Little Memories

We do not remember days; we remember moments.

~Cesare Pavese

Sometimes the littlest memories are the best ones, the ones I reflect upon the most.  The ones that make me feel nostalgic and all warm and fuzzy.  A lot of mine have to do with the weather.

Summers in Idaho were hot and air conditioning was not a luxury in those days.  So you had to trick the weather.  As the days grew hotter, the mountain air almost always grew cooler.  The minute the sun would set, my dad would make his way around the house to open all the windows - all 18 of them.  I'd be sitting in my room watching TV and could hear the windows open one by one.  Soon the cool night air was rolling in and we could finally breathe easy falling into a sweet slumber.  Sometime early, just as the sun was waking up, I would hear the windows sliding shut, one by one.  Then the curtains being closed tight, not to let a speck of sun in.  That was how we  tricked the weather.  It was also at that time that we'd go out with our parents to hunt tomatoe worms in the garden.  We'd flick them off into buckets and dispose of those ruiners of home grown tomatoes. 

In the mornings the house was so cool, we forgot that the day before we were roasting, begging to take turns sitting in the fridge.  Wrapping blankets around us, shivering, we began our days.  But once the sun rose onto the parched Idaho neighborhoods, we began to sweat.  And with us girls going in and out all day, little by little our house became stiflingly warm.   No wonder my dad would say, shut the door fast, you're letting all the cool air out.  Those summers, day after day, night after night, the climate in our house changed drastically and kept us in comfort as we slept through cool nights.  But every summer without fail, there would come those days that were so hot, that so baked the land, that even the nights did not cool.   With all the windows open, the coolest place to be was in the basement and there we'd tread with our sleeping bags and pillows.  The whole family camped out , hoping to try to cool off just enough to get a little sleep.  Lazy days of mid summer.  I liked those best.  I still do.

Winters in Idaho were cold and snowy.  Thanksgiving seemed to signal winter and before we knew it we were blanketed in white.  Sometimes it snowed so much, my parents had to go shovel every hour - for in Idaho, snow was not an excuse to call in sick for work or stay home from school.  It was a way of life and you dug yourself out and got to where you needed to be.  Not to mention there was probably a snowplow for every street in every nook and cranny of the city. 

My favorite part was when it would snow and snow and snow and snow because as the snow accumulated, huge,  menacing snow drifts would form, looming haphazardly over the roof of our front porch.  We had to be really careful walking out the front door, shutting the door softly so as not to disturb it.  It would be there for sometimes for days.  Sometimes we'd knock it down but I think it fascinated all of us, even my parents.  If the drift didn't fall, then as the snow would begin to melt, the biggest and baddest icicles would begin to form from it's edges.  Now that was where the true fun began.  It was a challenge to see try to knock them all down.  Some were dainty and broke easily with a touch.  Others were as big, as solid and as pointed as the dagger of a giant.  

I also loved that in the winter we never ran out of snow.  There was a fresh supply daily, meaning we could build families of snowmen, form slides down the sloping front lawn, craft igloos and watch our snow angels disappear in the blizzard.  Evenings we spent thawing out by the crackling warm fire mom and dad had made - and we'd sleep upstairs because that was where it was warmest!

The four seasons were extreme in Idaho, each one with their very own identity.  Those dependable changes in weather, always signaled changes in our family.  In spring, we'd break out the boxes of summer clothes and pack our winter ones away.  Mom's big bed of red tulips would fill the backyard with a red royal carpet and work out in the garden and yard would begin.  There would be a sense of thrill in the air.  Nights were shorter in the winter and we'd spend them lost in long books, talking on the phones to friends, sitting by a fire and eating nachos that my mom prepared for evening snacks each night.  Fall was always where we did the most preparation - school clothes, raking leaves, registering for classes, harvesting the garden and celebrating all the birthdays - for most of my family (excluding me) were all born in August and September.   It's almost as if remembering all of this is my specail way of holding onto the things I cherish, the things I am, and the things I never ever want to lose.  

