HOW FAR IS THREE MILES?

     No, really, we're going to walk five miles a day, every day.  New Year's resolution.  Oh, stop it!  We can see your eyes rolling.  Three miles in the morning, two after dinner.

     And there's where resolution meets obsession.  Because how are we to know when we've walked these miles?  Turns out Larry has an app on his phone in which lives a nice lady (seemingly related to, but less annoying than, the woman who lives in our car nav system) who will announce mileage as it rolls under our feet.

     But we're not sure we can believe her.  "That sure didn't feel like a mile," we might say.  "Let's check her accuracy against that step-counter thing I saw in the junk drawer."

     So we do.  We calibrate it to the length of my stride, and set out the following day on the same route.  And find that our two devices vary wildly.  So which one's telling the truth?     

     Well, the phone also has a step-counting device, which we turn on after tucking Nice Lady away for the time being.

     I should stop here and point out that we do realize we walk however far we walk, and kinda, sorta are perfectly adequate measuring tools for our purpose.

     Except they aren't.

     Out we go again.  Up to 26th, around the school, down Thurman, right on 25.  "It's about here," Larry says, "that I start counting the minutes instead of steps to Starbucks." Our final destination.

     I've been somewhere in my head trying to sort out the relationship of the circle of fifths to the chord progression in Melancholy Baby, so haven't noticed that we're only so far as Pettigrove.  We start to talk and somehow sail right on by Lovejoy, where we're supposed to turn toward the river.

     Oh, no!  Now our careful calibrations will be off.  Insert bad word of your choice here.  Nothing for it but to soldier on. 

     We pass a very tall man with a mustache leading a huge white bulldog.  And there's a post in front of an old early-Portland bungalow.  In a box on the post are sheets of paper, copies of a poem.  "Take one," says a sign, in a rather Alice-in-Wonderland-ish way.

     I take one.  Here is the poem:

          "NO POEM AFTER ALL

     These are the words that found their way

     Into the poem that I wrote

     This is the doubt that pulls out the rug

     from under the words

     that once found their way

     into the poem that I wrote

     This is the third revision I've written

     that likely won't strengthen

     what's left of the vision  

     that prompted the impulse,

     to make the words better

     that once found their way

     into the poem that I wrote.

     This is the Lord only knows when it's done

     that makes it hard to end once I've begun.

     Some poems bear continuing;

     this isn't one.

          Richard Lewis

     I suppose the moral to this story might be that one should freely wander.  Smell the roses.  Look for poetry.

     Yes, I know.  But tomorrow, damn it, we're going out again and we WILL find out how far three miles is. 

PLANES, TRAINS, and AUTOMOBILES

    "You're taking the TRAIN to Los Angeles?  That is so cool!"

     If course Larry and I are nothing, if not cool, but here, judge for yourself:

