for his actions.  He in no way owned the effect that he had on my life.  His biggest concern was who I might have told about “us”.  Today, I have nothing to do with this man, it is not safe.  Not that he could physically do anything to me now, I would not allow it. It is not emotionally safe for me to associate with this man.

I am left with ambivalence that feels like the conflict of two red hot boulders churning over again and again in my chest.  To think on it creates a cyclic avalanche of emotion.  So my mind tries to go to something else, something safe.  Like household chores, or shopping, or what’s for dinner?

Recovery is like peeling layers off an onion.  After every layer, it feels like you have made it, the great epiphany.  Then as time wears on, you realize there is more work to me done.  That is where I am today.  Uncovering this great conflict inside me of empathy for my fellow survivors and sympathy for the perpetrator feels like the final layer of recovery.  Realizing the busyness of my brain feels like a final mountain to scale to finally achieve complete happiness.

Tree of Life - A work of fiction

“Enjoy your evening.” He said “Oh, and happy anniversary, I’m so envious of you spending a romantic evening with your man!”

She waved goodbye in answer to her co-worker as she pushed through the heavy glass door of the store front. “Envious he says” she muttered “hmmmft”

He was envious.  He was envious of the one who would have this beautiful, talented woman cooking a romantic dinner for him this evening.  His imagination drifted to what would happen after dinner.  Distracted by his fantasy, he at first did not notice that she had left her jacket.  She could get it tomorrow, or maybe he would take it to her on his way home this evening. 

They lived in the same apartment building, though she never seemed to notice.  He first began falling in love with her through her cooking. He spent his evenings drifting on the fragrances wafting from her apartment.  The waves of olfactory delight carrying him through elaborate fantasies of a life shared with her.  The reality was that the only thing they shared was the leftovers she brought to work almost every day to share with her co-workers.                                                        

She made a mental shopping list as she walked the two blocks to her grocery mart.  She had a perfect job doing what she always wanted, being a window dresser for a prestigious department store.  She enjoyed using color to create beauty.  It was an easy four block walk from her apartment to the store and the Whole Foods Market was the halfway point. 

Really, her life was pretty perfect.  Sweet perfection precariously perched on a constantly shifting foundation of lies.  She set that thought aside as she concentrated on dinner.  It had to be right.  This would be her last chance to get it absolutely right.  In the produce aisle, she found an unblemished beautifully white head of cauliflower.  A thought began to coalesce in her mind. Roasted cauliflower…yes that would be perfect, but what else?

She added fresh parsley, a pomegranate, and some forbidden black rice to her cart.

Then she perused the fish market deciding on three sea scallops and a four ounce cut of wild caught salmon.  Should she get two?  No starting right now she would be honest, at least with herself.  A perfectly beautiful fruit tartlett and a perfectly red rose rounded out her shopping. She paid for her groceries and began her short walk home.

Home, not really.  She imagined home to include a family, a partner, someone to share her dreams.  That was not to be.  In spite of years of prayer, hoping beyond hope, she was still alone. Countless daisies giving up their petals hoping for finally a “he loves me”, but always ending on “he loves me not”.  Eventually, she created a family life, one that she talked about at work, with people who didn’t really care.  It was a perfect life to go with her perfect job.  She lied.

She would talk about what was for dinner and then go act out the fantasy cooking for two every night then not even having the appetite to eat for one.  She was happy when she was cooking, though.  Pretending her perfect husband would be home soon.  Every night it was the same.  Cooking completed, she would neatly pack the food away, everything labeled in beautiful glass dishes with colorful plastic lids.  But tonight was different.  This was her last supper, and it had to be perfect.

She set the bag down on the impeccably clean counter.  After putting the fish in the refrigerator, she opened a bottle of wine.  She had been saving this bottle for a special occasion.  It was a bottle of 2002 Renwood Sierra Series Red Zinfandel.  It was a complex, beautiful wine from the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California.

She poured herself a glass and turned on the “watercolors” station on the XM radio.

She went into the bedroom and stripped off her work clothes, carefully folding them before placing them in the bottom of the clothes hamper.  She went into the bathroom and washed her face then shaved her legs.  She rinsed the razor and carefully removed the razor blade.  She placed the blade on the side of the bathtub mesmerized by the way the light shined off the metal in contrast with the white porcelain tub.  It was like a star shining in the blue and yellow bathroom.  The silver gleam seemed out of place among the happy yellow moons and stars which festooned the dark blue shower curtain.

