Home Run

Yes, it is baseball season and I recently was at Miller Park. However, it is highly unlikely that you will ever see me blog about sports. Trust me, it would be ugly. Not my area of expertise.

I am speaking of "my home", the place where I live. Before we arrive at my current abode, I need to trace my steps. Getting here is just as important as being here.

My first home was in a beautiful neighborhood on Long Island. My parents had moved from Manhattan to the suburbs, into a home designed by Bill Levitt, an extremely popular and productive 1950's architect.  My aunt cried when my parents left Manhattan. She was worried about them living in the "country".  My dad rode the Long Island Railroad to work. The suburbs blossomed, as  did the gorgeous trees and landscaping that surrounded these magnificent homes. Children played in the streets after dark, walked alone to school and rode their bikes all around the neighborhood untethered by a cell phone.

The birds stopped chirping and the flowers lost their petals when I turned 12. We moved to an apartment building in Queens. (The whys and wherefores are for another blog entry) We first lived in a small two bedroom apartment on a busy thoroughfare right by the expressway. I shared a room with my sister. Eventually she left for college, my dad headed out and we downsized to a one bedroom. At 16, my  roomie was my mom.

Not long after, I showed up at the doorstep of friend's family home with some clothes and my pillow in tow. The family took me in, no questions asked.  They were generous with their hearts and even gave me some money when times got hard. I stayed until I completed my sophomore year in college. Despite their efforts, it was a haven not a home.

Then I lived like a fugitive in an all-boys college dorm at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. I showered at 2 am for a whole semester. I came and went at odd hours and tried to be invisible. My boyfriend took a big risk just so I would have a place to sleep. I am forever grateful.

I spent two years in Buffalo, NY attending college. I had two apartments. The first one brought my future husband, Bruce, into my life. The second, I shared with a lesbian couple. They were fabulous roommates and it was there my love of cooking took root. I cooked for company all the time in the same cast iron pan and wok I use today. The pan and wok are seasoned to perfection and should they develop a voice, would have many stories to tell.

I lived in two abodes in Sarasota, Florida with Bruce, before moving to Wisconsin. Our first  little apartment in Madison was right off South Park Street. We lived there for about 8 months until Bruce found a young man hanging from a rafter in the basement on Easter morning. As a fallen-away Catholic, that was just too much for Bruce to take. We had to move on. We broke our lease and rented a lovely place on Monroe Street before buying our Victorian house in Stoughton. The house was a museum, a reflection of Bruce and his eclectic tastes. The decor was garage sale/auction. I loved it because I loved him and my son, Zack. But it was not my home even after 22 years. I never had a real kitchen and it was a bitch to cook there.

When the pain of  Bruce's sudden death let loose its grip, just enough to let me breathe, I knew I needed to relocate. I was living in a shrine, away from the city I loved and most of my friends. It was time to move to Madison. A winter walk brought me to a construction site on the near east side. On a corner stood a large sign depicting a simple brick condo building surrounded by a lovely little garden. The foundation had just been laid. I actually felt a magnetic pull to the site. I consulted with friends and my architect brother. Everyone agreed, it was perfect.

Now 8 years later, I do not take my home for granted. I am thankful for the location, the design and my neighbors. I feel a sense of belonging and serenity I have never known before. I like hearing the sounds of the city in concert with the footsteps and voices of my neighbors. Toilets flush, showers drain and the neighbor's parrot heralds the morning sun. The hydraulic lift of a bus, the landing of a jet, the screaming of a fire engine is music to my ears.

Zack spent one year in this home and he liked it too. We rediscovered each other and reinvented our relationship. We found a way to be two instead of three. We had escaped a ghost without leaving the good memories behind.

The word home is used in numerous ways. Each of them seems to apply to me. I am "at home" here. "It struck home" means it touched my heart (which it clearly did). I am "home free", feeling unencumbered (as I do, except for the tax bill and mortgage). It is "something to write home about" which would mean I recommend it. No doubt about that.