New Territory

Good for the body is the work of the body,

good for the soul the work of the soul,

 and good for either the work of the other.    

~Henry David Thoreau

Try something new once in a while right?  Well that's what I'm about to do.  I"m embarking on a journey of food.  It's spring and instead of deep cleaning my house, this year I'm going to cleanse my soul by way of putting food in my belly.  Through an enchanted combination of forming new habits, I expect to thoroughly wash and rinse away the build up of physical and mental sludge and re-awaken my soul.  In an effort to put a twinge of reality on things, to keep me honest and give me thoughts to reflect upon, you can follow me for 21 days of uncharted waters and unexplored territory HERE.  Enjoy the ride, I know I will.

Awaken

Spring arrives at the heels of Winter with Summer pushing in from behind. Although it never rushes into things, the magic by which this mysterious season deposes its beauty around us always lures me into sheer amazement. When did the flowering fruit trees suddenly turn pink and the tiny green sprouts pushing through the hardened winter earth become bright yellow blooming daffodils? Birds begin to appear with their morning melodies when yesterday and in the long months before there was only silence.

After months of plowing through Winter's monotony, Spring reminds me to slow down and coast in neutral for a while. Just as the withered world around me is coming back to life after a long slumber, so it is as my spirit awakens.

The Little General

Did you know that a cat could become a legend? I had no idea what I was getting into when I visited the county animal shelter one afternoon, 13 years ago. I was looking for a second cat - one that had enough spunk to get my other cat up and moving more and of course to give her a buddy. It was love at first chase. Inside the cage sat a tiny, beautiful all white kitten with big bright blue eyes. He looked up at me and gave me a tiny little meow. I wanted to hold him so they opened the cage door and reached in to pick him up, but he had other ideas. He shot out of the cage and ran out of the cat room and down the hall of the shelter. What ensued was a wild chase after that tiny streak of white dashing in and out of offices and around corners so fast he looked like a flash of lightening. We finally caught him. Out of breath and laughing, I held him in my arms. He looked up at me confidently, almost like it was a test that I had to pass. Well, he was a ball of energy alright and I was willing to take the chance with him. I paid the fee, signed the papers and took him home.

Life changed drastically after that. Oh boy did he love his food. He would eat and eat until his belly became bloated at which point he would sit on his butt with his two feet and lick his extended belly. He looked like he had a big ole beer belly and after much teasing about this fact, I named him Boozie, which he liked. His honory personality was ever transforming. During nail clipping and bathing, he'd growl and hiss at me but I didn't let up as I had grown accustomed to his attitude. Some things just had to be done! Plus, he never bit me or scratched me. He just liked to threaten to do so.

When Boozie was just under a year old, I met my future husband. We soon moved in together, much to Boozie's dismay. According to Boozie, he was the man of the house and he wasn't going to give up that post easily. One afternoon after I had left for work, Boozie cornered my husband in the hallway, arching his back, hissing and advancing slowing towards him in a classical animal planet male showdown for dominance. My husband, initially frightened, realized that he must gain the upper hand so he changed his stance to be dominant and advanced quickly toward Boozie, shooing him out of the way. Boozie backed off eventually.  Somehow, the two of them came to an unspoken agreement to share the spotlight. After the initiation rights were over, we became a true family. We spent hours on the floor throwing hair ties for the cats to chase and throwing nerf footballs that Boozie would literally intercept in the air. He and his sister would go on wild rampages through the apartment, leaving plants knocked over and destruction in their paths.

