just kids

i started reading it in a blizzard blackout, shivering under the covers with a flashlight under my chin.  i deliberately slowed the pace, taking in once chapter at a time, not wanting to let go of this love story. 
i finished it just as the colorburst of spring finished painting the landscape.

just kids.

it's patti smith's memoir of her and robert mappelthorpe's relationship.  if you have ever experssed your love to another with creativity you never knew you had inside, just

because the energy of your connection inspired it, you will feel yourself in patti and robert. 

saying goodbye to the book was perhaps as sad as saying goodbye to robert through patti's words.   

it is everything love:

tender;  thoughtful;  artistic;  raw;  bittersweet.

just read it

accidental tapioca

a friend of mine is as big on breakfast as i am.  she and i we realized we were sisters in the most important meal of the day when we found out that each of us, without the other one knowing, takes steel cut oats, stirs in a yogurt (or soy yogurt, or just tofu sometimes), adds some berries and lets it "marinate" overnight in the 'fridge for the next morning's "grab and go" breakfast.  well, i recently, and completely by accident, discovered something similar. 

do you like tapioca pudding?  i have to say it's not my favorite, but that could be because it's hard to find a "clean" tapioca out there.  and by clean, i also mean non-dairy.  milk does a body no good.  no body.  no good.  nobody.  ok ok this is a not an anti-dairy rant.  there's plenty of time for that later. 

so, part of this discovery came about when i was reading about foods that helped with muscle regerneration and recovery.  i had pulled a calf muscle while training for a half marathon, and needed to see what i could eat to aid in its repair.  my quest yielded the obvious results, like potassium-rich fruits and veggies and of course, water.  but i also found out that quinoa and buckwheat (soba) were two wonderful sources of anti-inflamatory and other healing properties for muscles. 

who knew?

off to the store i went for a bag of buckwheat.  i have had buckwheat pancakes and you know, buckwheat has that distinctive taste somwewhere between dirt and tree bark.  now, in soba noodles (which usually have some wonderful tamari mixed in), it is not so harsh, but in its grain form, well, it needs flavor accompaniment as far as i am concerned -- and i LOVE this sort of culinary challenge.  well, i got home and made the buckwheat and decided to eat it with soy vanilla yogurt stirred into it, and just a sprinkle of cinamon.  the almost-crunch  of the whoe buckwheat grain was an interesting, but not really great "feel" on my tongue with the yogurt,  but whatever, i had muscles to heal, so i  had a few bites and put the rest in a container and in the 'fridge.

now we get to the good part. 

the next day, i find that container in the 'fridge and i have no idea what it is.  i open it and see that it's my buck/yo/cin concoction and i can see that the buckwheat grains have expanded quite a bit and they actually look like they had softened.  then a sweet waft of vanilla tempered by the subtle blunt of the buckwheat hits my nose and i can't get a spoon in my hand fast enough to see what this forgotten muscle-healing potion now tastes like.  what a wonderful surprise -- the soft buckwheat and the yogurt had formed a gel that not only tasted but FELT like tapioca -- a clean, DAIRY FREE tapioca! 

and voi la -- there you have accidental tapioca.  make it for dessert!  bon apetit!

the best history teacher? just listen.

as a child, like most kids, i was often accused of not listening.  but i pretty sure it's a scientific fact that words like 'don't slam the door' and 'clean your room' are inaudible to humans under the age of 16.  so, those accusations feel on deaf ears. 

there were times that i was all ears, though, and these times brought me such joy that i just could not get enough of it.  these were the times when my grandparents would tell stories about their childhoods, or how they met, or stories of their struggle to "make it" through the Depression, WW2, etc.  i remember being awestruck by their stories, so foreign to anything in my spoiled sense of reality or any of my frames of reference.  their stories connected me not just via the family tree, but to their work ethic and their pride and their modesty.  their stories made me feel so important and so relevant. 

even as a little kid, i realized that i was proud of them for how they lived their lives, and how lucky i was to be loved by them.

my grandparents' stories are america's stories, and i retell their tales with pride to anyone who will listen :)  so, the other day, i ran across a newspaper article that reached inside of me and touched that sweet place where i keep those memories, and i want to share it with you.    

below the asterisks on this blog entry is the article. when i come across pieces like this i am reminded of how important it is that we sit down and TALK TO this generation of americans. their stories and their spirit are so humbling and inspiring at the same time. their hardships got us to our lives of creature comfort and endless opportunity. next time you find yourself bitching about your life, read this article and remind yourself how good you've got it.

********************************************************** from The Houston Chronicle April 5 2010 And now to blow out that 110th candle … Ahead of party, Harris County’s oldest ward ever reflects By PAIGE HEWITT HOUSTON CHRONICLE April 5, 2010, 6:10AM Like any bright-eyed birthday girl, Louvenia Posey welcomes the attention. She's certainly experienced in such celebration — the soft-spoken country girl who grew up picking cotton in Central Texas turns 110 today. As the oldest ward ever of Harris County's guardianship program, Posey will celebrate today with a party, attended by her caseworker, friends and staff at the Windsong Village Convalescent Center in Pearland. She's outlived virtually everyone else in her long life — siblings, cousins and three husbands, one of whom fought in World War 1. “I was born April 5, in the year 1900,” Posey said, emphasizing the year. “I'm not bragging, but I have lived a clean life.” Posey, the granddaughter of a Louisiana slave — “who cooked the best corn bread you ever saw” — was born in the Central Texas town of Fayetteville, where more than a century ago she learned how to cut, chop and pick cotton on the family farm. She also learned to cook, wash and iron as a child, and she taught herself how to sew. Her father was murdered in a rowdy card game before she was born; her mother died giving birth to twin boys when Posey was 12. She and six siblings went to live with her nearby “auntie,” and she left school after seventh grade to cook and clean for families. “We had to make a living,” Posey said Saturday. “You have to learn to do a job, and do it well, or don't do it at all.” For fun, the youngsters played checkers and rode mules. When she was 17, Posey, whose maiden name is Womley, set off for Houston looking for work. “After I got grown, I cooked for white people,” she said. “I washed and ironed and took care of their children. I loved the children, white and black. It didn't make a difference to me. I loved the children, and they loved me.” Posey lived in Acres Homes and over the years worked primarily for two families. She also earned money as a seamstress, making women's dresses and coats for $2 or $3. Posey said the world is a changed place. She recalled the years when she had to yield to white people and go to the back of lines, and eat at separate tables. Today, the world is fairer. She looked up at a photograph on her bulletin board of President Barack Obama. “I didn't think I'd ever see it,” she said. “God is working in there. They've changed it up for the better. Now we've got black teachers, lawyers, doctors and all.”