Blessed assurance

 ^“  . . . let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith. . .” Hebrews 10:22

Tonight I did yoga, then sat quietly on the floor, listening to Gregorian chant and pleading with God to let me feel the peace of His presence. Mike is dying and I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. When he goes he will leave behind a big hole in my heart and my life.

I’m so tired of death—in the span of one year my father died and my brother was murdered. And now Mike is slipping away. “What is it you want of me?” I cried to God in desperation. “How do you expect me to hold on to this faith of mine when life hurts so much?”

Then the words just came to me . . . blessed assurance. I have His blessed assurance.

There’s an old Christian hymn called Blessed Assurance, but we never sang that hymn in church when I was growing up—it was much too old-school Protestant for us baby boomer Catholics. But even though I am not that familiar with the old hymn, I love the concept of having blessed assurance. I need to feel God's presence, need to focus on trusting in His goodness, need  to have faith that He is with me through all of these awful trials of life, that His peace is all I need.

An unlikely Christian

Although this has been a big part of my life for over a year, I have written little about it. I didn’t want to invade his privacy. The story isn’t over yet but it bears telling at this point.

My dear friend Mike first got sick in October, 2010. One week before Christmas he got the definitive diagnosis. He has mesothelioma, cancer caused by exposure to asbestos. Mesothelioma has a dire survival rate; it’s almost always terminal. He had chemotherapy, surgery to remove his right lung, and intense radiation therapy. Despite all the treatment, by the end of the summer the doctors told him the cancer had spread to his abdomen and the only course of therapy left was experimental chemotherapy. Mike decided not to get further treatment in order to live what may be left of his life as best he could, without being sick from chemotherapy.

He had to leave his job, sell his house, his horses, his power tools, and several of his instruments. He whittled down his possessions to only what could fit in two small rooms. And he lost the once-strong body that could wrangle horses or pick up a heavy gate and throw it in the back of his pick-up truck. He used to be strong and self sufficient but now he is occupying a body no longer his own, a body barely recognizable as Mike. In early spring, before his surgery, I took him to see the river at Great Falls. There, in view of the falls, he sat on a bench and bemoaned what had happened to his body. “I used to climb mountains,” he said.

I’ve been praying for him. Praying that the Lord would have mercy and heal him and praying that the Lord would give Mike some peace, some understanding, and, if He was feeling really, really merciful, that He would give Mike faith. I had a whole army of people praying with me.

Mike went to church with me a couple of times. He liked the preaching, appreciated the prayers on his behalf, but eventually he made it clear to me that he just wasn’t interested in organized religion. He said, “Nature is my cathedral.”

I kept praying, not even knowing what to pray for. About two weeks ago I wrote this on a sticky note: “There’s just one prayer now. Lord, if he is in need of witness to get to salvation, please make it happen.”

One week ago today, Mike expressed an interest in seeing my pastor. Two days later, the pastor and I drove from Arlington to Towson (about 70 miles each way) to see him in the nursing home where he is now living. Mike had a lot of questions for the pastor, questions about God and prayer and why he was dying. The pastor prayed for him, read Scripture, and simply talked to Mike about what he has been through and what he believes. Mike said that the past year had been the worst year of his life, but even more so the best year of his life. He said he feels blessed because so many people care for him and are praying for him. And he had come to the conclusion that such blessings had to come from God. He said the pastor had given him a lot to think about, that he just needed some time to digest all of it. After two hours of discussion, as we were wrapping up and heading for the door he surprised us. He said, “I have just one more thing I want to say to you. I do believe in Jesus Christ.”

He cried; we cried. The pastor prayed again and we left. In the following days, Mike told me he was learning to pray. He realized that God already knows what’s in his heart—he doesn’t need to find the right words to say, he just needs to feel God’s presence. He said he felt peace just washing over him. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “It’s real. It’s real.”

His favorite Bible verse so far, the one that caught his attention, and the one he says he reads over and over again is Romans 6:23—“For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.” It gives him an understanding of why he is dying and a hope for perfect bliss beyond this flawed mortal life.

So he said he wanted to be baptized. And two days ago, the pastor and I drove back to Towson with a bottle of generic brand spring water and Mike got baptized. He said he believed because the blessings of his life had to have come from a loving God, that God was serving him, that he was just beginning to learn how to accept such love, the love for him that sent Jesus to die on the cross for his sins. He said many other humble, insightful things, things that I never thought I would hear coming from him. He, a man whose body has nearly totally failed him, said the day of his baptism was the best day of his life.