I celebrate my home by cooking for others. My kitchen is open, allowing me to chop, stir and wash dishes while engaging with my guests. I invite people here and they say, “Oh, we can just meet at a restaurant. I don't want to put you out". "No problem", I reply, truly meaning what I say. In fact, as I write this blog entry, the smell of sautéed, onions, peppers and squash fill the air. I had an 8:30 am breakfast meeting in my dining room and served coffee with scrambled eggs and veggies. I also treated my guest to a scone from Lazy Jane's... manna from heaven. It was a productive meeting but most importantly, it served to cement our relationship. The meeting was business but it was a pleasure for us both.

 

Here is a fabulous easy recipe for company. It is a beautiful and scrumptious dish. Give it a try and celebrate your home!

Thanks to: Pitchfork Diaries

http://www.pitchforkdiaries.com/2011/03/25/pan-seared-sea-scallops-with-pickled-watermelon-radish-and-microgreen-salad/


PAN-SEARED SEA SCALLOPS,
WITH PICKLED WATERMELON RADISH AND MICROGREEN SALAD

Serves 4, as an appetizer. Triple recipe for a main course.

4 large sea scallops
12 thin slices of watermelon radish. (Other radish varieties will work well too, but will have a bit more bite.)
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup loosely packed microgreens
2 teaspoon rice vinegar
2 tablespoon sesame oil
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 tablespoon canola, vegetable, or peanut oil

Remove the adductor muscle from the scallops.  Pat dry with paper towels and keep refrigerated.

In a small bowl combine the radish slices with the sugar and salt.  Allow to sit for about five minutes.  They are ready to use at this point, or can be refrigerated for up to four hours.  Before using, rinse gently and blot with paper towels.

Put the rice vinegar in a small bowl, with a small pinch of salt.  Gradually whisk in the sesame oil.  Set aside.

Arrange radish slices on plates.

Remove scallops from the refrigerator, season lightly with salt. In a saute pan, over high heat, melt a tablespoon of butter with a tablespoon of oil. When hot and shimmering carefully add the scallops to the very hot pan. Do not move them at first. After about a minute gently check to see if they are stuck to the pan, and if browning too quickly. Turn down heat slightly, if so. After about another minute, they should be nicely browned an caramelized, flip to the other side and sear for another minute.

Place scallops on radish slices on serving plates. In a medium bowl toss microgreens with sesame dressing (you may not need to use all of it), and top scallops with dressed greens. Serve immediately.
 

Cry Me a River

I have free time and  ponder "what should I do?". What a luxurious question, I know. I am lucky to have the chance to even wonder.

I decide to write in my blog. For a few seconds I search for a subject, thumbing through the Rolodex of my mind. I file topic cards away in my brain every day, as incidents, emotions and ideas abound. But as the cards riffle and the ideas begin to form a shape I find myself tearing up. What the hell? Can't I even string some feelings together without starting to cry? Apparently not.

I have been crying since day one. I imagine I entered this world red-faced with tears streaming down my chubby cheeks. Of course, I have no idea because my father was not in the room and my mother was probably out like a light from gin and/or anesthesia. She never bothered to tell me.

When I was a child, my mother would tauntingly call me Sarah Heartburn after the famous stage and screen actress Sarah Bernhardt. She was known for her emotive style and often was a bit "over the top". I was always in tears carrying on about the injustices of life, the minor injuries of play and the dying character in the book I was currently reading.

The men in my life should have bought stock in Kleenex. Whether feeling angry, rejected, insecure, thankful or incredibly in love, tears are part of my emotional package. I see that, "Oh, no, not again" look in their eyes. Some men walk away, others have known that a hug and a little contrition will cut the episode at its quick and I will bounce back in mere seconds. Yes, I recover as quickly as a baby that fakes a cry just to see what you will do make them happy.  But I swear I am not faking. I am sad, glad or outraged. I just get tired of the histrionics and move on.  I do not reserve this lovely behavior for men, I do this to my oldest friend as well. I burst into tears when she answers the phone and less than 30 seconds later I am done. I bore myself. The cause of my outburst is usually something out of my control or some trite issue that is downright ridiculous.