During Boozie's first 7 years we moved a lot. We were renters who ran the gamut of roommates gone bad, landlords divorcing and taking over our living space, homes with no insulation, and a landlord who passed away - All of which kept us moving almost yearly. It was during our first move from an apartment to a house that Boozie, the inside only cat, got his first taste of the outside and other cats in the 'hood. Immediately he became territorial and by that I mean he started spraying in the house. Of course this meant he had to be an outside cat now because no amount of explaining, reasoning with him or reprimands, he just wasn't going to change his naughty ways. With worried hearts, we let him and his sister outside one early summer afternoon. Figuring he would be scared and sniff for a while, we settled in to prepare to giggle and watch him explore the wild outdoors. Well, his sister did just that but Boozie had other plans. Having never jumped more than 3 feet his whole life, he gracefully jumped 6 feet onto our neighbors fence, smoothly strutted across the 1/2 inch boards, jumped into the neighbors yard. Shocked and horrified that he would lose his way home, we tried desperately to get him to come back to our yard. We shook cat food and tried to conjole him back to us. Looking at us for just a moment with defiant eyes, he turned around the corner and disappeared. Trusting that he had some instinctual genes in him, we waited like worried parents until he finally returned home hours later, just before the sun set. So that was how it was going to be. Boozie let us know that he was just fine being outside, in fact, we believe he actually preferred it.

Soon Boozie was roaming the neighborhood, strutting his stuff in his now lean yet muscular frame, his bright white fur coat sticking out like a sore thumb. Neighbors marveled at him, doing his 'rounds' each day. Enchanted by the little general, as he was now called, they would come up to him yearning to pet this magnificent and confident creature. However, as they reached their hand down to pet him, Boozie would pull of the most amazing set of karate chops with his front paws all the while hissing and barring his teeth - making the neighbors run for their lives.

Life was not going to be easy for him or us though. Boozie 's instinctual side had it's bad parts too. His need to claim territory and be the king cat, cost him many fights, horrific wounds, and cost us many many trips to the vet to drain abscesses. There was a pattern to his madness though. We would move to a new rental house and the vet bills would increase as he worked his way up the chain, eventually claiming the coveted top cat spot, fighting like a gladiator until the death (or at least we hoped not). Once he was king of the neighborhood, life was usually peaceful as he made his daily rounds, running squirrels off his land, eating hoards of baby birds fallen from their nests in the spring and squaring off with any dogs, cats or humans encroaching on his terrain. I even learned how to set up a surgical unit on our dining room table to drain the abscesses and clean out his fighting wounds, saving us hundreds of dollars in vet bills.

He seemed to be consistently healing from a fight wound or from allergic reactions to fleas or his food. Always trying out new diets with him, he was the subject of many experiments to get his fur to grow back in. We never did find a perfect cure. Raw food, organic food, changes in protein, mixtures of both, never worked. But he sure did like the variety! IN the mornings we would hear him and his sister outside our bedroom window crying for their breakfast.

As an outdoor cat, Boozie never stopped spraying. He sprayed the front doors and porch chairs of the houses on his land, the wheels and car doors of any car that parked nearby and climbed into home grocer trucks and any open car windows to sniff around and also to spray. We had to warn friends and neighbors to keep their windows rolled up and to check their garages before they closed them down for the night, just in case he was in there checking things out.

Probably the best thing about Boozie and his bad ass self was that deep down he had the goopiest heart. In the evenings, we would bring him in the house for 'supervised visits', meaning that he was not allowed to leave his fuzzy blanket on the couch because if he did, he would immediately turn his butt towards something and spray it. On his blanky he would show us his soft side, purring, kneading and slobbering all over his blanket as we petted and cooed at him. He did not allow many people to see his soft side as he had to keep up appearances in order to maintain his kingdom he fought so hard for.

In Boozie's 5th year, his sister came down with a mysterious illness. Sensing perhaps before we did that she was soon to join the spirit world, he insisted on being inside with her. Reluctantly we acquiesced and brought him in. Urgently he walked over to the couch where she lay and sat down gently beside her. Knowing that if he got up he would spray, we all slept on the hide-a-bed, me with one eye open to catch his rebellious spraying act. However, not once did he move, not even to stretch or change positions. He never left her side the entire night. When the morning sun awoke us, we lay dazed watching this tough cat comfort his only friend. We let them finish their goodbyes and later that day his sister left this world behind. Then a day later, we moved... again, but this time, with only one cat.