And after he was baptized, I kneeled on the floor beside him and held him. He said, “You’ve taken me on some great adventures, but this one is the best of all.”

Indeed, the best adventure of all.

I am in awe of the goodness of God and I ask Him to continue to bless my dear friend.

ERROR!!!

ERROR!!! it flashed in bold, angry red letters. I stepped off the scale, kicked it gently, rearranged the fat on my body, and stepped back on. ERROR! it screamed in an accusatory tone with a tinge of petulant whining.

Had it been able to utter anything other than the rather rude ERROR message, I’m sure it would have called me an obese ignorant slut. I disagree with the slut accusation. There is no defense for ignorant and obese. Guilty as charged.

Had it not been disabled from the sheer full force of my weight, it might have flipped over and turned its back on me in disgust, continually flashing ERROR ERROR ERROR to the tile floor below.

But no, it said nothing, did nothing. I stepped off and the message disappeared. I didn’t have enough courage to try it a third time. I got the message.

Yes, I’m mired and suffering the consequences of the error my ways. And I’ve got the feeling that tonight, when I’m trying to sleep, I’m going to hear that wretched piece of metal in my bathroom, a voice that sounds like Satan, saying, “ERROR, ERROR, ERROR . . . ”

I may need to kill the thing.

Chicken stuffing soup: A concept

Had I known this soup would turn out so well, I would have paid attention. I would have measured, adjusted, and written down what I did. But, alas, I was just cleaning out my pantry, trying to use up what I had while making something reasonably healthy and comforting on a cold winter day. Oh, well . . .

Here’s the general idea:

Chop one onion and sauté in olive oil in a large soup pot. Add some minced garlic and a lot of minced fresh ginger.

Put about 8 cups of water in the pot, heat until it simmers, add about 6 teaspoons of Penzey’s chicken soup base.

Chop a few stalks of celery and a few carrots and add to the pot with chopped fresh parsley.

Take a package of chicken tenders (raw), cut into large pieces, and add to pot.

Add one can of white beans.

When the chicken is cooked and the vegetables are tender, add one package of Stove Top chicken stuffing mix and heat through. Really, the stuffing mix gives it body and makes it very flavorful.

The evolution of distraction

It’s New Year’s Eve. I’m sitting at home, listening to jazz, eating leftover cassoulet, drinking red wine, and thinking about distraction. I’m having a hard time concentrating on the distraction issue. I keep getting up and walking downstairs to see if my laundry is done. Then I go into the kitchen and check out what’s in the refrigerator. Then I go back to my writing but forget what I was doing. Maybe it’s the wine or maybe it’s human nature. I’m developing an anthropological treatise on how we have become more and more distracted over time and with technological advances.

Oh, and by the way, I’m thinking about painting the guest room—how do you think lavender would work?

Perhaps we mortals can blame our distractible nature on The Fall. In the early days, after the rib extraction, Adam and Eve must have given one another their full attention. They probably walked around the Garden of Eden discussing books and music and the wonders of God until they bit into the accursed apple. They were not distracted until they fell from God’s grace. Then all hell broke loose and we’ve been on a downhill slide ever since.

I don’t think we were so distractible when technology was simpler. For example, before Verizon invented call waiting, we simply talked to someone on the phone until we were finished. Now we get interrupted all the time by people taking polls on our grocery shopping habits. (I think they’re lying—they aren’t taking polls, they just want to see if they can link my toilet cleaner preference with my political affiliation.) One person I will not name, but who happens to have given birth to me, tells me to hold on but she forgets I’m holding on. She’s nearly 86 so she’s excused.

Then there are the people who respond to every ding on their cellphones and text message during soulful conversations about the meaning of life in relation to the age of toilet training. They say, “Go on, go on, I’m listening.” But I know they aren’t, especially when they nod and smile like a psychoanalyst when I say, “I’m into self mutilation and last week I gnawed off my left arm."

According to my theory, what do I expect to be the next wave of distraction? I figure it’s going to be something like this: I’m on my deathbed saying something deep and meaningful to my granddaughter when a hologram image of her friend Imogene appears in the room. Imogene tells my granddaughter that she simply must come to Paris for lunch. At which point, my granddaughter explains that she’ll just be gone for a couple of hours and she teleports herself to Paris.

Then again, maybe I should paint the guest room a deep caramel color.

Happy 2012!