I appreciate my tears. They serve me. When my husband Bruce died the tears were endless and came from a place I didn't even know existed. Buried deep in my gut was a roiling pool of water that overflowed. I would try to erect a dam to hold them back but they would not be contained. They washed me in memories and helped to relieve the tension that pulled at every muscle including my breaking heart.

When work spun out of control I did a poor job of keeping my tears to myself. Though embarrassing, they represented my deep commitment to my profession and those that I supervised. They were the "red flag" telling me that I needed to move on. My love for the job and my staff was not enough. I was the poster child of secondary traumatic stress.

Crying is a part of who I am. Whether it is the love for my son, the loss of my husband or the deep affection shown by my loving partner that drives the tears, it really doesn't matter. Fortunately you won't see my lip start to quiver or the tears well up in my eyes as I prepare to write this blog. You are spared the drama and I can wallow (for a few seconds) without restraint.

The saying, "Cry in your beer" just popped into my head. It basically means to feel sorry for yourself. I do not drink alcohol when I am sad..bad combination. But were I to do so, I would cry in my cocktail ...

 Tonight I will be sharing some cocktails with my neighbors. They have a large clay pot of mint growing wildly on their porch. I am helping them cull the crop by offering to make some mojitos. I made this recipe before for a large crowd and they were a huge hit. Here, my friends, is the recipe. It is over 90 degrees outside. Enjoy!

Mojitos

Recipe found on Food.com

10 servings (alleged)

10 limes
30 leaves Fresh Mint
3/4 c Sugar
1 c White Rum
Club Soda, chilled

1. Juice half the limes. After juicing cut rinds into quarters.
2. Cut  the other half of limes into quarters. Hold back a lime for garnish.
3. Place limes, sugar and mint leaves in a pitcher and muddle (mash with a stick). I use a wooden rolling pin that is one solid piece of wood. You want to extract the flavors from the rinds and the leaves. Hold back a lime and some mint for garnish.
4. Add the rum and lots of ice and top with club soda. Add club soda to individual glasses if mixture is too strong.
5. Garnish with mint and lime slices.

They taste so good they may make you cry.

Once a Widow...

I rose at 7:00 am and started cooking. I was expecting a friend for lunch. I had not seen her socially for many years. We kept running into one another, at Overture, restaurants and on the street. I was always so excited to see her. Robotically we would state, "We really should get together". Last time she handed me her card and said, "Call me".

At noon the buzzer rang. I was like a puppy. Had I a tail, it would have been wagging. It was wonderful to have her in my home, catch up on old times and hear about her current life. I showed her around and then we had lunch.

After lunch, she settled into my comfy leather chair and I laid on my new couch. We were chatting away, "peeling the layers of the onion" when we hit the core and began to discuss our shared label..."widow".  I was overwhelmed with appreciation for the opportunity to speak of something I rarely touch on with others. I make passing comments but feel very alone in the experience. It was truly freeing to talk of the agony, the fears and the willpower it took just to breathe. We admitted that the pain lingers despite the passage of time. Don't get me wrong. We were not morose, just raw, honest and somewhat relieved to be in a space where we were understood.With other friends, I do mention my loss but generally I talk of my grief in passing and move quickly to the wonderful life I have now. I do not speak of how I feel guilty for being happy or even being alive. It is silly, I know.

I am convinced I will see my friend again, without waiting years, and that our friendship will not be a function of our widowhood. However, the fact that we lost our husbands, at a young age, in the blink of an eye, enhances our connection just as any commonality would do.



This occasion required an appropriate lunch. My guest is a foodie and a good darn cook. I wanted to have something healthy but flavorful. I found a wonderful recipe called Curried Quinoa with Pistachios and Dried Cranberries, in my newest Weight Watcher cookbook. My curry powder was old so I decided to make my own. By the time I was done mixing the spices, my house smelled fabulous. Hints of cardamom, turmeric, cloves and cayenne hung in the air. Weight Watcher recipes are very reliable. They do not skimp on flavor and are not shy about adding a little heat.

I also served a yummy marinated chicken breast I grilled at a friend’s house. I am not allowed to grill where I live. Hence, I have to mooch off others.

