Roasted curried cauliflower with sesame

Yesterday my brother’s murderer was sentenced to 25 years in prison. I sat in the courtroom, listened to the final statements, and heard the judge pronounce the sentence. He told the killer that it didn’t matter what good he had done before in his life (he used to be a Baltimore City cop) that his life was henceforth defined by what he did on April 3, 2011. We saw the murderer taken away in his prison jumpsuit with shackles around his ankles. But it gave none of us joy, no sense of victory. There were no high-fives, no cheers, just the sadness of having seen something tragic unfold. Was it justice? I don’t know. All I know is that I’ll never see my brother again and that breaks my heart.

I promised I would cook something, anything, when it was over. I haven’t yet tried to recreate (and write down!) the great spicy tangled Thai salad I made a couple of weeks ago. I will, I will—I just need someone to help me eat that one. So today I tried out a recipe that has been floating around in my head. I like how it turned out and will make it again, surely with other variations. Next time I will probably up the spice factor by using hot curry powder. You could serve it hot but I like the idea of serving it as a muchie/appetizer at room temperature.

 Here’s what I did today . . .

 Roasted curried cauliflower with sesame

1 medium-size head of cauliflower

2 tablespoons EVOO

1 tablespoon dark roasted sesame seed oil

1 teaspoon curry powder

Salt and pepper to taste

1 tablespoon sesame seeds

Break cauliflower into florets, rinse and drain.

Toss florets in bowl, coating evenly with olive oil, sesame oil, curry powder, salt, and pepper.

Put florets on shallow baking sheet in 450 degree oven.

Roast for 10 minutes.

Add sesame seeds, toss mixture, and bake for another 5 minutes. The florets should maintain a bit of their crunchiness.

Remove from oven and cool to room temperature.

Alive

At a time when I have been forced to look into the eyes of death, the thought that is emerging is that I am alive. This morning I walked for an hour along the river, nearly the entire length of Great Falls Park. I walked past the overlook where, over a year ago, I sat on a bench with Mike, who knew then that he probably was not going to survive the cancer. He looked into the distance and said, “I used to climb mountains.” Yes, he once was full of life and now he is dead.

Mike died, my brother died, my father died. But I am alive. I walked fast this morning, sweating hard, listening to R.L. Burnside. I chuckled at myself, amused that at that moment I was probably the only 64-year-old woman walking in Great Falls Park listening to R.L. Burnside on my iPod.

I stopped at 7-11 and bought an iced mocha coffee. I did it just because I could, because I am alive.

This isn’t a new thought but it changes shape, it looks different and smells different as time goes by. People I love have died, yet I have a separate fate from theirs. My life intersects the lives of others, including some with whom I have deep attachments. I don’t detach easily. Like duct tape on a hairy man’s chest, it hurts to detach. And for me the attachment lingers, slowly and painfully. But maybe that’s just the way I am—blessed to care deeply though cursed to feel the loss so intensely.

I want to celebrate the subtle nuances of life. I want to feel the heat of the day, I want to savor an iced coffee, I want to listen to music. I want to realize that my path in life has me here, now, that I can appreciate that in these moments I am alive.

Bad example

Last week I was caught in a massive traffic jam on the beltway. My lane was disappearing and all the cars in front of me were, one by one, slowly merging into the adjoining lane. There was a big juiced-up pick-up truck beside me. He hugged the bumper of the car in front of him and refused to let anyone merge in front of him. A sign on the rear of his truck, in huge iridescent letters, boldly proclaimed “JESUS SAVES.” I wanted to get out of my car, pound on his window, and tell him he’s a rude blankety-blank who gives Christians a bad name. I didn’t. He might have shot me.

It seems right to me that the life of a Christian should be marked, set apart by faith. The rude man in the pick-up truck wasn’t persuading other beltway drivers that day to say, “Wow—he’s a Christian. I can see how his faith affects his life. I want what he has.” No, they were probably thinking his faith didn’t make him a better person.

