I got a new pet.
I do have to feed it.
It does require attention.
I’m a little scared I’m gonna kill it.
It tastes delicious.
It’s sourdough starter.
It was handed down from a friend of a friend and I’m hoping it’s lineage is strong and will summon the greater baker within.
BUT! When I began researching how to train, treat, and care for my new pet, I became completely overwhelmed by the voluminous pages of high science, measurement, and timing. I was on the verge of making my pet into crackers and calling it a day.
Eventually, reason (and laziness) won out and I decided to try a loaf without science. What’s the worst that could happen AND if generations of humans could keep this particular pet alive and thriving, couldn’t I just figure it out???
…Oh, that I had smell-o-blog.
Perfect? No.
A Start? Yes.
It walks like a duck, talks like a duck, so it must be sourdough.
Now comes science: with a pseudo-success under my belt, I’m getting out the gram weight measure, the timer, all the pages, and am audibly making utterances like:
“Bwah hah hah haaaa”
and
“Rise!!!!
Rraaaaaiiiiisssze!!!”
More to follow….
I’ll be sure to pass on what I discover and in the meantime, if you have extensive sourdough expertise, please…. comment, instruct, bequeath!
all the
acid,
lactobacilli,
wild yeast,
and I
thank you.
It was hand-washed with care and watered with perfume. It was delicately dried so not a wrinkle remains and laid out true on a table, ready, waiting, waiting, ready.
It could be any number of things.
It could take any number of forms.
It could serve any number of purposes.
How does one discern the RIGHT one?
and is there such a thing?
There is only this:
a tactile sensation, a palpable sense, a glimpse of shape, a squeeze between the fingers, a brush against the flesh, and the material issues a wish.
if you listen closely, you can hear what it was made to be.
You can fight this, as you are the one with shears in hand. You are the one with needles and devices to alter and restrain, to tuck in, to let out, to pin down. But it the end, if you have not listened, this garment that you have made will be ill-fitted, either straining at the seams, or lost in drape and hang.
Still, you must act, for fear of making the wrong thing will only leave you with a heap of cloth and unspent energy.
Rules a tailor must accept:
You must let the fabric dictate the design.
You must see it in your mind before it’s visible on the body.
Consider your true size. Do not construct what shall constrict you. Do not devise what would drown you.
To take shape, you must first cut.
Reaping is 30% of sewing. Make peace with this and the reaping will not be done in anger. You will break mislaid threads and make stronger stitches.
When you’re mid-construction, and the pieces make no sense, and the two-dimensional is at war with the third, you must stay the course and follow the pattern. Confusion is just a phase. It’s possible to lose sight and keep vision.
These are the tulips that came up in my back yard last month.
I have about a hundred bulbs in the ground and these are the THREE that made it over the winter and through the deer, o my. I decided to leave them in the earth, where they grew, as there were only three. It felt like madness and greed – a great reaping – to cut them and bring them in. If I should be so edacious, there would be nothing left on that little patch of brown, and winter would fade into green without ornament. Leave them. How considerate of me.
But here’s the deal: I only actually LOOKED at them when I took this picture.
The rest of the time they were out there, unnoticed but for the bees.
And it made me kind of mad, in an injusticey kind of way.
If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there… does it make a sound?
If a tulip grows unseen… does it open to the sun?
(save your scientific retort… this is poetic analogy. go with it.)
So, when the lilacs came into bloom, the polite gardner in me – the one that takes a few blooms (and only from the back of the bush) to fill a single vase, and leave as little a mark as possible – got out every vessel I could muster,
and went to town, hacking off the most beautiful blooms I could find, and stuffing their chambers too full to be seen beneath:
It was fragrant vindication.
and the great lilac bush?
The one whom I had delicately pruned and cautiously whittled all these years?
She seemed oblivious to the violation, and I’d like to believe, actually grew larger, and more aromatic by coming into my home – in every corner of my home – and imparting joy just by being.
And on any of my kids’ birthdays, before the cake batter is mixed, and the donkey is violated with aggressively aimed tails, and the once-a-year-candle-powered-wish is issued into the ether, I purposefully spend a minute or two reflecting on what their birth day was like. It’s hard to forget (though some try to!) the events that transpire in and around childbirth, but for such a momentous event, we rarely recollect it. I liken it to the car wreck that didn’t kill you, the bullet you took for a buddy, or the stew your kid made that you ate anyway ‘cause she was watching.
For the squeamish among you, fret not. We will not be going to gory, childbearing places. (But I dig that conversation, too. PM me.)
