This is my new book, published last month. It is filled with stories, poems, and recipes–healthy food for vegans, vegetarians, pescatarians, and meat eaters with photos and detailed instructions. Currently, it can be purchased at Burrowing Owl bookstores in Canyon and Amarillo, Texas, and online at http://www.dreamcatcherbooks.com, Angel editions.
The Nap
He lays on his back on the cold, hard, blue linoleum floor after
the midday dinner of homegrown roast beef, potatoes, wilted
lettuce salad, hot coffee, coconut topped cake. His left arm
forms a right angle at the elbow as the back of his wrist rests
on his forehead, touching the slight curliness of his not quite
black hair. His left leg stretched out straight, right one drawn
up, knee jutting out. The sleeves of his worn, pale blue dress
shirt rolled up; his overalls show signs of wear and washing.
Every day after dinner he naps in the same spot in this same
position for exactly fifteen minutes before returning to the field.
My father.
Seventeen years after his death, one day as I napped, slowly
driving off, astonishment stuck. There I lay exactly as my
father used to so many years ago, my left arm forming a right
angle, wrist on my forehead, left leg stretched out straight, right
one drawn up, knee jutting out. I remember not just in heart
and mind.
The body always knows.
Taken at the top of Mt. Evans in Colorado when I was a child.
Will many record their experiences during this difficult time? I have no idea. However, a thought came to me yesterday that I should–not sure why, just that this is something I should do. Interesting because I am not really into “shoulds.”
Because Martina, the exchange student who lived with me this time last year, lives n Milano, I have realized the seriousness of this for weeks. She and her family have been quarantined for so long that I have lost track of just how long. A couple of days ago her mother had to go to the grocery. It took her four hours to get through the line. She has a grandfather over 90; they worry about him; he is scared.
Yet, here in the Panhandle of Texas, many fail to realize just how awful this can get. Until yesterday, when they had no choice due to the statewide mandate, they went out to eat, exercised at the gym, congregated in mass at bars, you name it. Now schools are closed until April 3 when the situation will be re-evaluated.
In the last ten days the only places I have gone are the grocery, the doctor’s office–for an awful allergy attack. Luckily, I live out in the country, have horses. They have to be fed twice a day, their runs cleaned. Today it is 70, the patio doors are open; I might even take a little hike later. Just me and Athena, my black, standard poodle.
Luckily, it has been spring break so I have had plenty of time to think about what to do with myself as I keep myself quarantined–I am not even going to my daughter and grandson’s house–I really miss seeing them. What do I do: have read two books, almost finished crocheting a poncho, worked one warm day in the garden, graded all the papers I brought home and posted them, cared for the horses, cooked, communicated with friends worldwide–Covid19 is everywhere, watched some TV, mostly news and documentaries. One thing I will do every day is act as if I am actually going somewhere, put on my makeup, get dressed, have a plan for the day.
This morning I went to the grocery. What did I do when I returned home? I left the bag outside to air–will disinfect it shortly, I took off my clothes in the laundry room and put them to wash. Then I took a hot shower. Why all this you ask? The virus can stay in your clothes for 24 hours. There were more people in the store in the morning than I expected. Are they healthy, virus free? No idea. In the county where I live, there have been two cases already. I do not want to risk it. Although I am healthy, I am in one of the higher risk categories due to my age. I do not mind dying, but who wants to die from this? I don’t.
It is a nice spring day outside, the wild flowers are starting to bloom, and I need to relearn how to use Google Classroom because that is how I will be teaching English and Spanish until who knows exactly when. I have used it before over a year ago. I need to refresh myself.
Here are a few pictures of the wild flowers around my house. After this, review Google Classroom and maybe play the piano for a bit.
Take care of yourselves. Be safe. Be wise.
Three poems follow:
Nature
Nature is
a beautiful place
so start
kicking that
can all over
the place
we will
we will
rock
you
Ethan Singletary
As I am laying at home
I hear a loud thunderous noise
The sound startled me out of my seat
I looked out the window
There was a giant funnel
I heard the tornado siren
As the trees were coming out of ground
I run downstairs to take cover
The storm was ruling the land, but
I was safe from the natural catastrophe.
