Color Therapy

Prayer cloths hanging in my office--from China and India.

Sometimes when we travel, if we're lucky, we get changed, transformed by the experience.  A few weeks ago, I was in DC and thanks to a thoughtful friend with tickets, I got to see two extraoridnary exhibits.  (previous blogs)

To say both exhibits--the Janet Echelman tsunami of color at the Renwick, and the Kusama exhibit at the Hirschhorn--are colorful would be a gross understatement.  They pulse, vibrate, ooze color.  After falling into a color trance in those exhibits, back home I'm longing for that kind of deep saturation of color in my life.

The prayer cloths hanging in my office--saffron, gold--give me a boost of color.  But I want more.  I want to breathe in color, to be surrounded by it, to vibrate with it--like at the Hirschhorn exhibit.

Sweaters in my closet.

My closet has bursts of color, especially my favorite reds.  Could I live with a room entirely in red?  Then I remember I tried that once.  Years ago,  a much younger version of myself painted some rooms the color of my lipstick, and the result was a terrible experience.  A red foyer, a red hallway, and a red bedroom.  Ugh.  What had I been thinking?  What had I wanted to achieve?  That the wandering, unfaithful man in my life would be attracted to the color of my walls?

Maybe the lesson of this recent positive experience of drowning in color is to savor bursts of it wherever it appears.  And to understand more deeply the therapeutic power of color.  The Santa Monica Mountains are alive now with the yellow-chartreuse color of mustard plants.  Last weekend on the way back from Montecito the mountains were mind-glowingly gorgeous--pulsating in vibrant yellows.

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A Fresh, Interesting Read

I heard this author, James E. Ryan, interviewed on a podcast, and I thought, I need that book.  The book, which started as a graduation speech, celebrates the art of asking--and answering--good questions.  He proposes five questions in particular that he promises will bring clarity, curiosity, courage, compassion, and conviction.  (see the 5 questions below)

What's so refreshing about the book is that although the author is Dean of Harvard's Graduation School of Education, the writing is fresh and funny, and the anecdotes are mostly personal and revealing.  No Ivy League-Harvard somber and serious here.

I had occasion to put one of his questions to immediate use.  My stepson was going through a bad patch, and I kept calling and asking him how he was.  But it began to feel more like I was grilling him, nagging him to get out of bed, and go do something, anything.   I decided instead to try Question 4: "How can I help?" which Ryan says is at the base of all good relationships.

Yesterday I called my stepson, and I listened to him say once again that he was resting (depressed), and I asked, "How can I help?"  I told him I loved him, and I truly wanted to help.  That question changed the tone and tenor of our conversation, and he told me I'd already been helping.  

This 138-page book also falls into the newly popular category of a short, easy read.  It could be read in one sitting, straight through, or as a meditation question-by-question, which is more how I read it.

Blown Away...By Kusama

Two weeks ago in Washington, D.C., thanks to a good friend, I got tickets to the sold-out Kusama exhibit at the Hirschhorn Museum.

I'm back home in Southern California, but Kusama's powerfully seductive colorful images linger and beckon.  Last night when I couldn't sleep (again), I wandered downstairs, sipped hot tea and looked through the pages of her book Give Me Love.  I wish everyone could read her introduction where this artist writes...And I want to tell people across the earth: Stop nuclear bombs and wars, now see your shining life With my longing for eternity.

Having lived in a psychiatric institute for some 40 plus years, Kusama speaks freely about abusive childhood, her mental illness, and her suicide-prone life.  After I googled her and learned that her art explodes from the depths of her mental illness, this new understanding couldn't help but color how I felt about The Obliteration Room, for example.

At the Hirschhorn Museum, we were each handed a small sheet of colorful stickers to apply wherever we wanted to what had once been an all-white room. It felt playful, happy, colorful, and participatory.   We were  helping the artist "obliterate" the white room.  I mean, when is any museum-goer ever asked to add their two cents, or colorful stickers, in this instance?  Most of the time we're told, Do Not Touch The Objects.  But here we were enthusiastically encouraged to slap on our stickers wherever we wanted.  It was fun.  And Ed even sat down and played at the colorful Kusama piano.  But after I learned that Kusama's mental illness had led her to want to be obliterated, to obliterate herself, my reaction to this exhibit is more complex and nuanced.  And I suspect yours would be, too.