Tonight, she would be honest.  No lies.  She was cooking for one, a nice romantic dinner for one.  After washing all the vegetables, she contemplated what she wanted to do.  She cut open the pomegranate and extracted the arils from half.  She washed the blood red juice off her hands watching as the stained water swirled down the drain. Using scissors she carefully snipped the very ends of the parsley stems creating a pile of emerald green florets.  After putting the rice on to cook, she set the scallops and salmon out on the counter.

She put the bright blue table cloth on the table and placed the knife, fork and spoon on top of a deep red cloth napkin.  The tartlette went on a small yellow saucer, the varying colors of fruit created a perfect contrast.  She put the rose in a crystal vase which she placed in the center of the table.  The opposite side of the table she left empty.  This night was for honesty, no lies.  

She cut a half inch slab from of the center of the cauliflower.  After browning the slice on both sides in some butter, she finished cooking it in the hot oven.  The slice of cauliflower was now crispy and golden brown as she salted it with oversized grains of kosher salt.  Pouring another glass of wine, she stared at the cauliflower.  It looked like a Tree of Life.  The salt glistened like a fine frost on a perfect winter morning. Now that’s some irony for you, a tree of life for your last supper.

She put the cast iron skillet on the stove to pre heat over a high flame.  She carefully placed the cauliflower in the center of a round bright yellow platter and then began to decorate the tree with the parsley florets and pomegranate seeds.  Using tweezers she placed a floret then the ruby red seed in the center.  It was beautiful, like Christmas!  It could be Christmas, but no, this was an evening for honesty.  It was not Christmas, it was her last supper.

She took the pills down from the cabinet and took two with the last sip of wine.  She poured another half glass and took two more pills; she wanted to save the last glass of wine to enjoy with the salmon.  She oiled and seasoned the salmon and seared it for 4 minutes on the first side then turned it and added the scallops to the pan.  After a couple of minutes, she turned the scallops then a couple of minutes later scooped salmon along with the scallops onto a plate to rest.

She mounded the black rice along the base of the tree, placed the salmon on top of the rice on one side and the three scallops on the other side creating perfect symmetry. She sprinkled a few parsley florets and pomegranate arils over the fish and rice.  It was perfect, a serene beautiful scene.  She placed the platter on the table and poured the last of the wine into her glass.  A drop of wine escaped to the bright white counter top looking like a drop of blood.  She wiped up the drop of wine with the tip of her forefinger and with her finger in her mouth she turned to the table.  She took a moment to enjoy the sight.  The table looked beautiful with all of the bright, vivid colors and the food looked inviting.  She sat down and with a deep breath she took in all the aromas of this fine dinner.  This was a perfect last supper. She picked up her knife and fork.

He finally finished his task and grabbed his jacket as he headed out the door for home.  He was turning the key in the lock when he saw her jacket on the hook by the office door.  He paused for a moment then unlocked the door and tossed her jacket over his shoulder.  It smelled like her, sweet and earthy with hints of the spices he knew she used in her cooking.  Her jacket held a complexity of fragrances like a fine wine.  They were probably having wine right now.  Maybe he shouldn’t take the jacket to her tonight.

“Fuck it!”  He thought.  He wanted to see this guy who was all perfect and see if he was deserving of this woman.  A woman more complex than any wine he’d ever had.  He wanted to knock on her door and see her smile welcoming him home.  She would greet him at the door with a kiss and a “How was your day?”  Then he would walk in and smell a great dinner cooking from inside the apartment instead of from down the hall.  He would surprise her with flowers and linger as he held her.

He could smell dinner as he turned down the hall towards his apartment.  What was he doing?  He should just stop at his own door and return her jacket tomorrow.  His feet betrayed him.  In less time than it took to question why, he was standing in front of her door.  He could hear soft music and the smell, the smell was intoxicating.  He could smell her standing next to him, or maybe it was the jacket in his hands.  He could almost feel his arms around her.  His heart was pounding the rhythm of his fantasy.  With a sweaty palm, he made a fist and softly knocked on the door.  

Stirring Memories Along With My Soup

This past weekend, we celebrated David’s 22^nd birthday.  David is Paula’s son and he wanted a cookout with our family tribe.  So we prepared ribs, smoked sausage, curried potatoes and corn on the cob for 20 or so of our closest friends.  As usual, we had a great time of fellowship and eating.  Our friend Linda gave me a great idea for cooking and serving the corn.  I am always looking for easy ways to prepare food for a crowd.  We loaded a cooler with the fresh corn on the cob and poured salted boiling water over it.  Shut the lid and waited for 30 minutes.  That was it.  Really, it was that simple.  The corn stayed warm through the whole evening.  It was sweet and succulent, fresh and crisp.  I melted some butter and provided a basting brush for those who wanted to butter their corn.  This was so easy! 