Both the chicken and quinoa were served at room temperature. The mint and chives came from my neighbors porch. Much appreciated!

Here’s the recipe…. Enjoy.

Curried Quinoa with Pistachios and Dried Cranberries

1 cup quinoa
2 cups reduced-sodium chicken broth
1 Tbsp. curry powder
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 lb. slender green beans, trimmed and halved
2 tsp. olive oil
2 celery stalks, sliced
1 small red onion, chopped
1/2 cup dried cranberries
1/4 cup unsalted pistachios, chopped
1/4 cup lightly packed fresh mint leaves, chopped
1 small bunch of fresh chives, snipped
Finely grated zest & juice of one large lemon

Combine quinoa, broth, curry powder, cinnamon and salt in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer, covered, until liquid is absorbed and quinoa is tender, about 10 minutes. Remove pan from heat and set aside.

Heat 1″ of water in a nonstick skillet, add green beans and cook about 5 minutes, until just tender but still slightly crisp. Drain and hold under running cold water to stop cooking, Drain again and transfer to serving bowl.

Wipe skillet dry. Heat oil in skillet and add celery and onion. Sauté until onion is softened, about 5 minutes. Add to green beans along with quinoa and remaining ingredients, mix together and serve.

Serves 6

WW PP per serving (about one cup): 6

30 years and Counting

There is not a day that goes by that I do not think about my career. With time, the pain and frustrations have faded leaving me with the feelings of joy and appreciation I felt much of the time I was working. Working in child protection elicits sympathy from others, "How can you do that work? How can you work with those people?"  Oh, how deeply the profession is misunderstood. Working with families was a gift. Seeing change is a reward much greater than my paycheck.

Yesterday I had an opportunity to spend a couple of hours sharing these positive feelings with some of my comrades in arms. FSAT (Family Sexual Abuse Treatment) celebrated its 30th anniversary with a lovely party outside attended by staff and Board members that came and went over the years. When I started my career in CPS little was known about child sexual abuse, then called incest. This was an exhilarating time. Research was underway, varied approaches were tested in the field and we began to work in multi-system teams. Law enforcement, therapists, nurses and social workers all trying to figure it out. It was so complex. You had to remember when interviewing a little 5 year old about sexual contact with her dad, that you needed to respect dad, as he still may be the most protective and caring parent she has. Who knew?

As I looked at the attendees I saw some of the brightest and dedicated people I know. I also noted wrinkles, shaky hands, forgetfulness and receding hairlines (both sexes). We were pioneers. Now we are retired or hoping to retire. It was wonderful to be with people who "knew us when". Now we are the "old guard", dinosaurs who used to hand write their notes, find family homes with maps, and entered high risk homes without a smartphone.

Tariq accompanied me to the party. I am always happy to have him by my side. He is social and unafraid to meet new people. I wanted him to understand my pride. He was with me through the some of the hardest years so it was important for him to hear about the ground-breaking times when it all was so exciting and new.

When we left the party, of course we had to celebrate with something yummy to eat. I had an Entertainment Club coupon for Costa Rican Cafe on Willy St so off we went. What a beautiful evening. Just warm enough to sit outside and take in the sounds of the bustling near-east side. Willy St is so vibrant. The gas station across the street had a sign praising Nelson Mandela. I knew I was home.

This was my second time eating there. We were not disappointed. I had a blackened chicken special which came with white rice, beans, salad and a plantain. Tariq had chicken curry which had the same accompaniments except he had a beans and rice combo. I really enjoyed my chicken which was tender and juicy. It truly fell off the bone. The chef makes two homemade sauces you can use on the side. I preferred the spicier habanero sauce but both were excellent. Although I loved my dish I was shocked to learn that it was $19. I thought that was at least $5 too much. Tariq's dish was $13. Next time I will ask the price. Lesson learned.

I bad-mouth the Entertainment Club book. It used to be filled with restaurants I actually would go to. Not anymore. Maybe if you have small kids it might come in handy. Now hotel deals abound and there is Groupon and My Perks. But, I ate my words (never too full for that) and was thankful for the coupon once my bill arrived.