And what about me? Am I a good example? Does my faith make me a better person? Everyone knows I’m a Christian. Yet often I don’t create a good example of a person with a joyful Christian heart, fearless, rooted in the Lord. I’ve been entangled in grief and sadness. If people look to me for an example of a Christian woman who rises above the muck of human existence, they are not going to see it. My prayer is that the Lord lifts from me the grief and sadness. Lift it so that I can be an example of faith in action, joy rooted in an unshakeable trust in God. I just want to hand over the troubles to God—He can handle them. And let my faith rise above it, let me understand how this works for His good. In all things, according to His purpose.

Like me without you

It simply came up on my iTunes rotation tonight. A song I've heard both live and recorded quite a few times. I always thought it such a bittersweet, beautiful song. It followed a song on the rotation that Mike and I were playing together. The combination of us playing together followed by the Dave Mallett song . . . it made me cry.

Like Me Without You (by Dave Mallett)

I took a wrong turn one time
In a town I did not know
Wound up in a place
Where even a weed would not grow
Empty faces staring at me
Hungry people everywhere
I turned that car around
And I just drove it out of there

Don't know how it all got started
Is it in the master plan
That there could be such broken hearted
People now I understand

Just like me without you
Just like me without you babe
Just like me without you

There was a fella in my town
Shyest man I ever knew
Spent his whole life all alone
Never needed much to do

Worked a dirty job for nothing
Ate his supper all alone
Spent his weekends watching TV
Right there in the family home

I don't know where the whole thing started
Why he wound up like he did
I know life can beat you up
I guess he just run and hid

Just like me without you
Just like me without you babe
Just like me without you

You hear about it all the time
From everybody you know
This world is in such sad repair
How can she take another blow

But we get up at mornin' light
And do our healin' in the dawn
Another day to make it right
Another road to walk upon

Don't know how it all got started
Is it in the grand design
That old mother nature is just
Dying slow and marking time

Just like me without you
Just like me without you babe
Just like me without you

Impact

Last week was the trial for the murder of my brother Mark. There are no words to describe what it's like to hear testimony about your brother's murder, to see photographs of him, to see the gun that killed him. It is beyond horrific to sit in the same room as the murderer. It's going to take time and a lot of prayer for me not to be a hateful person. I'm working on it. The murderer was found guilty of 2nd degree murder and handgun charges. One thing that I can do now is to write a victim impact statement--a letter to the judge who presided over the trial and who will sentence the killer. Here's what I wrote.

May 21, 2012

The Honorable Thomas G. Ross
County Administrative Judge
Queen Anne’s County Circuit Court
100 Courthouse Square

Centreville, MD 21617

Re: Sentencing of Charles Richter in the murder of Mark Xander

Dear Judge Ross:

Yesterday would have been Mark Xander’s 57^th birthday. Mark Xander was my little brother. He was a boy whose hair turned white blonde in the summer while his skinny little body turned brown. He was a charming kid with a devilish grin and he wanted to be a trash man when he grew up. I called him “Little Honey” and, as his big sister, I wanted to protect him, to keep him safe.

 

Mark grew up to be a man, charm intact, with a big, generous heart. Everyone who knew him loved him. Like our own wonderful father, Mark cherished his family and worked hard to provide for his wife and his sons.

This big sister had no power to protect Mark from the hateful bully who lived next door to him. When Mark was senselessly murdered last year our family was beyond devastated. There is now a hole in our family that will never be filled.

A cruel, hateful bully willfully and selfishly took my brother’s life. Why? Was it because Mark’s dog walked onto his property? Was it because his hatred of Mark boiled and exploded to the level that he had to kill him? What kind of arrogance compels someone to shoot a neighbor in the back on a Sunday afternoon in his own front yard? Clearly this murderer is a very dangerous, very angry man who should be kept in prison for as long as is legally possible under law. I urge you to impose on him the maximum sentence possible for each of the counts on which he has been convicted.

Please let this killer, this wretched excuse for a human being, feel the impact of his action every day for the rest of his miserable life. Our family will feel the impact—the death of my little brother Mark— for the rest of our lives.

Yours truly . . . .