Infinity Mirrors at the same exhibit.  So mesmerizing I didn't want to leave after the guard told me my 20 seconds in the room was up.  

Thank you!

This morning in the WSJ Bob Greene writes "I Actually Thanked a Teacher."  He's writing about picking up the phone and thanking his first-grade teacher, Miss Ruoff., who is now 88, and long retired.

After explaining why she was so important to him--she taught him to read Look, his first word--he tells her that he's sure many other men and women, now grown, must have called to thank her over the years.

"None," she said.  "No one ever has." 

It reminded me of calling one of my teachers--Sherry Billings, my speech coach--and thanking her.  But it also reminded me of thanking a artist, Robert McCauley.  My husband and I had bought one of his paintings of a bear.  It was a perfect fit for our place in Montana where we'd had a bear in the house once.  McCauley's painting of the bear gives the bear personality,  In many of his bear paintings he includes a microphone to facilitate communication.  So he can hear what the bear has to say and vice versa. 

I was so thrilled with the painting that I wrote him a thank you note, and invited him to stop in and see his painting front and center in our home the next time he was in Montana.

Robert--we're now on a first name basis--was floored by my thank you note and invitation.  He said that in the four plus decades he'd been painting he could count on one of his dog's paws how many times he'd been thanked for his work.   

I was dumbstruck.  People acquire his art work, hang it in their homes or offices, and never reach out to the artist in appreciation? 

It's another reminder of a important lesson I learned from my mom.  "Thank yous are never too plentiful," said Babe. 

The Passing Hello --Sewanee University

Before visiting the campus today, I read about "The Passing Hello."    This is where Sewanee students, faculty, and residents tend to greet one another on the street even if they are complete strangers.  I read that you would be hard pressed to make it from your dorm to the dining hall without exchanging at least a few passing hellos.

I loved the idea when I read it, and wondered if the four of us--my husband and myself, my husband's sister and her husband--would qualify for a few passing hellos.  Sure enough, as we wandered from the science building, to the chapel, and the cafeteria almost everyone greeted us with a smile, a hello.  It was lovely, and so simple, and civil. 

i wonder if it would be possible to transfer this lovely, simple, friendly idea to my community in Southern California?  Maybe if not the entire community, at least my neighborhood?  Or, I can start with my street, my neighbors.  I see it now ""The Passing Hello" on Broad Beach Road.  I'll put a note in everyone's mailbox, and stay posted.   I'll let you know how it works out.  And maybe you can try it in your community.

Attending--and Evacuating!--the Masters

Many weeks ago, Myrta, my husband's sister, informed us that we'd won the Lottery!  

No, not that Lottery where you win millions of dollars.  Instead we'd won the golf lottery--4 tickets to the Masters, the biggest event in golf, played at the most beautiful course in golf in Augusta, Georgia.   Now I know next to nothing about golf--I can't tell a birdie from a bogey--but I had caught bits of the Masters on TV, so I know it's beautiful: All those acres of the greenest grass and those clusters of gorgeous azaleas.

My husband, Ed, and I flew from our place near LAX to Washington DC to South Carolina, to join Myrta and her husband, Dave.  We had tickets for Wednesday for the practice round, which the 4 of us agreed was even better than tournament day.  Because practice day would be more relaxed, less crowded, we'd be able to see more,

On Wednesday morning we drove out of Myrta and Dave's driveway at 6 am to make it Augusta by 9 AM.  We'd packed raincoats because of weather alerts--rains, 2" hail, thunderstorms, lightning, even tornados.  In spite of the alarming weather reports, we were in high spirits.  We figured we'd get to see most of the practice round because rain wasn't predicted until the afternoon,

Along with thousands of others--most carrying a umbrella--we passed through the Masters-TSA screening devices around 9:30--no cell phones, no large bags--and marveled at how well organized everything was.  But because of the recent cold spell, the clumps of pink azaleas, at least the ones near the North entrance, looked freshly planted from a nursery.  

Everywhere there were serious Weather Warning signs.  The signs read: 

Suspension of play will be signaled by the sounding of an air horn or similar alert.  You should seek shelter immediately upon hearing the alert. 

