In Donata's Kitchen

Kitchen Notes and Midlife Ramblings from my Kitchen to Yours.

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  • Ranting and Rambling, an effect of Peri-Menopause

    Entry #11: On plagiarism, self expression, aging, recipes, sexism, intellectual property, adult parenting, absolutes, social responsibility, truths, and baking

    From August 2024-

    I’m bleeding for the first time in months. I have a trip planned this week. I’m not sure I can go, because it’s quite possible that I also have Covid, though I  haven’t tested yet. Do we need to test? Or do we just need to stay home if we’re ill. And am I ill, or do I have PMS? Or potentially social anxiety? Am I  in a flight or fight response? Am I over stimulated, triggered by recent events of too much family, too many familial responsibilities, responsibilities that should no longer be my responsibility.

    I am approaching my 51st birthday, you see. All of my own children are grown. I rarely see my nieces and nephews anymore, or my sisters, but there is still some phantom thread of responsibility there. I’m having a hard time cutting the cord. The limbs of the family tree are just growing too wild and heavy. A branch of the plum broke off, and that was a relief, it felt metaphorical, and now I need to prune a few more.

    And, Perimenopause is like endless PMS. Imagine your worst day of PMS, now have it anywhere from 1-17 years. Mine has been active for 17 years, when my oldest was roughly 14, and he got upset with me for wearing my workout clothes to pick him up from high school. It was barely a moment in time that this frustration was voiced, but it stuck. He wasn’t intrigued by his friends calling me MILF, neither was I. I wasn’t intrigued by my male peers calling me MILF either. I stopped wearing makeup, doing my hair, and began to gain weight, steadily, for the last 17 years, 2 pounds per year, to be exact. One of the aforementioned friends of mine died. I had an immediate desire to go out to buy mascara and lipgloss upon hearing the news. So that’s what I did. I went to Ulta. I bought Mascara and Lip Gloss, and a new Hairbrush.

    Swelling. Everything swells. I can feel the swelling in my lower legs, is it a clot swimming around? Is it stagnant fluid that rushes down to my feet when I stand? Is my heart failing to circulate? Is my cholesterol too high? Do I have hypertension? Hypercalemia? Hypocalcemia? Anemia? Am I lacking vitamin D? Is my Lymph symptom fucked? Why is my digestion so wonky? Do I need a blood test every day to determine what the hell is going on with me? Have they developed the bio hacking software system yet? Probably. Something from Star Trek, that scans the body and immediately knows what it needs? Please?

    I am making a Flying Dutchman/Puffed Oven Pancake/ German Pancake, whatever you want to call it. The baked batter that puffs up when poured into a pan of melted butter. I added baking powder, I’m not sure that you’re supposed to, but I did. We shall see what happens. I also used bread flour, because it was there, and I was too lazy to drag out the 25 pound bucket of all purpose flour. We purchased 150 pounds of flour recently, you see. Who doesn’t need 150 pounds of flour? I suppose two empty nesters, cooking for two is who really doesn’t need 150 pounds of flour lingering in the cupboards. I put two eggs, some half and half, a wee bit of salt, some flour, and some baking powder into a bolw, and whipped that all together, then put a pie plate in the oven, with a bit of butter, to melt, then poured my batter into the pan, and now it bakes. 

    I’m nauseous. I’ve been nauseous for weeks. Dizzy and nauseous. It has increased each week, today it is particularly bad. I actually thought I might be pregnant. This has always been my fear, you see. To be pregnant at 51. Because once, at my youngest sister’s graduation, there was a woman whose youngest child was also graduating, and she had just found out that she was pregnant, she was 51. And another time, on one of the kids’ baseball teams, there were parents who were 62 years of age, they had an 11 year old, their next youngest child was 23.

    My youngest child is 23, my oldest is 32, my middle child is 29, I am 51 in 3 days. I was terrified, until I started bleeding.

    This pancake came out airy and delicious. The butter flavor pronounced. I feel quite satisfied, after eating a piece with a plop of A2 cows milk yogurt and a dollop of golden plum blackberry jam. It’s like biting down on clouds, if you like that sort of thing. The whole wheat bread flour added a nutty flavor and texture to the thing, the baking powder added loft. I had another piece.

    This is one of those days that makes me feel the need to be honest, some days I don’t, want to be honest, I want to be nice. Do you notice that there’s a difference in people? There are nice people, good people, even, but they are not kind. I think I want to be kind. And good. Kind is better than nice. Nice is like that Southern Woman joke, where she says that her daddy taught her to say, How Nice, Instead of, Fuck You. I’d rather say Fuck You, and be kind, rather than be NICE. Nice rhymes with lice, and that’s the way I feel when people are “nice”, like I’m crawling with Lice. I also get quite offended, and hurt, by people who are too honest but I’d rather grapple with that, than lice.

    Do any of us really know how to use semi-colons, or commas? There is this rationale, in the realm of the writers of the world, that as long as you know the rules of a device it is alright to abuse it, but who knows if you know the rules, only you can know, and your god, I suppose, and does it care, that deity, what device you use and when. And what mortal is set in charge of such things anyway?! And why do they care, as long as it lends itself to the rhythm and flow of what the writer is trying to say? I don’t. Care. Use punctuation as you like!…;:”,()_-=+&^*$#@!?/…

    The same goes with baking. People will argue that baking is an exact science. But have you ever sleuthed through recipes, for say, croissants, and noticed the nuances between the efforts? No one is spouting one original croissant recipe, there are thousands upon thousands of unique variations, none of them attributing their knowledge to the recipe that started it all, and they differ from each other in varying degrees, though not enough to override the rules of plagiarism, which is perplexing to me. The rule is that you must change someone else’s work by roughly 75%, plagiarism occurs somewhere around 20%, but even if you re-write 5 words in a row of another person’s work you could be plagiarizing, especially if there is a failure to reference the original author. It is simple to reference another person’s work, it does not have to occur in some formal citation, but it could easily be acknowledged that the original idea was inspired by an original author. Recipe writers seem to be completely availed of this trangression. They may simply adjust a method in a recipe, or adjust the amount of butter used by a tablespoon, or the salt from a teaspoon to a pinch, this hardly accounts for a 20% change. This is why, though I so desperately want to write a cookbook, I refuse. I refuse to write my own “recipes”. My foodway may be unique to me, but my preparations are so very rarely, if ever, unique.