I’d like to say my memories of that day are sunshine and roses and “the best Christmas present ever” etc, etc. but the truth is – I had it all wrong. And I learned that day what helplessness really is.
I was obstinate about a few things:
No drugs. I was doing this old-school.
No formula. I was going to fuel this kid with super DHA, omega 3, immunity boosting, bone building mama’s milk from day one.
No doctors. No c-sections. It was going to be ancient midwifery practices and keep your scrubs at home.
I got schooled.
After I-have-no-idea-how-many hours of labor, and three hours of pushing, it was discovered that he was upside-down and would not come inside-out.
By the time I kindly asked (reality: loudly begged) for drugs, it was too late to administer them.
When my midwife looked at me and said, “I can’t do anything more, here” two things occurred to me:
First, if I didn’t live in a time and place where medical amenities are as abundant as they are, my child or I would’ve been added to a “maternal mortality” list.
Second, you do not care about the tidiness of your signature when signing consent for an emergency c-section.
When all was said and done, my body went into shock. There was no milk. Nothing would come. Here, I had this beautiful, ruddy baby, getting thinner before my eyes because I had nothing to give him. On day 3 of no milk, we had to start formula.
And I think about the moms who don’t have that option and resource. What do they do?
Sometimes, you WISH to give, and cannot.
The heart’s DESIRE to give, or be, or provide
cannot always override the body’s REFUSAL.
The memory of this helplessness stands out to me as something to remedy for someone, if I can.
So in honor of the day, to do something good in it, my son and I are donating funds to The Milk Bank, getting mother’s milk to fragile infants in the US, and to World Vision, helping moms in natural disasters and refugee routes have access to safe places to nurse.
AND! To sweeten the deal,
for every “like” or “share” on this post,
I’ll increase the donation $5, up to $100.
I’m a big fan of homemade granola bars for the following reasons:
they’re super easy to make
cheaper than buying AND less waste in packaging
you get to pick your own flavor combinations
the sweeteners we use are healthier and can be locally found at farmer’s markets
baking them makes your home smell AMAZING
you can give new life to leftover pantry bits (no kidding, one of the best batches I’ve made was with the dregs of cinnamon shredded wheat. Killer!)
you get to “nutsmash.” It’s fun…. read on. I’ll show you what I mean…
The Basic Ingredient Outline:
Dry:
6 cups Oats*
1 ½ cups Dried Fruits
1 cup Nuts
Wet:
16 Tablespoons Unsalted Butter
¾ to 1 cup Brown Sugar
¾ to 1 cup honey OR syrup**
Today, we’re making Apricot Cranberry with Almonds and Molasses.
I used:
6 cups thick cut organic oats
¾ cup chopped dried organic apricots
¾ cup dried organic cranberries
1 cup salted almonds
16 Tablespoons unsalted organic butter
¾ cup organic brown sugar
½ cup maple syrup
¼ cup honey
¼ cup molasses
Preheat your oven to 300°
Start by melting down all of your wet ingredients in a small sauce pan
until they look like this:
You want this hot, but watch it so it doesn’t boil over.
While that’s heating up, put the nuts in a large plastic bag, get yourself a wooden spoon and a three-year-old***, and do this:
(It helps if you leave a small opening in the top of the bag so you don’t pop it…)
Throw the nuts, oats, and fruit in a large mixing bowl,
and pour the hot syrup/honey magma over the top.
If you want a crunchier bar, simply mix the ingredients until combined.
If you like a chewier bar, mix until the oats get a little soft from the hot magma.
Now, this is important. You must “grease”**** your cookie sheet, put a piece of parchment over the grease, and grease the parchment.
(Do this or you’ll be sending me angry comments about how impossible it was to get your granola bars out of the pan so you threw the whole thing, cookie sheet and all, out a two story window. Don’t do that. It’s wasteful. And you could severely harm the unlucky bloke beneath your window.)
Then, dump the oat-lot on top of the parchment and spread it out with the back of a spoon. When it’s evenly dispersed, give it a good press and mash so it’s tightly packed.
Bake for 20-30 minutes at 300°, until golden brown. Granola will over brown and burn quickly, so watch it carefully near the end of your bake time.
Rest it on your stove top and set a timer for 5 minutes.
After 5 minutes, cut the granola into whatever size bars you prefer, but DON’T REMOVE THEM until they’ve completely cooled.
Once cool, they’ll break apart easily and still retain the shape you cut. Wrap your bars in cling wrap for individual servings, or stack them up in a large container. These are good at room temperature, though I’d refrigerate them after a week (if they last that long). You can also freeze them and keep a stash for random road trips…
There, you see? you’ve just raised the bar.