The Josefinas

I spent the evening doing Josefina's hair over and over again. Actually, there are two identical Josefinas in my house at the moment and they both have long, thick black hair that goes from sleek to a rat's nest in mere seconds. They are especially prone to getting their hair tangled when they are picked up by their hair and flipped upside down.

The Josephinas are American Girl dolls, the wards of my twin 5-year-old grandaughters, Harper and Lucy. The girls (and the dolls) are visiting from Texas. Today we went to the American Girl store, where we had lunch reservations, and where the dolls got their hair done in the store's salon. The dolls were seated in small pink salon chairs and draped with miniature plastic capes to protect their clothes. The girls picked hair styles for the dolls and the stylists (I wonder if they have to be licensed by the state cosmetology board) redid their hair with twists and braids and tiny ribbons and pony tail holders.

We weren't even back to the house before the dolls' hairdos were destroyed. So tonight, while the parents of these girls went to happy hour at McKeever's Pub, I stayed home as the designated doll hair stylist. I brushed and braided and revised the styles several times. But the final result was fabulous. Harper's Josefina got two traditional braids. Lucy's Josefina got a thick side braid, interlaced with red for Christmas. Lucy said what I did with her Josefina was better than any of the dolls she saw at the store. She suggested that I get a job as a doll hair stylist at American Girl. Brilliant idea, eh? I never would have thought of that before today, but perhaps I finally found my calling.

Elizabeth and His tender mercy

Indeed, the story of Mary, the teenaged unwed mother chosen to be the mother of the Messiah, is amazing and inspirational. Her unquestioning faith is exemplary.

But what about Mary’s cousin Elizabeth? In Scripture Elizabeth is referred to twice as being “advanced in years.” I figured that being “advanced in years” in the year 1 BC was probably something like 30 years old. Girls got married at 13 and it seemed likely that they were considered old by the time they were 30. So I looked it up and found that biblical scholars think Elizabeth was well beyond the usual childbearing age, probably in her 60s. Holy Mother of God—instead of getting an AARP card, she got pregnant! In the year 1 BC it took the Angel Gabriel to facilitate a pregnancy where even IVF clinics would fail today.

Like her cousin Mary, Elizabeth had remarkable faith. And unlike her husband Zechariah, she was not bitter about her childlessness and she didn’t doubt God’s plan. She joyfully, with humility, accepted the news that she was going to give birth to John the Baptist, the forerunner of the Messiah.

I become a little weak in the knees when I hear this story because I’m about Elizabeth’s age at the time she gave birth. I probably would have bristled at the news that I was going to have a baby when I’m so “advanced in years,” even though the child was destined to have an important role in the life of Jesus. (I guessing the angel didn’t tell Elizabeth and Zechariah that their son was going to be beheaded—it might have been a deal breaker.) But here’s the part that gives me hope—even though Elizabeth was growing old, God was not yet finished with her. He answered her prayer and used her to accomplish something very important.

In the words of Zechariah (Luke 1:74-78)

. . . that we, being delivered from the hand of our enemies, might serve him without fear,

in holiness and righteousness before him all our days.

And you child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;

for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,

to give knowledge of salvation to his people in the forgiveness of their sins,

because of the tender mercy of our God.

Even when we’re old—maybe especially when we’re old—we can rely on the tender mercy of our God.

Affirmative action

Don’t laugh—I’m doing cognitive therapy on myself. This means that I’m prodding myself out of my current malaise by using mental affirmation flashcards. (Don’t even ask about the malaise. Suffice it to say it’s a combination of seasonal affective disorder, grief, and general ornery-ness. There’s probably a diagnostic code for it. I have a graduate degree in counseling psychology so I’m entitled to diagnose myself.)

These affirmation flashcards are not tangible things, not like the picture of the zebra with the letter Z that you show your preschooler. But perhaps they should be. I could use photos to accompany the affirmations in order to reinforce the message. Here are the affirmations I’m working on:

(1) “I am who I say I am”—this is to remind me that no one else defines me—no former husband who mistreated me, no boss who devalued me, no Republicans or surly plumbers or cosmetic salesladies. For this one I’ll attach a photo of Michelle Pfeiffer and hope that my powerful positive thinking will make me look like her.

(2) “Cherish yourself”—I’m already having trouble with this one because there seems to be a thin line between self indulgence and self preservation. But what I mean is that no one else is going to take care of me, no one else is going to make sure I eat right or get enough exercise. For this flashcard I’ll attach a photo of Miss Piggy.