Makenna Byrd
The Grip
As the wind blows and the storm flows through this
Desolate wasteland
As you wonder the numbing thunder puts you at peace
As the wind whips and the storm grips the desolate ground
As it whirls and twirls bringing wreckage
to the sky
Someone brings a tractor to clean up
this decay
For this storm may bring sorrow but all through
the hollow the great sorrow is met with a great
peace
As the family sifts among the rubble and
finds on this trouble at least they are in
one piece
Corbin McKinney
Four jaguar heads stare at me,
Mexican, Costa Rican.
A third guards the mantel,
partially hidden in tropical plants,
attack ready, tail raised, jaws open,
teeth bared.
My feet rest on a coffee table
carved in Kashmir. I look at the photo
of the young man whose family made it.
He took me home to meet his mom,
to the floating market.
Once peace reigned there.
Now I wonder if he is safe, alive.
The Hoop Dancer raises his arms,
the Acoma pot exudes ancient
black on white beauty, painted
by the tips of yucca stems.
The Thai Spirit House begs
to appease evil spirits.
I should put food and flowers there;
I never do.
Corn plant of life–for Navaho, Hopi,
me, painted, growing up my wall,
blue and red birds flitting through
the stalks, singing ancient songs.
Corn Maiden rug hanging on the wall;
an Isleta Pueblo girl won a contest
with its design. Four Corn Maiden
Kachinas watch the room.
Corn everywhere–Sacred Corn.
Three Ethiopian crosses, St. George
and the Dragon, Frida Kahlo doll,
Argentinian Madonna, Tohono O’odham
baskets, a painted cow skull, Nigerian carved
wooden elephants, including a Chieftains chair,
the stained glass transom window from the house
where my dad lived from birth to ten.
In a room filled with windows, there
is little room for paintings, yet–
purple bison glide across the prairie,
an Iraqi woman flies through an azure
sky filled with dark blue birds,
a 15th century mystic, Kabir, tells
a tale in poetry, Navaho spirits,
pumas walking toward me–
my obsession.
Rugs scattered–Kerman,
an unknown Persian city, Afghani,
Egyptian, Indian, Zapotec, scraps of old
Turkish rugs sewn together.
In one cabinet, Grandmother’s china,
Mom’s Czech crystal–a wedding present
decades ago, Grandson’s painted art,
the silverware Dad gave Mom on their
first wedding anniversary, Mom’s
everyday dishes–flowers blooming.
I use them every day.
These objects–a testament to who I am:
World wanderer, seeker, citizen.
Several weeks ago, the tail of my favorite horse, Miracle, disappeared. When she died from colic after giving birth several years ago, one young lady at the vets took hairs from her tail, made a braid, and gave it to me. Since then, it had hung in the hallway next to Dad’s spurs and a photo of the family farm above Dad’s parade saddle. Suddenly, it disappeared. Where could it have gone? No one had recently been to the house except Martina, my Italian exchange student, and me. My daughter and grandson had stopped by, but no one else. Nothing else had disappeared. It was a mystery like the time I found a handful of dry dog food under the saddle. I never solved that one and had given up on solving this one. I had even considered looking for something else to hang in its place.
On my birthday yesterday, the principal walked to my room with a bouquet of flowers and a package. The bouquet was from my grandson. I opened the package. Much to my astonishment, there was Miracle’s tail, the top of the braid carefully and colorfully wrapped, a thin copper wire winding through it, and and then wrapped around the bottom. My daughter had managed to take it without my seeing her do so, took it home, and had wrapped it so it would not come apart. When I originally told her about it, she and my grandson commented how strange it was and made note of the dog food incident as if some mystery lurked in that particular place in my house.
My grandson had picked out each individual flower. He obviously knows my favorite color is orange.
Then to top off the day my son also sent flowers. It dropped 50 degrees from yesterday afternoon to late last night, the wind shrieks, clouds loom dark and ominous. It is a good day for bright flowers.
Two weeks and one day ago, Martina arrived from Milano, Italy, to live with me until the end of the school year. We have discovered astonishing similarities: we both sing and play the piano, we love vegetables and fish, we read books. Tonight my grandson and daughter are coming over for Italian food. We went grocery shopping today, bought pancetta for pasta alla carbonara. Because my grandson is vegetarian, we purchased Morning Star “bacon” and will make a separate vegetarian version for him.