The four of us made  it past the main clubhouse, the concession stand where a hundred people waited for coffee, and to the first tee.  We walked to the second green, and across to the ninth.  We were as happy as little kids allowed into a super-special event at the circus, and that's exactly when the horn sounded!  At 10:00 the horn blared with an announcement for everyone to evacuate!  So we turned around and started out, as did tens of thousands of other disappointed fans.  No one had a choice.  As we were walking out, I said, I wonder if the organizers over-reacted? The weather report said the rain isn't supposed to start until 2:15. We'd flown clear across the country to attend the Masters, and we'd gotten to see exactly 30 minutes?

I was also surprised at how orderly, mannerly, courteous, quiet and civilized the evacuation was.  No one said, Hell, no! I won't go!  I bought my expensive ticket and I'm staying!  You can drag me out.  And just as we made our way back to our car, it started raining.

On our way to our next destination--Nashville--the rains were pounding down so hard it was creating almost impossible driving conditions.  The car directly in front of us had the best safety trick in such low visibility:  he was driving the freeway with his emergency red lights flashing, and then we copied him.  Later, we weren't surprised to learn there had been almost 2 inches of rain in Augusta that afternoon.

I walked on the fabled greens at Augusta, and though I still know next to nothing about golf, I get golf bragging rights because I can say, I was at the Masters.  If only for 30 minutes. 

19th century (female) doilies turned into 21st century (male) art?

I was dumbstruck today at the Renswick Gallery in Washington, D.C., when I came across a larger than life-size "figure" by Rick Cave called Soundsuit.   The art is made of numerous, colorful doilies of all sizes and shapes sewed onto a life-like shape.

My grandmother, Josie, a woman born in the 19th century, used to crochet doilies exactly like the ones the artist used.  I wondered how she'd feel if she were still alive and she came upon this work of art?  Would she be proud or puzzled, ashamed or flattered?

And I also wondered from where did the artist get his hands on this treasure trove of handmade lacey doilies?  From the older women in his family? 

And I bristled a bit at the idea of what was always a woman's hand work turned into a man's art?   I don't want to be part of the gender wars, but I would probably have embraced this work of art more warmly if it had been done by a woman.

Crossword Puzzles

I was telling a friend about my crossword puzzle work.  

I don't do crossword puzzles.  I don't understand them, all their obtuse clues--Bestselling Michale Buble album--make my eyes glaze over, and all those blank squares waiting-to-be-filled-in make me tense.  So why every morning am I cutting these puzzles out of the newspapers we get delivered--The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, the Los Angeles Times--and  decorating them with stickers?  I wait until I have a pretty big pile and I stuff the whole bunch into a colorful envelope--turquoise, pink, orange--and send it to my niece in El Paso. 

"That's a random act of kindness," said Johnnie, bequeathing unto me a huge, unexpected compliment out of the blue.

I hadn't thought much about my crossword puzzle "work;"  and I hadn't labeled it one way or other.  About a year ago, my husband and I were visiting Chris, my nephew, and his wife, Jennifer, and somehow she mentioned about loving to do crossword puzzles.  She said they help her relax.  As the 30-something mother of two young boys, I could see how some relaxation, just for her, could be helpful.  She also said that she never gets any mail in her mailbox.  It would be fun for a change to get some mail.  

I had been so uninterested in crossword puzzles that I'd been oblivious to their existence.  I hadn't realized most newspapers carry them regularly, daily.   As soon as we got back home, I noticed crossword puzzles everywhere.  In the second section of the Wall Street Journal, the Arts section of the New York Times, even the sub-par Los Angeles Times has a crossword puzzle. 

Every morning I started tearing out the puzzles, and because I wanted Jennifer to remember me,  just a little, as she was solving the puzzles, I decorated them.  Depending on the season, and what stickers I had on hand, I glued on stars, pumpkins or Christmas trees.  I was careful only to put on the stickers where they wouldn't interfere with the puzzle.  

Jennifer said getting my colorful envelope was the highlight of her week.  That might be hyperbole.  But still nice.  She said that when she went away, she'd take the envelope on the plane and it was her way to relax.