(3) “Live today like it’s your last day”—I’m having trouble with this one too. It scares me. It doesn’t make me want to fly to Paris; it makes me think I need to clean my closets and get my affairs in order so my kids won’t curse me when I’m gone tomorrow. They’re going to say, “Why in the hell did she need 146 cookbooks?” That’s it—the cookbooks are going to Goodwill tomorrow along with the 146 pairs of jeans that don’t fit. With this flashcard I’ll attach a photo of Little Edie. (I’m still obsessed with Little Edie.)

(4) “Get off your ass”—this is self explanatory. It’s really card 2, part b. I need serotonin, vitamin D, and liposuction. I need residental addiction treatment—carbohydrates are my version of crack. For this card I’ll attach a photo of myself sitting on the sofa, wearing sweats, eating popcorn and drinking a beer. Nooooo! Quick—flash back to the picture of Michelle Pfeiffer—I am who I say I am, I am who I say I am . . .

Farina

How low does a writer have to go to write an essay on farina? How much of total nerd does it take to even spend time thinking about it? Guess I’m about to find out.

A few days ago I was in the grocery store and overheard a young clerk tell an older clerk that a customer was looking for farina.

“Farina,” the young clerk said, “I have no idea . . . “

“Aisle 6 on the left, about halfway up the aisle,” said the older clerk, “on top, above the oatmeal.”

I chuckled and the old guy just grinned and rolled his eyes.

Wasn’t Farina related to Buckwheat? Who came up with the names of those characters in the Our Gang television series? Farina and Buckwheat were two of the little black kids—but who was Stymie? The show was equal opportunity when it came to stereotypes because it had black kids, a fat white boy, a whiney white girl, and a bully white kid. I’d love to see that show again. I’ll bet it’s not hard to find it online. Anything you want is on YouTube. (I recently watched a clip from the Milt Grant show—but that’s another essay on yet another important topic.)

But seriously, farina is a food grain and we Americans know it as Cream of Wheat. Look at the box and it will say exactly that—Cream of Wheat (subtitle Enriched Farina). It was a staple of my childhood—a warm, comfort-food breakfast. It was never, ever the quick-cook variety in the packet. Hell no! You had to cook it in a saucepan with water (or milk if you were feeling frisky) and a dash of salt. You had to pour the dry Cream of Wheat carefully into the boiling water and stir continually to avoid lumps. You had to cook it in the saucepan because you needed to learn the value of hard work and discipline by scrubbing clean the saucepan encrusted with Cream of Wheat that turns into cement if left to dry. You did this after digging potatoes in the garden, butchering a chicken, and before walking 5 miles to school with no shoes. Or pants. We didn’t wear pants but we wore little lace things on our heads. Or a folded Kleenex held on with bobby pins if we were desperate.

Oh, wait, I forgot I was writing about farina. A little break from our sponsor, that pesky attention deficit thing.

My children grew up loving Cream of Wheat but their favorite part was the lumps, so much so that they would request it cooked with lumps intact. They were creating their own tradition.

I’ve been sick and downtrodden. Life is hard. So I’ve been eating Cream of Wheat, chicken soup, and ginger ale. I will get better, things won’t always be so hard. And now I can say I’ve reached the pinnacle because I’ve written an essay on farina. Anyone want to buy my book?

Living in the basement

For the past couple of weeks I've pretty much banished myself to the basement. Now I've got a cold, which gives me a legitimate reason to withdraw from mankind, but I was withdrawing even before the cold. I haven't been writing or cooking. Though I have been praying sometimes, saying, "Lord, what the blazes am I doing down here on the basement floor all day long?" I ask Him questions. He answers with more questions.

I have a pretty good idea what I'm doing. I'm trying to get lost doing something tangible, just sitting in the basement painting and grieving. I figure if I work really, really hard doing something that takes my mind off the incredibly sad things in my life, maybe the days will pass and I'll have created something. Plus maybe I can make some money to buy that new sofa I need.

Several weeks ago I began painting furniture that I already owned. At a store in Falls Church I found Annie Sloan chalk paint and waxes. My imagination went into overdrive. When I had painted everything feasible in my house I began going to thrift stores, then Craig's List, then to the back sheds at antique stores that have the really grungy stuff. You know--the pieces that are mildewed with spider nests and creaky parts. Those are the pieces I love the most. I've stripped off some horrible upholstery and I've glued and scraped and painted. And painted and painted. Now I need to sell some of this stuff to reclaim my basement. Here are some of the photos of what I've done.
 



