Blessed be the...

When I finished my son's baby book, a compilation of photos from his first year of life, for his fifth birthday, I recalled John O'Donohue's poem "For Your Birthday." I had read it somewhere during those busy early childrearing years. Now, I think of the poem as his birthday approaches. The poem reminds me of the wild beauty this universe exhibits in it's quest to express life in its many forms. 

My kiddos are both mysterious, loving, kind, unique, and cursed to have me as their mother in the sense of whatever bent I give them, will be a bent from which they must eventually find release. In contrast, I have been shackled, smothered, loved, hugged, weighed down, and lifted up by their beings, downfalls, and special joys. I alternate between conjuring and entropy. I'm a little push here, a smidge of prodding there, or just a stir of the pot kind of parent, hopeful but not always trusting in leaving well enough alone, yes, a helicopter parent at times. Parenting has been an amazing privilege at which I have both failed miserably (yelled my head off at an innocent child) and soared spectacularly (held myself back to allow them space to take off)-- somedays on the same day. Even though I occasionally wish they would turn off the widgets spontaneously,  play the piano without prompting, or clean their room regularly, I remain in awe of my kiddos and their special ways. Some of us get distracted, forget, or have lost touch with what pushes our buttons to dive deep, fly solo, or love unquestioningly, thankfully, so far, not them. Happy birthday to my little guy, your mama loves you.

For Your Birthday

Blessed be the mind that dreamed the day
The blueprint of your life
Would begin to glow on earth,
Illuminating all the faces and voices
That would arrive to invite
Your soul to growth

Praised be your father and mother
Who loved you before you were;
And trusted to call you here
With no idea who you would be.

Blessed be those who have loved you
Into becoming who you were meant to be,
Blessed be those who have crossed your life
With dark gifts of hurt and loss
That have helped to school your mind
In the art of disappointment.

When desolation surrounded you,
Blessed be those who looked for you
And found you, their kind hands
Urgent to open a blue window
In the grey wall formed around you.

Blessed be the gifts you never notice,
Your health, eyes to behold the world,
Thoughts to countenance the unknown,
Memory to harvest vanished days,
Your heart to feel the world’s waves,
Your breath to breathe the nourishment
Of distance made intimate by earth.

On this echoing-day of your birth,
May you open the gift of solitude
In order to receive your soul;
Enter the generousity of silence
To hear your hidden heart,
Know the serenity of stillness
To be enfolded anew
By the miracle of your being.

– from Benedictus, by John O’Donohue

Blueberry Raspberry Jam

Adding the whole berries at the end of the cooking process makes for a nice chunky jam. Using the ratio of 1:2/3 cup (berries to sugar) allows the ripe fruit taste to come through. Estimate about 2 pints of berries for 1 pint of jam. Yields 6 pint jars. Refer to manufacturers instructions for specific canning details for either the waterbath or oven method. The National Center for Home Food Preservation is nchfp.uga.edu.

Ingredients
Fresh Ripe Organic Blueberries, 750 gm ( 26.5 oz) = 562 gm (20 oz) + 188 gm (6.5 oz) (set aside)
Fresh Ripe Organic Raspberries, 750 gm ( 26.5 oz) = 562 gm (20 oz) + 188 gm (6.5 oz) (set aside)
Granulated Sugar, 1000 gm (35 oz)
Organic Lemon, 1, zest & 1 Tbsp of Juice
Kirschwasser (Cherry Liquor), 2 oz (60 ml)

Useful Equipment
Long handled spoonLarge heavy bottom Dutch OvenZester for LemonMesh skimmer or spoon to skim off foam and small bowl of water to dump the foamJars for canning with lids and bandsCanning Pot for water bath

Directions
1. Place metal spoons or plate into freezer.

2. Wash inside and outside of canning jars with lids and bands (estimate a pint jar per two pints of berries).

3. Bake jars (tops open) at 250ºF (121ºC) for 30 minutes. In a small pot over low heat, simmer the lids until needed. Lay out a clean cloth to wipe jar rims after filling.

4. Pick over the fruit and discard any unripe berries, stems, leaves, critters, or mold. Fill a bowl with water and swish the berries around-- prevents damage from the faucet's stream to the delicate fruit. Arrange in a single layer on a paper towel-lined baking sheet to prevent bruising and dry.

5. Near the stove, set aside a quarter of the berries, 375 gm (13 oz), to add at the end.

6. In a large heavy bottom pot with a wide rim such as a dutch oven over low heat, add berries and occasionally stir to soften the fruit and draw out the pectin until it comes to a simmer, 5 to 7 minutes.
Continuing over low heat, add the sugar, lemon juice, and a bit of lemon zest. Stir into berries until dissolved, 1 to 2 minutes.

7. Increase heat (medium high to high depending on the heat source) to boil rapidly, stirring frequently to prevent sticking, until the jelling point is reached, 15 to 20 minutes- see the next step below. Skim foam off the top as needed.

8. After 15  minutes begin to test for the jelling point by placing a bit of the hot jam onto a spoon or plate from the freezer. If the jam runs, continue to cook and recheck after a minute, if the jam runs in a sheet and crinkles when pushed up, the jelling point has been reached.

9. Add the remaining whole berries and return to boil until the berries are translucent and just hold their shape, about 1 to 3 minutes. Remove pan from heat. Skim off any foam.

10. Gently stir the Kirschwasser into the jam.

11. Allow to cool and thicken to let the whole fruit pieces to remain disbursed, 10 to 12 minutes.

12. Ladle warm jam into clean sterilized jars with a 1/4-inch of head space. Wipe rims with clean damp cloth. Apply lids and seal with bands- tighten bands to just finger tight.

13. Place jars in a pot with a rack and enough water to cover the jars by about an inch. Bring water to boil and process for 5 minutes. Start the timer when the water begins to boil.

14. Remove jars from the water and place on a surface (wood, folded cloth, newspapers, silicon mat, etc.) to cool. Tighten the bands. Allow to sit undisturbed and to cool completely.

15. Check the seals. Any unsealed jars must be used within a few days and stored in the fridge. Store jars in a cool dry place and use within 1 year. Label jars/lids with the date and contents.

At the table
Eat jam on sandwiches with brie, french toast, oatmeal, yogurt, scones, waffles, salad dressing, etc.

Blueberries and Raspberries cooking

The Joy of a House in Order

This time of year my friends in Japan are cleaning or at least thinking about it-- the house, office, car, buildings, just about everything, gets a thorough cleaning before the new year. The idea is to make room for the new.

