Comfort Food

Koi in the pond at a Japanese Garden

Chicken with Mole

On Thursday I decided to buy a jar of Mole (pronounced: MO-Lay) sauce because I know it’s one of my significant other’s favorites and when we were at his mom’s house, I had tried it for the first time. I don’t recall my grandmother making it, but I would be surprised if she didn’t. She would often make something with eggs for me served with a side of beans and rice. That explains why I love eggs so much!

I asked his mom questions about her Mole sauce and she did start with a prepared jar of Mole and then added more chilies and Mexican chocolate. I grew up with Mexican chocolate—round disks of chocolate and cinnamon goodness. This was two months ago and I don’t know that I had any intention of using the sauce because at the time, I liked it, but I didn’t love it. You know how sometimes it takes more than one time for something to make an impression.

When I was trying to think of an economical chicken dish, I thought of her Chicken drumsticks with Mole that she prepared that day. Drumsticks are one of my favorite parts of the chicken. I prefer fried chicken, but that’s not the healthiest, so I thought how can I make these drumsticks more interesting without a lot of acid. I told my significant other about my idea and told him that it wouldn’t be the same as his mom’s, and that for starters I would just stick to the jar to see what the flavor profile was like and maybe next time, I could add more ingredients.

I got two packages of drumsticks, so we would have leftovers and I only got one jar of Mole. I boiled the drumsticks in salted water with skins on. I boiled them a good hour to be on the safe side. Meanwhile, I read the instructions on the jar of Mole. I had to heat the paste up with four parts of a liquid, either water or soup stock, to one part of the paste. I used the whole jar and gradually added three parts of water, and decided that for the fourth part, I would add the chicken stock from the drumsticks for a little extra flavor. Even though I didn’t make the Mole from scratch, with all the stirring I did, I sure felt like I did. I put more love into stirring that Mole sauce than I think I’ve put into anything I’ve made. I was sweating and stirring. The stirring had to be constant because as you can imagine, a cocoa paste is pretty thick and it keeps wanting to roll itself up. I tasted it along the way and it didn’t quite excite me at first. I could detect the heat of the chilies and of course the unsweetened cocoa dominance made it feel slightly bland on my tongue. I counted on the taste elevating when I added the last part of chicken stock, and then brought the chicken together with the Mole sauce.

At last the chicken was done cooking and after letting it sit a while to cool off, I took some pieces out, pulled the skin off and discarded it and added the drumsticks to the prepared Mole sauce. Dinner was served with rice and tortillas. My significant other was pleased with how it turned out. I told him that though it was a jar, I put a lot of love into stirring that sauce, making sure it didn’t burn and kept it smooth. He smiled.

The following day, we both took leftovers. That’s when it hit me. I couldn’t believe how I had missed out on Mole for all my life. I never ordered it on menus because chocolate—in my mind and taste buds—did not belong in a dinner dish. When I took my leftovers out of the microwave, the chicken was tender and juicy, coming off the bone in nice pieces; the Mole sauce had re-softened and I felt the excitement in my mouth that I hoped I would find when I set out to prepare this meal. I was having one of those food moments where you can’t stop the mmmmm’s and ohhhh’s.

Chilaquiles and a Perfectly Lazy Sunday

My childhood home was one house away from my grandparent’s home and I would find myself walking up the sidewalk several times a day for a visit and always for something good to eat. One of my comfort foods is Chilaquiles and there are many variations. What makes it what it is are the tortillas ripped into pieces and cooked up in lard or the cooking oil on hand and then scrambled with eggs. My grandmother knew just how I liked them. Plain, simple, and soft. She would let the tortilla pieces cook until they were tender and then she would add two scrambled eggs, let it set and then flip it over. That was my comfort food and it still is. She used to make Chilaquiles for my brother too. He liked his tortillas crispy and he also liked her to add tomatoe sauce at the end. When my uncle has prepared this dish for me, he makes the tortillas more crispy because that’s how he likes it and he adds Monterey Jack cheese at the end.

