i love my enchilada recipe; it brings back memories of a hot summer kitchen, my dear friend nathan and his boyfriend at the time, federico. federico was a chef in mexico city, and spoke very limited english, so nathan translated whole meal preparation, since we were in my kitchen.
it was an ongoing chatter--federico asking for a colander, nathan translating, me fetching. the kitchen was humid and sticky, full of the fresh snap of cilantro and mellow garlic.
it was the first time i'd used tomatillos--dried husks peeling off, we boiled them until green faded to yellow, and then tossed them in the blender with onions and serrano peppers. the resulting sauce was poured over two warmed corn tortillas full of steamed chicken, covered in sour cream and cheese and lettuce, and garnished with avocado.
the food was hot enough to leave your mouth tingling, your lips feeling flushed and swollen; cold coronas tasted divine.
i've made the recipe since that august many times. added too many peppers one time and it was nearly inedible.
last saturday night at spoon's house we made enchiladas--the kind you stuff and bake. she used flour tortillas, and a meat substitute called "quorn" that was so good you honestly could not tell the difference between that and chicken. i made the sauce; sarah stuffed the enchiladas. the resulting dish was delicious--flour shells curling around tasty filling, verdant sauce spilling onto the plate. lovely.
so last night i decided i would make the same for my lunches this week. i spent a good hour and a half in the kitchen, making the filling and sauce, boiling and chopping and blending. i rolled and stuffed, dumped sauce over the top and sprinkled with cheese. the pan was full and in my opinion, looked delicious.
what emerged from my oven later appeared tantalizing as well. the cheese had crisped and browned on top. i let it cool and then dug in, separating out amounts for lunches this week.
and that, my friends, is when my meal went from wonderful to FEMA qualified.
i didn't have the neat enchiladas of saturday evening; i had a mound of enchilada filling mixed with disintegrated corn tortilla.
today at lunch when i dumped the mixture onto my plate, it smelled just like that august dinner from years ago. i covered it in sour cream and lettuce. from the outside, it looked the same, too.
but when i dug into it, it did not taste quite the same.
it wasn't my ingredients--those were all the same. the difference was in the texture of the food concealed beneath toppings and cheese.
last year at this time i was still struggling with truths that i didn't want to face. all the ingredients--the people, the emotions--they were all things i had experienced before. but presented in a different light, they were raw and unsavory.
i think for a long time i garnished the truth so that it would be palatable, edible, you name it. i wanted it all to be the same. i didn't want to imagine that what i was removing from the oven was anything other than wonderful, was anything painful.
my lunch-shaped lump of enchiladas went in the garbage half way through today. i'll probably try the other lunches but i don't have my hopes up; i know now what lies beneath the greenery and dairy. i've got the option to chuck the whole batch, start over some other time. it's a waste of money and time, true enough. and i'm struggling with that, small as it may be.
but the result doesn't have to be hidden. the result doesn't have to be the end result. i can change--my emotions, my path, my enchilada recipe. the change i made last night to my recipe didn't turn out quite as intended. i need to tinker with it.
make it better.
because glossing over the disaster that is my enchiladas isn't going to make them any tastier.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Friday, June 23, 2006
grief and your basic potted plant
i got a pot of impatiens last week. not that i don't have a planter, seeds and soil in the garage...but they're seeds. they need time to germinate and grow, and then eventually bloom. and it's almost july.
in minnesota, 1/3 of summer is dashing away. so starting plants from scratch just doesn't seem feasible.
henry stared at the patio with a tail the size of my grandma's rolling pin for a good half hour after i put the pot out there. the flowers are light lavender colored, some darker pink. it's just a nice spot of color. of course to him it's an interloper, and he was panicked and prepped for business.
i'm not sure why the flowers are called impatiens. i suppose i could search on google or something akin, but i'm just not up to the task today--i don't feel like reading latin plant names, or thinking of flora in general.
this week i'm remembering a few years ago, when my cat quinn died--died as impatiently as she lived, or perhaps as patiently. cats don't seem to be very patient creatures--at least my two, yowling in the morning when their canned food isn't on the floor as quick as they'd like. at the same time, i've seen shiva wait by my pillow for hours while i'm sleeping intermittently on a saturday morning, just for the stir of an eyelid.
i miss the smell of honey in between quinn's shoulder blades, the way she cuddled into your body, her little purr. i've got two new purrs in my house since then. i guess sometimes i'm just impatient to see my quinn again.
that said, i see her every day, in the graceful leaps and twirls of my other furry companions.