     We arrived at the PDX station the requisite hour ahead of time, to learn that there had been a freight train derailment near Tacoma, and thus our departure was delayed for 3 hours.  Great.  Perfect.  News of a derailment just the way to begin a train journey.  We debated turning in our tickets and taking the family car instead, but Larry got the deciding vote in this instance, so we checked our suitcases and settled in to wait.  We sleeping-car passengers have our own "lounge" (not exactly equivalent to the first class lounge at your local airport, but with, at least, upholstered chairs and a coffee machine.)  We take what we're offered.  This was an adventure, after all.
     Finally underway.  Here's what a "sleeping-car" compartment looks like.  There is a 7-foot-long bench-like "sofa" and a single chair facing, with a cute collapsable table between.  And, most important, the cabin's own "bathroom."  (Sorry about the quotation marks, but seriously . . .)  Do not underestimate the value of that little room!  There is a shower that could be operated, one of those on-the-wall hand-held things which of course get the whole room wet, but in the event, Larry and I opted to wait to shower at our destination.  Which was to be Peter and Allison's home the following night.
     An hour down the road, nearing Woodburn, we came to an unscheduled stop that lasted an hour.  Seems there was a automobile on the tracks, on fire.  Huh?  How does such a thing happen?
     Anyway, we were 4 hours late and only 20 miles outside Portland, and it was time for dinner.
Now, they do their best, let's agree on that.  But dinner on the train means you will be seated with another two people, whom you do not know.  Neither Larry nor I are very sociable, and this idea sounded awful.  We had already heard a great deal about the monarch butterfly from one scientist back in the lounge, which was interesting, yes, but we were relieved to see upon arrival in the dining car that he and his long-suffering spouse (we suppose) were already seated with another couple and the lecture was in full stride.  Money discretely changed hands, and for the rest of the journey we were taken care of by way of a table to ourselves.  Sorry, but that's how the world works, I guess.
     Bedtime, and an attendant comes to convert the sofa in the cabin to a bed, and to lower the upper bunk, reachable by a ladder.  Why it is that Larry gets the top bunk need not be discussed here, but that's our arrangement.
     The very best part of going by train is the opportunity to see life's back yard.  The scenery is wonderful, though you can, of course, see the same scenery from your automobile.  What you can't see is this sort of thing:  It's 4:22 in the morning and we are stopped in some small town to await the passing of a freight train going north.  The moon is full and there is a brick building with EDDIE curved above the doorway, next to another building, a cafe, closed at this hour.  A white pick-up is parked on the street before the buildings, luminous in the moonlight.  The telephone wires sagging between poles catch the light as well, and a single dark figure walks along the road.  Magic!
      It takes 30 hours to travel by train from Portland to Los Angeles.  By car, the journey is shorter in miles (it's almost exactly 1000 door to door), but longer in hours as it has to include a night in a motel.  We have driven this in one long, long day, and it takes about 17 hours, but I do not recommend this plan, even switching drivers as we do.  By airplane, it's 2 hours, not including the time spent in the airport.
     But guess what.  The train, if you choose a sleeping car, is the most expensive option of the three.  And 30 hours in a tiny room, even with a book that's hard to read with the swaying of the car, a game on your iPad, a nice companion, lots of snacks and your on-board gin supply, gets really boring!  You are interrupted constantly by updates from the cafe that William is now closing to take his dinner break, from the dining car that it's time for the 6:05 reservation to take their (communal) seats, that we are approaching Chico, and if that is your final destination you should look about your seats for your belongings, and that this is a family train so we must please use G-rated language.  And so on.  You can stroll about the train, lurching from one car to the next, but that's it for exercise.
     And by plane, you are, of course, on an airplane, so there's that.
     Next time, we go by car.  Is that cool?  Mmm, probably not.  Sorry!
   
   

BOOK TEA

     This year I'm starting early!
     "I've heard that one before.  Just saying."
     Sigh.  I have this other person who lives in my head who's life mission it is to correct me, point out my foolishness, remind me.  She calls me "Janie-girl," in her superior little way, and not to put too fine a point on it, she's a real bitch.  She doesn't have a name, but for our purposes here, I'll call her Other Person, O.P. for short.
     We were talking about the Book Tea, which it has been my privilege to attend for the last few years, courtesy of my friend Julie.  This group of really smart women had a book club, but as they all have busy, important lives, had insufficient time in their daily schedules to meet regularly.  Inspired, they decided to have a once-a-year event in which they'd meet to have a book exchange.  They invite outsiders, all also really smart, busy women, and the premise is that each of us bring the book which we've most enjoyed in the past year, and at the end of the evening, each chooses one of these books to take home.
     "Excuse me, but are you suggesting that we are one of these 'smart, busy women?'  O.P. says.  "Pretty proud of ourselves, are we?"
     No!  It's just that Julie is my friend and she invites me.  All the other women are smart and busy, that's all I meant.
     Anyway, this event is always in December, at Renee's beautiful home.  I think I read as much as anyone, so I should really anticipate each year's Tea, hope to be invited.  And I do, for the first few months of any year.  Then reality bites, and I start to fret.  See, the thing is with this party that you have to stand up and say a few words about the book you've brought, that you found the best of your reading year.  So it's not just an anonymous pile of books and you pick one that looks interesting.  No, no, you have to sell your book, sort of, and you don't want everyone thinking you've been reading Lee Child or whomever.
     "You have this incredibly stupid way of turning everything into a competition," O.P. points out.  "Why can't you just relax?.  And I love that 'whomever.'  Whom are we trying to impress?
     Well, it's not that fun when you find that the book you brought is the last lonely book on the pile and your hostess finds herself stuck with it.
     "That only happened once.  Please get over yourself."
     Once was enough.  I become hyper-critical of my reading list.  What will people think of this one?  (In other words, what does this choice say about me?  Pitiful, actually)  The months go by, and I think, aha, this time, I got it!
     And then it is December and suddenly all my candidates look unappealing.  But this year, Alli has come to my rescue.  She has introduced me to John Green, who writes Young Adult books and I'm impressed with him, with Alli, for that matter, and decide to present Looking For Alaska as my entry in the competition -- uh, I mean Tea.
      Renee's home is beautiful and festive, everyone arrives and puts her book into a basket.  We nibble on appetizers, drink wine, and catch up with one another.  Then we all find chairs and sit down.  For the past few years, I've found two chairs rather outside main circle and Vik joins me back there in relative obscurity.  Renee begins by pulling one of the books from the basket, and she whose book it is stands and describes the story, why she chose it, then places the book on the stairs, to become the take-home pile.
     The books all seem interesting, with the exception of The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt, a writer I do not like at all.  Vik whispers "try to get that one."  No!  But others leap into the conversation to admire Ms. Tartt, and so here we are.  Out of step.  Is anyone going to like John Green?
     "Sounds like we're a little jealous of this Donna Tartt person," O.P. suggests.  "Famous, successful? And let's remember the point of this evening.  We're here to exchange ideas, interests, to . . . "
     I know!  I get it!  Hello out there?  If you like Donna Tartt, by all means go for it.  The Goldfinch.  Everyone loves it.  But please look at John Green, too, especially if you have a young person in your family who likes to read.
     That evening, I came home with Glaciers, by Alexis Smith, a Portland writer.  The book is quite lovely, a small treasure.  And Looking for Alaska was snatched up by Sally, who is so voracious a reader that a rule has been named after her to mandate that each woman may bring only one book to the Book Tea.  Hooray!  And now it is January 1, 2014, and in the event that I am invited to the Tea again, it's not too early to start the hunt.  First book of the year is San Miguel by T.C. Boyle, Christmas gift from Larry, and one of my very favorite writers.  But not everyone likes T.C Boyle, oddly enough, so this book won't be my choice for the Tea.  Next up:  The Round House, by Louise Erdrich.  Anyone else have a suggestion?
     "Okay, the morning is fleeting.  It's a beautiful day, and I hope we're going to get busy now.  Practice. Go for a walk.  Do not pick up that iPad and play your silly Hay Day."
     Thank you, O.P., what would I do without you?
   