Jesus and Robert Johnson

At that crossroads in Mississippi Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil. At least that’s what the legend says. Robert Johnson was a mediocre guitar player until the devil made him an offer he didn’t refuse. And, although he died young, poisoned by a jealous man, Robert Johnson became the seminal influence of Mississippi Delta blues music. He didn't even live to enjoy his fame. In the end it was a poor bargain. Robert Johnson couldn’t say no to Satan.

I understand the temptation—I’d like to play and sing like Bonnie Raitt or Susan Tedeschi. But ceding my soul to the devil is too high a price.

Jesus was tempted by Satan too. Led by the Spirit, Jesus went into the wilderness for forty days to fast and prepare for His ministry. Satan tempted Him by offering Him food and worldly power; he tried to get Jesus to test the Father. Jesus told Satan to get lost. Jesus didn’t need Satan’s empty promises. It's the power of the Spirit that makes the difference.

And Jesus returned in the power of the Spirit to Galilee, and a report about him went out through all the surrounding country. And he taught in their synagogues, being glorified by all. (Luke 4:14-15)

Paint therapy

I was wrong. I guessed that I have painted 40 pieces of furniture since last summer, but I just did a rough tally and it’s well over 60 pieces. My daughter called me a chair hoarder. She’s probably right.

Is it an obsession or is it therapy? The past year has been so difficult. I’m finding solace in paint.

Sometime last year I stumbled onto Annie Sloan Chalk Paint. It’s incredible, environmentally safe paint with endless possibilities. I like endless possibilities. The paint has virtually no odor, it can be cleaned off brushes with ease, and it sticks to anything wood with almost zero prep work. And—never one to leave well enough alone—I’m constantly mixing my own colors and layering paint to create different effects. I don’t color inside the lines.

So I tried it and tried it again on pieces of furniture I owned that needed refreshing. Then I started prowling around thrift stores for more stuff. I bought chairs, painted them, and reupholstered the seats. I learned how to rebuild seats. I painted, glued, repaired, and scoured fabric stores for designer remnants for the seats. I started selling the pieces I did then turned around and bought more. The uglier, the better—I loved the transformation process. I’m fearless now, don’t hesitate to slap paint on anything paintable.

It may be an obsession but it’s soothing to me. I spend hours in my cramped laundry room. I sit on the basement floor beside the cat’s litter box, making a mess in my grubbiest clothes. I dream about paint. Through all the death and destruction of the past year I just keep painting furniture. Sort of a Madame Defarge with a paint brush. (Madame Defarge is a character in A Tale of Two Cities who knits while people are beheaded. Hopefully I’m not as evil as Madame Defarge.)

You may think I’m exaggerating or being silly when I say that painting furniture is my therapy. I’m serious. It fills my time with creativity. It distracts me from the sadness in my life and gives me a productive focus. I’ve learned to create something and let it go. Nothing is too wonderful that I feel I have to keep it forever. There will always be another piece of furniture. Let it go.

Beware the fashion police

Did you ever hear that old joke about the woman who went into the basement to throw some things in the washing machine? She was sorting laundry and a pipe was dripping on her head so she put on her son’s football helmet to protect her head. Then she decided to throw the bathrobe she was wearing in with the wash. So she was standing in the basement wearing only a football helmet when she heard a man in the corner, clearing his throat. It was the meter reader and the woman hadn’t realized he was in the house. He said, “Sure hope your team wins, lady.”

Maybe it’s not a joke--it could be a true story. But there’s something so wrong about that story, too many holes. I need explanations. For example, why would she ignore a leak above her head? Was the football helmet the only thing available to protect her? And why on earth was the meter reader hiding in the corner of her basement without her knowing he was there? That’s a little sketchy.