***
i had an attack of curiosity last week. suddenly just HAD to know what serena was doing now. i searched and found her site, read a little bit of it.
the thing that struck me was that it was just a brochure for a life--this is what i'm doing.
no feelings, no response beyond the shallow pool of necessary motions. at least not shared.
sharing things is what links you to another being--it's what i miss when i remember my cat, or my grandpa, or corey. i saw it yesterday when cari said she loved to drive, that she'd gotten that love of driving from her mom. it's the sharing of your burden, the sharing of another person's burden, the compassion and comprehension.
it annoys me, like a mosquito in a quiet summer bedroom, that serena doesn't seem to feel. or that she doesn't seem to share. or that she never shared, or that she did, and i didn't notice.
no one asks about her at work anymore. no one bothers me about what she's up to. it's somewhat of a relief, because i'm not constantly bombarded by the panic of not knowing how much to say.
i can be as curious as any National Enquirer reporter, and just as nosy. i know this, because if i'm honest with myself, i like to know these things about other people. i don't want to pry--i don't want to poke. but i don't mind knowing, either.
this impatient need to know--the burning desire to see if she missed anyone here--that is what caught me offguard. was it grief? do i grieve for someone who, at this point, i feel cared less about me than my cat?
***
right after the car accident, cari's dad was hospitalized and in serious condition, and she had to deal with that in addition to relatives and funerary rites. for a long time, she said she felt like she was in a bubble--her "god-bubble," she called it. protected her until she could deal with her own emotions, allowed her to function when she had to.
at some point we were on the phone, talking about the struggle of living without someone you care about. she was challenged daily to keep going, and not just sit down and cry.
i had an epiphany, at that point. i could remember the grief i felt, after corey died--how it would suddenly appear, lightning on a cloudless day.
"cari," i said. "i think grief is like gas."
"gas?" she asked.
"yes, gas. now go with me on this. when you have gas you're uncomfortable; you're perhaps afraid that you'll embarass yourself in a public place. sometimes you let fly and you really DO embarass yourself. but at the same time that you're ashamed, you're relieved a bit from the uncomfortable feeling from before."
"kim," she said, "you're the only person i know who would compare grief to methane, and make it work."
i feel often like i'm grieving for things that i am not sure i miss. i was ashamed that i just HAD to know what was going on with serena, in the same way that paparrazi peek into Brangelina's bassinet. and at the same time, the glimpse i got of her life was relief. as impatient as i was with myself for being so impatient, for not being able to let it go--i learned that i had to be patient with myself because this whole life thing is a process, and i certainly can't jump ahead of that process.
henry, now that he's over his initial terror of the white pot with bright blossoms, now sits and watches birds, just like he did before the flowers arrived: pressed into carpet, chittering at the birds as they pick at seed. patience where there was impatience; peace where there was grief.
in minnesota, 1/3 of summer is dashing away. so starting plants from scratch just doesn't seem feasible.
henry stared at the patio with a tail the size of my grandma's rolling pin for a good half hour after i put the pot out there. the flowers are light lavender colored, some darker pink. it's just a nice spot of color. of course to him it's an interloper, and he was panicked and prepped for business.
i'm not sure why the flowers are called impatiens. i suppose i could search on google or something akin, but i'm just not up to the task today--i don't feel like reading latin plant names, or thinking of flora in general.
this week i'm remembering a few years ago, when my cat quinn died--died as impatiently as she lived, or perhaps as patiently. cats don't seem to be very patient creatures--at least my two, yowling in the morning when their canned food isn't on the floor as quick as they'd like. at the same time, i've seen shiva wait by my pillow for hours while i'm sleeping intermittently on a saturday morning, just for the stir of an eyelid.
i miss the smell of honey in between quinn's shoulder blades, the way she cuddled into your body, her little purr. i've got two new purrs in my house since then. i guess sometimes i'm just impatient to see my quinn again.
that said, i see her every day, in the graceful leaps and twirls of my other furry companions.