When I started tearing, clipping, decorating, and mailing these puzzles I had no way of knowing that this activity would assume the quality of a daily zen ritual, and also send a message: We may live 1,000 miles apart, but I think of you daily, Jennifer, and I care about you.

I certainly had no way of realizing that once I started, I wouldn't stop.  And I had no way of knowing that my friend, Johnnie, would say, This is a random act of kindness.

The Lady in Red

Jo in red in New Zealand recently.  Ed, also in red, taking the photo.

Yesterday Flavio, my trainer, said, "You're the lady in red.  Do you like that song?"

I didn't know what he was talking about.  Lady in Red?  I'd never heard it.

While I'm doing my neck exercises,  Flav starts playing the song, and explains that he and fiancee dance at home (he's Brazilian), and when that song came on his playlist, he told his fiancee that it reminds him of me.  She said, What, are you in love with her?  And he said, No,  Jo always wear red.  She's the lady in red.

Right then at the gym I was wearing a red striped top and my glasses with red frames.  I asked Flav if he knew that I wore a red dress when I married?  He said, Yes.  I didn't mention that when my late husband died, I'd worn a flaming red Norma Kamali coat to his memorial service.

"You're always wearing red," said Flavio, who mostly sees me at GOLDs, the gym in Venice.

The genesis of my affair with red was undoubtedly because of Babe, my mother.  When she was pregnant with my sister she wore a a striking ruby red maternity dress with pleats that flared from the neckline all the way to the hem. I was nine and I've never forgotten when she leaned over the flowing crimson cascade of red pleats.  It ever there was a power-red dress, that was it.

I'm leaving for D.C. next week, our nation's power center where most people day and night will be wearing black.  Dull, fade-into-the crowd, black, widow's black.  You'll be able to spot me:  I'll be the Lady in Red.

Helicoptering to Milford Sound

Wandering on a glacier!

Yesterday Ed and I took the obligatory tourist helicopter ride from Queenstown to Milford Sound.  After helicoptering around New Zealand for 2 weeks, the 2+ hour helicopter-ride above Fiordland National Park didn't seem quite so magical.

Until. Our helicopter landed on a glacier high on an alpine peak!  That was crazy-wonderful.  Our pilot shut off the plane engine and told us we could wander on the glacier as long as we stayed close to the helicopter, and didn't go near the cracks in the ice, which could be deep.

My husband, who'd been jittery in the small 4-passenger helicopter we'd used for heli-fishing and heli-hiking, found the larger 7-passenger model more stable, less turbulent, less scary.  But still, his palms were sweating!

Ed Warren on a glacier high above Milford Sound.

Helicopter-Hiking, New Zealand

When my husband and I signed up for a trip to New Zealand, the option to do heli-hiking caught my attention.  I love to hike, and to be dropped into a totally remote, untouched area, miles from anywhere seemed like a dream come true.

Years ago I had a friend who went helicopter-skiing in British Columbia, and at the time I thought that sounded elitist.  I mean, there's a lot of ski opportunities in British Columbia without resorting to heli-skiing.  But in New Zealand there are many spectacular mountain areas that are only accessible by helicopter, so this seemed like a practical option.

When I mentioned--okay, gushed--to friends, non-hikers, that I'd be helicopter-hiking, the unanimous response was: that will put you on at the top of the mountain.  Cool!  Then you don't have to walk up!

But seasoned hikers know that walking down is the hardest, most stressful part.  And in New Zealand helicopters don't put you in at the tippy-top, the summit of a mountain.  As Dion Mathewson, the pilot of the R40, the 4-passenger Robinson helicopter at Cedar Lodge, explained, "There are no tracks [trails] up there, and the slope is mostly scree."

I just had a quintessential helicopter-hiking experience in a remote area called Boundary Creek, near Lake Wanaka. It turned out to be my best day in nature--ever.

Ready for an adventure with Ket. 

In the morning Dion flew Ket Hazledine, my guide, and myself into Boundary Creek, and dropped us into a valley in the middle of nowhere, exactly like I'd imagined.  With the propeller still whirling, he said he'd be back for us at 4, 4:30--about 6 hours later.  The valley floor was crisscrossed with streams and spectacular mountain ranges rose on all sides. We hiked toward a waterfall through a swampy, muddy marshland. Each step took enormous effort--to place your foot safely where the land seemed secure and then to lift your foot up from the oozing mud and find another safe place to put it down.