Whatever . . . I’m not going to take on the veracity of that legend. I just was thinking about that story today when I was running the vacuum. One thing led to another this morning and I spent the morning wearing a t-shirt with major bleach stains, ratty old pajama pants, and a brand-new pair of high heels. Early this morning I had received a UPS package containing a pair of shoes I had ordered online—cute little taupe pumps with flowers on the toes. Don’t you know it’s rude to ask how many pairs of shoes I have? You wouldn’t ask a rancher how many acres he has, would you? Trust me, I needed cute little taupe pumps with flowers on the toes. And I needed to walk around in them in the house to test out the fit before I decided to keep them. What better way to test out the shoes than to wear them while I was running the vacuum? But as I was vacuuming in the grubby t-shirt, pajama pants, and high heels with flowers, a shiver went down my spine. Could there possibly be a meter reader in the house? Or worse, the fashion police from that TV show where they secretly videotape people who dress poorly. My daughter has threatened to sic the fashion stalkers on me so it’s possible they will ambush me at exactly the moment I’m wearing the grubbies with flowered high heels. Please don’t throw away everything I own and make me go shopping for all new stuff. Even with the $5000 budget, I would be totally miserable. I couldn’t find $5000 worth of clothes I wanted. Guess I should keep the windows covered and the doors securely locked.

Slip sliding away

I was getting in the shower today and casually looked at myself in the mirror. It was a big mistake. No, it wasn’t a mistake to take a shower. You know what I mean. A woman of a certain age should never look at her unclothed body in full light. That’s why we hire electricians to put dimmers on all our light switches.

It got me thinking about globs of flesh and what happens to them with age. Remember how in high school everyone was obsessed with the size of their thighs? That’s why Suzanne Somers invented the Thigh Master. Did she win a Nobel Prize for that? And we did those isometric things, pushing our palms together, saying “we must, we must improve our busts.”  We didn’t improve either our thighs or our busts and now these are the least of our problems.

I used to have a flat stomach. The only compliment my former husband ever gave me was when he told me that he remembered what a great flat stomach I used to have. That was well after the flat stomach had been slackened by pregnancies. The former husband wasn’t big on flattery.

The way of flesh is humbling. It slips and slides. It sinks where you don’t want it to sink and it forms unsightly bulges where you don’t want it to bulge. But here’s the good news—I figure that it’s going to keep slipping. With time it will slide from the belly to the knees. Then it will form an unsightly bubble on the calves and the ankles. This will be the stage when I wear bell bottoms. From there, the feet will become grotesquely distorted like clown feet. But that’s the beginning of the end. If I can just hold on through the clown feet stage, gravity will take over and the excess flesh will seep out of the bottom of my feet. One morning I’ll get up and find a giant oil slick on the floor, like melting cans of Crisco. I’m so looking forward to the melted Crisco day.

A rambling letter to Mike

Dear Mike—You’ve been dead for over three weeks now. I refuse to accept it. I think it’s a huge hoax. You’re sitting back somewhere, relaxing on an island or something and you’ve hired a private detective to observe and report back to you on how your “loved ones” have lined up. How are they coping and who misses you the most? Surely I win the missing-you-most contest by any measure. The trouble is, when I find out for sure that it’s a hoax, and that you’re not really dead, then I’m going to KILL you because you’ve put me through this hell. Damn, you’re a mean bastard, why was I duped all along to think you were a thoughtful person with a decent amount of compassion? You shithead!

When I don’t doubt that you’re dead, when I'm faced with the stark reality, I often get angry. I mutter to you aloud, sometimes shouting at you for the idiocy of dying. “You shithead!” I shout, through tears. But then I apologize because you weren’t a shithead and you didn’t want to die.

It’s incomprehensible to me that a fully-formed man with so much energy, so many interests and opinions, so many skills, could be reduced to a puddle of emaciated flesh. That puddle in the bed was not the Mike I knew and loved. That little Yoda man, mumbling an occasional brilliant observation, had replaced the big, strong, guitar-playing cowboy. It wasn’t your body any longer. Where was the real Mike and when was he coming back?

When my heart softens and I get past the anger and disbelief is when it’s really hard. Then I face the stark truth that you’re gone. Just gone. This kind of gone is not going to end while I’m on this Earth.

People say to me, “Just talk to him. He’s there. He’s everywhere around you. He can hear you.” In a sense I want to believe that but I’m not convinced and, truthfully, I’ve never had one of those moments when I felt your presence or thought I heard your voice. I don’t really know the nature of heaven. (And I do give thanks that you’re in heaven.) But do you bother to hang out here in spirit when you can be in heaven talking to Jesus? Why would you do that? Go back to heaven, don’t listen to my whining. I’ll be fine. Sort of fine. Other than the missing you part.