    The notions for recipes I have in my head have come from Betty Crocker, Julia Child, my matriarchs, and those ideas came from sources before them. Nothing I create is “my” recipe. It is from shared knowledge that I create my homespun fare. So, back to my original thought, bake as you like, I do. I have developed my own style/art/craft of things, like bread, and cookies, and muffins, and such. I’ve never tried croissants, and if I did, I would probably follow four or five different recipes to study the information shared between them and then embark on my very own journey with ingredients and instructions informed by them all.

    Herbalists of the day seem to have the same problem as recipe writers. You ask them whom they study  or reference and they say that they are of the folk tradition, they learned at their grandmother’s knees. Okay, where did she glean her knowledge. The same. Do you mean to tell me that you aren’t referencing someone, though, when you spout, on the internet, the constituents and uses for herbs, those minute details that are very science-y, the formulaic “recipes” that are beyond the scope of oral tradition? That you’re really not well read in the art and in the craft of herbalism? In this day and age of information sharing?? That  your grandmother and yourself kept a grimoire so complete through oral tradition that you reference no one on the internet or in the books when you make your claims for remedy and cure with medical terms and latin references? This is truly just your Self proclaimed knowledge of all herbs, ailments, and remedy?? Poppycock. Somewhere along the line is Rosemary Gladstar, Hippocrates, Pliney the Elder, Nicholas Culpepper, St. Hildegard VonBingen, Rosalee DelaFloret, Susun Weed, Joe Hollis, Dina Falconi, maybe even Carla Emery, just to name a few. 

    And back to exact sciences, are there any? 

    And really do we want to bake or cook like a professional? Where everything is the same, every time? I don’t. I like variety. I like the unpredictability of homemade, the art of baking and cooking, and even of growing, and of flavor. Ingredients should be nature made, in constant flux, prone to weather and age. Beware of ingredients who are the same each time, beware the same of a human who does not evolve over time.

    Rigidity is ignorance, don’t you see? Nuance is key. Nothing is black and white, that would indeed be the antithesis of the human existence, to be cut and dry. In order for absolutes to exist we would need to be devoid of unique thought, free will, emotion, perception, feeling! It is not possible, in this human existence to eschew such things, There is no black and white. 

    I ramble on.

    My ears are ringing, quite suddenly. I’ve heard that this means that 

    A. someone is talking about me, 

    B. I am downloading information from the quantum consciousness, or, evolving, as some may call it, receiving an upgrade from the powers that be, or something like that. 

    I’d rather the latter, than the former.

    And back to bleeding, very recently, like just a week ago, I explained to my husband that I felt stagnant, backed up even, wanting to brim over, but unable to, wanting to cry, but unable to, wanting to bleed, but unable to. My body felt like an engine with a faulty alternator, or starter, or fuel injector, the key turned, the engine turning, but nothing firing, no flooding of fuel, no tears, no blood, to cleanse, to ignite. Three days later I cried, profusely, uncontrollably, and three days after that, I bled.

    And now I express.

  • Threads

    Entry #10: constructing the story

    Threads. I’m hunting for threads. Looking to build a nest from them. One golden shimmering thread taking the lead. Two supporting threads braiding in and out. Structuring a little home for a story to unfold. 

    I’ll think I’ve found the magic combination, only to rip it apart, smash it, burn it. Hating the sight of my own words. Thinking myself unworthy of sharing any of my words at all. 

    I have been known to be a critical person. If only those who have characterized me as such could know what sort of critique I give myself. They would whither under the weight of my own self flagellation. I should have stayed Catholic, in the way I so relish inflicting suffering upon myself.

    I’ve also been accused of living in a protective bubble. I do live on the perch of a knoll of a hill overlooking the busy-ness of people working their way to and fro as they traverse the trestle, east to west and west to east again. They leave the sleepy bedroom communities of the East to head to bigger metropolis’ to work and activities in the West. I do sit here, with a bird’s eye view of it all. A choice, really, to stay out of the fray. I took the comment as a put down, though I could just as easily have seen it as a compliment.

    I am debilitated by the barest hint of slights. They just affirm what I was already thinking. I will either become a fire breathing dragon in response, or simply cocoon myself further under the protection of Cedars that border my perch on the knoll of this hill. In either case, I find myself alone most of the time.

    It’s a fine perch to dwell on. It provides everything I need. Communion with the Eagles and Crows. Sustenance in the form of wild and cultivated edible things. Protein from the chickens in the form of eggs. A constant reflection of the seasons as nature ebbs and flows. Watching most things succumb to natural rhythms, losing their leaves in autumn, burying themselves in the dark soil  through winter, reemerging in spring, unfurling into brilliance once again in summer. The only constants are the Evergreens and the humming of traffic from the trestle below. Even the hens halt production and the rooster halts its morning crow to take a slumber during the coldest part of winter. 

    I do have a partner in my cocoon. Lending to my feeling of satisfaction with being left alone here. Together we need little else. There is a comfort and rhythm to our days now. Since he’s at the tail end of his career. Resting comfortably in the 30 years of expertise he’s gained in his industry. Our days are filled with a comfortable intimacy, as they never were before. 

