On The Black Box

It has always been one of the most unnatural things for me to do-to stare into the eye of a lens for the sake of capturing my image.  This difficulty has been fodder for family stories for decades and it drew my mother's ire.  With care she gathered together all my school photos and hung them in the hallway across from the cellar door.  Whenever photo day came near, she would beckon me to study the expression in each photo.  There was no smile, but an odd pull of the lips that disappeared into a set of twin dimples.  No teeth were shown.

"Here, smile like this. Show your teeth," my mother would demonstrate accentuating her smile with a pointed finger."You do it, now," she coaxed.  I practiced in the tiny hallway, just me and my mother long enough to satisfy her.  We parted, each hoping for a different outcome.

While sitting at the kitchen table, she unhinged the glass protecting each portrait-the expression was the same year after year. As I stood in line waiting for the photo to be taken, I  practiced smiling as my mother had shown me. Sitting on that big black box and staring into the lens made me self-conscious and nervous.  I always deferred to the default 'no smile, no teeth'-my mother's disappointment.

 Even today, portraits are such a difficult undertaking. Everyone is coaxing me to smile. And, I just can't.  I really don't know why.

Knowing

It is in the knowing
I am not alone
Weathering this storm,
But wisely trusting
Its' passing.
In time.

Navigating Through Fear

There is a storm raging outside.  The wind howls.  I take my glasses off and slip them into my pocket, the snow a horizontal curtain.  This weather reminds me, of my recent scary trip south to be with my brother at an appointment.  Driving again in this weather makes me want to throw up.  I punch the radio button to distract myself with tunes.   

Most cars are moving along, while others are slowly cautious.  The roads look slushy and icy.  I glance at my speedometer.  30 mph.  A quick check in the rear view reveals that there is someone behind me.  My eyes remain on the road ahead.  Not one to cave to the peer pressure by other drivers to speed up, I yell to the guy on my bumper as though he can hear, “You’ll have to wait.  I’m going slow.”

As the cars seem to roar towards me from the opposite lane, gripping the wheel I pray aloud, “Please stay on your side of the road.  Don’t smash into me!”

Suddenly I realize, I can only control my little Toyota Corolla.  Deep breaths clear my mind, and I come to just as Mandi, the DJ on KISS (who happens to be my niece) awards a listener concert tickets to Bare Naked Ladies, Ben Folds Five and Guster.  I imagine Mandi’s smile through the phone line, as the two discuss these bands. I laugh at myself because I cannot recall a song by Bare Naked Ladies (who I at least know are guys) and I have never heard of the other two bands or maybe it is just one band.  I haven’t a clue.

Sometimes, my ability to laugh at myself helps me through tough times in my life, all those slippery slopes. I’m determined to land on my feet.

Joyful Cooking

Mindfulness comes naturally for me in the kitchen.  It hasn’t always been that way, but with decades of cooking experience, I can relax and enjoy the experience and process.  My cooking in earnest began as a young teenager.  My working mother would leave the recipe and the ingredients handy and I would prepare supper for my family.  With a little confidence, I began scouring cookbooks and my mother’s recipe card files.  I began baking bread, desserts, and other dishes beyond the ordinary meat and potatoes.  It was great fun to experiment and my mother gave me free rein of the kitchen.

Side by side, I cooked with my mother, my grandmother and my great aunt since I was a little one. It was those early experiences and the trust my mother had in my abilities that set the course for a lifetime of joy in the kitchen. 

Tonight feeling the weight of my favorite knife in my left hand and taking note of the uniformity of the bits of onion actually made me smile.  Slices of green and red pepper were added to the mix along with crushed garlic, sea salt, and gingered grated carrots.  What a colorful mix.  Another smile. Tapping the egg cradled in the palm of my hand along the edge of a large soup cup, my thumbs broke through the shell and the egg released in a plop. In went a splash of homemade kefir. torn multi-grain bread pieces, some fresh parmesan,  a slurp of ketchup, and a little soy mixed all together with ground beef.  Meat loaf.  A simple dish from my youth, remade with much joy and intention.  The meat mixture pressed into the cast iron enamel baking dish is a symphony of texture, color and flavor and a testimony that even the simplest of culinary dishes can bring much pleasure and joy.

My love of cooking has bound me to my grandfather, a man I never knew.  This man was a gifted chef.  Even as a young girl in the kitchen, I would somehow attribute my culinary success with genetics.  When my son began working in restaurants and eventually became a chef, my mother often reminded me that, “He got his talent and passion for cooking from his great-grandfather.”  This all may or may not be true. What I know to be true is, that the act of creating nourishment for those you love, helps create bonds in the kitchen and around the dining room table.  Something that is hard to duplicate anywhere else.  No wonder I am a joyful cook.

Today's Lesson

Although I try my best to live each day in gratitude, there remain some days, only a few days that leave you just scratching your head in wonder.  Today was one of those days.  I spent most of the day in bed trying to ward off the aches, pains and nausea that settled in my body. My puppy Rex, tail in a constant motion of happy lay by my side as did a myriad of cats in various stages of grooming or recline. Although I was the only human in the house, I felt loved unconditionally with my swarm of pets around.   I received three letters in the mail, cuddled with my adult daughter while she told of her passion for her work caring for the elderly. In the latter part of the afternoon  I sipped my favorite Yerba Matte Latte.  Then there was the moment that I discovered I misplaced my keys. The quiet focus on feeling well quickly wound into a spiral of, “ Where are they?  How will I get to work in the morning?”  I held the image of Toyota on tow truck making the fifty-mile jaunt to Down East Toyota for a special key with a microchip deeply implanted in the black plastic key handle.  “That will be two hundred and eighty dollars, Mrs. Keene.”

The afternoon was a dance of sleep and leaping out of bed sure that a 10^th search through my jacket pocket or the 18^th rifling through my purse would result in a find.  Broom handle pushing the dust bunnies, shoes, socks and wrappers from the dusty darkness normally found under my bed unearthed nothing but a pile that I pushed to the side while I continued my quest.  When I lose something, all I have room for in my mind is mapping out a plan to find the missing object.  Rest does not come easily. The tension is felt throughout the house.  It is no fun for anyone. 

Into the darkness of night, armed with a flashlight I searched corners, drawers deep with underwear and socks and I even looked in the refrigerator.  I prayed continuously through the day for calm and a resolution to this mystery.  I prayed for acceptance.  Finally, I prayed to my patron saint, St. Jude.  I felt foolish praying for such a trivial request, my keys, but as I prayed I imagined my mother mouthing the same words fervently begging for assistance with something far greater than keys.  As I prayed, I felt a connection with my mother.  You see, my mother prayed to St. Jude when I was born.  Being a few pounds meant that the chances of my survival were slim.  My mother turned to her faith. 

After prayer, I found the keys.  They slid between the passenger’s seat and the door.  With keys in hand, the tears came freely.  Not because I found my keys, but I imagined the intensity of despair in my mother’s wait following my birth.  Her prayer and the fact that she carried a little card with the prayer to St. Jude in her purse, is a testament to her love for me and the power of faith, for we are never alone in our despair, no matter how great or small.