***
i had an attack of curiosity last week. suddenly just HAD to know what serena was doing now. i searched and found her site, read a little bit of it.
the thing that struck me was that it was just a brochure for a life--this is what i'm doing.
no feelings, no response beyond the shallow pool of necessary motions. at least not shared.
sharing things is what links you to another being--it's what i miss when i remember my cat, or my grandpa, or corey. i saw it yesterday when cari said she loved to drive, that she'd gotten that love of driving from her mom. it's the sharing of your burden, the sharing of another person's burden, the compassion and comprehension.
it annoys me, like a mosquito in a quiet summer bedroom, that serena doesn't seem to feel. or that she doesn't seem to share. or that she never shared, or that she did, and i didn't notice.
no one asks about her at work anymore. no one bothers me about what she's up to. it's somewhat of a relief, because i'm not constantly bombarded by the panic of not knowing how much to say.
i can be as curious as any National Enquirer reporter, and just as nosy. i know this, because if i'm honest with myself, i like to know these things about other people. i don't want to pry--i don't want to poke. but i don't mind knowing, either.
this impatient need to know--the burning desire to see if she missed anyone here--that is what caught me offguard. was it grief? do i grieve for someone who, at this point, i feel cared less about me than my cat?
***
right after the car accident, cari's dad was hospitalized and in serious condition, and she had to deal with that in addition to relatives and funerary rites. for a long time, she said she felt like she was in a bubble--her "god-bubble," she called it. protected her until she could deal with her own emotions, allowed her to function when she had to.
at some point we were on the phone, talking about the struggle of living without someone you care about. she was challenged daily to keep going, and not just sit down and cry.
i had an epiphany, at that point. i could remember the grief i felt, after corey died--how it would suddenly appear, lightning on a cloudless day.
"cari," i said. "i think grief is like gas."
"gas?" she asked.
"yes, gas. now go with me on this. when you have gas you're uncomfortable; you're perhaps afraid that you'll embarass yourself in a public place. sometimes you let fly and you really DO embarass yourself. but at the same time that you're ashamed, you're relieved a bit from the uncomfortable feeling from before."
"kim," she said, "you're the only person i know who would compare grief to methane, and make it work."
i feel often like i'm grieving for things that i am not sure i miss. i was ashamed that i just HAD to know what was going on with serena, in the same way that paparrazi peek into Brangelina's bassinet. and at the same time, the glimpse i got of her life was relief. as impatient as i was with myself for being so impatient, for not being able to let it go--i learned that i had to be patient with myself because this whole life thing is a process, and i certainly can't jump ahead of that process.
henry, now that he's over his initial terror of the white pot with bright blossoms, now sits and watches birds, just like he did before the flowers arrived: pressed into carpet, chittering at the birds as they pick at seed. patience where there was impatience; peace where there was grief.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
hummingbirds in my veins
my passenger side windsheild wiper flew off my car on thursday. i looked up in time to see it crunch under the tire of the burgundy chevy tahoe behind me.
it was one of those weeks.
not where anything unexpected happens. just where small unsettling things make your nerves feel a bit jangled.
i've got a to-do list for saturday. not sure how much i'll accomplish; just a list.
just a bit under-over-whelmed, for some reason. i'm trying to put my finger on it, but it's like trying to pin down a cloud. my thought process is wandering.
lost sheep, anyone? i've wandered away from the herd. or i'm still camoflauged by the herd, but my wool's dyed green.
just disconnected. it's been a busy week, i'll give it that--one of those weeks that caters to my addled kaleidescope of a brain. too many things going on--but not so much that i can't handle it.
sometimes i see my spotty thought process as a blessing--i'm rarely bored by life. and sometimes, like today, i can sit in retrospect be frustrated by my own distraction.
at cubeland this week i did my job. i typed up an additional training guide for one of our systems, drafted and sent an email regarding a new process, emailed so constantly that i started to wonder if i was being paid to email my own friends.
i had a dream last night that i was cleaning the house in a complete frenzy. when dan asked me to slow down, i told him i couldn't, i had hummingbirds in my veins.
the wiper seems like a physical expression of my thoughts this week: unexpected, unhooked, arching through the air end over end. i can see my blog is following the same frayed pattern, with short sentences and paragraphs.
manic? or just terribly distracted? is there a med for this endless mobius of thought, a medical explanation that sums me up?