    It is easy for others to forget, I think, that since we are afforded this bliss, this westerly view, over the hustle and bustle of things, that we aren’t fully immersed in the chaos of our own making. It’s all too easy to remember that we have had a history of living. That we are parents of adult children, so newly empty nested. We are aging, the hormonal imbalances of this are as befuddling to us now as they were when we were pre-teens. We are more subject to the pull of the moon than ever before, our energy waxing and waning with cycles of it. We wonder what value we are to society anymore, perched here, as we are, on this knoll, of a hill, observers to the busy-ness, set apart from it. But we did live a life before. 

    We too have traversed that trestle. Driving East to wast and back again. Too many times to count. But there are days that stand out in memory. One in particular.  It was a mid-spring day. It rained as we headed west, a light constant drizzle, casting everything in gray. An hour later we made our way back East. Low sunlight glowed into the car, a golden halo of light over our heads, shining against the hill ahead of us and onto the river slough under and around the trestle. The greens of grass and of the trees glinted in Emerald as we drove under the arch of the most brilliant Rainbow. 

    The clock of the rusty old orange Datsun Hatchback glowed a neon green 11:11 as one of us asked, “So what are we going to do?” and the other of us said, “We’’ll get married.” And I laid my head on his lap and he rubbed my head. Soul to Soul suggested that we “keep on moving” from the speakers that were haphazardly wired and precariously perched behind the back seats. 

    He smelled like leather and Gray Flannel. His hands were calloused from lifting weights. His cheeks sunken from losing twenty seven pounds that season to go to State at 158, for Wrestling. At times he would pass out from the effects of it, stomach ulcers left in the wake of that effort. He wore his leather bombers jacket with the fur collar. Stone washed button fly 501 jeans. A coogi sweater in browns and off white. Dirty white Keds. 

    I have a vivid recollection of what I ate that day for lunch. I skipped class and went to his lunch that day. He sat with all of the people I perceived as popular like Carrie, and Jeff, and Chris. I hung with the choir crowd, and some of the swimming girls, all at the fringe of popularity, merely peering into this circle. Being out of my element did not stop me from mounding my orange plastic tray with a mound of steaming creamy macaroni and cheese, a crisp and crunchy side salad of cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, and iceberg lettuce, and a mound of fries. I smothered all of it with pump after pump of Ranch dressing. I ate every last bit of it. 

    I have food memories over most other memories. The olfactory response of food drives nostalgia for me. I remember a meal just a few weeks before, my mom was efforting to be on trend, by serving avocados for dinner. Avocados were a strictly California thing until then but gaining in popularity due to new health food trends. She served it with slices of Kielbasa. The texture between the two made me gag. I ran to my downstairs bathroom, and threw up. I threw up fairly consistently for three weeks afterwards, my mom didn’t catch on until week two. Just after we had made our decision of what to do. So, when my mother finally jokingly asked, “So, are you pregnant?”  I had to respond with, “Yes.” I received the telltale response of, “We’ll talk about this after school when your father gets home.” So we were prepared for the question that day, posed to him, not to me, of “So what are you going to do, son?” I answered for him. “We’re going to get married,” I said. At which point, my uncle walked in, distilling the tension.

    He patted me on the head with a rolled up newspaper. “Not the Mama, Not the Mama,” he said. And we all looked at him and said, “The Mama.” And he promptly plopped down on a chair with an air of bewilderment.

    Uncle Herb was always quoting Tim Allen, in fact he could have been accused of being Tim Allen, and also quoting the pop culture of the time. He often ran to our house after work at his vision clinic. One of us would buy him a latte and drive him the eight miles back to his house. His visits were never planned, he would just show up, knowing that out of six people in the family, with four drivers, that someone would inevitably be home. This time he was enacting a quintessential theme from the television show The Dinosaurs. A sitcom of suburban family life personifying dinosaurs in place of humans as the main characters. It was a popular show. The baby dinosaur never allowed anyone but his mother to tend to him, always banging on his tray and saying “Not the mama, not the mama” every time someone tried. The interaction could not have been more well timed for the family drama that was playing out around that kitchen table. 

    I come back to this story from time to time as I look at braiding threads. I wonder at how honest I want to be with it. Is it a RomCom, or a tragedy? Family Comedy? A hero’s Journey? A memoir? A psychological thriller? A tell-all? Apologetic? Creative non-fiction? Fiction? Biopic of an unknown person? Drama? Sitcom? Movie? Is the main character me? Is the main character him? Who’s point of view could it be from? My mothers? His? My great grandmothers, even? Uncle Herbs? My cat? The dog? Maybe even my youngest sisters?? Is it about mothers and daughters? Or lovers? Or mother in laws? Or mothering? Or Life in general? Or focused on teen pregnancy? Or food? Does food keep it easy? Should it all be shrouded in mystery, in poetry form, left for the reader to unravel? Or should it be straightforward, slapping the reader in the face with reality. What should be revealed and what should be left to rest in peace. 

    How will the story unfold???

  • Put-ups and preserves for 2025

    Entry #9: A List, I love lists, and I love imagining what the garden will bring and what the local producers will offer and what sort of food, flavor, remedy, and decor I can make with it all

    Ghee

    Applesauce

    Pear sauce

    Plum sauce

    Canned apples

    Canned pears

    Canned plums

    Canned cherries

    Raisins

    Dried plums

    Dried strawberries

    Dried Blackberry leaf

    Dried Strawberry leaf

    Dried Raspberry leaf

    Fennel pollen

    Herbed salts

    Dried scented geranium

    Dried thyme

    Dried bay

    Dried roses

    Flavored honeys

    Flavored vinegars

    Salsa verde

    Frozen herb cubes

    Powdered flavor blends

    Beet powder

    Rose powder

    Dried motherwort

    Dried mugwort

    Dried Sage

    Dried goldenrod

    Dried calendula

    Dried currant

    Osmanthus blossoms

    Star magnolia blossoms

    Magnolia blossoms

    Frozen corn

    Frozen zucchini

    Frozen brassicas

    Blanched chicory and other greens for sauteeing with garlic and adding to soups

    Pestos

    Golden tomato butter

    Whole and diced Tomatoes

    Blanched root veggies??