The Bone Crusher's Christmas

She was their own Christmas miracle, born on December 23^rd, so premature that they said they could see her blood flowing through her little blue veins. The doctor thought she might not last the night. But she continued to breathe through one night and another, until early on Christmas morning the doctor declared her the Christmas miracle.

They named her Maria Josefina Angelita O’Rourke but they just called her Angel. She was a perfectly formed, perfectly beautiful infant—a little rosebud mouth, flawless white skin, black curly hair, shining black eyes, and tiny delicate hands—like a replica of her big sister’s Snow White doll. People stopped breathing for a second when they saw her.

And like the child who was born nearly 2000 years before her, Angel grew and became strong, filled with wisdom. She was a delight to her family. By the time she was one year old, she had caught up with biggest babies her age. By the time she was entering kindergarten, she had surpassed her older sister in both height and weight and she was nearly as big as her diminutive grandmother. By the time she was in sixth grade, she was bigger than most of the high school boys, even bigger than some of the football players. Her grandmother had to disassemble three extra-large school uniforms to have enough fabric to sew one uniform for Angel. Yet she was still stunningly beautiful—like a giant Snow White statue. People stopped breathing for a second when they saw her.

We all know people can be cruel in the presence of an unusual person like Angel O’Rourke. Children pointed and laughed, often played tricks on her. One day in the cafeteria, Joseph Ruppert stuck out his leg and tripped Angel while she was carrying her food-laden tray. She lost her balance, sending the spaghetti, meatballs, Jello, and chocolate milk over half her sixth-grade classmates. And she twirled around as she hit the floor, her fall broken by the scrawny body of Joseph Ruppert. He was face-down on the tile floor, covered with food debris and that mountain of childhood Angel O’Rourke. Joseph Ruppert was soon to learn that his shoulder was dislocated and three ribs were broken. It was a brief moment in time that Angel would never live down. Henceforth she was called the Bone Crusher.

In the weeks before her 13^th birthday, Angel’s family suggested they plan a big celebration, inviting all of her friends from her class.

“But, Mama,” she said, “I have no friends in my class. Have I ever been invited to one of their birthday parties? You know I haven’t.”

Her grandmother pleaded with her, “Angelita, you need to be a friend to make a friend. Invite them. We’ll have a nice party and they will see you smile and they will know you. Just do it for me and you will see.”

“I don’t know about this,” said her sister Linda. “This has disaster written all over it.”

Angel paced the floor and broke out in a sweat. She looked down at her grandmother, her hands clasped at her chest as if in prayer, and she agreed to have the party. She immediately regretted it but she couldn’t back down.

On the day of the party, she begged her parents and her grandmother to disappear into the background before the guests arrived. They reluctantly agreed. The house was decorated with Christmas lights and a nativity scene and purple and yellow streamers. A big banner announced “HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANGEL” at the front door.

Angel was wearing a pink sequined top and a red taffeta skirt. Linda was dressed all in black. The other guest, wearing her best yellow party dress, was their 10-year-old cousin Rosie. The three girls sat in the living room, Christmas music blaring on the stereo. For over an hour they kept replaying the same three records over and over. Andy Williams was singing—again—“It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” when Angel walked over to the stereo and pulled the plug out of the wall.

“How can he say that?” she cried. “For me it’s the most terrible time of the year. I hate my birthday. I hate Christmas. They all hate me and I hate my life.”

Her sister left, her cousin left, and Angel sat alone in the living room watching the lights blink on the Christmas tree. She noticed the heart-shaped ornament on the tree, an ornament on which her grandmother had lovingly embroidered “Angel 1948” the year she was born. And she wondered how her grandmother had controlled her own enthusiasm over the birthday party. Angel had fully expected her grandmother to sneak in to meet her “friends” but she never appeared.

Angel sang happy birthday to herself, cut a piece of cake, and put the cake on a poinsettia paper plate to bring to her grandmother. The old woman was not in her room. She wasn’t in the basement folding laundry. Angel called out to her, but her grandmother did not answer. She went into the garage and saw her grandmother on the floor under large metal storage shelves that had fallen on her. Angel dropped the cake and, as if she was only lifting a paper bag, lifted the shelves off of her grandmother.

“Angelita,” said her grandmother. “I knew you’d come for me. It’s another miracle!”

