FAT SALT ACID HEAT

I'm going to have to go to Italy again after watching the first episode of this delightful documentary!  I'd heard an interview with Samin Nosrat on NPR and it piqued my interest.

Nellie and I went to some of the places featured in episode one.  Samin observes (and participates a little) in the harvesting of olives and the making of olive oil (Liguria).  She helps in the making of beautiful foccocia.

Olive oil, I learned, has an expiration date and doesn't age well like wine does, but I'm sure everybody else already knows this.

We see healthy pigs before and after slaughter, and we learn about the parts of the pigs we carnivores enjoy.  We watch an Italian woman making pesto with a mortar and pestle.  And we get to see how real pasta is made, how it's been made for thousands of years, no fancy machines needed.

It's a mouth-watering, earthy, sensuous, lovely show--with upbeat Italian music and lots of beautiful shots of markets and landscapes in Tuscany!

Monday

Today was a lovely day, weather-wise and otherwise. I drove by my house and saw that the roof installation is well underway, and that the floor men had removed most of the old wood and are about to start scraping some old asbestos tiles that I didn't even know were under the wood.

The dermatologist burned off a spot on my nose, then I met at with my drop out friends who've formed a sort of birthday club, this month to celebrate Kate--happy happy!

I'll post photos later--as I'm having iCloud issues and need to call Apple for first aid....

Writing the Unthinkable....

Nellie sent me a link last night to a Ted Talk by Lynda Barry, the writer and cartoonist: "Writing the Unthinkable."

"Who was your first crush?" she asked.  Audience members were asked to call out the initials of the name of that person.  A noisy response.

"Who was your third crush?" she asked.  Not so noisy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GjofUnKK20M&feature=youtu.be

It was four in the morning when I watched it, and I'll watch it again later today after a doctor's appointment and a HAPPY BIRTHDAY lunch for Kate's birthday.  (Happy Birthday, Kate!)

But for now, ask yourself: "Who WAS your first crush?  Who was your third?"

And what does the vividness of a memory have to do with "writing the unthinkable"?

Night Two of my San Antonio Vacation

Night One was just a place to sleep, too brown.

But Night Two has been way more fun--me in my temporary digs, fourth floor, freedom to do anything I want and freedom from the mess of my house with sticky and sawdusty floors.  I'm having a whale of a good time making a gift or two, reading The Untethered Soul alternately with the first of the Louise Penny mysteries, Still Life, dozing, waking up.

My little house is being productively battered this week from the roof to floors, and I'm camping out in a most deliciously dark and quiet room, no news of the world.

The roof I'd recently hired novices to repair--and they botched (more tuition)--needs re-doing, and the casita requires an entirely new roof. The mold man used his mold machine to test for mold--the results of which will be back from the lab in a week.

I was listening yesterday to an On Being podcast, an interview with Alain de Botton.  One of the things that struck me was his comment that what we listen to--especially now in an environment of so many lies and so much unkindness--has an impact on us that is more damaging than we realize.  So I've opted to close the window into that world, not even turn on the TV during my solitary camping trip.

This room is clean and boring in its decor--and there is no view worth opening the window for. I'm absorbed in reading and reflecting and decoupage, and none of that matters; in fact, the anonymity (plainness bordering on ugliness)  of this room is a perfect little studio for making things and letting my mind roam. Annie Dillard described this dynamic better than I can:

a funeral

I remembered today something David Whyte said--or was it John O'Donahue?--about funerals, something to this effect:  When the religious bits are being said, when the list of degrees and accomplishments are being read, the eyes of the people present glaze over.  When someone talks about what the person loved and gave her passion to, the people listening are waked up, their attention quickened.

I thought of this today sitting at the funeral of a dear friend.  It was a simple funeral, and it was religious, as she would have liked.  But what stirred me most was a letter read aloud from her beloved and only grandson who is incarcerated and couldn't be there. 

The letter was a few pages long and in it, he told about how he, as a little boy, had watched his Nana typing without looking at the keys.  He told us that he was similarly typing the letter we were hearing, mailed from prison to be read aloud.

"My grandmother was never ashamed of me," he said.  "She called every day for the last six years and told me, 'I may not always like what you do, but I will always love you, no matter what.'"

I was there the day of his sentencing.  I will never forget his grandmother's agony.  The sentence of 20 years seemed extreme to all of us, but was unimaginable to Nana.  "I won't live to see him free!" she said.