    Frozen berries

    Frozen green beans

    Frozen cherry and berry mixes

    Dried sour cherries

    Sour cherry juice

    Fire roast chilis

    Fire roast tomatoes

    Rhubarb leather

    Rhubarb bbq sauce

    Homemade ketchup

    Fig jam

    Frozen figs

    Dried figs

    Frozen Cubed squash 

    Frozen mirepoix

    Garlic powder

    Onion powder

    Allium top powder

    Dried hawthorne

    Hawthorne flowers

    And combinations

    More strawberry freezer jam

    Pickled peppers

    Pickled onion

    Krauts

    Plum rosemary balsamic

    Spring tonic vinegar

    Bitters (that can become amaro)

    Dried marshmallow root

    Dried dandelion leaf

    Dried dandelion root

    Rice wine vinegar pickles

    Membrillo

    Fruit and nut pates

    Liver pate

    Balsamic soy garlic combo

    Garlic honey

    Ginger honey

    Dried elderflower

    Elderberry jam

    Dried elderberry

    Elderberry syrup

    Maple syrup

    Maple sand

    Curds

    Hydrosols

    Aromatic oils

    Dried juniper

    Herbed butter pats

  • #Hearth

    Entry #8: listing through my reflection of the word Hearth

    Art of the hearth

    Hestia

    Vesta

    Persephone

    Diana

    Hearth and home

    Keep the home fires burning

    Gathering around the hearth

    Stone

    Fire

    Light

    Light keepers

    Light workers

    To gather around the hearth

    Together

    Warmth

    Womb

    Belly

    Breasts

    Calabrese

    Tradition

    Ritual

    Honoring

    practicing

  • When I was angry

    Entry #7 I remember once, when I was angry,

    I decided I was going to burn it all down, not literally, but within myself. It was the time of #metoo, and for me there were just too many examples of me too. I wanted retribution and I wanted men to pay for their crimes, and women too. And I metaphorically exploded, just spontaneously combusted and went to find myself and create more value for myself via academic pursuits.

    What I came out with was a new perspective, full of more love, and compassion, for the plight of the men in my life, and a better awareness of all of the mis-information they had been given. I found this knowing in the quantum realms. In the belly of quantum physics class called Consciousness. Here we spent time in meditation and explored the idea of the Oneness that we all stem from, and I could no longer see myself as separate from the men and toxic masculine women in my life. They were simply a reflection of me.

    This was a time when I still felt things. Felt them so deeply. And I could articulate those feelings outwardly. Now, you see, I feel so much less. In fact I feel numb to most things. I know that situations come and go, and unravel just as quickly as they tangle. Sometimes I do become a fire breathing winged one again, peri-menopause sees to that, but most of the time I am able to hover above situations and inspect them for what they are. Humans learning through the ways of this world.

    But then is when I learned to fly above the mundane, to see things from a higher perspective. I got my Phoenix wings, and I could breathe fire with my words. And I did. And it didn’t make me feel any better, about myself or about anyone else. But I needed to have that moment. To practice my newfound voice, to burn it all down, so that it could come back into balance again.

    Back in the days, though, of such great feeling, when it all rose to the surface, I was able to write this:

    She felt the pressure build,

    the weight of the world balanced on her shoulders,

    she felt it crush her.

    Forcing her to the earth,

    she felt her spine compact,

    her limbs cracking,

    she combusted,

    an abrupt explosion.

    She rested, then, on the firm layer of earth below

    her

    until she began to gain form again.

    And then she rose,

    a Phoenix from the ashes

    and in her ascent

    she roared

    fire consumed the people of the world,

    she wept at the devastation,

    guilt destroying her from the inside out.

    Saddened she was

    that she had channeled Kali, the great destroyer,

    so near sighted she was.

    A movement caught her eye, she watched as the leftover ash of her behavior came to life, beings in new form, eyes wide, awake, blank canvases ready for new awareness. And she wept with relief.

    -Donata Rose.

  • Winter Thoughts

    Entry #6: List of shoulds and to-dos and I’m gonnas

    I’m enjoying this liminal space between christmas and new years immensely. Thoughts that are swarming through my head include:

    *What will the new year bring, of course

    *I really need to focus on an anti-inflammatory lifestyle

    *I really need to drink more Veuve Clicquot Rose’

    *I need to use my herbs more

    *I need to finish my herbal course(s)

    *I can’t wait for my first Everett Chorale practice! Even if the songs are very “chorale”

    *I really need to have a Ladies Night

    *I want pie. Good pie. Like my friends Apricot Pie. So So Good.

    *I need to cook less

    *I need to cook more

    *I need to eat less

    *I need to satisfy my cravings

    *I need to walk more

    *but it’s raining

    *but it’s going to rain forever, you live in the PNW

    *There’s no bad weather, just the wrong clothes

    *you need to cross country ski more

    *but my knee hurts and my hips ache

    *Waterfall Hikes

    *Hall of Mosses, need to see the hall of mosses

    *Must get linen and cotton clothes for trip to thailand

    *el camino??

    *what color do i paint the living room?

    *I need to re-side the house

    *I should clean. With olive oil and essential oils

    *Where should I keep the silver tea and coffee service? It’s ginormous. Why do I have it.

    *its time to get ride of the plastic retro light up santa clause set

    *why don’t I have a nativity set

    *I love the Jesus story, in its simplest iteration, so full of love and compassion

    *I adore coffee

    *I need to drink less coffee

    *Covid Quarantine was nice. Loved the family time. The intimacy

    *Tropical vacations aren’t so bad, craving the sun, the sand, the heat, the bare skin

    *Should I try more Reiki attunements???