My comfort food showed up yesterday along with my Lazy Sunday. I knew that I wanted to stay in. I felt like we’ve had such a non-stop schedule on weekends, that I really needed a break. I told my significant other that I really just wanted to stay at home and relax. I knew that he would need to get out because not everyone can just sit in all day, so I encouraged him to do so—to go out and get some air. We eased into the day. I had already been up and reading and when he did finally go out, I continued reading. When I started to get hungry, I remembered we had some bacon left, so I decided I would have Chilaquiles with bacon. I cut the bacon into squares, added chopped onion and let it cook up a bit, then I added the ripped tortillas, a little butter and olive oil, and when everything smelled and looked how I wanted it, I added three scrambled eggs. I sat at the table and ate my food lovingly, always thinking of my grandmother when I eat this dish. I washed it down with some water and I was back to reading. I spent the whole day inside and it felt amazing. I did take a break and put my laundry away. Then back to reading. Sometimes I take a nap, but when I laid my head down, I was back up quick. It started getting hot. I turned the ceiling fan on in the bedroom. The bright light shined through— and after a gray morning and a light rain! With the cool air from the fan, the bright sunlight for reading, and the whites from the duvet cover and the walls reflecting the natural light, I felt like I was in absolute peace of mind.

Some of my Reading

I’ve recently started reading, Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Funny thing is I owned this book when it came out. Never read it. Wasn’t ready. This time around I’ve enjoyed it very much. I think it’s funny how he swears a lot. The first half of the book focuses on his life, how he became a writer and the second half of the book focuses on the craft of writing in a conversational way.

On a recent visit to the library, I was looking for one book, but found another. Death with Interruptions by the Portuguese writer Jose Saramago. I have not read any of this writer’s works. It sounds different and intriguing. I hope it hooks me until the end.

I read a little bit more of Franz Kafka’s The Trial and I think to myself: Is it possible to get 2/3 of the way through a book, leave it for a couple of years and pick up where I left off? I’ve done this with other books, but is it realistically possible? Can I hold enough of the story in limbo for so long and just begin where I left off? Or do I need to start over?

I did the same with Milan Kundera’s Immortality. It is not the easiest novel to read and a tricky one to come back to after much time has gone by. My favorite part will always be the opening when we are introduced to Agnes. I can only say that the portrait and scene he created—and he did it in one and a quarter pages—will always be a part of me. It’s universal and one who reads it and sees themselves there will know what I mean.

I’ve also read a few short stories:

“The Father” by Bjoernstjerne Bjoernson (1838-1910).

I had read this one some time ago and found it in a free Kindle collection. I was glad to be re-connected with it.

“The Great Stone Face” by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

“The Ice Palace” by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I have never read any of Fitzgerald’s short stories. When I was done with this one, I needed to go right back to the beginning. I am planning on reading it through again. I loved The Great Gatsby when I read it in school.

I’m ready for Flannery O’Connor. The book of commemorative essays that I shared in another post has made me want to read her even more. I started, “A Good Man is Hard to Find” and knowing what the story is about, I’m curious to see how it develops. I left off at the part where the car approaches and the grandmother realizes this isn’t the place. As I mentioned before, I’m surprised I’ve never come across any of her work in an English class and I didn’t venture in her direction on my own. And though I had checked her book of short stories out, I hadn’t cracked it past the table of contents. But her title was enough to inspire my blog, “A Good Pan is Hard to Find.” Something about her presence is calling me. I’m ready for you, Flannery O’Connor!

And so, it was a week and a Sunday filled with comfort food. A much needed long stretch of time to re-fuel my soul.

Happy Reading and Writing & Happy Monday!

Turning Inward

La Luna (The Moon)

Taking a break from reading blogs. Taking a break from the need to write and share, turning back inward, getting re-acquainted with the quiet space—the solitude. September is upon us, October is not far behind. The last three months of the year always bring a certain feeling to me—a mixture of sadness and wanting to turn inward. I look forward to the cool chill in the air and the mist on the horizon. I look forward to being cozy and sitting curled up by an imaginary fire. I look forward to the multi-layered tones of gray in the sky that offer the perfect backdrop for the colors that are present—to shine through. The greens always look greener; the yellows, the oranges, reds—all of the colors are given a new life—appearing as if electricity burns through and onto the gray canvas of the clouds and atmosphere. I look forward to the sound of the windshield wipers on the window, brushing the rain drops from the glass. And seeing the deer family sipping water from the rain kissed leaves.                                                                                                                                    

Nature

Through the hanging fog in the morning, I count on the light to crack through and when it does, I feel renewed. I think to myself how dependent my moods are on the light.