I love a clean house, but I'm lazy or rather, busy, so I focus on organizing things and ignore the dust. The real war is with stuff. This year, inspired by Marie Kondo's new book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, the Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing, I have literature to support my approach.

You start by putting like with like, make a huge pile, and then go through every item where you physically have to pick it up and see if you feel the joy. Kondo talks you out of keeping a ton of crap that I know exists somewhere in my house. She has recommendations on where to start and some pitfalls to consider so read the book for further details.

Letting go of stuff is the key and this idea of holding it in your hands and sorting by vibes is great especially for stuff being kept out of obligation. I'm feeling for the joy, and if it isn't there, the item is thanked and discarded. It could be my familiarity with Japan, but this method works for me. 

I'll be working at this for months which is better than never dealing with it. Let's face it, the gains I've made over the past two weeks will dissipate Christmas Day-- I've got kids. 

One housekeeping tip I can pass along to those of you who suffer with living with Legos, everywhere, is to sic a rat on them. The Mule's rats love the Moose's Legos. Nothing like the threat of an imminent rat attack to get the Moose to clear out the Legos. 

If you're surrounded by stuff, feel beleaguered by piles, or need to tweak for a happy home life, "Discard anything that doesn't spark joy," writes Marie Kondo.

There's space on my book shelves!

Rats, the Alternative Pet

Rodents were not my first thought for pets. However, birthday wishes brought two rats to chez-Jordan.

Here's Moka-chan eating pizza crust.

I tried holding the gerbils, hamsters, and guinea pigs at the pet store. The rats, hands down, were the calmest and smartest-- they didn't walk off the edge of the table. Now that they live with us, I've also learned a few other pluses. Rats swim,  in the bathtub. They like to be held and tend to snuggle.  Most importantly, their poop is small, and once accustomed to handling, they rarely poop on us.

A typical reaction to meeting the rats goes like this. The Mule bring the rats out of their hotel and people cringe or say something like our New York City friend who stood at one end of the hallway and called out, "That's close enough!"

The Mule is turning into a pro rat handler, and the rats are very charming. It surprised me to realize that Moka-chan prefers being held to going into her hotel. The ratties are growing on me and they are definitely worth considering as an alternative rodent pet.

Moka-chan, the rat

Cheese Rice Casserole

Repulsed by the appearance of can condensed mushroom soup, I created this homemade version of cheese rice casserole to replace it.  The combination of the American brown and wild rice adds texture and chewiness. Please note that I use American short grain brown rice which is not washed and differs from Japanese short grained rice though I'm not sure why or how, but it does-- it's not so starchy so perhaps is more polished, but I'm guessing. Make this ahead of time and then bake it just before serving though I do not mix the rice into the sauce until I'm ready to put it in the oven as the rice absorbs too much of the sauce even though it's cooked. According to my daughter, there is no substitute for the Tillamook Sharp Cheddar Cheese. We go to great lengths (and distances) to keep this particular cheese in stock around our house. This dish is the most requested menu item in our household and was after Mama and Dada, the most missed thing from home while at summer camp.

Cheese Rice Casserole

Serves 4 to 5. *Japanese Rice Cup (JRC) equals 3⁄4 cup.

Ingredients

Short Grain Brown Rice + Wild Rice Mixture, 2 ¼ cup (dry)= 3 JRC*

Water, 4 ½  cups = 5 ½  JRC

Butter, ½ cup 

All-purpose Flour, slight ½ cup

Fresh Rosemary, ~½ tsp (1 sprig)

Chicken or Vegetable Stock, 4 cups

Salt, 2/3 tsp 

Pepper, 2 grinds or a pinch +

Tillamook Sharp Cheddar Cheese, 6 oz (170 gm), cut into 1-inch cubes

Breadcrumbs, 2 Tbsp for garnish

Broccoli, 1 cup finely chopped (optional and not Xan’s favorite)

Useful Equipment

Rice cooker or heavy bottomed pan with a fitted lid

Rice Paddle

Medium Sauce Pan

Food Processor or a sharp knife

Casserole Dish, 4 quart

Directions

Cook rice and water in either a rice cooker (follow device instructions) or use the stove top method. Stove top method: In a heavy bottomed pan with a tight fitting lid, bring water and rice to boil over medium heat. Immediately reduce heat to simmer and cover with the lid. Cook until the water is gone and rice is tender, about 20 minutes. Set aside. 

Make Sauce. In a medium pan, melt butter over medium low heat. Whisk flour into melted butter and cook about 2 minutes.  Add rosemary. Gradually whisk in stock and cook until thickened, about 5 minutes though it is still soupy. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Set aside. 

Cook broccoli (if using). Bring pot of water to boil and add broccoli until bright green, about 2 minutes. Plunge into cold water, and drain. Place into food processor and pulse until finely chopped or chop finely with a knife.

Cut cheddar cheese into cubes.

Mix together. Using a rice paddle, stir the rice into the sauce and gently break up any rice clumps. Add the broccoli, cheese, and gently fold together.

Bake in casserole dish. Grease a casserole dish, add mixture, and sprinkle bread crumbs over the top. Bake at 375ºF (190ºC) until bubbling and browned, about 35 to 40 minutes. 

Cheese Rice Casserole

Leaving Campers

My husband and I left our children at summer camp. There were repressed looks of panic if you know their faces. They waved us off anyway.

Later, I asked my husband if he was concerned about the kids looking so stoic. He said, "They're Japanese white people. Of course they aren't going to complain and tell you they're scared." I laughed at the veracity of that statement. 

As we drove off, I spotted our non-sports-interested son standing on a basketball court with his hands in his pockets. When I wondered aloud if we should have perhaps sent him to some kind of Roman history camp, my husband said, "The families dropping kids off at camp looked pretty normal honey. Parents going to a Roman history camp might not be so normal looking." I chuckled, okay, he knows how to reassure me. He also reminded me that our son cracked a smile at his counsellor's joke as we departed.

I thought this week of summer camp would be a slam dunk, but like most things, it's a mixed bag. Nonetheless, note the pool with four slides. The kiddos are in for a treat. 

My husband suggested we watch Meatballs. I countered with American Hustle. We've got a German victory to celebrate-- sauerkraut and pickles to make, and then there's my bit part in the film. However, I turned off the do not disturb setting on my phone, just in case.

Summer Camp

Sleeping in strange rooms, evening dinners outside, and accommodating the interests of a gaggle of cousins over a wide age span has been a part of every summer I can remember. When one of my cousins and I were ten, my mom and aunt sent us to summer camp, a bible camp somewhere in southern Alabama. A few things stand out from that first camp experience.