    *I can’t wait to make a catalog of Materia Medica for my home and garden herbs

    *I really should weed the buttercups while its wet

    *Move hawthorne where Bay plant is; move Bay to pot

    *Plant Wisteria somewhere

    *Feed the Chickens

    *Eat something. Potatoes and Eggs?

    *create meditation and flow space downstairs in front of the windows which probably means moving the third couch, but where should I move it to?

    *re-instate the third guest room so all the kids have a place to use the one time of year that they’re actually all here.

    *adult parenting

    *peri-menopause, all day e’eryday

    *write more

    *process less

    *create routine and structure for yourself

    *I hate routine and structure

    *Your body loves routine and structure

    *I want to strip everything out of the house and start fresh

    *don’t go crazy and throw everything away

    *Read something. What to read. A Nora Roberts christmas book? Something from a Literature Professors list? Poetry? Spiritual growth? Personal growth? On relationship? 

    * practic piano. Order new music. 

    *return microphone and speaker for easier to use singing box.

  • What would you bring with you?

    Entry #5

    If you had but a moment to grab what you needed from your home before it was taken by fire.

    _____________________________________________________________________

    Katherine Fugate, author of some of my favorite Rom-Coms, Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Day, posed a prompt for today: What would you bring with you. 

    It is not a new prompt in any sort of way, perhaps the first prompt and philosophical thought posed to us in our younger elementary years. She was prompted to make this a decision, not just a prompt, in real time thanks to the outbreak of fires near her home. She was forced  to pack and leave quickly. Though she poses the prompt virtually, the reality of it brings immediacy to even me as I sit here admiring the fog of a peaceful winter morning from the safety of my couch, in my living room, where the only fire is the flame from our main heat source.

    I wonder though, if the reality of such a situation alludes me still. A this moment I can’t think of a thing that I would bring with me. 

    People’s first inclination is to bring pictures. I’m not a picture gal. I hold memories in my heart, and in my head. I really don’t like having smiling faces peering at me from my bookshelf, or mantle, or piano top. This memorializes my loved ones in a way that is reminiscent of a funeral, like they’ve left me somehow. This makes empty nesting all too real. My daughter gave a watercolor of our dog to us for christmas, the pup had recently crossed the rainbow bridge thanks to aging and tumors. Every time I look at it I am both moved by feeling and nostalgia and made to feel sad and hopeless all over again. No, I don’t like pictures. And the reality is, I don’t take many pictures of people. When I’m with people I’m enraptured in the moment, overwhelmed even, and I don’t think of taking pictures, I think about how to stay engaged, how to navigate all the energies swirling around me, how to keep myself grounded enough to maintain conversation, how to keep everyone’s tea cup full. Or wine. Or coffee.

    At the moment the most intriguing thing to me in my home is the sheet music I just purchased for choir. I would hate to lose that at this point. It has freshly penned notes. I need desperately to practice my 2nd Soprano part. I’ve just begun this vocal journey and would hate to see it end.

    I am attached to none of the furniture in my home. Some has come from family, yes, but it has all aged and needs refinishing. Most has come second hand. Some was bought frivolously, on the cheap, bought quickly to fulfill the needs of entertaining a crowd. Other things, the fillers, were bought at thrift, because it was relatively cheap and fit the needs of my home. This sort of purchase is treated more like a short term decor solution, as my seasonal decor evolves, a revolving act between myself and my favorite thrift store.  I purchase things to suit my needs, then donate them back some months later. Then buy something different to replace that, and return that some months later. This revolution of decor supports my local Senior Center and I find no guilt in the process. 

    I would not bring the chickens or turkeys with me. Nor the bunny. I have no guilt in admitting this. I’m over it. I’m over the poop. The noise. The smell. The worry. The unnecessary chores.

    My piano is too big to bring with me, and I think to myself: people are always begging to give grand pianos away, so why bother trying to push that thing out.

    My books. I realize that I can find what I need to read at the library. Why do I need to buy books? It really does seem like such a silly thing. Why do I need OWN and KEEP these books, as if they’re some sort of medal to my intelligence. I do love being in the presence of books but I am recognizing that it is not necessary. I once thought it would be fun to keep books handy as bibliotherapy. To gift to others who may find solace in the words within the pages as I once did. I rarely suggest a book to anyone though,  and I do realize that most of my close alliances would rather not accept advice from me anyway. No, I don’t need the books. I’ve studied what I need to study. I’ve read what I need to read. If I need to read it again I can, sadly, find the quote I want on the internet. Or, support my local library. Or buy it online used, and redonate it somewhere.

    My kids things. I do still have boxes of my kids things. Baby books. School art. Articles. Reports. Trophies. Awards. Uniforms. Journals. Baby Blankets. A few toys. But what do they mean? What are they worth? Who do they matter to? If they mattered to them they would have them in their own homes. To wander through these mementos brings only pain for me. I can spend my time with what was, but the time spent there pushes me further away from who they are and what they are now. I would rather learn who they are now. I cannot cling too hard to the past, how cute they were, how loving, how simple life was then, lest I just crumble into a huddled mass of tears, nostalgia, and longing, over and over again. 

    Jewelry. I don’t keep fine jewelry. It’s not something I treasure. I have nothing of value. I have gifts, yes, of earrings, mostly, but I typically lose one of each pair within months of receiving them. I am fine with purchasing cute jewelry now again from a local artist only to have them rejoin the raw materials in the earth after I lose one earring per pair.

    Yoga mats. Artwork. Things from nature like pinecones and usnea, dried lavender, pussywillows, dry moss and heather. Lamps. Lace tablecloths, throw blankets, throw pillows. The entryway rug. Baskets. Mirrors. Metronome. Cork bowl. Wood Bowl. Valentine tchotchkes. Candles. No, they all can go.