Tradition has it that cats have nine lives, Boozie was an exception. When we moved this time, it was farther into the country, on a cul-de-sac surrounded by elderly doug firs and small mountainous hills that eventually led down to the river. We would hear stories from our neighbors about Boozie's wanderings. He was spotted down by the river which meant that he had to traverse at least a mile from our house, down through thickets of forests to even come close to the rocky beach. Nights were filled with the sounds of coyotes howling in the distance and every now and then the sound of some small creature of prey. Worried as I was, Boozie filled me with a sense that there was really nothing to fret about. He was going to be around for a long time. But he was lonely and missing his sister. Ever more needy, we allowed him into the house for extra sessions of love on the couch. Then one day we arrived home to find him hanging out in the front yard with a bunny. My heart skipped a beat as I felt for this bunny who was sure to lose his life in seconds flat. Boozie never tolerated anything on his property, much less had he ever seen a bunny before. However, my fears were soon unfounded as he and the bunny began to chase eachother around a big cedar. Soon this unlikely pair were best of friends, sneaking up on eachother then gallivanting through the yard after one another. They became inseperable and before we knew it, Boozie was back to his old self, making a name for himself while patrolling his grounds.

When the bunny disappeared it was no doubt to a coyote and Boozie was lonely once again. We knew we needed to get him a buddy but our hearts weren't completely mended from the recent loss of his sister. But life has a way of making decisions for us. Less than a month later we brought him home an 8 week old sister who was taking no shit and wasn't afraid of this grumpy ole Boozie. After the initial awkward of first impressions and introductions, the two of them bonded and once again, life was normal.

The one thing that Boozie never had was a permanent place of residence. We constantly promised him that we would buy a house someday and that he wouldn't have to claiming new territory time and time again. Finally our dream came true. We bought a house early one summer. As we drove the cats over to our new and final abode, Boozie sensed immediately that he was going to live out the rest of his life here. No more moving. With a practiced and skilled quickness, he gained the upper hand on our new neighborhood. One by one, the large population of feral cats disappeared. Boozie was king and life was good. Over the next 3 years Boozie ruled with a firm hand. After a while, he didn't fight anymore for he was supreme ruler over his land. INstead he would spend his time sunning on the porch and teaching his sister how to catch birds.

One evening as we were sitting outside enjoying a late summer evening, Boozie approached us. Something about his manner was different. I couldn't place it though. He lay down on a pile of blankets next to us, purring and fell asleep. He did this for the next couple of nights. Very unusual for him as his MO was standoffish and preferred to be alone. Then we noticed he wasn't eating. We couldn't even coax him to try wet canned food - stuff he'd normally cry like a little kitten for. So we brought him inside - we couldn't risk the peasants catching wind that the king was taken ill, his guard down. Soon we found out he had a tumor in his stomach and that he wasn't going to be around much longer. For a week, we cared for him. We made him a comfortable bed in our spare bedroom and visited him frequently. We told him stories about his youth, let him know what a great cat he was and showed our appreciation for his years of guardianship. Word got out that Boozie was sick. Family, friends and neighbors came over to say their goodbyes. When and how did Boozie make all these friends? We had no idea how much he had touched the hearts of those who knew him, the real Boozie, underneath all that attitude. Finally, we heavy heart we let him go join his older sister in the spirit world. We laid his body to rest in his favorite fuzzy blanky next to the sage bush he always slept under so he could always stand guard yet remain hidden. The day he died, his sister immediately took over his role. Not as domineering as him, but she was still queen. Just after we buried him, she caught her first bird, right in front of us and ate every piece of it. That was our sign - he had done his job, passed on his kingdom, ensured of keeping his rule.