Driving down the freeway I beam at the rich burgundy leaves on the trees, glistening back into my senses, carving a place inside of me, to stay. Even without camera, I am constantly taking photos with my mind, with the connective cord inside my soul.

Driving down the streets, I see the Crepe Myrtle is in bloom, rich fuchsia petals jutting out—many trees lined down the street divider, a welcome sight—nature commingling with the fruits of industry.

I miss my old home, where nature was right there outside my door. Surrounded by tall Pines, Mountains, even a lane of Bamboo; Deer, plenty of cackling Squirrels, and Coyote.

But Nature still finds me and I always find her—always in my soul.

Journaling - Three Images of Laundry

My right hand has been acting up, so this I write down in my paper journal first. It does this from time to time, especially when I click and move the computer mouse around and type at speeds to keep up with the words to push out of my mind. It doesn't help holding and scrolling my iPod Touch for long periods, holding my hand up, and the repetitive motions.  Last night it felt swollen and my fingers felt crunched up. Holding the pen gives my hand some flexibility; I'll have to try exercises to strengthen my hand and fingers and forearm. I'm also using my left hand for the mouse and typing to give my right hand a break. After I write this down, I will use Dragon NaturallySpeaking to get this onto the screen. I used it a few times and this is the reason I bought it. At times like this when the need to write and share find a way, but I know if I don't rest my hand and arm, it will only get worse.

I have three small bits that I wrote in my journals on three different laundry days. The first one is a poem that took me by surprise. There were sad thoughts and tears from nowhere—somewhere—as I drove to laundry that day. When I arrived at the Laundromat, after stuffing the washing machines, I plopped down on the chair, wiped my tears and the poem I share came out.

The next two laundry days occurred at a different Laundromat than the first and they were a little closer together in time. The second one I typed directly into the Apple App called Wonderful Days. The third one I penned into my miniature note book and dictated it onto this page here.

Another one comes to mind that I wrote at yet another Laundromat one or two years ago, but I don't know which journal that ended up in.

**

Journaling - Three Images of Laundry

July 1, 2011

Today it rained inside

my heart.

Driving, the familiar

Roads suddenly made me

feel lost. The familiar

becoming unfamiliar.

The dark clouds have moved

upon me. I've ignored

them, but they won't

let go of me.

I tell myself that it

will pass and I know

it will; and I suppose

the rain will always be

there raining on my

heart. A heart in a

glass box tucked away,

the rain trying to force

itself out—trapped, yet free. Is it possible

to be both trapped

and free?—a sort of Ying and Yang; life and death;

happiness and sadness.

The heart never lies.

**

August 12, 2011

Laundry morning. Not bad. Late start. First stop 7-11 to get $1 from super lotto. Second stop longs, I mean CVS. Returned one item bought soap and fabric softeners. Third stop bank to get two rolls of quarters. Not too crowded, loaded up, headed to Jack in the Box for breakfast, then to the thrift store to look. Found a few skirts and a dress. Tried them on and left with one cute light green skirt and a cute Old Navy dress in tans and browns. Came back to laundry, much busier. Loaded dryers up then sat down and looked at Interior Castle and read a few poems. I really like Carl Sandburg’s poems—at least I like the two that were included. 9 5 7. That's how long on each of the three dryers. The clouds are whispy today, just the way I like them. They look like dancing fluted flowers. It makes me feel calm inside when I see whispy clouds. Spinning, spinning, the clothes are spinning colors and whites. I'm glad they are spinning and not my thoughts. Peace and love to all.

**

August 20, 2011

Laundry.