    The pantry full of herbs and spices, preserves, locally sourced root vegetables and grains, tinctures, small production olive oil, long kept garden amaro, carefully crafted tea blends, onions, and garlic, pastas and polentas, tinned fish. I might throw a few things into a bag, to have for emergencies. The rest though, they can go. I can have the thrill of hunting and gathering to occupy my mind as I navigate the loss of home.

    I think that’s what I would miss the most. Home. Though the things within it may not individually have sentimental meaning or attachment, the whole of it, all hobbled together under the shelter of this hand built place form a lovingly curated home, and that just can’t be replaced. The only thing I would take with me are the memories, I think.

  • Cravings

    Entry #4

    I have cravings. so many cravings. Lately i’ve been craving potluck standards from the late 80s and early 90s. I imagine things like hot dogs and macaroni and cheese along with the standards like that delicious broccoli salad with the red onions, sunflower seeds, and bacon. Meatballs in grape jelly. Funeral Potatoes; bagged frozen hashbrowns cooked with onions and cream of something soup with a topping of butter and cornflakes on top. Those hawaian roll sandwich bakes. the old tri-colored spiral noodle pasta salad with italian vinaigrette. Seven Layer bean dip served with tortilla chips, or doritos, perhaps. Fruit Cocktail with coolwhip. jello salads, or any kind. taco salad with crunched up dorritos. baked beans with pineapple and sausage. lasgana. baked spaghetti. mini quiches. pigs in blanket. cashew chicken salad croissant sandwiches, cream cheese brownies, macaroni salad with mayonnaise, classic potato salad, deviled eggs, swedish meatballs, tuna noodle casserole, coleslaw, stuffed shells, twice baked potatoes, jello cake, little somkies in sweet bbq sauce, no bake jello cheesecakes, shrimp and cocktail sauce, shrimp in cocktail sauce over cream cheese with ritz crackers. overnight cinnamon rolls. I suppose the list goes on, there were oh so many excuses for potlucks back in the day, and oh so many home cooks to deliver the goods.

    Cravings, they say, can be driven by physiological or psychological responses. Things like changing hormones, lack of nutrients, or memory can ignite the desire for certain foods. I think that the desire for me stems from the notion that I was so very light and lithe, young and flexible, agile, and thin, but voluptous when we dined each weekend on these potluck foods. I just can’t help to wonder if these indulgent food weekends, spent with family and friends, were the key to a stellar metabolism. And even, perhaps, youth.

    But what I am craving the most at present and consistently is a good old seven layer salad, heres an example: https://www.wellplated.com/7-layer-salad/ and this is the very bowl my mother would serve it in:

    pic from: https://www.wellplated.com/7-layer-salad/

    I am wondering, though, how I could clean it up just a tad, and I think the answer is to replace the mayo/dairy dressing with a green goddess dressing, like the one here: https://www.loveandlemons.com/green-goddess-dressing/

    I can assure you that I’ll leave the rest. The crunch of romaine, check. the squish and protein of peas, check. The dairy and fat and sharpness of the cream cheddar cheese, check. The crips salty savoriness of bacon, double check. The pungency of red onion, check. The delightful acidity and soft spurt of cherry tomatoes, check.

    I think I’ll serve sweet potato fries baked in olive oil, made with berber spice and salt right along with it.

  • 51 notes to myself for my 51st year.

    Entry #3

    Written 8/15/25, taking a good look through it again as I’m half way through to 52.