As we planned this repast, I learned that in Italy everyone eats several courses unless in a very big hurry. Course one includes various little goodies like cheeses, nuts, salami, often thought of in the US as antipasto, but it can include many other things. Each person obtains a drink of his or her choice and snacks on the goodies and converses. There are separate courses that follow: pasta, meat or fish, salad, and finally dessert. Italians eat dinner late, e.g. 9-9:30, which reminded me of Argentina where people also eat late. I like to eat late unlike many people in the US. However, we won’t eat that late tonight, more like perhaps 7:30 or whenever we get everything done.
Right now as we await the arrival of my family, Martina and I are sipping tea while she works on a dystopian short story she has to write for English class–she is a senior here–and I write this blog post. The snow from last evening has mostly melted and the sun is setting. Martina loves Panhandle of Texas sunsets and sunrises. I will take photos of the food and post them tomorrow.
This is the title of my newest book which currently resides at the designers for formatting, placing the photos in the correct place and position, making sure everything is just right. The subtitle is: Adventures with Food, Family, and Friends. It includes family and travel stories, adventures, poems, and recipes. Here are a couple of food photos which will be in the book with recipes.
Every Sunday until publication, I will post an update as to progress. My goal is to have it available for purchase for Christmas presents for those who love food adventures.
Sunrise
Dappled clouds
Owl hooting
Wren climbing
Later, I graded papers and watched part of John McCain’s funeral, some of which almost brought me to tears. I often disagreed with him but never did I question his passionate love of country, his courage, his willingness to buck the norm, to defy convention when he thought it was the right thing to do. I think he and I shared certain values on which this country is based even if the country as a whole rarely lives up to them. These include the conviction that all people are equal, that everyone deserves justice, and each person carries the right to find his or her own share of happiness without judgment and condemnation from others who may think differently.
Later, while working on the latest book I am writing, I found handwritten recipes written by my grandmother, my mother’s mother, Nellie Narcissus Duke (Kaiser),whose father came here from Switzerland as a child. One, for dumplings, remains readable. The other written in pencil on the front and back of thin paper is fragile. It is for Strawberry Shortcake. If Grandmother Duke ever made dumplings, I do not remember it. Mother did–chicken and dumplings. I wonder if she used this recipe. I do remember conversations about the shortcake because Dad did not like strawberry shortcake even though he liked strawberries. I took photos of these two recipes written decades ago in my grandmother’s handwriting.
Mom filled the white bowl with black raspberries.
I pour Bossie’s white milk over them,
watched it form a pattern,
flowing around the raspberries–
a design in deep purple and white.
I thought it almost too beautiful to eat.
I was seven.
Now I rarely find black raspberries. Red ones won’t do. They lack intensity, the beauty. Every year we went to Hunt’s Orchard north of Amazonia, Missouri, to buy black raspberries, took them home, sorted to discard the imperfect ones, then threw them way behind the garden next to the timber–huge trees, oak and hickory. Eventually, these imperfections transformed into thriving black raspberry bushes. We had our own patch, created from the discarded, the imperfect.
Mom fed us fresh raspberries for a few days. The rest she used to create her famous pies, froze a freezer full. Baked, they transformed a winter kitchen into the warmth and sweetness of my mother’s family devotion.
I bake pies, many kinds of pies. I have never made a black raspberry pie.
Note: this will be published in an upcoming publication by the Story Circle Network. In July my daughter, grandson, and I went to Hunt’s Orchard–yes, it still exists. I asked about black raspberries. We were too late; the season was over. The timber behind the garden area was to the right in this photo. The person who bought the land years later bulldozed down all the big trees.
Travel the World 4 Less
A Glimpse into My Life & Passions
Magoism, the Way of WE in S/HE (Limited in Some International Shipping, Check at Mago Bookstore)
ANCESTRAL FOOD. HERBAL WISDOM. MAGICAL COOKERY. SEASONAL CELEBRATION.
inesemjphotography
politics, engineering, parenting, relevant things over coffee.
Food is the best expression of every emotion. Explore through my reviews, recipes, events and more.
STIR explores the gray areas of controversy. Join us.
Smile! A Site for Friends Wherever You Are!
inspiring personal growth through poetry and writing
Combining atheism with whimsy. This is a Fair and Balanced blog based on opinion unencumbered by fact.
Odds and ends ~ My Life
Universal Enthusiast
Original poetry, commentary, and fiction. All copyrights reserved.
bripike@gmail.com
A wildlife filmmaker in Africa
A Geeky Feminist's Musings On Pop Culture
"5 minute walks"