Chief Eagle Feather was the week’s special guest. I don’t remember much beyond his name and that one evening I miraculously found a verse in the bible before three hundred other children. Long after, my dad teased me about Chief Pluck a Feather every time I invoked, “one time at summer camp, Chief….”

Camp included meals in a big hall, cabins with a cement shower stall, and a mix of activities-- crafts, archery, swimming, and trail rides (without helmets of course). Trail rides varied with the horse you rode-- I recollect my cousin riding a wild bucking horse on one. Luckily, on my first ride I found myself on an old white horse, Barney, that trotted along the trails with nary a cue from the rider.

One afternoon my cousin, a friend, and I skipped the afternoon swim session to walk around the lake. We were in the mood to ramble, talk, and pluck wildflowers. However, as we got to the far side of the lake, we realized our proximity to the stables and the nearness to the top of the hour when the trail rides started.

Simultaneously, we each shouted, “I get Barney!” and thus began the sprint for the stables in uncharted territory. As we ran pellmell down the hill, not one of us noticed the barbed wire fence. My cousin attempted to roll under it, our friend tried to jump over it, and I, I opted to go through the middle. At the first aid station, my newly pierced ear that gushed blood like Old Faithful was dressed.

I still have a faint scar on my ear from that summer adventure. Not one of us rode Barney that day, but we did return to summer camp for several years after that. This year my daughter is ten, and she is heading off to sleep away camp for the first time. I wonder what stories she will bring back with her.

Within and Beyond, Safe Travels

A friend is heading off to the wild blue yonder not for a job, the reason most people I know move, but to see what lies beyond the confines of the hills that surround us— the thrill of adventure calls. 

Once upon a time I was hellbent on departing just as now, I’m hellbent on staying. “There’s no place like home,” has long been my mantra wherever I’ve lived and even when I’ve clearly not been a local— Spain, Bahrain, and Japan. I longed for those adventures and needed them to stretch my tolerance, appreciation, and widen my radar of awareness. Things that are you versus other are more obvious when you are outside of them. There even comes a day when you can’t return to a certain way of living or thinking— the confines of racism or the shackles of sexual repression come to mind-- they are embedded in some places but not in others. 

In some ways living abroad made me hyper aware of how American I was in terms of language, my approach to authority, and in daily rituals like meals. New experiences that touched undeveloped longings in me, were embraced with a sureness that some might have seen as adapting to another culture, but for me it was the centrality of the human experience that helped me to see with new eyes or to embrace something missing in my own cultural experiences, a new way home.

I face the task now of integrating seemingly random experiences from different cultures into one way of being which also changes with circumstance and other experiences like parenting, missteps, and new found joys. I picked a place to do this that has a mix of people rooted in other places and so it is tolerant with the roundabout approach to local ways. It is also a place with traditions and ways that rub and press in upon me both good and bad. However, I don’t have to go to say Italy to find my way to things I love or to let go of things I don't. Finally or at least more often, I can see at home what I once could only notice when I was away. I brought new eyes home.

The food front is an easy obvious place to explore. 

Travel means tasting new foods and combinations, so I did. From dancing shrimp on a table in Japan to grilled sparrow in Lebanon to roast bear in Russia, it’s enough to make a woman go vegetarian even if she doesn’t live in the hills of Ohio dotted with hippies. Sometimes I longed for American breakfasts of hash browned potatoes and omelets or particularly the comfort of milk tea and toast with butter and jam especially when faced with a breakfast of steamed rice and grilled fish or ful medames. Food is a universal and yet a local experience, but don’t mess with breakfast too many days in a row or you’ll find you revert to childhood. Meanwhile, food trends in America follow headlines like a tennis match— gluten free, thwack, low carb, unhh, vegan, sloomph!  You can go anywhere in a kitchen which is probably why I've found myself spending more time in my own kitchen over the years. There are other coves of discovery, but for now food is the easiest to share.

As my friend stretches outward, I seek to stretch inward-- to notice the subtle signs that call me. Adventures beckon us from both within and beyond. Safe travels wherever you are called! 

Planting Borage, Playing War

Two boys separated for a week by a beach vacation by one, greet each other with nerf guns. It's early, I'm poking borage into the garden. The boys discuss their options for war.

"Let's do Vietnam," says the Moose. "Um, Cold War," says the other. I look up to the balcony where they are surveying the terrain. They laugh. The Moose says, "They just looked at each other in the Cold War." The other fires a shot and runs, calling out, "Vietnam!"

I sit back on my haunches and wonder if those who endured the Cold War would appreciate the stare off assessment.

I planted the borage for its brilliant blue blossoms that are edible as well as for the bees.

Borage (bees love it) is also edible

No Place Like Home

If I had ruby slippers, they would take me home in the present, every time.  I used up all my travel Jones with forty plus years as military baggage. I don't regret it, but that particular scratch, no longer itches. Now, I like puttering about the garden, working at my desk, and the quiet that exists no place else, plus my favorite people are here. 

Sure, I grumble about cooking and cleaning, but traveling makes me appreciate the food at home. As much as I loved eating ramen and coal fired pizza in New York City, I'm thrilled to be back at the farmers market and harvesting the containers on the deck.

While in New York, the intensity of processed and packaged foods overwhelmed me. It occurred to me that one of the most radical things to do is to cook at home, with real food. Buying local food, using local food, means supporting the local economy, instead of corporations that are really interested in the wallet, not health, plus the food is fresher and more flavorful. Cooking also gives you control of fat, sugar, and other additives that need to be limited.

Grow your own food. I once scoffed at this concept, but really, containers are small and manageable. I put three packages of pesto into the freezer which were made from the clippings of a hanging basket of basil that grew while we away. If you come to chez Jordan this summer, you might be eating pesto.

Today, we ate our first nastridiums, marigolds, and borage, grown on the deck in pots. It's high time to get a few things into the garden so that we can reap the benefits of uber local foods. If you haven't tried marigolds, they are a must! 

As exciting as other places are, there is no place like home.

Happy Mothers Day!

Nature's Magic & Foaming Hand Soap Recipe

Nature's Magic. Photos by Elizabeth Reyes.