But she did drive to the prison to visit him every week until her illness, and she called him every day.  She sent him money and helped him start his online degree.  She sent him books from book stores.  And she called him--every single day for the past six years. 

The last time we had a meal together, she showed me a belt buckle he had made in the prison shop and she told me he was doing really well.  She was proud of him.  

I wish she could have heard the letter we all heard today.  "My Nana was the closest thing to an angel anyone has ever known," he said.

Night One in the Comfort Inn

and I just popped back home to see that the floors are halfway removed!

Yay!

Cinderella

Most of us grew up with the Disney version of Cinderella, happily ever afterwards, magic and all.  But there are over 900 very different versions of this story worldwide--as I learned in last night's class taught by Marga Speicher, a Jungian analyst.

She read a German version--complete with the cutting off of toes (one stepsister's) and heels (the other stepsister's)  and the plucking out of their eyes--grim indeed.  Folktales were pre-TV nighttime entertainment meant for adults, not children.

Marga reads these different versions with the lens of psychoanalysis, asking "What do each of the characters represent in us?"

How are we like Cinderella, whose beloved mother died and left her with an indifferent father?  How are we like the stepsisters, who in this tale mutilated their feet as their mother commanded them to do to fit into a shoe (or something else)  that doesn't belong to us?  In what ways do we require others to cut off parts of themselves to please us?

Someone asked, "What's the difference between fairy tales and folk tales?"  Fairy tales are for children, for one thing, and they tend to focus on magic.  Folk tales are more nuanced and  fully-developed tales.

There was no fairy godmother in this German version.  When the prince tracked down the mysterious woman with whom he'd danced  at the ball, the stepmother presented her other daughters and never considered that the cinder-covered maid might be the one he was looking for.  The shoe was too tight in the toe for one, so the mother told her to cut off her toe--and she did.

A bird told the prince, "Look down and see the blood on the shoe."  And the prince (not particularly astute, it seems)  returned the wrong girl to her mother who simply produced the other daughter!

The shoe was too big in the heel.  "Cut off your heel," the mother said--and she did.

Same bird, same message.

Based on this story alone, I'm not so sure the prince is the most enviable prize.  Maybe he was a handsome dullard, maybe not--but that's for the reader to decide.

But all folktales protagonists are seeking some prize, gift, or destination. Following the model of Joseph Campbell's "Hero's Journey," he or she sets out on a journey and encounters challenges--otherwise there would be no story.  Along the way, good helpers appear and lessons are learned.

Me and My House #3

Tomorrow the floors come up, and the new wood is ordered and will arrive Tuesday or Wednesday.  Almost everything I own has been moved into the living room, with Will helping me this morning before donning his Santa hat and buying a bird!

I'm very impressed with Advanced Hardwood Company, and after a week of making daily trips there, bringing home samples, and comparing them, I'm very happy with my choice--the floors should be completed by the end of next week if we're lucky.

Altar to the Dead

The body and the mind are connected in so many ways, and I have found healing countless times in the massages of my dear friend, Cecelia Britton.  Today I spent an hour on her magic table and am renewed in my energy and the pain of this morning is gone!

Cecelia told me about her Day of the Dead altar and I wanted to share it with you.

Every year, she makes an altar to people she loves who have died.  At night, she prays over the altar and thanks all these people for being in her life--including ancestors never met,  family members and friends.

This year she started another layer. Under the cloth on which the photographs are displayed, she placed pictures of people who are still alive, but with whom she no longer has a close relationship.  She thanks them for "lessons learned" together when they were closer and releases the bond that they once had.  It's a letting go of whatever contributed to the ending of their connection without blaming or criticizing.

"Who knows?" she says, with a twinkle in her eyes, "What I may have done to hurt that person in a past life?"

Free spirited Cecelia draws from all kinds of spiritual traditions.  She's always learning and trying out new techniques for forgiveness and letting go--and ultimate healing of herself and others.

Instead of worrying about relationships we can't force or change, there comes a time when we need to hold onto the precious memories and let go of the memories/differences that trouble or haunt us.

Me and My House #2

I've gotten myself a partial education on woods this week and have narrowed my search down to two.

The demolition begins on Thursday or Friday, and I've been glad of these good-weather days to go from place to place asking questions.

The mold man comes on Saturday to check out what might be lurking, or not, under these floors and in the closets.

Then, the installation of new floors, wider planks,  should be started next week!

I've chosen to go with Advanced Hardwood because they are the only ones who could promise such timely work and they have a huge selection of wood choices.

I'm impressed with both companies I've worked with so far, and will let you know how it goes.