A man, possibly without a permanent home. Clothes circling. All the colors of the rainbow heated, tossed and balancing. Radio playing songs. People still piling in with laundry. But the man. He stands out and I feel a lump in my throat. I sense him in the corner of the long line of dryers—waiting, thinking. He finally decides to walk by, slowly. I look up briefly, a quiet hello with my eyes. His aura—I can't see it (I can't actually see auras but that's the first word that came to my mind), but his being seems warm yet frazzled and has the scent of alcohol. His steps match his pace, that careful gait that comes with the territory—the one where one has had so much that they are numb and calculated and feel good with bittersweet feelings. Laundry day has its constants, but then it also has other changes. Today, this man's shadow casts over the colorful clothes and leaves my heart stuck in my throat. And this little itty bitty gnat keeps buzzing around me. This particular laundry day makes me feel grateful and also makes me feel compassion. Peace to you dear man.

**

Afterthought. I'm thankful for Dragon NaturallySpeaking. I forgot how much patience it can take. It definitely has a way of slowing things down and that's a good thing in this super fast world. I had to be more careful than usual reading over this to catch words that the program heard different than what I said.

Happy journaling & happy day!

7 Golden Monkeys

To enter, you must first cross a bridge. On the right is a crescent pattern of five or six stone seats set around a pond of water, with a waterfall in the background. A large copper wire Dragon, at least 100 feet long hangs high, a great protective force.

At first I do not see these sights. Hungry, I know I'm drawn to the beauty of this Chinese restaurant, a certain ambiance that I feel and feed on. There are other restaurants to the left and right of this one. But I choose this one.

It's when I decide to sit at the bar for a quick snack that I am taken in by the carefully designed scene before my eyes.

The bar counter is set up in a curvature that wraps around and creates a semi circle. The counter tops, a polished black granite with specks of white glimmer that reflect off the light like little white fish in the sea.

After I place my order of hot and sour soup, pot stickers, and a coke, I sit there mesmerized. I feel like I'm sitting before an artistic, aesthetic feat of creativity and symbolism. I count...4, 5, 6, 7 Golden Monkeys.  Seven  Golden Monkey statues three or four feet tall, spread around. Each seems to have a role in this divine scene; and in a way, as I look around, taking in the whole, it reminds me of a carousel, but it's also more. Each monkey has a different facial expression—inviting, playful, powerful. The ceiling is round or appears round, an upside down red paper mâché umbrella that is about three feet in diameter suspended from the center of the ceiling. The ceilings are a heavenly blue with white ornate bordering depicting clouds or water. There is painted a priestess in the background. I can only see the robe from my viewpoint. Her robes are painted in soft lilac tones. Chinese characters also wrap the base of the sky. The side walls are painted royal blue and regal red—side by side.

My imagination cannot get enough of the scene. I eat my soup, take bites of my pot stickers and still gaze up at the monkeys. One in particular catches my fancy. He is holding onto a pole with one hand, the other extended in a welcoming gesture—a big smile on his face. It is also gold and thick with detail that suggests either a cord or also conjures images of a carousel.

All of the usual elements seem to be present: Earth, fire, air, water, heaven.

As I was readying to leave, I turned in my seat to the right taking in the rest of the restaurant, and that's when I noticed the great dragon that I did not see upon entering. Beautiful, thick copper—copper being one of my favorite metals—I was in awe. He was a sight to behold and kept me there in his gaze for a few moments before I descended from my seat, passing the pond and walking back across the bridge.

Transported, I was, as if in a boat, streaming down the river, paddles in hand—paddling down the river with my mind, entering this great cultural art. I felt both at peace and tantalized, rejuvenated, and thankful for having chosen this place to enjoy my meal—a meal in paradise—a meal in another time and place, yet right here, right now.

Procedural Death ~ Processing

Different things have been on my mind. It’s a slow period at work and at times I get antsy. But once I accept and get used to this lull, I’m able to invite the clear slate and let my mind wander—about ways to improve or introduce new ideas. During the process, I usually stumble upon or keep coming back to interests that only started as small flickers and then I seize upon them. But one of my downfalls—wait—I mean one of the challenges that can be both productive and not so productive—the story of my life—is that I get excited about something new and either it takes or it doesn’t. If it doesn’t, I try to absorb as much on the surface as possible and then see where that leads me. I’ve come to accept that I love information, ideas, anything that gets me thinking and/or creating. And with that, I’ve had to accept that I end up not walking too steadily down any one path. I seem to keep many paths open.