Just so you know, I cried at Home Depot yesterday because I was frustrated. I needed to get a piece of plywood cut to replace a seat in a chair I’m doing. You shithead! Where are you with your power tools when I need you? Okay, I’m over that. I’ll be fine, I swear. I’ll pull myself together and I’ll be fine. Still, I’ll miss you. Oh, and I bought a circular saw and protective eye goggles. Just imagine the dangerous potential of a grieving old woman with a circular saw, the eye googles notwithstanding. Trust me, you’re much safer where you are.

Miss you. . . love you. . . .  Donna

Galub jamun, foie gras, or meatloaf

The change to Daylight Saving Time has messed with my bio-rhythms. It's past 2 a.m. I slept for awhile then got up. Advice seems to say that if you're not sleeping, you should get up, have warm milk, and do something soothing. I'm drinking warm milk and thinking about food. You may have noticed this blog is called Cooking + Praying. So where's the cooking? It has been on my mind, even though there's nothing going on in the kitchen. I've even been eating random things out of my pantry because there's so little to eat and I've been disinclined to plan a meal and actually go shopping for it. But, maybe if I get an inspiration . . .

So I pull out the old, old game I used to play in my early cooking days. Randomly, without looking, I pull a cookbook off the shelf and open it to a page. That's what I have to cook. I used to do it because I liked the challenge and ended up cooking some things I never would have tried otherwise.

Here's what just happened. I have probably 130 cookbooks (no, I didn't count) and by chance I picked an old one that I've had for a long time and actually used quite a bit. It's "The Vegetarian Epicure" by Anna Thomas. But the recipe that came up is a new one to me. It's called Galub Jamun, described as "a very special sort of Indian sweetmeat, with an impossible fragrance: roses and saffron." It takes days to make and it requires saffron and rose water. They advise the reader, "Don't be fazed by this." Sorry, I faze easily I suppose.

Can I get a second opinion? Even though I love tackling Indian recipes, I don't think I feel like taking on galub jamun at the moment, even though it sounds a little exotic and quite delicious. So I go back to the shelf, close my eyes, and see what happens with the second choice. It's a Barefoot Contessa book--Foie Gras with Roasted Apples. Ina Garten is so reliable and I've never been disappointed with any of her recipes. But it calls for one whole Grade A duck foie gras. Umm. . . where am I going to find foie gras and how much is it going to cost? Sorry, Ina.

Time for a third and final round. I have rejected the first two for being overly complicated, expensive, and having hard-to-find or costly ingredients. The next book? Sheila Lukins' "U.S.A. Cookbook," and the recipe (page 358) is Picadillo Meat Loaf. Okay--it's hard to object to meat loaf. I'm not making it tonight but I will make a list, go to the grocery store tomorrow, and report back on how it worked out.

Prayer for the season

Dear Lord, please get me through until spring. The weather outside belies the spirit in my heart. Outside it’s unseasonably warm—daffodils in bloom, buds swelling, people running wearing tank tops. The calendar says it’s late winter but I’m hunkered down inside like it’s mid-January. I want to crawl into my bed under layers of heavy blankets. I want to eat macaroni and cheese and drink hot chocolate. It should be sleeting and the cold wind should be howling. The world outside should match the cry of my heart. But spring will come, both literally and figuratively. Lord, please just support me, let me feel your loving embrace, lift me out of this cold sadness. Let me know that, though people I love have died, that I am alive and that I will soon feel the joy of that life. Lord, please get me through until spring.

My father's eyes

Lately I’ve been troubled, really heart sick about the recent losses in my life. And last night I was reading a book my daughter-in-law sent me—“Heaven” by Randy Alcorn—a Christian perspective on the nature of heaven. I always have thought that people in heaven don’t know what’s happening on Earth and are blissfully unaware of the trials and tribulations of their loved ones. But the author contends that Revelation 6 gives us reason to believe that those in heaven know what’s happening and they are praying for the others still on Earth.

Glory alleluia! I got promises from two people just before they died (my Uncle Billy and my dear Mike) that they would pray for me. And even better, I’ve got my dad, my trump card, sitting at the Lord’s side. If anyone is in heaven, my dad is there. So last night I talked to my dad and asked him please to talk to the Lord for me, “Please, Daddy, it hurts. Help me.”