But the sight of the waterfall with no one else around was worth wading through the swampy creekbed for over an hour.

The crisscrossed streams and mountain ranges.

Made it to the first waterfall.

Next, we crisscrossed the creek, often wading in freezing mountain water up to our knees, 60 plus times, until we reached the second waterfall.  Ket called this one "Spectacular," and it was.  To reach such a glorious sight, untouched in nature, unnamed on a map, is a once-in-lifetime hiking experience.  And it was available to us only because we got helicoptered into a remote valley.  At the top of the 70' vertical drop, there was no viewing ledge with a protective guard rail for tourists because there were no tourists.  There was also no green and yellow government sign like at all other hiking tracks in New Zealand because this waterfall is off the charts.

The "spectacular" second waterfall.

Camped on rocks, and wearing raincoats, we ate lunch, while getting sprayed by the cool mist of the waterfall.  I was having my best day in nature--ever.  Thanks to the R40 helicopter.

Enjoying the cool mist of the waterfall.

Huka Falls, Taupo, New Zealand

I am a waterfall junkie.
I love everything about them, so first thing after we checked into the Huka Lodge, my husband and I immediately rushed to walk the 10 minutes to the Famous Huka Falls.

I stood on the bridge and watched as the falls powered with hydroelectric force down the river, and I have to admit my first impression was--That's it?
I was expecting to be blown away by the falls.  Instead the famous Huka Falls seemed dinky.  I'm used to spectacular waterfalls in Montana that have stupendously stunning vertical drops of 100 feet or more.  Or the super-wide falls at places like Ousel near Big Sky.

On the other hand, the color of the rushing waters here--turquoise!--is unexpected and spectacular!   I'm sure someone will accuse me of photoshopping, but I haven't touched the extraordinary gem-like color.

And the sheer force of the current is sobering.  This is not a place to mosey down to the shoreline to get a closer view, a tighter photo, of the rapids.  The speed of the roaring, rushing waters demands respect.

Then yesterday Toby came for us, and landed his helicopter on the front lawn of the lodge.  (That was pretty exciting.  Another guest commented that I was jumping up and down with excitement.) The first thing the pilot did was swoop low and hover along the river.  Viewing the Huka River from above gave us a feeling of its breadth and majesty that was lacking when we stood on the viewing bridge, shoulder to shoulder with other tourists.

Viewed from above, I understood and appreciated the glory of the famous Huka Falls.

Cranberry Bread

Cranberry Bread, makes 1 - 9”x5” loaf

 This is special and festive enough for the holidays.
I also like to make a special bread with cranberries. Taking advantage of the cranberry’s availability, I’ve made this in the spring. As in my cranberry conserve recipe, this also features cranberries with oranges.

Ingredients:
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 ½ teaspoons of baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt (optional)
¼ cup shortening
¼ cup orange juice—fresh from the orange
1 tablespoon grated orange rind
1 egg, beaten
1 cup chopped nuts
2 cups coarsely chopped cranberries

1. Mix together the flour, baking powder, soda, and salt, if you’re using. Cut in the shortening.
2. In a small bowl, combine orange juice and grated rind with the beaten egg. Pour the liquid into the dry ingredients to dampen.
3. Add nuts and cranberries. The cranberries should be barely chopped. You want their special effect in the bread to be of bright spots of festive color, rather than a blanket of solid color.
4. Grease the pans well (extra shortening). Push the mixture into the pan evenly and let it rest while oven heats to 350 degrees F. Bake for 60 minutes, or until toothpick comes out clean and dry.
5. Gently release the loaf from the pan… often breads like this will taste better when they are a day old, but I wouldn’t know. This gets eaten the first night at my house.

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This is a recipe from my book The Good Food Compendium - An indispensable guide to sensible nutrition and eating pleasures for those who care about fine fare and wholesome living.