I paid a bit more and bought the corn already cleaned from Sam’s.  That made it super simple and was worth the extra cost.  I also bought the ribs and smoked sausage there.  I miscalculated on the ribs.  I thought they came 2 to a pack, so I bought 3 packs to get 6 slabs.  Imagine my surprise when I opened the first package to find 3 slabs of ribs.  We had such an abundance of ribs that I didn’t cook all of the sausage.  So now I am left with a 3 pound package of smoked sausage.  I started thinking back to a time when I was 22 and a soup that I made.

This is probably the first recipe I made up totally on my own.  I was 22 years old, newly divorced and living in an old 10 X 50 foot mobile home.  I was living on my own for the first time, struggling with my sexual orientation and just trying to be happy.  Boy, thinking back on those times makes me nostalgic for my cockatiel Sammy who whistled the theme to the Andy Griffith Show.  He would also say “I love you”, which was a comfort to me in those days.  I remember falling asleep to Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” feeling lonely, helpless and hopeless.

I tried so hard to be straight.  I struggled with myself and God.  I married to prove I wasn’t gay.  I wanted to be good.  My marriage was a dismal failure, for many reasons.  I felt trapped in the tangle of my decisions.  I attempted suicide.  I was proven a failure again.  I couldn’t even kill myself right.  After that, I divorced and moved back in with my parents for a time.  Moving into this mobile home was my first attempt at real independence.

That old trailer was frigid in the winter and suffocating in the summer.  The trailer park was located next to the train tracks.  The train felt like it was barreling through my bedroom at night vibrating by bed and deafening my ears with the sound.  Sometimes I thought the trailer might shake right off its foundation.  I lived there for a year, and in the spring, I moved into a nice apartment close by.  A few weeks later, that trailer was indeed shaken off its foundation by a tornado.

Ultimately, it took me 8 more years to come to terms with my sexuality and finally come out.  Coming out was like being reborn for me.  I discovered a bright new life full of promise and possibility.  Though my struggles for happiness weren’t finished yet, being true to my self lifted a huge weight off my soul.  Eventually I was able to find my way back to God.

Our memory is a funny thing.  Thinking about making this soup, I think through the years since I first made it.  I have changed it some, improved it I think.  The flavors are certainly more complex and interesting than that first soup I made when I was 22.  The same could be said for my life.  I love being married and having such a complex and diverse friendscape.  .

To start this soup, I put my dutch oven on the stove to preheat.  I add some olive oil and when it begins to shimmer, I add a chopped onion.  After the onion becomes translucent, I add a couple of tablespoons of chopped garlic, red pepper flakes and some of the smoked sausage that I have cut into cubes.  I will add the rest later.  I want to render the cubed sausage to infuse the soup with flavor.

When the onions are beginning to turn brown and the sausage has given up its fatty goodness, I add some sliced mushrooms.  I let the mushrooms cook for a little while then add some quartered red potatoes.  I like the red potatoes for this dish because they hold their shape and don’t break down so quickly.  Then I add enough chicken broth (you can use water) to just come to the top of the potatoes.  I turn the heat up so the liquid begins to bubble. 

Now I add some Greek Seasoning.  This is something that I have used since the first time I made this soup.  You add whatever seasonings you have on hand.  Just as the potatoes begin to soften, I add the cabbage.  Chop it or shred it however you want.  I add enough that it looks like the pan is going to overflow.  It will wilt down and be fine.  When the cabbage has cooked down some, I add the rest of the sausage that has been cut in 2 or 3 inch pieces.  I cover the pot and cook for 20 or 30 minutes then I then taste for a final seasoning.  The Greek Seasoning has salt in it and if you use chicken broth, that will add salt as well so I normally don’t add any more.  Just taste and adjust.

As I look back over the past 30 years since I first made this soup, I am so happy I am where I am today.  Back then I struggled most everyday for a bit of happiness.  Now those struggles are just sometimes and I most always can see past the moment and realize the struggle is temporary.  When I was 22 I could not imagine being married to someone who treats me with respect and love.  I could not imagine a life filled with friends and joy as I have now.

On most days, I am confident and at peace; at peace with God and myself.  I am at peace with my past and look forward to the future.  I am happy. I wish for David to have the same experience of growing and changing as he ages.  It certainly makes life more interesting.

Blue Moon Reflecting on My Mother

Friday, August 31^st is a blue moon.  We haven’t experience one since 2009 and the next one will be in 2015.  August 31^st is also my mother’s birthday. There have been 10 blue moons since her death in 1987, but none in August and certainly none on her birthday.  Although Mom is never far from my mind, this really brings her much closer to my heart this week.