"The Ouroboros often represents self-reflexivity or cyclicality, especially in the sense of something constantly re-creating itself, the eternal return, and other things perceived as cycles that begin anew as soon as they end. It can also represent the idea of primordial unity."
nature has its own cycles. i am a product of the natural world; some amoeba in my past crawled out of the primordial ooze and managed to slouch into humanity over a bit of time.
who is going to say that nature is wrong, that the river doesn't run the right course, that the tree is misshapen, that the rabbit runs a jagged journey for no reason?
why is it so horrible that i am so distracted? the avenues it opens for me are often as unexpected as that wiper, and as fleeting as a hummingbird--but they are the natural product of my self.
and where does self end, and the chemical being take over, and be flawed in the eyes of society?
it was one of those weeks.
not where anything unexpected happens. just where small unsettling things make your nerves feel a bit jangled.
i've got a to-do list for saturday. not sure how much i'll accomplish; just a list.
just a bit under-over-whelmed, for some reason. i'm trying to put my finger on it, but it's like trying to pin down a cloud. my thought process is wandering.
lost sheep, anyone? i've wandered away from the herd. or i'm still camoflauged by the herd, but my wool's dyed green.
just disconnected. it's been a busy week, i'll give it that--one of those weeks that caters to my addled kaleidescope of a brain. too many things going on--but not so much that i can't handle it.
sometimes i see my spotty thought process as a blessing--i'm rarely bored by life. and sometimes, like today, i can sit in retrospect be frustrated by my own distraction.
at cubeland this week i did my job. i typed up an additional training guide for one of our systems, drafted and sent an email regarding a new process, emailed so constantly that i started to wonder if i was being paid to email my own friends.
i had a dream last night that i was cleaning the house in a complete frenzy. when dan asked me to slow down, i told him i couldn't, i had hummingbirds in my veins.
the wiper seems like a physical expression of my thoughts this week: unexpected, unhooked, arching through the air end over end. i can see my blog is following the same frayed pattern, with short sentences and paragraphs.
manic? or just terribly distracted? is there a med for this endless mobius of thought, a medical explanation that sums me up?
"The Ouroboros often represents self-reflexivity or cyclicality, especially in the sense of something constantly re-creating itself, the eternal return, and other things perceived as cycles that begin anew as soon as they end. It can also represent the idea of primordial unity."
nature has its own cycles. i am a product of the natural world; some amoeba in my past crawled out of the primordial ooze and managed to slouch into humanity over a bit of time.
who is going to say that nature is wrong, that the river doesn't run the right course, that the tree is misshapen, that the rabbit runs a jagged journey for no reason?
why is it so horrible that i am so distracted? the avenues it opens for me are often as unexpected as that wiper, and as fleeting as a hummingbird--but they are the natural product of my self.
and where does self end, and the chemical being take over, and be flawed in the eyes of society?
Friday, June 09, 2006
pigtails and porn stars
i've got the day off. lots of errands planned. this morning i'm blog surfing while listening to the morning show on 93X, where they're interviewing Mandy Starr, a local porn star.
can you search on monster.com for movie roles like this? or do you find an actual agent?
it makes me wonder what other jobs i could have attempted, if i didn't get into the payroll industry. which is, by the by, quite a sedate and boring business, but one at which i do see all kinds of varied jobs. consultants, exotic dancers, waiters, lab rat attendants, people who make stained glass. it's interesting to see what different people do for a living.
one of the gals at work showed up the other day with her newly dyed bright red locks pulled into pigtails. it looked so cute that when i got home yesterday, i had to put mine up too. my hair's much longer than tish's is.
at what point did i stop wearing my hair in pigtails? how old was i, did i make a decision that pigtails were childish? at what point did i not take the same road as Ms. Starr?
sometimes i look back on the life i've lived and feel that it's so mundane and boring that i don't even want to think about it. i'm a cog in the wheel; i'm a gear, i'm a leg on the table.
then again, if this cog didn't show up every day, things would be difficult. the world wouldn't run the in quite the same pattern. i'm sure that my teammates at work are pulling together just fine, and that it's going to be a normal old friday for them. it's not going to be a life-changing experience to not have me there, but it's not going to be the same, either.
this morning i'm taking a break from my strenuous bitching schedule to appear in blogland. this morning Mandy Starr took a break from her strenous moaning schedule to appear on a radio show with three radio personalities.