Seattle Clam Chowder

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Seattle Clam Chowder, serves 8

When I was growing up in the Pacific Northwest, a special family weekend included clamming for goey ducks (a big clam used in chowders) very early in the morning and returning in time for a fried clam breakfast. As little kids, we used to wait until the very last moment to race the tide back in; part of the thrill of clamming was that we sometimes got stranded out too far, up to our waist in water, and had to rescued. On my return visits to Seattle, I try to include a clamming expedition.
My version differs from many traditional recipes in that there is no cream and no bacon. I guarantee this is so delicious these ingredients are not missed.

Ingredients:
48 clams, chowder or razor
2 cups clam broth
1 ½ pounds potatoes
3 tablespoons margarine or butter
1 cup chopped onion
3 cups skim milk
Salt and pepper
Steps:

1. Clean clam shells of sand and place in a large pot with 2” of water. Bring to a rolling boil until clams open (It is also possible to purchase clams already shelled. If you are so lucky, proceed immediately to Step 3. If they have not come with enough of their own liquid make up the difference with store bought clam juice).
2. Drain the clams and strain the liquid through a cheesecloth to filter out sand particles. The liquid should be about 2 cups. With a sharp knife, remove the clams from their shells.
3. Put clams in a blender or food processor to chop coarsely.
4. Cut peeled potatoes into bite-sized chunks.
5. In the margarine or butter, brown the chopped onions in a large kettle, Add the clam broth, potatoes, chopped clams. Simmer for 35 minutes.
6. Add milk and salt and pepper to taste. Bring to a boil and serve hot.

This freezes well. During the winter, I often double or triple this recipe so I have something warm on hand when friends drop in unexpectedly.

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This is a recipe from my book The Good Food Compendium - An indispensable guide to sensible nutrition and eating pleasures for those who care about fine fare and wholesome living.

Traffic!

Before we left for Montana this June the NYT had an article about the most dangerous things people do around the country.  In Los Angeles the people who were interviewed said that the scariest, most dangerous thing they did was drive.  I agreed completely.  

In LA one has to be super-hypervigilant, always on the look-out for the other driver, who is probably using their cell phone.  These distracted drivers obviously haven't read Matt Richter's brilliant book A Deadly Wandering about the tragic consequences of texting-while-driving, or even using-the-phone-while-driving.

The 405 on a typical day in LA traffic.

When you take into account how crowded the roads have become, how much the traffic has increased, how frustrating it is that it takes so much longer to get anywhere, it's not surprising when people are road ragers.

So, it's no wonder after a summer spent driving the tranquil, pastoral, rural roads of Montana, a big sky, wide open place with less than a million people in the entire state, I felt rattled when I returned to LA highways.  I look around me and think:  Where did all these people come from, and all these cars?

I've heard recently about people who have left LA because they can't stand the traffic.  I'm not there.  Yet.   

The road to our home in Montana.  

THEFT-ROBBERY-STEAL!

FOUR YEARS AGO—2012

Four years ago while we were doing a major remodel of our house, because of the drought we yanked out the water-guzzling white Simplicity roses that grew in the strip next to the sidewalk.  We replanted the strip with drought-tolerant succulents.  Instead of the usual monochromatic gray-green palette you think of as a succulent garden, we ended up with a profusion of colors—golds, oranges, pinks, even reds.  

The little sidewalk strip— think quasi public area--had curb appeal and attracted attention.  People stopped to photograph it, probably thinking they would do something similar after they ripped out their water-thirsty lawns.  

The new drought-tolerant garden had barely been in a month when one morning I went out to get the newspapers, and I noticed dirt splattered on the sidewalk.  Looking closer, I realized that some of the prized rosette succulents had been dug out.  Stolen.  Taken.   Robbed.  There were fresh holes where the day before there had been five gorgeous pink-gray rosettes, just beginning to take root,  grow and thrive.  I felt violated.  Is nothing safe?  

Is nothing sacred?  

These pretty plants aren’t pricey, nor are they rare, and they are easy to find in any local nursery.  I guess someone thought they were even easier to find in my garden.

I started talking to neighbors, asking if they had experienced a plant robbery?  A few had.  They suggested it was the work of gardeners who dig up the plants and resell them.  Robbery and fraud.