I don't think I have ever felt a loss cut so deep. For two days we stayed home and cried. I lit sage and asked the spirits to guide him safely on. I didn't ask him to stay because I know that he needed to go. As I put away his bed and cleaned up the spare bedroom, I noticed that even in his extreme weakness, he had still managed to spray once on the wall. His one last rebellious act. It made me smile. Time does tend to heal and old wounds do close, but it still hurts sometimes. Boozie lives on in our hearts and in all the hearts of those he touched. His stories have become oral tradition, legends embellished and passed on and told over and over. Sometimes I feel he is with me. Other times I have no doubt that he still guards our house and watches over his sister. Boozie was our little guardian. He worked his whole life as a cat to protect us. Never before have a felt such a connection with a cat. Thank you Boozie, you enriched our lives with your big heart, your secret sweetness and your fierce protectiveness.  We will always love you. 

Nauseous Hiatus

Stomach: A slave that must accept everything that is given to it, but which avenges wrongs as slyly as does the slave. ~Emile Souvester

No sooner did we rid ourselves of winter colds then the winter stomach flu stopped by for a visit. I awoke in the deadest part of night to my husband bowing to the porcelain god. Back and forth from the bedroom to the bathroom he stumbled urgently for hours. Eventually he was emptied from the inside out but that didn't stop the onslaught of his intestinal convulsions. Sick, drained and pretty much dehydrated, he lay restless in bed for days, unable to sleep. Eventually he won back his health.

The very day he awoke well, I did not. Achy, chilly and out of sorts, I relinquished my grip on the world and fell into an oblivious three days of alternating sleep and one too many trips to the powder room. We are heading towards the road to recovery, although optimum health remains at arms length and not quite tangible yet.  Surely soon, I will be myself again, back to filling these pages with something more worthy than a nauseous hiatus.

Coming To A Dinner Table Near You!

Grocery shopping is my household duty.  I have gladly taken it on not because I love to shop, which I don't, but because I love the whole planning your meals for the week deal.  Hmmm, what sounds good this week.  Do I have a lot of time to create a dish from scratch or do I need fast cooking and pre-packaged?  Usually it's a little of both.  This weekend, I was meandering around the frozen food section when this colorfuly delicious box of spanakapita practically jumped into my shopping cart.  Oh man, I haven't had spanakapita for years and I mean, years.  When I was a poor starving college student, my friend, Fariba, cooked up a graduation dinner beyond compare.  One of her main dishes was her family recipe for Spanakapita.  Fariba, a lovely cook, someone to which I'd never even compare my culinary skills to, prepared it with utter perfection.  The philo dough was light as a feather, flaky and buttery.  The spinach melted in your mouth while the garlic and feta left a satisfyingly strong aftertaste, making me wish I could take the whole casserole dish itself, hide in her closet, and eat it all - with my fingers.  So when I saw that frozen box in the store, I did not hesitate as it found an immediate home in my grocery bag and then into my freezer at home. 

Thursday was the day to cook it for dinner.  We weren't busy and I"d have time to cook it properly and then savor each bite with a bottle of wine.  As it cooked, I could literally taste the smells eminating from the oven.  As I sliced it into large square pieces and onto our dinner plates, I marveled the stunning green of the spinach.  It looked impressive.  Proudly, I brought our dishes to the table.  My savory dreamy fog was soon parted as my husband wasted no time to announce that he was horrified by 'all that green'.  He laughed nervously as he cut a bite and put it on his fork.  Tentatively, he brought the fork to his mouth.  Then as if doomed to drink from a poisonous vile, he took a bite.  He chewed, slowly at first, testing his tastebuds.  Then he started chewing faster and faster until finally he swallowed.  I sat there wondering to myself if he would find it as delectable as I.  He opened his mouth but then hesitated.  Yes, he must be trying to figure out how to put into words how wonderfully amazing this was.  How he couldn't believe that spinach could taste so good.  Then he found his voice... "It tastes like grass clippings rolled up in philo dough".  Ok, I have never laughed so hard and been so pissed off at the same time.  What followed was a hilarious exchange of remarks pertaining to my grass clippings meal and his picky taste. 