    1. Publish something already, anything, really, just something, anywhere, here, even… (check!)
    1. maybe stop using elipses??? (getting better…check!)
    1. Do not hesitate to visit the rivers, oceans, streams, places, or people. With time all is subject to weather. (going to thailand soon, stayed on icicle creek twice, hiked the boulder river trail, walked snohomish and king county salt water beaches, plunged into the puget sound, kayaked on skagit bay, basked in the sun in Aruba)
    1. Be an observer. Listen, don’t speak. Don’t be the frog, don’t carry the scorpion. (made a mess of things at thanksgiving, but getting much better! listening more, talking less!)
    1. Take to the waters the moment the need arises. Keep the sand on your feet as long as possible no matter whose car you’re going home in. (missing the sand in the dead of winter, but using the hot tub and rose petal, rosemary, and salt baths)
    1. It’s okay to be seen as cute. Take it as a compliment. Why thank you, you’ll say. As before you thought they meant to cut you down to size, it is possible that they don’t understand the etymology of the word coming from clever, smart, and sharp. (highlighted my grays, wearing earrings more, dressing a bit younger, working out more)
    1. “Don’t eat bad food.” (less, but better is the phrase, no more eating out at bad restaurants, and they’re all pretty bad)
    1. Trust the understanding that grows in the body, this is the truth. (exploring the subtle body, reading through “the body keeps the score” and “soul speak”, had hypnosis exploring the body)
    1. Remember, keep things simple, humble. Avoid the winding staircases that lead to attics full of cobwebs that refuse to be rubbed off, sticking to your fingers even as you try, claiming appendages, connecting your human-ness to the the rafters, until your arms and legs are moving like the rest of the marionettes hanging there. (not comparing myself to poets, keeping my writing channeled, and straightforward)
    1. Aging is natural.
    1. Wellness is: To Love well. To Listen Well. To Eat well. To think Well. To Tend the Well. (focusing on myself more, others less, focusing on compassion instead of judgment, eating less but better, spending time writing, spending time reading, spending time in exquisite self care, not lingering on the negative)
    1. Don’t apologize. Don’t be an apologist. No regrets, rebuttals, self recriminations, reiterations. (trying hard not to grovel or rebuke myself for past mistakes)
    1. Don’t fall for apologetics. (no heirarchies. period. no dogmatic ways.)
    1. Workshops. You are the Hierophant (looking for community versus education, experiences versus instruction)
    1. Clear the body scoreboard (but do inspect what is happening in your calf, cuz this pain and cramping is unbearable) (noticing pain in the body and inspecting the emotional affects)
    1. Tis the year of La vie en roses (focusing on the beauty in everything and everyone and yes, even myself.)
    1. Add storybook elements to your home: more cottage garden flowers, more sweet tasting herbs, architectural and artful elements to structures, statuary, visual intrigue to gardens, trees that sway, hang, and weep, tiny bridges to fantastical spaces, things to climb upon and hide under, more aromatic plants, tie flowers to the swings, find a well cushioned chintz chair to place by the hearth (tying ribbons on the lilac trees as prayers to those I love. re-doing the garden shed making it an herb crafting shed, seed bombing a cut flower garden in the field, hanging prayer flags on the forsythia)
    1. Dress accordingly (practicing “my” style)
    1. New Broom, for flying (finding magic in the mundane)
    1. New Broom, for sweeping (ordered from the Broomchicks)
    1. If ya want a burger, eat a goddamn burger. Same goes for fish and chips. Milkshakes too. (eating less, but better, listening to what the body wants, finding work arounds to these cravings, but giving in sometimes too)
    1. Magic is. (It IS, it really IS)
    1. Learn more about herbs with Rosemary Gladstar, do soak up her humble generosity  (SLOWLY working through the science and art of herbalism)
    1. Be Impeccable with your word/s (listen more talk less, mean something when you speak, sing-joined choir)
    1. Witness things you’ve not witnessed before (going to thailand, reading and listening to things I’ve not listened to or read before, listening FOR things in a way I’ve not listened before)
    1. Release judgment from the word “seen” (I have seen this in action)
    1. Learn to like pie (I’m actually craving pie, and enjoying the making of pie)
    2. Mary Oliver. (finding more beauty everywhere, dropping cynicism towards gentle ways of being, softening)
    1. Explore Unity
    2. Explore Consciousness
    3. Explore Quantum Energy (yep, yep, yep)
    1. Eat more Dandelions (mmmm, need to work on this)
    1. Play with the barks and the roots (licorice root, maca, marshmallow, kava so far)
    1. Be the Fool (solidly rooted in the realization that I am a student of many things, but have much to learn, trusting)
    2. Rechild; Put everything in your mouth (learning to have beginners mind and look at things with all of my senses, what was once old is new again)
    1. Learn to enjoy the feeling of putting your foot in your mouth (it’s okay to be wrong and to say the wrong thing, especially when you’re trying so hard to say the right thing, sometimes you’re just going to step in it)
    2. Learn to like eating crow, think of it as proof of life (letting the ego free)
    3. Learn to Learn
    4. Failing is just stagnation leaving the body (letting the ego free)
    1. Keep on Moving, don’t stop, no, keep on moving.     .         .  Keep on moving, don’t stop, no-oh, keep on moving. (I keep crawling forward plugging away at movement every day, literally and physically)
    1. Stop looking for the missing piece. (I rest solidly in what and who I am, releasing the Ego)
    1. Remember: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iilWoaOT4l0; maybe it doesn’t mean what you thought it meant. (hmmmmm)
    1. Close your eyes, tap your ruby slippers together, three times, open your eyes, you were home the whole time. (see: 41)
    1. Rivers rush, then flow, then linger, then they may rush again over rocks and into rapids and whirlpool into swimming holes wide and deep and out into rapids again, and then or instead, gently merge with the sea. You are not separate from that. (releasing the ego and the fear of being my unique self, we are all unique selves, and part of the whole)
    1. Some will say you most definitely are, others will say you most definitely aren’t. It’s what you think that matters. (See #13. )
    1. Here’s the thing, don’t hitch yourself to anyone else’s wagon, and let noone hitch to yours. This way you’ll stay in the clear. (avoiding sticky situations, not looking for anyone to fix my problems, nor am I looking to fix anyone elses.)
    1. There’s always a bigger fish (no matter what I feel an expert in, there will always be someone more expert)
    1. Fibonacci is the sequence, there is no linear (remembering that as we perfect our lessons here in this earthly realm, and gather new tools for traversing them, we are tested with them again, so that we get to use these new tools to make sure that they work)
    1. It is good to put yourself in situations with people far more learned than yourself. (cuz there’s always a bigger fish)
    1. It’s good to put yourself in situations with people far less privileged than yourself. (to remember)
    2. pssst, everyone knows something you don’t. (EVERYONE has unique perspective. EVERYONE)

  • The Devil, Blackberries, and Me

    Entry #2

    This summer I was treated to a reading with the Herbcrafter’s Tarot. The card drew for me was Blackberry. The reader asked what the card brought up for me. I immediately thought of my struggle with the Blackberries in my yard. How they spread and overtook garden beds. How they were difficult to remove, creating such deep and tangled root systems. She encouraged me to look at my relationship with Blackberry Roots, maybe even spending time with them in my own yard, to see what they might represent for me aside from the obvious notion of an invasive garden nuisance. 

    I must admit that I felt resistance in working through this concept. I didn’t want to work in the shadows, under the soil, inspecting roots. I wanted to embrace the light. It was mid-summer and I was full of creative energy and relishing the abundance of all that was thriving above ground. My resistance to dig under the soil was better kept for the dark season. 

    And here it is, 6 months later, the dawn of winter, the peak of the dark season, when I find myself digging into the depths of the soil, mining for what lurks in the shadows. 

    The Blackberry card in the Herbcrafter’s deck is representative of the Devil card, step number 15 in the hero’s journey of the Tarot. A card representative of being trapped by our own desires, addictions, feeling a lack of fulfillment. It highlights our shadow self, examining our unhealthy attachments to people and ways of being, where we force our will and outcomes, and cave to temptations. It’s a big step in personal awareness allowing an opportunity to examine and shed what no longer serves. My husband calls this a re-wiring, I think of it as an opportunity to untether, to untangle ourselves from what binds. 