Danielle Young chuckles as she relates her biggest business catastrophe. While pouring essential oil from a gallon container into a measuring cup, a small amount spilled, leaving an entire office building smelling like peppermint for several days. She adds, “At least it was near the holidays.” Danielle makes Nature’s Magic, non-toxic sustainable cleaning products. She has gone from mixing sixteen ounce bottles of the “magic” in her kitchen to five gallon buckets in her office— requiring considerably more heft. “You’ve got this,” her husband encouraged when she decided to expand. But it has taken more than mixing and gallon jugs to develop her line.

In 2008, Danielle, a professional social worker by training, decided to open a cleaning business to align her work hours with the demands of family life.

Given her concern for the safety of both her clients and herself, she began searching for cleaning products that were both effective and non-toxic. Her research into what was commercially available revealed products with long lists of chemicals -- including petroleum-based surfactants which are used to keep oils mixed into the liquids.  Even brands touting environmental tags contained toxins! Danielle, realizing the lack cleaners she felt safe using, decided to make her own.

Over a period of several years, using 100% pure essential oils, locally sourced vinegar, and organic castile soap for her products and friends and clients as guinea pigs, Danielle developed her plant based recipes for Nature’s Magic. She made the decision not to use surfactants and chose an easier, environmentally friendly solution. A tiny shake from users’ hands mixes the essential oils back into the liquids with ingredients that are easy to pronounce and understand.

The feedback from clients, friends, and family was, “not only is my house clean, but it smells good,” and “it’s safe for my kids and feels peaceful. Where can I get more?” The combination of feedback, several years of experience making and using her own products, and her awareness that the market lacked sustainable options pushed her out of her comfort zone and into the marketplace.

Having outgrown her space at home, she turned to an Athens, Ohio, business incubator ACEnet (Appalachian Center for Economic Networks) for help. With a larger storage area, dedicated work space, shared equipment, and access to technical resources, the process of bottling Nature’s Magic for sale began. The blue bottles with their hand applied labels protect the powerful cleaning capabilities of the pure essential oils. It was now time to see her products on the shelves of the local markets.

“One day I decided to go for it. I got my samples ready. I walked into the Athens Kroger. I walked back out. I stood outside and told myself to go in there and talk to the manager,”— which she did. Five months later, the next steps were completed, and Nature’s Magic is now on the shelf, but on a low shelf. “You have to start somewhere,” she told me.

Pitching her products is still difficult for Danielle, but she is gaining confidence. Danielle is a one-woman show. While comfortable with the creative side, she has had to learn the business aspects of accounting, public relations, and marketing. “Day to day is so incredibly different,” she says. Her husband’s words remind her of all the steps that have brought her this far.

Nature’s Magic, including multipurpose spray, deep clean spray, glass cleaner, and concentrates for refills, is made in Ohio from carefully selected ingredients, and is available in the Athens, Columbus, and Toledo markets. Nature’s Magic leaves behind a clean home that smells crisp and feels as peaceful as the hills surrounding Danielle’s office.


Danielle offered this simple recipe for foaming hand soap plus you will know what you’re putting on your skin. You can also customize the scent as you like or use her suggestions. Filtered water is recommended as it removes undesirable material from your water, but tap water works too.

FOAMING HAND SOAP

You will need

• Foaming Soap Dispenser
• Water, 2/3 cup 
• Liquid Castille Soap (such as Dr. Bronner’s Baby Mild), 1/3 cup
• 100% Pure Essential Oils, total of 1/8 tsp
• Bathroom Scent: Lavender & Tea tree OR Peppermint & Rosemary, equal parts
• Kitchen Scent: Lemongrass & Peppermint, equal parts
• Label

Directions

1. Pour water into container.
2. Add liquid castile soap to the water (to avoid making bubbles).
3. Add the essential oils.
4. Screw on the hand pump and gently swish to mix.
5. Dry container and apply label.
6. Wash away!

I interviewed Danielle Young in hopes of getting an article published, but alas it did not find an outlet. After I interviewed her, she gave me a bottle of the Multipurpose Cleaner which I have happily been shaking and then spraying all over my house. I've also made the foaming soap to refill an empty foaming soap pump using the proportions in the recipe, but with Sweet Orange and Bergamot essential oils-- feel free to improvise. Photos by Elizabeth Reyes. Thank you Danielle and Elizabeth!

Nature's Magic. Photos by Elizabeth Reyes.

Homemade Nutella (No Palm Oil)

Kiddos, like other consumers, impact the world by their choices. A research project on Bornean Orangutans, an endangered animal, lead to the realization that orangutan habitat is being destroyed to make room for mono-plantations of palms, for the palm oil, in South East Asia. This led to some label reading and the discovery that the beloved nutella was made with palm oil (20% from what I gather).

Not wanting to eat palm oil, led to researching palm oil free nutella recipes. This one is by Adrien Gontier, a French geochemistry student that gave up palm oil and was featured on PRI. Palm oil is in many products beyond foods-- soaps, shampoos, etc. This is going to make selling Girl Scout cookies interesting. In the meantime, I'm hoping to find a sustainably harvested kind of nutella and there are a few jars stashed in the pantry to finish off.

Consider that beyond health concerns, palm oil usage in processed foods is destroying unique habitat. Saving habitat and avoiding palm oil is a choice that will impact more than a momentary cookie break or the fifteen minutes you spend making your own spread, reading labels, and making choices that matter.


Homemade Nutella (No Palm Oil)
Powdered Milk, 25 gm (~1oz)
Cocoa Powder, 60 gm (~2.5 oz)
Powdered Hazelnuts, 95 gm (~3 oz)
Agave Syrup, 100 gm (~3.5 oz)
Sugar cane syrup: (50 g water et 100g cane sugar) = cane syrup made with 3.5 oz cane sugar and 1.75 oz water

Directions
Mix all ingredients together and eat it on bananas, bread, or with a spoon.

Me vs. We Thinkers

"Look at me, look at me, look at me." "Go out there and show them who's number one!" 

We Americans talk a lot. Talk. Talk. Talk. Many an American teacher sees the child (with a raised hand) that talks a lot as intelligent. This talk, talk, talk busy-ness is an American concept of intelligence often ridiculed in other cultures. Watch any Monty Python lately? You can verify it for yourself by watching many a newscaster.

In America, we hustle to get to the front of the line. We do not encourage our children to defer to others; this is seen as a sign of weakness. What is lost in deferring to those who think they need to be first? The result of this is that in America, time and energy are spent on me, me, me, which cultivates a certain amount of rudeness.

In Japan, children learn to wait to eat with other people so that everyone eats at the same time. Admittedly, this waiting drove me crazy with the preschool set, but by starting early, the tone is set for the "we" concept.

The me vs. we culture yields some tangible differences.