(Bad, bad, pun. I know.)
* If you want a VERY chewy granola bar, use quick oats. You can also substitute a portion of the oats with cereal or other grains.
** I have used honey, brown rice syrup, agave, and maple syrup (in various combinations) for this. Any of them work and are completely up to your taste/nutritional preference. If you use molasses as I did in this batch, add it to the syrup meltdown.
*** three-year-old not required.
**** I use Spectrum organic vegetable shortening, but you can substitute butter.
I’ve set out on this journey… and a few of you, as well. I thank you for the company.
Some days it feels as though we’ve cast out far from shore, making headway to new lands within us and without. Other days I’m certain we’ve only imagined rowing, and are still on dry land, with sore muscles from stirring the sand.
As I was going through some recent writings of mine, I found the following. It’s a good thing to share, I think, as we embark (and re-embark, and re-embark, again) on our respective courses…
One does not recalibrate a compass.
Like the heart, it is not a machine to be wrenched nor a scale to be reckoned. It is obliged to magnetism, compelled by a pull beyond its reason and perhaps sometimes, too, against its most obstinate will.
A compass can only pulse and wiggle residing in the hand of its bearer; a constant ally when trusted or idle coxswain when unemployed. Like the heart beating now beneath your breast, each flutter will, if you attend, implore you to its home, coerce your calculated maps, and issue a course of its own choosing.
What then, is the bearer to do when his mind and body must navigate a terrain, altered and inhospitable, at the command of such a capricious star? Is there no arguing with this ceaseless needle? Are we rendered agents of whim?
As for this traveler, I risk assent to the pulls of poles and pray the path does not devastate. I endeavor to trust that my heart, like a needle in her glass dome, will not be so easily swayed from its final destination and that if heeded, will not leave me lost in a wilderness of good intent.
As we go, I wish you guiding winds, kind seas, hearty anchors to rest above, and song, song, song,
sung heartily on the decks.
But we’re going to resist the urge to look like this:
and use this:
to feel like this:
Now, I’m not an oil-vangelist, but I have come to appreciate their use in homemade perfumes, diffusers, and as a way of giving comfort. When you’re sick and someone rubs coconut oil and eucalyptus on your feet, you feel better, sick or not. And making someone else feel better than before is always a good-thing-of-the-day.
So when my daughter came home with swollen and itchy eyes, sneezing in perpetuity, I decided an allergy relief spray would be worth a go…
Put the essential oils in a 2 oz., dark glass spray bottle.*
10 drops lavender
8 drops lemon
6 drops peppermint
Then add 1/4 teaspoon of sweet almond oil, and fill the rest of the bottle with cool water.
Seal and shake.
Spray and breath.
The verdict: this doesn’t seem provide MEDICAL relief to severe allergies, but it does briefly clear the airways and it makes you feel awesome ‘cause you smell fresh and feel invigorated. It’s handy to carry with you and it’s a natural alternative.
More relief seems to be given when the oils are diffused into the air, and you hover over the cool vapor.
*I get my oil supplies in the natural foods section of my local grocery store. These seem to be the best prices I can find, and when they go on sale, I stock up on roller balls and spray bottles. Please post in the comments if you know of better prices!
When I was a kid, I remember my dad would make two things exceptionally well: spaghetti and poached eggs. (No, not together.)
There was a day – I was young, seven or so – when my mom had gone into surgery to have her kidney removed. I remember being scared. Really scared, and really quiet. I remember sitting in the kitchen with an inflatable, pink-polka-dot, inner tube around my torso because while everyone else was going swimming, I wanted to stay by the phone. Just in case.
My dad came in the kitchen. He looked at me, paused, and started boiling water. In the fog of childhood memory, I really can’t be sure if he said anything or if I did, of if, in fact, the inner tube was striped and blue, but I can still see that poached egg he made me, as clear as day. If I try hard enough, I could probably still smell it.
Toast. Butter. Egg cut up, all over the top, with yolk pouring out, and WAY too much pepper for a seven-year-old kid ‘cause that’s how he liked it.
It was the best egg I’ve ever had.
And I still can’t make a poached egg worth eating, so I cheat and fry ‘em.
My good thing today was coming home from a late rehearsal, aware of the scared and quiet that still lingers in me, and making myself an egg.
My stomach was grumbling but it was my heart that was hungry.
Toast. Butter. Egg cut up, all over the top, with yolk pouring out, and WAY too much pepper for a grown, adult woman ‘cause that’s how he made it.