    I have yet to go dig up blackberry roots and inspect them, although I know I should. I certainly have plenty growing around our three acre hill that should be contended with. Instead I find myself firmly planted on my couch, under a merino wool blanket. Fireplace alight. I had not intended to make way to reflection of Blackberry root. I was writing notes of things I wanted to remember from Susun Weed’s book, The New Menopausal Years. Keeping track of things I wanted to remember. Like:  

    Note the clipped pages.

    Tincture of motherwort

    Sage infusion

    Nettle infusion

    Oat straw

    Flow

    Kundalini energy

    Rubbing yarrow between our hands for a vital feeling, notice where the energy goes, from my hands, to my nose (aroma) through to the back of my neck and down my spine to my to the my the meeting of my hip bones

    Notice how you don’t’ know much about your own anatomy, finally order the anatomy maps you’ve been meaning to order, for muscular skeletal, and meridian and organs and mio-fascial.

    Bach Flower Remedies: Walnut protection. Gift Walnuts to your lady friends on ladies night. 

    I notice that I am more drawn to leaves than roots, things that are imprinted by the light of the sun, over those that are left in shadow. This is interesting to note, as last January I had made a commitment to myself to pay more attention to the roots.

    And then,

    I began reflecting on that moment with the Blackberry card. The imagery of its roots comes to me. I see entanglement. 

    I see relationships that need to be unbound from the mother root. Covid kept my family close to me, in a way that we were lucky to have at the time, but also in a way that didn’t allow for the unfurling of  adult relationships with my children. There is a need to cut the cord, to not hold them so tight, to realize that the intimacy between us needs to change. 

    My house became a cave, a prison, actually, a place to hide, where all of my focus was drawn. TIt is a beautiful place to hide. It is my “dream” house, but the fun I was having in keeping home, and herb crafting, gardening, and preserving, and cooking, has become a dread, and I have become bogged down by it. Shut in. Trapped. As is the way with dreams sometimes, like mountain tops, the climb is more fun than the destination. They look more pristine from afar. 

    My relationship with my partner became overly co-dependent during the quarantine times as well. So much fear existed in the unknowns of that time. I became a security blanket for my partner all the while being an outlet for his insecurities. He became the outlet for my insecurities, and was under constant criticism from me. Our energies could no longer walk side by side where we could admire and appreciate our individual contributions to our union. We were a tangled up mass of co-mingled energy forced so tightly together that the friction was combustible. It seemed as this issue would never resolve.

    This summer, as I sat with my sister in law, sipping on rosie wine with rosemary sprigs, these struggles were reaching their peaks. I was too immersed in the struggles to clearly see the reflection of them within the message of that Devil card. I can see it clearly now. 

    My work now is to detangle those roots, allowing them to find their own pathways through the soils, from this mother root. Not severed from, just stretching apart from, to form their own rootedness. It is a hard won battle to unwind the tangled mass. My womb aches, there is grief in the letting go. An emtpiness ensues. An anger fills the space. I lash out when I wish to be compassionate. I have to soften, be less rigid. I have to find my own rhythms and find healthy ways to fill this space that was so full of others needs and energies for so long. I have known nothing else my entire adult life than this connectedness with my husband and children. 

    My life as Mother began at the tender young age of seventeen. I always had a penchant to care for the young, to imagine myself as a mother, even from a young age. Babysitting was the preferred job of my youth. I loved caring for other people’s homes and children, organizing their kitchens, cleaning their bathrooms, feeding the family, taking notes on how my employers kept house and assessing what I would do differently. I had firm ideas on how I would raise my family and keep my home because of it. I had an idealistic view of what home and family should be. In reality, Home and Family are a tangled mass of experiences full of individuals living and learning. Not a sit-com full of scripted conversations and magical settings as I had imagined. I need to unravel from my idealistic way of thinking even now. 

    It’s funny how this card made me cringe in that summertime moment, because now I’m craving Blackberry Root. I can imagine the smell of hummus, that soft decaying earth so full of living organisms all around the fibrous root system. It smells alive, with a hint of fungus. I imagine having a taste of the root, it is tannic and bitter, gritty with soil. 

    Blackberry Root is stubborn, a feisty thing to release from the soil. Its mother root can run deep, becoming rigid, creating woody connections with its fibrous offspring. Each of those roots sends up new shoots from the soil, gasping for air, craving their own sunlight. The stabilizing mother root keeps her place all the while. Getting stronger, longer and more rooted as time goes on. She may stop sending out more shoots and roots, but she provides structure and support to the system. When ingested the Blackberry Root helps us to let go. Flushing our systems, soothing our brittleness, making us pliable once again. 

    This reflection is allowing me to rethink sticky moments of entanglement, shedding new light on them, and blasting them with new higher frequency, in hopes that the after effects are transformed into sweet confections. Like blackberry pie, or jam, that with time, these rooted entanglements can sprout forth, creating new life in the form of leaf, blossom, and berry, alchemized with a pinch of sugar, a dash of cinnamnon, topped with a sugary crumb into something fortifyng and decadent, comforting.  I think I can bring this reality to light, In doing so I can change the feeling around the people and events that haven’t gone the way I would have liked. This is a bit like going back in time to heal the situation and give it light. 

    So this is what I’m going to do, I am going to cast light on these entanglements, let them unravel, relinquish control, and move forward, clean and free from the tangled mass it had all become. I will make a Blackberry pie. As I prepare my yard for spring I’ll find a tangled mass of blackberry roots. I’ll taste the strong mother, appreciating the gifts she gives my body.  And then I will burn the goddamn thing as a ritual to bring this newfound clarity into being. 

    And as always, to make it so, to cement it into being: So Mote It Be.

    Here’s a reflection of the card found on a blog entitled Parting the Mist and The picture is from thar site. The deck is written by Latisha Guthrie and Illustrates by Joanna Powell. It is an exquisite take on herbs as the arcana.

    Today’s Card: Blackberry is sweet but devilish – free yourself