SUGAR COOKIES

     "Tell me a funny story about your mom," I asked Larry this morning.

     "Hmm?" he said, not looking up from his book.

     "Something funny about your mom."

     He put his finger on his place in the book and looked at me.  "I don't know any funny stories about my mom."  What he meant, plainly, was "I'm not going to write your blog for you.  If I wanted to write a blog, I'd write a blog."  He resumed reading page 2057 of The Guns at Last Light, a tome about WWII, with an air of exasperation.  You would think I had just done him a favor, as he says the book is deeply disturbing, but he apparently didn't see it that way.

     What brought this on was a really lovely gift that we'd received in the mail from our sister-in-law, Gloria.  This is a kitchen towel on which is laminated a copy of a recipe card in Myrtle's handwriting. 

     Her famous sugar cookies.  

     This gift exactly the sort of thing we can expect from Gloria, as she is endlessly inventive and clever.  She is married to Myrtle's second son, Allan, is a nurse, and the mother of four inventive,  clever, and, I have to say, funny sons and daughters.  My own sons and daughter love these cousins, tell stories about them, and even go so far as to tell me they we should never have moved away from   Minnesota. I'm pretty sure they don't mean that, but you get the idea.

     "But you and your mom were always laughing when you talked on the phone," I persisted.  "She was such a funny mimic, she loved to laugh about the strangeness of people.  Can't you remember anything funny I could say?  What about the time that Charlie dialed 911 on what he thought was a toy phone, and soon the police were knocking on the door? That was funny."

     It was funny:  we were all visiting Minnesota for Grandma Viehl's 90th birthday celebration.  At Gloria's and Allan's home, the grandkids ranging from Charlie, then five, on up or down the age ladder had been playing in the basement, and no one upstairs knew why the police had suddenly arrived.

     "Yes," Larry agreed, "but that's not exactly a story about my mom."

     "What about sneaking booze into the retirement home for the ladies' happy hour?  Liquor wasn't even allowed, was it?  Being a Lutheran home, and all?"

     "It wasn't forbidden, she just was afraid the other residents would disapprove.  Anyway, it wasn't booze, it was wine."

     "Still, it says a little about how feisty she was."