A few months ago, I had the great pleasure of meeting a woman through Facebook and this blog.  Ernestine Clark and I met for the first time at Beans & Leaves.  As we sat visiting, I was struck by her upbeat personality and sweet spirit.  As our time together continued, I was struck by something else, something that almost brought me to tears.  Ernestine looks so much like my mother.  So much so that I had to go home and dig out some old photos of Mom to make sure.

The second time we met at Beans & Leaves, Ernestine was very excited about a new coffee shop that some friends of hers opened on Film Row.  We followed her over there to check it out and have some lunch.  The Paramount OKC is located on the corner of Sheridan and North Lee in downtown Oklahoma City.  This coffee shop is another wonderful independently owned business.

As we approached our destination, I realized that this intersection was very familiar to me.  My mother spent the last decades of her life working for International Crystal Mfg which was located directly across the street from The Paramount.  I have to admit that it was a bit odd to be enjoying lunch within feet of a place that my mother spent so much of her life, with a woman who bears such a physical resemblance to her.  Mom would have loved this place, I’m sure.

Mom always enjoyed trying new foods and restaurants.  Her adventurous culinary spirit is a strong part of the legacy I carry of hers.  Some of my most fun childhood memories centers on trying a new restaurant or food trend.  I was thinking of this while I planned our Leo Birthday Party this month.  A friend of mine recently introduced me to Gado Gado which is an Indonesian salad dish served with a flavorful peanut sauce. I thought this would be perfect for the party.  As I was gathering the ingredients and studying on how to make the sauce, I thought of how my mother would have so enjoyed this.

I decided on fried tofu for the protein and steamed purple fingerling potatoes for the starch.  I also steamed some baby bok choy.  I sliced some cucumbers into rounds, served baby cut carrots and mung bean sprouts raw.  I sliced a jicama into matchsticks.  Now jicama is a fun new vegetable for me.  It reminds me of a cross between a radish and potato.  It is crisp and satisfying, perfect for dipping into the sauce.  I finished by frying up some shrimp chips.

Now, I’m not sure why they call them shrimp chips as there is no shrimp involved.  They start out as little plastic looking discs and when they hit the hot oil, they expand ten times or so to these beautiful crispy chips.  That was the most fun cooking.  I called everyone into the kitchen to watch.  Yes, Mom would have really enjoyed trying all of these different new foods.

As much as she would have enjoyed the food, I know she would have enjoyed meeting all of my close friends.  I regret that she did not live long enough to see me past the struggles of my early life to my life now full of love and happiness.  I never came out to her.  I believe she would have accepted me fully, but I did not progress to that point while she was living. I wish that Mom could have met Paula, Joey and David.  She would have loved Paula and been thrilled to accept her new grandkids.  Joey especially would have been spoiled by her, I’m sure. 

The night of the Leo party was a joyous night for me.  There was drumming and dancing, laughing and singing, and lots of wonderful conversation.  There were old friends and new friends enjoying the night.  It was a beautiful experience with some beautiful people.  My mother loved a celebration and this was a fantastic celebration.

One of the biggest adventures my mother and I had together was the August that I turned 25 and she turned 50.  We went to Las Vegas to celebrate the one time that I would be exactly half her age.  Neither of us had ever been to Las Vegas and we were very excited.

We arrived at 10 pm local time and couldn’t wait to get to the casino.  We got to bed very late that night and it was still difficult to go to sleep knowing all of the activity still happening downstairs.

The next day after some sightseeing, my mother ended up at Slots of Fun and I met up with a friend of a friend who was a dealer back then.  He showed me how to play all the games and we went to several casinos.  I had so much fun touring the town with someone who knew it so well.  My luck was amazing I won at everything!  I was shocked when I realized it was 2am.

This was before cell phones and I was concerned that my mother would be worried about me.  I hurried back to our hotel.  After sharing the winnings with my friend, I rushed upstairs…to an empty room.  My mother arrived an hour later with hands blackened from feeding so many coins into the slot machines.  This woman who was in bed nightly no later than 10 pm at home stayed up past 3 in the morning playing slots.  Vegas is indeed a different world.  We had such a wonderful time together on that trip.  A little over 2 years later, she was gone from my life forever.

So, this Friday is a blue moon and my mother’s birthday.  It will be a good time to reflect on her life and how my life has progressed since her death.  I think about her legacy.  My mother was compassionate and kind.  I see this in my sister and I hope I carry some of it as well.  I want to sit on my deck gazing on the moon and raise a cup to my mother.  She was a very special woman, one that you might only meet once in a blue moon.