Constancy

This morning I was walking outside. The sky was bright blue, the changing leaves are in full color, and no trick or treater vandalized my car last night. Life is good. I breathed in, I breathed out, praying that I could learn to focus on life’s joys instead of the sorrows. And I realized that in difficult times my frail human nature causes me to question God’s wisdom. I wonder how He can allow such hardship. What kind of God would let His children suffer and die? How can an all-powerful God be so unfeeling to let there be war and famine and cancer and murder? Did He really intend for life to be so hard? How can I have trust in a God like that?

Yet when things are good I say that I have been blessed, that God is with me. I think He’s good when things are going my way.

Has God changed? Of course not. I am the one who changes. By nature, God is constant. He is good all the time and He is with me all the time, even when I doubt His existence or question His wisdom. I fail. God doesn’t.

Fish chowder

It turned nasty cold here, mostly rain with some sloppy snow. It's the kind of weather that demands comfort food. So I tried to come up with something I could cook without going to the grocery store. I baked oatmeal raisin cookies. But one cannot (should not!) live by cookies alone, even home-baked cookies. I looked at a couple of online recipes for fish chowder and adapted. Most recipes don't use sole because sole is such a delicate fish that it falls apart in the chowder. But I had sole in the freezer and it worked but I think this would work even better with a less delicate white fish like cod or halibut.

Fish Chowder

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 medium onion, chopped

3 stalks celery, chopped

3 new potatoes, sliced thin

1 clove garlic, minced

3 cups vegetable stock

1 (8 ounce) can diced tomatoes

¼ cup shredded carrot

1 cup whole milk

Salt and pepper to taste

1 pound white fish cut into 1-inch cubes

1 pinch cayenne pepper (about 1/8 teaspoon)

Melt the butter in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onion and celery, and cook until the onion has softened and turned translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the potatoes and garlic, and continue cooking until the potatoes have softened slightly, about 10 minutes.

Pour in the vegetable stock, tomatoes, and shredded carrots. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to medium-low, cover, and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the milk, season to taste with salt and pepper, then stir in the fish. Add cayenne pepper. Continue simmering uncovered until the fish is flaky and no longer translucent in the center, about 10 minutes. Serve immediately.  

Pumpkin soup

Thanks for reminding me about this recipe, Beth. It's a great one. Actually, I think I'll make it while I'm baking oatmeal raisin cookies. Then I can post a photo too.

Zesty Pumpkin Soup

Makes 6 cups

¼ cup butter

1 cup chopped onion

1 clove garlic crushed

1 tsp. curry powder

½ tsp. salt

1/8 tsp. crushed red pepper

3 cups chicken broth

1 ¾ cups (16 oz. can) solid pack pumpkin

1 cup half-and-half (can substitute whole milk)

Sour cream and chives (optional)

In large saucepan, melt butter. Sautė onion and garlic until soft.

Add curry powder, salt, coriander, and red pepper. Cook 1 minute.

Add broth. Boil gently uncovered, for 15 to 20 minutes.

Stir in pumpkin and half-and-half (or milk). Cook 5 minutes.

Pour into blender and blend until creamy.

Serve warm or reheat to desired temperature.

Garnish with sour cream and chopped chives if desired.

(Note: I also have used toasted pumpkin seeds—pepitas—instead of sour cream as a garnish. And you don't  have to puree it in the blender if you don't care if it's super smooth. One less kitchen gadget to wash.)

Going once, going twice

For the past few weeks I’ve pretty much been tethered to my house. I keep my appointments with my trainer and I go to the post office. That’s about it. I go to the post office almost every day because I've been home cleaning out excess stuff and selling it on eBay

I’m new to the eBay selling thing. I’ve sold a few pieces of silver Indian jewelry, things I never wear any longer that are just clogging up the system. eBay is addictive—you sell a thing or two then you start looking around the house for more things to sell. Pretty soon nearly everything is up for grabs.

Today I crossed into new territory. I sold my entire collection of Chuck Taylor All-Star shoes. I’m pacing the floor, wondering if I’m going to miss them now that I’m committed to sell them. I sold nine pairs of various-color Chucks (mostly high-tops) as a lot for over $80. Does it shock you to know that people will pay for someone else’s old sneakers? I sold the pristine John Lennon Peace Chucks, in the original box, for $50.

Chucks were sort of my signature shoes. No one knew I wore them with orthopedic inserts. They fostered my image of an aspiring blues-playing, crazy old lady. I’m still an old lady, getting older by the day. I’ve given up blues guitar for old-time banjo.

No more Chucks. It’s great to have an entire shelf open up in my closet and it’s nice to have the money but I think I’ve lost my image. ‘Tis more the pity.