"Which culture is easier to get along with, Japanese or American?" my husband asked our son. With no hesitation, our son answered, "Japanese." I piped in, "Why?" Our son replied, "Because they're kinder, quieter, and they're not mean." 

Reeling at the sting of my own culture being meaner, I sat quietly, knowing that he spoke a truth. My husband brought up a difficult friend for our son while we lived in Japan. Our son responded, "The American kids are meaner." 

While Americans focus on, "I'm the boss," our Japanese friends focus on, "We are all part of the group." 

The focus on the we leads to some tedious experiences in trying to reach consensus. If everyone is part of the group, then any one member can lead the group astray as everyone has the right to challenge the group. You are not allowed to be mean to some because everyone has the right to be there.

Wow! Everyone has the right to be there. 

Japanese friends might say the niceness is feigned. My point is that the individual is important enough to the group that they fake being nice which beats vitriol anytime, just ask my nine year old.

In America we spend time dismissing everyone else's right to be at the table-- he's an athlete, they're gay, she's poor, he's uneducated. We're so busy eliminating differences that we end up serving only ourselves-- me, me, me.

We could benefit from thinking not about the me but about the we.

Girl Scout's Ban Bossy Campaign

Last month, my daughter talked me into volunteering with Girl Scouts as a Junior Troop leader. This month, my book group selection is Lean In by Sheryl Sandberg. Now, Girl Scouts of the USA have a Ban Bossy campaign. I should lean in and jump at the opportunity to wax poetically about how I too was called bossy and that it held me back. Except, I was one of those annoying girls when faced with a leadership vacuum, I stepped up-- just like I did when my daughter asked me to help.

If a label is going to get in your way, you've got bigger problems.

Maybe I should have let it fester and grow into some kind of discontent worthy of demanding others to ban the behavior? The women chiming in on this campaign are wildly successful in their fields-- you can see them in the video on the Girl Scout site where things like this are said,

"Pushy, Stubborn, Bossy. When I was growing up, I was called bossy. Being labeled something matters. Words matter. Let's just ban the word bossy. Listen to your own voice. There are no limits. Its ok to be ambitious. Let's ban bossy. Join us to ban bossy." 

I'm struggling to not want to throw a cream pie at this. I get the concern about girl's having self-esteem drops, but I can't chalk it up to name calling.

Consider what young girls begin to hear about their body, looks, development. Even Sandberg brought up the client who wanted her to meet his son. And this is in America. Try being around Saudi men in Bahrain wearing jeans and a t-shirt with your husband; they think you're a prostitute.

There is so much more to the self-esteem gap than the name bossy, although its probably not as comfortable to talk about.

I wonder about young women especially because I'm raising one and because I see the college aged women in my new hometown doing things like peeing in the streets and having sexual encounters on bank machines (that one was on the web thanks to a kind passerby's widget recording). These encounters were fueled by alcohol which likely bolsters false confidence, but it puts the thought into my head of why? Apparently not enough women are attracted to corporate boardrooms or aping male behavior.

My frustrations with the Lean In book, for all that was good in it, was that it encouraged women to play at a man's game without raising the point that we need a new game, new rules, and better standards for all of us. A ban feels enormously misguided in the face of the need to educate women about so much more, and please, call me bossy.

(Just in, this is the kind of news that bites into the core of the problems women face--a lopsided system that fails the victim... a letter to Harvard from a victim of sexual assault.)

 When a little boy asserts himself, he's called a “leader.” Yet when a little girl does the same, she risks being branded “bossy.” Words like bossy send a message: don't raise your hand or speak up. By middle school, girls are less interested in leading than boys—a trend that continues into adulthood. Together we can encourage girls to lead.

As part of Ban Bossy, Girl Scouts of the USA and LeanIn.org have teamed up in partnership with Lifetime television to create a PSA featuring Beyoncé, Jane Lynch, Condoleezza Rice, Diane von Furstenberg, Garner and others that points out that girls are discouraged from taking leadership roles because of labeling and name-calling.

The Bread Diet & a Bun Recipe

I chuckled over a Facebook post about the number of loaves of bread to buy for a snow storm partly because though I think of going out for milk, toilet paper, and salt, I don’t think about buying bread. We make it at home because finding a decent loaf of bread in the States is difficult. The transition of where foods are prepared, from home to industrial food processors, means that the way food is valued, made, stored, and shipped has also changed.

Bread is about shelf life, not taste, in the States.

Despite having been the staff of life for thousands of years, bread's reputation has lost its luster in part due to the rise of gluten intolerance. Please note that the industrialization of bread baking with its reduced fermentation times has been noted to play a part in the increased prevalence of gluten intolerance. It’s therefore not merely the fault of gluten but also the quick fermentation and industrial processing that need to be avoided.


Last Thanksgiving while slicing up cheap white sandwich bread for stuffing, my husband noticed an odor emitting from the loaves. After seven years of making our own bread or buying sandwich bread from a baker in Japan, it was a revelation to then handle processed bread. It stinks.

On a recent morning, coming down the stairs, I spied the step ladder in front of open pantry doors. Flour coated the kitchen counter and floor. A bowl of barely mixed dough was sitting in front of my beaming child. Despite my frustration with the mess, I help him cover the dough and clean up while sharing in his delight for having just created something.

This child often rises with the sun in a cheerful manner and sometimes begins unsupervised projects like making bread dough. I’m not sure exactly what posses him, but his bread concoctions are amazingly good. He uses all-purpose flour with a high protein content and instant yeast because that is what is accessible in the pantry. (The long acting yeast is in our fridge and he’s yet to use it.) I tend to let the dough sit around all day, sometimes overnight, and then shape it right before he comes home from school because of course he wants to see if it turned into something. We bake it and voilà, it’s always tasty, moist, and somedays it even has lovely holes, think of the no knead bread method. I’ve decided that part of his bread’s success lies in the long fermentation process and the beauty of playing with food.

In these parts of Ohio, the vegan (CHIP) diet is heavily pushed. However, there are still plenty of us around who eat a few animal products and like our bread to contain gluten. I eat plenty of vegetarian fare, but I have an intense dislike of faux food or food that is vegan but is supposed to taste like meat or something else. I prefer eating foods that are what they are, and processed whatever food is usually not so good for you anyway.