And today I was cleaning up the clutter in my office. I took down some superfluous junk from my bulletin board and uncovered a photo of my dad from under something I tore from the local newspaper about a new cheese store. I looked at my father’s smiling face, looked into his eyes in the photo, and told him what a good father he was and that I’ll always love him.

I had iTunes playing on shuffle. Out of 7,791 songs on iTunes, just as I was looking at my father’s photo, up came Eric Clapton singing “My Father’s Eyes.” I figure if ever there was a sign from heaven that my father could hear me and that he was praying for me, that was it. What are the chances? I could be creeped out but I’m not—I’m reassured. Thanks, Daddy! I’m glad I’ve got you there for me.

Prayer fail

A big gusher of grief hit me tonight. I was in the laundry room, painting of course. I was so distressed that I got on my knees on the floor, kneeling in the spilled cat litter, splattered paint, and dust. I prayed, pleaded with God to make it stop. I asked Him what purpose He has in doing this to me. Is He trying to refine me? Is He testing me? Or is He just plain mean? I really wanted an answer. I wanted to hear His voice telling me that it would be okay. He said nothing. He saw me there on the floor and just let me grovel. He didn’t seem to be listening. I was angry and didn’t have anything nice to say to the Lord so I just went back to painting. The prayer didn't seem to work well.

It strikes me as particularly cruel that Mike died just a couple of weeks after he became a Christian. Haven’t I been praying for years to find a Christian man to share my life? Okay, voila—surprise—Mike becomes a Christian. Then Mike dies. Was that the answer to my prayers? Great for Mike because he died in salvation, but my selfish self thinks I got the raw end of the deal.

And my brother’s murder is going to trial now? The vile man who shot my brother refused to plea bargain so now our family will have to sit through a gut-wrenching trial? Is this what we deserve? Not only does my brother get viciously murdered in cold blood, but now we have the opportunity to relive every detail of his death in a courtroom. Is this really what the Lord wants for us?

I know, I know, I know. God doesn’t work that way. If we believe God is good, that He is good all the time, then we have to know that He is good even when we don’t get what we want. In all things He works for the good of those who are called according to His purpose. Can I get some reassurance, maybe a second opinion?

I know, I know, I know. Everything is not about me. I’m not the center of universe. God is just doing His work and I’m suffering collateral damage. What happens to me is ultimately not that important. But, Lord, please be merciful. I’m just so tired of grieving. Can you please just cut me a break?

I know, I know, I know. I’m wrong and I won’t always feel this way. But it’s where I am now—ticked off and frustrated, a tired, flawed human being.

Wardrobe malfunction

Okay, I'm officially and totally fed up with wardrobe malfunctions. What is with that? First it was that person at the Super Bowl. I didn't see it. Then it was that person at the Oscars. I didn't see that either. Maybe there was another Super Bowl malfunction but I didn't pay attention.

In the first 60-some years of my youth I cannot recall a single public wardrobe malfunction of any celebrity. This is a new phenomenon. They are just staging this stupid stuff. Any publicity is better than no publicity at all. If they weren't held together with goo and they weren't already dangerously close to exposing all of their junk then this would not be an issue.

I will admit to several personal wardrobe malfunctions but thankfully I did not get my photo spread all over the Internet. There was that time at Target when I realized I had toilet paper hanging out of the back of my pants. There was that time in my office when my dirty laundry slipped out onto the floor in the reception area. There was that time I wore the lime green sheath dress with the red coat. I looked like a cheap Christmas ornament. I've had my share of humiliation.

I also will admit to innumerable wardrobe malfunctions that are simply attributable to bad fashion sense. Just ask my daughter who periodically purges ugly things from my closet. For example, she made me dispose of two perfectly good pairs of pants. I called them "parachute pants" and she called them "M. C. Hammer pants." She says I have as much style as an adolescent boy. She particularly hates my orthopedic shoes. I like to think I am a bit edgy, artsy bohemian, a cross between Stevie Nicks and Eileen Fisher. I suppose it's a malfunction.