Another friend, Shelby, who has owned a nursery, said, “People have a sense of entitlement.  If the garden isn’t behind a fence, or in your backyard, but out front, in public, then people think they’re entitled to take a plant.  Plant theft is pretty common."

I contemplated writing an article for our local newspaper.  I thought about posting a sign: Do Not Trespass.  Private Garden.  Paws Off!  Security Camera.  Shelby suggested a sign that said, Take One; Replant One.

My husband said a sign would call even more attention to the garden.

Perhaps I should take it as flattery, a compliment.  Someone appreciated the garden enough to steal part of it.

When I was younger if something of mine was taken, I’d shrug it off: That person must have needed it more than I did. I wouldn’t fret over it or worry about it.  Except for the jade ring with the golden dragons on the side that I'd inherited from my grandmother.  When I was 13 someone stole that treasure from the saucer in the bathroom at our house.  

But when plants are stolen, I do not feel someone needs them more than me.  I’ve selected them, planted them, fertilized them, nursed them along, hand-watered them (sparingly), and enjoyed them.

TWO YEARS AGO—2014

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Two years later, again under the cover of night, someone with a large shovel dug up four firesticks.  A firestick, I learned, is a stunning plant that turns yellow, orange, and then red.  Our mature, two-year-olds, were almost four- five-feet tall.  They welcomed me every time I came up the street and turned in our driveway.  This time the robber left deep, messy holes where the colorfully flamboyant firesticks had been growing so happily. 

I thought again about posting a sign; Hands off! Do not stead my stuff!"

But isn’t that ugly, angry harsh tone the exact opposite of what the gentle pleasure and quiet beauty of a garden is all about?  And I didn’t want to see such a nasty sign when I walked by the garden.

LAST NIGHT—2016

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Last night it happened. Again.  There were three plants that had never done well; they were just barely hanging on.  I thought maybe they needed more water.  So, every time I returned home and had extra water left in the bottle in my car, I’d sprinkle the three plants, and they started to respond!  One sprouted up to 24,” the other two were on their way.   

This morning I noticed telltale dirt carelessly splattered on the sidewalk.  At first, I thought a dog had been digging around, kicking out dirt. Then I looked closer, and one of my hand-watered, lovingly hand-grown succulents had been robbed.

I’m disappointed and disgusted.  One friend suggested that I care less.  I thought about yanking out all the plants and putting in ugly black gravel.  Take that, you thieves.

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And I question, Who are these thieves anyway?  Because the gardeners on our street usually are long gone by 5 o’clock at night.  This crappy, callous behavior shows a lack of respect, a lack of knowing what’s right and wrong.  And I wonder if my carefully tended plants—my green pets--are shriveling up and dying in their new environment, wherever it is.

What is one to do?  These thefts put me in a bad, irritable mood, and my friends are usually complimenting me on my positive, optimistic attitude.

THE MORAL OF THE STORY

The moral of this story is that the plant thefts are a metaphor for injustices in life:  the thievery isn’t right, it’s immoral. Although the plant thefts leave me feeling shattered and destabilized—how dare they?--I will not give the thieves the power to rain on my parade.  And the robbers are inheriting the bad karma they are creating for themselves. So, after getting over the shock of the robbery, I’ll keep enjoying a positive attitude about life, and keep planting, and replanting, if necessary.  Maybe someone, somewhere, sometime will have a streak of consciousness and will even return some of the plants.

Poppy seed dressing

Poppy seed dressing, makes 2 cups

This simple, show-stopper is delightful served chilled over fruit salads. The grated onion and mustard combination can fool people’s palates. Some guests have guessed it has coconut in it. The traditional southern recipe calls for so much sugar, it’s like dripping candy over fresh fruit. This version keeps the essence of a good poppy seed dressing, but does away with its excesses.

Ingredients:
2 tablespoons mustard
1 cup of oil
⅓ cup of red wine vinegar
⅓ cup sugar or honey
⅓ medium onion, grated (a red onion gives a reddish tinge to the dressing)
2 tablespoons poppy seed.
Steps:

Mix well the mustard, oil, vinegar and sweetener in a food processor or blender. Add the onion and poppy seed. The onion is one of the crucial ingredients. Too much makes this taste oniony. Be careful.

I have made this in large batches and saved it in my refrigerator for 6 months and it improves with age.