When I worked as a cardiac nurse, I asked patients and their families about their diet. Americans eat too much processed food. It’s one of the reasons I learned to cook real food. It’s also the reason I eat butter, bread, full fat yogurt, and drink whole milk— it’s real food. I’ve also noted that people the world over who eat and cook what they like in reasonable amounts and that exercise to some degree are not always on a (calories restricted) diet. For the love of food, eat the real stuff and get it locally. If I was  dishing out diet advice, I would say consider this from Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food, “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.” I might add that wheat is a plant.

Do you remember the National Geographic article about longevity and diet that highlighted the blue zones where people lived for a long time which included the Sardinians, Okinawans, and the Seventh-day Adventists of Loma Linda, California? They ate diets that included bread, cheese, meat, and small amounts of alcohol along with the vegan and vegetarian fare. A National Geographic researcher, Dan Buettner, commented on blue zone diets in a later interview, saying, “Hanging out with unhappy people who drink and smoke is hazardous to your health.” My point here is that bread and cheese can be part of a healthy diet (and it helps to socialize and be part of a community).

Recently, I've been reading Pickled, Potted, and Canned: How the  Art and Science of Food Preserving Changed the World by Sue Shepard. I was shocked in the preface to read that in 1800 archaeologist in Egypt were eating honey thousands of years old until they found some hairs in it and then the perfectly preserved body of a small baby. Apparently honey keeps almost indefinitely and gives self-preserving new meaning.

The book is full of interesting bits on the competitive food chain— “if we don’t quickly take advantage of a food, something else will.” The history on the ways that this has been done is quite interesting. Think of travelers, refugees, soldiers, sailors, and long winters with no food and add to that the myriad locations around the world with varying conditions, food stuffs, and learning curves. The fermentation process and ingredients like vinegar, salt, honey, and sugar were found to transform perishable food stuff into storable and transportable foods like crackers, breads, cheeses, yogurts, and wines. It’s kind of interesting to realize that butter and yogurt weren’t about being healthy or unhealthy but about putting food by for another day.

Our industrious forebearers found that fermentation can make inedible foods edible. The Sudanese love of rotten meat evolved in a region plagued with food scarcity and benefits those that consume every last calorie available to them. Fermentation gives us cultural icons that are now eaten throughout the world— German saurkraut, Vietnamese fish sauce nuoc mam, katsuobushi and miso from Japan, thousand year old eggs from China, Korean kimchi, and even bread.  Allowing yeast to ferment is part of what makes gluten digestible.

If an eight year old boy can come downstairs and mix up a bowl of dough that turns into a delicious bread, so can you. Here's a recipe for buns that are delish. Put some jam on it. Live a little. Eat bread, but make it yourself.

Buns for Breakfast or Burgers

Make 8 to 12

These breakfast buns work with or without a burger. I adapted a recipe from the online The Bakers Circle hosted by King Arthur flour.

Ingredients

Whole Wheat flour, 2/3 cup

Bread flour 2 1/3 cup

Sugar, 1/4 cup

Salt, 1 1/4 tsp

Warm Water, 1 cup

Yeast (regular), 1 Tbsp

Egg, 1 large

Butter, 2 Tbsp melted & slightly cooled + 3 Tbsp for topping

Directions

1. In a mixing bowl, whisk together whole wheat flour, bread flour, sugar, and salt.
2. Melt 2 Tbsp of butter butter and set aside to cool slightly.
3. In another mixing bowl, whisk together 1 cup of the flour mix, warm water, and yeast until smooth and shiny, about 1 minute.
4. Add the egg and slightly cooled butter to the mixture and whisk again until smooth and shiny, about 1 minute.
5. In a standing mixer fitted with a dough hook or by hand, add the remaining flour mixture to the dough mix and knead until smooth and elastic, about 10 minutes. Add additional bread flour as needed if extremely sticky, should just be tacky.
6. Cover the dough, and allow to rise until doubled in bulk, about 1 to 2 hours.
7. Gently deflate the dough, divide into 8 to 12 pieces (8 for burger size; 12 for bun size, 24 for slider size). Shape each piece into a round ball; flatten to about 3-inches across. Place the buns on a silicon sheet or parchment-lined baking sheet. Cover and let rise until noticeably puffy, about 1 hour.
8. Brush buns with half of the additional melted butter. Bake 375ºF until golden, about 15 to 18 minutes, Remove from the oven and brush with the remaining melted butter.

42 Times

My daughter, a wee tyke of fifteen months, had a habit of coming into the parental bed. Exhausted from twelve hour night shifts and a new round of morning sickness, I pulled her in and rolled over, grateful for any sleep. Except, I didn't sleep so well with her in the bed. She turned in every direction and oozed heat like lava from Mt. Kilauea. 

I read several books about children and sleep before finding the baby whisperer, Tracy Hogg. Maybe because the baby whisperer was a nurse, I got the message. I had to make the change, no one else-- neither the child herself nor my husband-- would rescue me. The baby whisperer method was gentle, clear, but required one to be firm in the face of resistance.

My call to action was signaled by the late night pitter-patter of little feet coming down the hall. As she drew nearer, a breath steeled my nerves even as I wondered if it was really the night to start. Did I have the energy to stick to the plan-- surely I should wait for a good night of sleep.

Her happy face cemented the beginning. I gently clasped her hand, trotted her back down the hall, tucked her into bed, patted her head (trying not to speak much as instructed), turned out the lights, and shut the door. I repeated this forty-two times that first night. The next night we made eighteen trips down the hall to her room. 

She's a tad stubborn, hence her nickname, the Mule.

My husband, gifted on many fronts in getting children to talk and with deescalating anxious parents, is not known as the enforcer of bedtime in our house. It is left to me to encourage visitors to leave after eight. Another motivator is the resident Rooster Moose (the second child is a morning lark) that will crow the song of the day at sunrise. The point is that there is no slacking on the bedtime front beyond an hour or two. It is not mastered one time; daily practice is required.

When I think I've tried something that didn't work, I remember, try it forty-two times, and then expect to do it some more. I wanted to give up, to just go back to sleep, but ultimately I knew the short term gain of sleep was not in the interest of either of us. For change to happen, it helped me to stick with the big picture of why the change was needed and to remember who it served-- good sleep meant happier mama, and happier mama meant better everyone else in the family.

If all else fails, restore your sense of humor. Listen to the audio of Samuel L. Jackson read Go the F**k to Sleep and then after laughing deliriously, try again.

Be gentle, firm, but persevere-- this is required of us for any change we attempt.

Helpful sleep tips!