Was I mad?  Not really but I did offer to make hime something else.  In fact, I had a can of something in the kitchen that I could cook up really fast.  He looked relieved that he may be off the hook.  I got up and opened the pantry and reached for a can.  I put the can in the pan with a spoon and brought it out to him. Huh? I think he was confused so I cleared things up for him.  I was serving him up  a steaming hot can of whoop ass. 

Well, to make this long story a little shorter, I'll sum it up by saying, he went to a drive through and picked himself up a burger, laughing all the way about me and my 'cooking'.  I let him go, happily, of course.  Just because I'm a freakazoid when it comes to worldly dishes, doesn't mean he has to be.  Yeah, part of the fun though is trying to get him to try it and see him shudder in response.  But it was a really good laugh and I will certainly never forget and neither of us will ever let the other live it down!

Coming to a dinner table near you!

The Forbidden

For every man there exists a bait which he cannot resist swallowing.   ~Friedrich Nietzsche

No one would ever call me a picky eater. I'm happy to try anything, at least once. Well, almost. Once I had the chance to taste pigs feet but the jar of floating, liquefied, swollen and bloodless pale pink feet made me want to hurl. However, within reason of course, you ask me to taste and I will indulge you. It seemed almost unimaginable to me that anyone or anything could forbid me the taste testing opportunity. Some religions and eco-conscious thinkers consider it a grievous sin, sometimes with the penalty of death, to eat of a certain animal or food. Knowing that, I never once thought that I would be put in the most uncomfortable position of having to give up my most favorite food item - and not, mind you, for religious or political reasons, but because my body decided that it would become allergic.

After a steady yearly series of headaches, it was discovered, much to my chagrin, that I was allergic to peanuts. Not in the deadly way, where a kiss on the lips of a peanut eater would send me into anaphalactic shock and on to the spirit world, but I would suffer an incurable headache for days as my body tried to rid itself of what it was now considering toxic to my system. I did not ask for this. I was not consulted about this. Peanuts have been a regular and delectable part of my food intake my whole life. In fact, fresh ground peanut butter, peanut butter cookies, peanut butter cups, PB & J's, peanut filled pretzels, most thai food and fondue oil went from my all time favorites to the 'do not even think about eating' list. Being the optimist that I am, I happily found substitutes that didn't just merely give me an alternative ingredient but ones that I loved. Almond butter - freshly ground, beats just about any type of nut butter. Cashew, sunflower seed and tahini rock too.

I was now, headache free and loving life. Well almost. It's not that easy to give up a favorite food. What one cannot have, one wants even more. I assure you, well, at least I'd like to say that I assure you, that if eating peanut butter meant almost instant death, I'd be more inclined to adhere to a strict regime of trying to stay alive. But since that is not the case, I have these irresistible, unstoppable, crazy-person peanut butter binges. I have my freak outs and my low points where I indulge, successfully blocking out all internal warning alarms going off in my head. I'll jam 3 huge spoonfuls of peanut butter into my mouth, relishing in my sinful indulgence. I'll order a large chocolate ice cream with PB chunks in it at Baskin Robbins. If the coffee shop is out of everything but PB cookies, I'll buy 3. Yes, I am a peanut-butter-holic. I'd never be able to tell you why I do this except that I can now easily put my self in the shoes of addicts, understanding perfectly now, the undeniable sadist urge to do whatever it takes to get my fix, at all costs. Now, I'm only hurting myself with this PB addiction and the days of headaches that follow but I cannot stop myself. Let me just say, I-know-it's-wrong. And if my body suddenly decided to add bacon, maple donuts, chocolate and coffee to the allergic items list, I would not hesitate to secretly binge on those too.

Of course, after the secret binges, my headaches come on fast and strong. As I'm wallowing in my own self created misery, there is a tiny part of me that is sinisterly happy and full of forbidden peanut buttery memories. Remember the old bible legend about Adam and Eve? I feel Eve's pain. If apples tasted like peanut butter but were forbidden, I'm sorry but I'd take a bite, too. Call me crazy, say I need help, dismiss me for a lunatic.... whatever, I'm ignoring you! And if you'll excuse me now, I've got to go tempt fate.