what's the difference? i'm sitting here in pigtails, listening to a porn star talk about orgasm-induced foot cramps. two hours from now, what's not to say that she's not sitting in pigtails, reading this blog?
the world really is as small as my parents always postulated it was.
course, that being said, i'm still rather glad that i'm sitting here, in my pigtails, being content in the fact that my job doesn't involve lube or lingerie. it's the little things in life, really.
can you search on monster.com for movie roles like this? or do you find an actual agent?
it makes me wonder what other jobs i could have attempted, if i didn't get into the payroll industry. which is, by the by, quite a sedate and boring business, but one at which i do see all kinds of varied jobs. consultants, exotic dancers, waiters, lab rat attendants, people who make stained glass. it's interesting to see what different people do for a living.
one of the gals at work showed up the other day with her newly dyed bright red locks pulled into pigtails. it looked so cute that when i got home yesterday, i had to put mine up too. my hair's much longer than tish's is.
at what point did i stop wearing my hair in pigtails? how old was i, did i make a decision that pigtails were childish? at what point did i not take the same road as Ms. Starr?
sometimes i look back on the life i've lived and feel that it's so mundane and boring that i don't even want to think about it. i'm a cog in the wheel; i'm a gear, i'm a leg on the table.
then again, if this cog didn't show up every day, things would be difficult. the world wouldn't run the in quite the same pattern. i'm sure that my teammates at work are pulling together just fine, and that it's going to be a normal old friday for them. it's not going to be a life-changing experience to not have me there, but it's not going to be the same, either.
this morning i'm taking a break from my strenuous bitching schedule to appear in blogland. this morning Mandy Starr took a break from her strenous moaning schedule to appear on a radio show with three radio personalities.
what's the difference? i'm sitting here in pigtails, listening to a porn star talk about orgasm-induced foot cramps. two hours from now, what's not to say that she's not sitting in pigtails, reading this blog?
the world really is as small as my parents always postulated it was.
course, that being said, i'm still rather glad that i'm sitting here, in my pigtails, being content in the fact that my job doesn't involve lube or lingerie. it's the little things in life, really.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
hibernation
i'm a bear in reverse.
during the winter, i'm out in force--give me some crunchy snow, a pair of good boots, and a chill wind, and i'm your gal.
anything over 65 degrees, or 70% humidity--and i hibernate.
when it gets too warm i just don't want to leave the house. AC creates a bubble of comfort, in which i curl and relax. it's my own personal den.
for the past week i've been dreading those calls--"do you want to picnic/go for a walk/barbeque?"
blech.
a week ago monday i ventured out to my aunt's house, for a memorial day lunch. of course in minnesota nothing lasts for under two hours--it's all a marathon. the hello period is short...but the good-bye sequence is EPIC. i drove up with my sister and brother in law, waded through the heat into the backyard, and tried to imagine that i wasn't sweating.
of course my sister said she only wanted to be there for a few hours. since we got there at 1 i had high hopes we'd be on the road at 3.
nope. due to the nature of the gathering--familial--there's this unspoken agreement that you'll do certain things while visiting. the following is a guideline, but for the most part, breaking the chain is like breaking some ritual, at which point the powers that be will crash sun into moon and the sky will darken and the earth will quake...blah, blah, blah.
anyway, here's my take on it:
1. arrive 10-20 minutes late, staggering under a salad and/or dessert that you were told not to bring.
2. eat about an hour after the host/hostess originally indicated, listening to your uncle tell off-color jokes about obese women and harpoons.
3. stay and visit--which consists of either playing scrabble, in my family, or cards, or some yard game like bocce ball or croquet.
4. play again, as my sister's a poor loser and cannot fathom how she could have lost the first time.
5. announce that it's about time for you to be heading out.
6. try to beg out of dessert but get stuck in a lemon meringue pie. yuuuuummmm.
7. have ONE MORE cup of coffee and/or iced tea.
8. hug everyone in the room, put on your shoes, and realize that your purse is AWOL.
9. search through the house to locate purse; find purse.
10. on way out, are ambushed by aunt pawning food off on you in re-used cool whip containers.
11. hug everyone in room AGAIN.
12. finally leave at a dead run, scramble into the car ala the dukes of hazard, and burn rubber.