Deliriously funny for sleep deprived fed up parents

Packaging Exercise

Dying my hair is not so much an expression of style or hipness-- reverse ombre it hot on Pinterest and here on the streets of Athens, the candy colored Kool-Aid red dyed hair has caught my eye-- as a nod toward reality. My roots are over forty and they are slowing giving way to a lighter color. I'm cool with wrinkles and gray hairs, but I don't mind a touch of hair dye, a dab of mascara, and a dose of exercise to keep it at least superficially in a more attractive package. There is a certain kind of pleasure with unwrapping a beautiful package or thoughtfully designed box when the outside matches the inside. 

Changes on the interior front have more often absorbed my interest, but of late I've come to realize that I have a body to bring along with me that needs more attention than I have traditionally given it. 

Recently, I've taken to dragging myself out for more walks, begun flitting with jogging intervals, stretching in Pilates classes, and attending Rolfing sessions. Admittedly, the pursuit of suppleness, staying in my pant size, and better sleep are the driving forces. I am tickled by a new motivation trick I've discovered: taking an iPod to listen to stories (not pulse pounding rock music). The desire to listen at longer intervals keeps me outside. The relief of stretching out the core tightness reminds me of the benefits of sticking with Pilates. The mounting need to have an elephant stomp on my back led me to Rolfing sessions which have restored some of the missing flow in my left shoulder. 

I wrangle between the need to attend to the body and a love of diving deep into my head, but it is the sheer imbalance (read lack of exercise) that drives the need for physical activity even in winter.

Winter in Ohio charms me, but even on a  morning after snowfall has me both wishing for more cold and snow (to cross country ski) and for an onsen outside amongst rocks and moonlight so that I could drift along with the steam rising from the hot waters into the air. 

Alas, life is not one thing, but many.

Hunting & Mammoths

I called for the plumber this morning. The nice lady on the other end of the phone told me, "He's out until he gets a deer." Today is the first day of deer season. Mind you the deer here are plentiful and fleshed out with tulip bulbs and flowers provided by urban gardeners trying to add spots of color. People eat what they hunt in the hills of Ohio. Don't expect any deer recipes, but my uncle's BBQ venison is delightful.

Though it is the Monday after Thanksgiving, there is no school today, a concession to the necessity of the hunt or at least recognition of the cultural priority of hunting over school. I drove with kiddos in tow to a tree farm to pick greens for advent wreaths. We were greeted with a friendly welcome and the question, "Can you guess what this is?"

Guess what this is?

The owners had found it in a nearby stream a few summers back. The kiddos hemmed and hawed, but the Mule came up with the answer, a mammoth tooth fossil (split into two pieces). 

We had seen one last summer at The Athens County Historical Society & Museum on Court Street. My mom had asked about the unlabeled fossils and tapped into a wealth of information as the docent had an interest in natural history and had done research on the specimens there.

The tree farmer commented, "It's neat to think that mammoths once roamed around this place." Apparently these types of fossil finds are more common in Kentucky, but they are occasionally found here too. The kiddos in tow were ready to shuck the greenery and go mammoth fossil hunting in the river. I suggested we wait until spring and bring rubber boots.

On our return trip home, a group of hunters were congregating on the road just as an oncoming car approached. I waited for the car to pass and then drove slowly around the dayglo orange vested hunters bearing arms and wearing camis. A few of the hunters gave me a courtesy nod. No deer carcusses were noted. I wondered, how many days until I hear from the plumber? 

12/3/2013
The plumber repaired my faucet and reported that no deer were even spotted. However, he did mention getting a couple of squirrels. "You eat squirrels?" I asked.  He replied, "I haven't eaten squirrel since I was a young'in. I got them for an old timer who misses the taste and can't get them anymore." I could only say, "That's really nice of you."

Season Extension at Greed Edge Gardens

"I feel better about the cost of organic food already," said a fellow participant as we toured Green Edge Gardens. We were attending the High Tunnel Workshop which was a partnership between both Rural Action and Green Edge Gardens. The focus was on the concept of "season creation" and included class time and a site visit to the organic farm. (You can read more about Season Creation in the book created by the two by contacting either Green Edge or Rural Action; there is not a direct link to the book.)

I cluelessly thought a high tunnel was a hoop blanket rig that covered plants to extend the growing season into the winter. However, a high tunnel is ninety-six feet long by thirty feet wide structure that can be used to create a whole new growing season which happens to be Green Edge Gardens' specialty. They grow organic vegetables in winter using high tunnels with a few special blankets which allows them to farm year round. They worked with the Ohio University Mechanical Engineering department to devise a more efficient system to cover and uncover their crops (kudos for community collaboration). 

Farmer talk in addition to sustainability, living wage, and decisions that factor into bottom lines included words like airflow, sunlight, plastic micron thickness, and crop layout strategy. Radiant water heats up the seed shack, the term seed barn may have been used, which is where seeds are started though some seeds are direct sow into the ground in the high tunnels. NOAA weather predictions (they aren't the first farmers to mention NOAA to me) determine harvest days as they have to deliver the goods every Wednesday to their CSA customers. Construction terminology like wiggle wire, tennis balls, and off gassing strategy for plastic was banded about with references to structures and learning on the farm moments. The farmer even offered ten thousand dollars to anyone who could solve one of his problems which I failed to note. I was too busy trying to get my brain around how to build a high tunnel in my city lot (not) and comprehending how one person could cover and uncover all of the plants with the rigging devised.

Walking the grounds, seeing how one organic farm works within the parameters of its particular location in terms of sun, water, and temperature changes, and understanding how this farm developed a niche market by using high tunnels to grow vegetables in winter was fascinating. Join a CSA, support organic farmers, support Rural Action and other like minded community organizations, and support farmers markets-- they all support efforts that makes the earth a better place.

Clay soil plagues farmers and gardens alike in this area of Ohio. I went through three plantings in one bed trying to get something to grow despite adding sand, manure, and composted leaves. Something finally grew, only to be killed by an early October frost. This soil tip came from Farmer Kip. Cover the clay with an inch of #9 S Torpedo fill which is a tiny gravel-- it only needs to be done once-- and mix it into the clay to some degree. Over time the clay and fill will mix together more. Top this with 2-inches of peat moss, manure, compost, etc. The torpedo fill is the lynch pin for breaking up the clay which is just too finely smooched together. Then each year in the fall add peat moss, manure, and/or compost to keep nurturing the soil along.

My sincere appreciation to Kip and Becky Rondy for opening their farm to the participants from Rural Action and to Rural Action for putting these kinds of events together. 

The brains that run the world tomorrow are the mouths we feed today.