     Larry put his book down and shook his head, looking at our Christmas tree, but seeing the past, perhaps some white Christmas of way-back-when.  He laughed.  "We did have good times," he said.  "The story we always remember is the time Allan threw snowballs at the cars out on Snelling, and hit a truck.  He ran home, with the truck driver right behind him.  Mom had to promise she'd deal with her little delinquent.  Then the time we were shooting our bb guns in the basement and scored one of the jars of pickles she'd canned that summer."

     "I dream about her roast beef and those ethereal dinner rolls," I said.   "If Gloria ever gets her hands on that recipe, I hope she knows what to do with it.  I think she used lard, or something."

     My mother-in-law was a talented musician, a fabulous cook, a great mom.  A woman of her time, she made a complete life in the circle of her church, her family, and friends.  Here is the recipe for her cookies, which I intend to make as soon as I finish this blog.  Hmm.  Uses vegetable oil?  Well, I'll certainly sub out butter for the margarine, but I suppose I'll use what I imagine was corn oil.  Good luck  and Merry Christmas to us all!

SUGAR COOKIES:

1 egg, well beaten

1/2 cup margarine (no!  don't do it!)

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup powdered sugar

1/2 cup vegetable oil

1 tsp. vanilla

1/2 tsp. salt

2 1/2 cups flour

1/2 tsp. soda 

1/2 tsp. cream of tartar.

Sift dry ingredients.  Cream egg, butter or the dreaded margarine, and sugars.  Add vanilla and dry ingredients.  Roll in balls.  Dip into more granulated sugar on a plate, and press with a glass.  If you can find one with a decorative base, it makes a pretty pattern.  

Bake at 350 degrees for 10 minutes.

     

THE PERUVIAN KITCHEN

   
     Who am I to be discussing the food of Peru?  Good point.  But my blog is supposed to be about food, at least some of the time, and I was in Peru for two weeks, ate something every day, took photos, and here we are.

     First, you should know that the food in the large cities is sophisticated, varied, and enjoys a wonderful reputation in the several magazines to which I subscribe.  But guinea pigs?  Seriously?

     Our trip was planned down to the minute, it seemed, including NINE different flights.  I know, who was in charge?  So we were busy little tourists,  and still only saw the southern, high Andean part of the country.  We were lucky to have a guide in the area around Cuzco who was native to one of the communities in the countryside.  He was passionate about his land and her people, so introduced us to the kitchens, markets, and flavors of the centuries-old Peruvian kitchen.  Wow, that sentence sounded like an excerpt from one of those magazines I mentioned.

     But let's get the guinea pigs out of the way.  Here they are:

     We found a group (collective name as per the web) of guinea pigs in every home we visited.   I learned, again on the web, that most families in the Andean countryside will have about 20 of the animals, being raised in, or adjacent to, the kitchen.  Approximately 90 percent of the guinea pigs, which are, incidentally, neither pigs, nor from Guinea, are raised at the household level.  They are such an expected part of the indigenous communities that any family who does not raise them is considered either lazy or extremely poor.

     Guinea pigs are high in protein, low in fat, but what do they taste like?

     I thought I was prepared, but never got the chance to try any cuy meat, as these fellows are called in Peru.  I would have, but they were never on offer.  This sample is being "rubbed" with the herb which is actually his diet, and his mouth is stuffed with same.  This seems logical, I guess.  He'll be roasted and inevitably served with potatoes on the side.  (If they'd just snip off those little feet, they might look more like, well, chicken?)

      Edgar, our guide's gringo nom de plume, insisted that the Peruvians are thrifty, never wasting any part of an animal they butcher, and some scenes from a market we visited seem to confirm the idea.  Among the abundance of grains, potatoes, veggies, flowers, we found the following:

     Yum!  Can only imagine that these will be added to the stew pot, teeth to be extracted later.  Note the Inca Cola on the side.  Didn't try any, as it was said to be fatally sweet.  I don't know how typical the following photos may be, but these are scenes from a local (NOT touristic) restaurant.

     We didn't eat at this establishment -- didn't eat locally except once when we were given empanadas from a stall run by one of Edgar's many friends.  After closely questioning the contents of same, we think we were eating cheese, but the little treat could have included alpaca -- which I knowingly tried once in a stuffed pepper.  Check those foodie creds! 

     Look how gorgeous the people are: (friend Ursel in the middle)

     The last group had just performed at a restaurant on the island of Tequille in Lake Titicaca, and the gentleman on the right is Papa Grande, my partner for the dance.  At 13, 500 feet, the dance was a short one!