13. get home at 7 pm, four hours later than anticipated, but knew you'd be back then anyway.
when i got home on monday i didn't want to see ANYONE.
for a week.
friends, family, roommates. my cats were even iffy, and they don't even talk.
insult to injury, i've been working far too many hours to be healthy in any given week. this weekend we had the opportunity to go see a movie on saturday night, or go and sit around a fire with friends--neither of which happened, as i was still hibernating in layers of air conditioned comfort, nice organice incense, cat fur and the glow of my new computer monitor.
today dan and i ventured out of the house and actually took a mosquito-infested walk. it wasn't too bad in the shade and i really do like the woods. but it was nice to get home.
i'm not antisocial, really.
it's just summer. and summer, for me, equals weather that makes me feel gunky, and gatherings in said weather. i feel guilt carried over from childhood when i look outside and see sunlight glinting off windshields, or the long, peach-colored shadows of dusk.
luckily, it passes. i think it's about time i came out of hibernation, for bits and pieces of summer.
hugs to anyone i've inadvertently ignored, while evading sun. i'm not a vampire, honest.
during the winter, i'm out in force--give me some crunchy snow, a pair of good boots, and a chill wind, and i'm your gal.
anything over 65 degrees, or 70% humidity--and i hibernate.
when it gets too warm i just don't want to leave the house. AC creates a bubble of comfort, in which i curl and relax. it's my own personal den.
for the past week i've been dreading those calls--"do you want to picnic/go for a walk/barbeque?"
blech.
a week ago monday i ventured out to my aunt's house, for a memorial day lunch. of course in minnesota nothing lasts for under two hours--it's all a marathon. the hello period is short...but the good-bye sequence is EPIC. i drove up with my sister and brother in law, waded through the heat into the backyard, and tried to imagine that i wasn't sweating.
of course my sister said she only wanted to be there for a few hours. since we got there at 1 i had high hopes we'd be on the road at 3.
nope. due to the nature of the gathering--familial--there's this unspoken agreement that you'll do certain things while visiting. the following is a guideline, but for the most part, breaking the chain is like breaking some ritual, at which point the powers that be will crash sun into moon and the sky will darken and the earth will quake...blah, blah, blah.
anyway, here's my take on it:
1. arrive 10-20 minutes late, staggering under a salad and/or dessert that you were told not to bring.
2. eat about an hour after the host/hostess originally indicated, listening to your uncle tell off-color jokes about obese women and harpoons.
3. stay and visit--which consists of either playing scrabble, in my family, or cards, or some yard game like bocce ball or croquet.
4. play again, as my sister's a poor loser and cannot fathom how she could have lost the first time.
5. announce that it's about time for you to be heading out.
6. try to beg out of dessert but get stuck in a lemon meringue pie. yuuuuummmm.
7. have ONE MORE cup of coffee and/or iced tea.
8. hug everyone in the room, put on your shoes, and realize that your purse is AWOL.
9. search through the house to locate purse; find purse.
10. on way out, are ambushed by aunt pawning food off on you in re-used cool whip containers.
11. hug everyone in room AGAIN.
12. finally leave at a dead run, scramble into the car ala the dukes of hazard, and burn rubber.
13. get home at 7 pm, four hours later than anticipated, but knew you'd be back then anyway.
when i got home on monday i didn't want to see ANYONE.
for a week.
friends, family, roommates. my cats were even iffy, and they don't even talk.
insult to injury, i've been working far too many hours to be healthy in any given week. this weekend we had the opportunity to go see a movie on saturday night, or go and sit around a fire with friends--neither of which happened, as i was still hibernating in layers of air conditioned comfort, nice organice incense, cat fur and the glow of my new computer monitor.
today dan and i ventured out of the house and actually took a mosquito-infested walk. it wasn't too bad in the shade and i really do like the woods. but it was nice to get home.
i'm not antisocial, really.
it's just summer. and summer, for me, equals weather that makes me feel gunky, and gatherings in said weather. i feel guilt carried over from childhood when i look outside and see sunlight glinting off windshields, or the long, peach-colored shadows of dusk.
luckily, it passes. i think it's about time i came out of hibernation, for bits and pieces of summer.
hugs to anyone i've inadvertently ignored, while evading sun. i'm not a vampire, honest.
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