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This is a recipe from my book The Good Food Compendium - An indispensable guide to sensible nutrition and eating pleasures for those who care about fine fare and wholesome living.

Beach-Walking

Last night was a full moon, and so this afternoon was one of those rare extreme low tides.  A -0.5 tide.  It's an invitation beckoning one to take a beach-walk. 

Once I stepped foot on the windy beach, everyone I encountered was happy--happy to be walking on the soft damp sand, way out into the Pacific, happy to be saying hello to our neighbors.  

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Lynn, my sister-in-law, suggested it was perfect conditions to find treasures.  Often on this beach I find beautiful stones--a solid stone with an uninterupted band of white encircling it.  A stone a friend has named Lucky Stone because you can make a wish on it and the wish will come true. 

 There were no found treasures today but treasures of another sort found me.   Anne Morrow Lindbergh in Gift From The Sea writes: The beach is not the place to work; to read, write or think.  I couldn't agree more.   It is a place to breathe in the kelpy sea air, to marvel at the pelicans flying in perfect formation overhead, to get lazy along with the rolling of the waves.  I end up glowing.

Spiced Crab Apples

This is great for Fall when sweet, pretty, miniature crab apples start showing up in the produce department. From Dr. George York of the University of Southern California at Davis, I got the following advice on how to make spiced crab apples. This has several steps, but it’s mostly passive: you do one step and then wait. Don’t be put off by the multiple steps. It’s worth it.

Ingredients:

Crab Apples

Salt

Vinegar

Sugar

GInger

Cinnamon

Cloves

Optional: Canned beet juice

Steps:

Place crab apples in a salt solution of 1 quart water and 2 tablespoons salt for 2-3 days to allow better penetration of the vinegar mixture. Make enough salt solution to cover the amount of crab apples you are spicing.

After 3 days, remove the fruit and rinse with water. Make 2.5 percent vinegar solution. Since household vinegar is 5 percent. Dilute it with water, i.e. 1 quart vinegar to 1 quart water. Add fruit to vinegar solution.

Add sugar to mixture. You add as much sugar as you have vinegar. If you have used 1 quart of vinegar (4 cups), add 4 cups of sugar. If your hackles go up at the thought of adding this amount of sugar, remember what we’re concocting here isn’t going to be served as a main course, but as a garnish with perhaps one small apple per person. Heat mixture about 5 minutes until apples begin to soften. Cool.

Add spices such as ginger, cinnamon and cloves. Taste for seasoning.

Let sit in refrigerator for 5-7 days. This can either be eaten or used immediately. If you want a brighter red color, use juice from canned beets to color; this is a matter of personal preference since the naturally colored golden-red apples are also nice.

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This is a recipe from my book The Good Food Compendium - An indispensable guide to sensible nutrition and eating pleasures for those who care about fine fare and wholesome living.

Babe’s Clam Dip

BABE’S CLAM DIP, MAKES 2 CUPS

This is a modest, 1950s recipe, which my mother made as long as I can remember. No family reunion was complete unless Babe brought her clam dip. Mom always used cream cheese and probably thought it heresy to make it any other way, but hoop cheese (a West Coast term for Farmer Cheese or soft cottage cheese made with less than 1 percent fat) works too, although the texture is different. WIth cream cheese you get a stiffer dip that goes well with crackers or celery; with hoop cheese it ends up with a softer consistency.

Ingredients:

16 ounces of hoop cheese or farmer cheese, or 16 ounces of cream cheese

1 (12 ounce) can minced clams, drained (may used some of the clam juice)

Worcestershire sauce

Tabasco

Paprika

Optional: small cherry tomatoes, scoop out, and fill with dip.

Steps

1. Place the cheese of your choice in the blender or food processor. Add the drained minced clams and blend until smooth. If you need liquid, add some of the clam juice.
2. When well blended, spike with as much Worcestershire and Tabasco sauce as you like.
3. Refrigerate overnight so the flavors have a chance to penetrate. When the dip is room temperature and soft, fill tomatoes and sprinkle paprika on top.

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This is a recipe from my book The Good Food Compendium - An indispensable guide to sensible nutrition and eating pleasures for those who care about fine fare and wholesome living.