Green Edge Gardens workshop with Rural Action

Clarity x 10

Tonight I had the opportunity to present a revision of my essay originally read at Women Speak in the spring of 2013. I called it Clarity x 10 because it needed to be read in under ten minutes. It was a wonderful program, a treat to see familiar faces, and an opportunity to hear some of the women of Appalachia speak. Thank you Kari Gunter-Seymour, Founder/Curator, Woman of Appalachia, for making it happen five years in a row.

Clarity x 10

“Where are you from?”

I’ve danced around this question my whole life. Do they want to know the last place I lived? Where I went to high school? Or maybe, where I was born but never lived? 

As a Navy brat, my childhood was dotted with permanent change of station or PCS moves. Norfolk, Virginia; Pensacola, Florida; Jacksonville, Florida; Rota, Spain; Patuxent River, Maryland-- were all home to me for a time. Later, I married a Navy guy and Bremerton, Washington; Manama, Bahrain; Washington, DC; and Kamakura, Japan were also home to me.

As a teenager in Spain, I envied the Europeans who had a strong sense of place and tradition. Surrounded by this certainty and combined with my own curiosity, I once asked my dad if we were English or maybe German. He rolled his eyes and said, “You’re a fifth generation hillbilly from Ohio kid.”

Ohio? Ohio was where we drove to visit family every summer. It didn't seem terribly romantic considering that some of my relatives in Ohio still had outhouses. I wanted to be from some place ancient and mysterious like Granada or Iona.  I didn’t want to be stuck to the vinyl seats of my dad's Chevy Nova on the marathon drive from Florida to Ohio. I wanted to take the Orient Express to Switzerland.

Ohio wasn't like the places I'd been in Europe. There were Italian and Spanish restaurants in Ohio, but I had never seen an Ohio restaurant in Europe. The only Ohio culinary tradition I could think of? Pie for breakfast. In Europe, they had cathedrals and museums full of art found in my school books. In Ohio, we visited the county fair and toured livestock barns. In Spain, we ate churros dipped in thick hot chocolate. In Ohio, there were "elephant ears" served with paper cups of sweet lemonade. In Spain, they had the running of the bulls. In Ohio, they had tractor pulls, demolition derby, and the Tilt-O-Whirl. It was an existential crisis of sorts at that point in my adolescence. 

That is not to say that I didn't feel a nostalgic tug when my dad mentioned Ohio. Ohio summers were also dinners of vegetables just pulled from the garden, family lounging on freshly cut grass, canoeing down shaded rivers, and cousins in hot pursuit of lightning bugs. My parents always picked up just where they’d left off the previous summer with their friends and family, catching up on all the local news. In Ohio, friendships went back to first grade. In the Navy, you asked, “How long will you be here?” before making a new friend.

Another thing they had in Ohio was basements. I'd seen a dungeon or two in Europe, but no basements. In Florida, where I spent most of my childhood outside of Europe, a nice house might have a pantry.

My grandparent’s Ohio basement was a magical place for me-- a dark, cool, cave-like room fitted with work benches littered with pieces and parts, peg boards hung with tools, and dusty shelves filled with rows of my grandma’s canning jars. In the basement, my grandpa repaired machines, and my grandma reupholstered furniture, built lamps, and stored summer’s bounty in mason jars and in the freezer. In Florida, we bought things in a store. In Ohio, my grandma and my aunts “put up” beans, corn, peppers, carrots, beets, jellies, jams, apple sauce, and even mustard.

It certainly wasn't Europe, but there was something wonderfully stable about life in Ohio. As fate would have it, that Navy guy I married, was from Ohio. When people invariably asked the question that to me seemed like salt rubbed into an open wound, “Where are you from?” My husband never hesitated to answer, "Athens, Ohio." I usually resorted to a deep breath, and, "I don’t know-- my dad was in the Navy."

When the Navy assigned my husband to Japan, I took a break from my nursing career. Having just come from the work-equals-identity culture inside the Washington Beltway, I looked forward to a new focus on home life, children, and exploring Japan. 

From cooking lessons in Japanese, the Japanese names of vegetables like nasu (eggplant), daikon (radish), and engan (greenbean) came into my vocabulary and proved helpful at the farmer’s market. New textures and flavors like the umami of dashi stock, the chewiness of mochi pounded rice, and the sour surprise of the umeboshi pickled plum found their way to the table at home. From Ikebana, I learned to arrange flowers as they asked to be arranged.

When an American friend took time to teach a few of us beginners to use our sewing machines, we sewed the fabric backwards, sideways, inside out, and became intimately acquainted with the seam ripper. But, for the first time, the gifts I sent home were made by me.

Art, until then, had been a passive thing-- admiring the works of the masters. It was art beyond my capabilities. However, my experiences in Japan opened my eyes to another understanding of creativity and in a sense took me back to those summers in Ohio.

I think back to the things my grandparents did-- furniture given new life, a garden’s care and bounty, and the colorful glass lamps that lined the sunporch. Creativity was part of my grandparents' daily lives. 

In the Beltway and in the military, people could hide behind expensive cars, trendy clothes, or important titles. However, few seemed to have the serenity my grandpa had sitting with his pipe on the front porch as daylight faded, listening to the crickets chirp, the frogs sing, and watching the lazy flight of the summer lightning bugs. I wonder if in the pursuit of position, power, or prestige that others define for us, do we loose the connection to the imagination and the creativity that more truly defines us?

When our time ended in Japan and with the Navy, my husband and I asked each other where we should go. We arrived at the same place, Athens. Over the years, it was a place where we had regularly visited, and as my husband used to say we could "hear the air and smell the earth."  

My city friends might not understand the lure of Athens. There are no fancy restaurants touting an exotic “catch of the day” flash frozen in a faraway ocean. Instead, the waitress with her three pony tails and one nose ring, informs you that the seasonal vegetable of the day is “butternut squash with apples” from a nearby farm. Dressing up at times is simply a pair of clean jeans. Having your nails done means that you’ve checked for dirt after gardening. Instead of following someone else’s vision of success and hoping for the elusive promotion to the circles of power, people tend to follow their own vision and everyone seems to have an artistic alter ego.

Life in Athens is slower, there are fewer distractions, and with that, I have found clarity. I write, put up jars of jam and tomato sauce, string beads on necklaces, and trade loaves of bread for blocks of tofu. It’s about creating a life that feels good on the inside.

I have a porch where you might find me as the light fades, sitting with a mug of tea, listening to the crickets and the frogs, and watching my children chase the lightning bugs. 

I’m from the hills of Ohio now.