For some time I’ve had a certain fascination with what happens from a familial and procedural point of view when someone dies. This curiosity became more embedded when I saw it play out in different ways that you see when you’re right up close with it.

Tax is not my thing. But I work for a small tax and accounting office and I envision that I’ll stay there until the boss retires. It’s my choice and there are many good reasons for me to stay. On the plus side, I have flexibility—which is very important—and I don’t like titles much. I assist: Sometimes that means making coffee, finding files, doing light bookkeeping, keeping the office in order; and sometimes it means preparing simple tax returns when we have simple ones. The plus side, for me, of a small office is that I get to do a variety of tasks. The main thing I enjoy about my job is being able to be helpful in some way—that’s why assistant positions always appeal to me. I’m a behind the scene’s person and I like it that way.

In order to make my job more interesting, I try to get to know the people behind the numbers through their tax returns or other documents. Of course, I have to keep this all to myself and inside the office for the obvious reasons. The small tax office offers a variety of different tax and accounting services, and an area that I am beginning to find quite interesting is related to Trusts and Estates. The area I’m most interested in is not on the tax side, but on the procedural side. So I was thinking, if the boss decides to retire early or if scenarios occur, I think I might enjoy being an assistant in a small office that deals in writing Wills and Trusts for families. This has catapulted me into learning a little more on my own. I started by doing a search on my Kindle Reader and found three titles that sound promising:

Living Trusts for Everyone: Why a Will is Not the Way to Settle Your Estate.

By Ronald Farmington Sharp

Kiplinger’s Estate Planning: The Complete Guide to Wills, Trusts, and Maximizing Your Legacy.

By John Ventura

Dead Hands: A Social History of Wills, Trusts, and Inheritance Law.

By Lawrence Friedman

Just by reading the preface and table of contents of the first one and the introduction and table of the contents of the last two, I’m really looking forward to reading these. The last one sounds like a very interesting read.

I am also planning on taking a two night class in the near future called “Trusts & Estate Planning Made Simple.” I don’t know how simple it can be made, but I look forward to bringing my questions and getting an overview of the process. I also hope to at least skim enough of the books by then, so that I don’t come with a completely blank slate.  

A big motivation for me in this area comes from what I have witnessed around me, both positive and negative, of what can happen to a family if someone dies without some form of instrument, be it Will or Trust or both. It really touches a deep core in my soul because the process can be made more manageable with some planning. I’ve gleaned a little here and there, and now I hope to dive in and learn more, and perhaps I will land somewhere where I can help in some way, even if it’s behind the curtain.

Animal Dreams

I could see the land for as far as my eyes could reach. Was I walking or did I have an animal instinct inside myself?

The wheat colored grass crunched underfoot. I sensed that I wore a heavy regal robe or was it a sheer night dress? As if in a flash of a moment, animals started charging up from the water that had no place in this African desert like plane. The images flashed by in a whir. I started running and then a lion latched onto my back. I could feel his hot breath on my neck. At first I wanted to scream and then I started roaring to stand my ground. I growled and roared and puffed my chest out as much as I could, given that my whole body was being subdued under the lion’s power. I was expecting that at any moment I would feel his mighty teeth rip into my flesh, but he seemed to only want to hold on. It seems that I was still able to walk and then I threw myself into the water on my back to try and crush him, drown him, weaken him. I sensed he was growing weaker. He did not seem like a lionly lion. He was still attached to me but I didn’t feel scared. I did not like not being able to see his face. I did not know what he was thinking. I walked, keeping my hands close to where his paws met my neck. I could not release him. As I kept walking, I took my arm, reached behind me and to my amazement, I picked him off my back. He was a limp sack and didn’t seem a lion any longer. I threw his carcass respectfully back into the earth that had mixed with water. The sea that had risen and then flattened. I felt uneasy. I didn’t know how to make sense of this.

Time passed. By now it seemed I was wearing a white cloth that had become soiled and torn by the elements. I walked with very little energy, shoulders slouched, feet like cement blocks. I came upon a woman in a cavern like post. She asked me to explain everything that had happened— how I had arrived and this is where I began.