      From there, back to Lima, back to Miami, back to Portland, where, at 6:30 in the morning, the cold wind is howling.  We've been promised snow, and it seems a long way from the gorgeous colors and sunshine of Peru.

     Note:  thanks to Ellen Banks for the help in manipulating the addition of photos to my blog!  I don't know why the font isn't consistent, but Ellen has gone back to Whitman and isn't here to solve the problem.  Sorry!

ON SWEARING AND CRYING

     Larry had a very bad day last week.  Fishing in Montana with three of his friends, standing by the river in his waders, tying his boots, and his hip went out.  Wouldn't self correct, as it usually does, so there he is.  His friends and the guide have to leverage him into the back of the guide's SUV for the ride to Ennis, a back-road hour away.  Though I haven't experienced it, let's stipulate that a joint out of its socket is pretty excruciating.  And his hip was dislocated for six hours, not to be righted until his arrival in Bozeman, x-rays, a spinal.
     So, he says, he swore.  A lot.  Didn't cry, though this is the man who weeps an Disney movies, weddings, sunsets.  I wasn't there, but I'm familiar with his vocabulary which is solid, mid-western Lutheran in origin.  Thus nothing particularly shocking.  But he felt he had to apologize to the nurses who scissored off his trousers, his favorite flannel fishing shirt, his really good t-shirt, who took his blood pressure and vitals, administered the i-v with its god-sent morphine.
     One such angel told him that they hear it all, that swearing is a form of pain relief, and no apology was necessary.
     Meanwhile, I was having a bad day of my own, involving the pain of watching two people I love struggle, and worrying about Larry, and the insensitivity of the people at Citi Bank who wanted me to confirm my identity before allowing me access to my AT&T credit card info.  Okay, not quite up there with a dislocated hip, but enough, it seems.
     On my way to my training session with Aaron that morning, sweet, empathetic man, I felt the tears coming.  Deep breath.  Get over yourself.  Stop it!  And yet, I cried.  Embarrassing myself and, I'm sure, Aaron as well.
     And so I've been thinking about the difference between swearing and crying.  Why one and not the other?  They both help.  I can keep from swearing, but not from crying.  (Well, how do I know?  I've never dislocated a hip.)  Is this a gender thing?
     Talking to my sisters during our Sunday conversation, I asked them.  "You're lucky," Martha said.  "I can't cry at all."  Wow.  That's almost unbelievable, but believe her I do.  She's had enough to cry about (haven't we all?).  Mary told a story of the time in Berlin when she was on the U-Bahn with Paul, as a child, perhaps with Neils, also.  There were other Americans on the car, and Paul, who was an extraordinarily handsome boy, but who is profoundly autistic, did something that the other women considered funny.  Mary said that she, too, laughed for a moment, but then was sobbing and couldn't stop.  That breaks my heart.
     "Do you still cry sometimes?" I ask her.  "Not often," she says.  Well, it's hard to imagine a reason that reaches the level of that moment on a German train.  Certainly not the events of my Thursday morning!
     Maybe I am lucky?  I swear, too, that's for sure, but not when in pain.  Mostly in annoyance when I break an egg into the refrigerator and have to clean it up, or can't make my computer behave, or have to wait for a technician on the Citi Bank phone line for 10 minutes because they need me to prove I'm me.  My mother's maiden name, should you ever need to know, starts with H.

GUEST CONTRIBUTOR -- FRIED RICE

     "Hey, Mom," says my daughter Jenny.  "Have you ever made fried rice?"

     Jenny lives in Seattle with her family, and is a glorious, curious, inventive cook, and when she has a suggestion, I'm all ears.  So she made the following recipe, found somewhere on the great www, doesn't remember where.  I said I'd love to put it on my blog, would she type it up for me.
     "But you have to try it first," she says.
     "Tell me a story about it," I say.  "Our readers like to have stories."
     "Okay," Jenny says,  "I made this on Monday and had some left over the next day.  My friend Ann came over and said she was starved, and was there anything a person could eat in my refrigerator.  Of course, she was already poking around in there, pushing the milk and eggs aside.  She found the fried rice and ate the whole bowl-ful, cold, as is, and loved it."
     "That's a good story," I say.  "But we don't know Ann.  She said she was starved, maybe she'd eat anything.  Did your kids like it?  What about Will?"
     Will is ten years old and currently eating down the house.  But he is a kid, after all.  You know, eats sushi but not broccoli.  Fried rice isn't all that exotic, but?
     "Will loved it," Jenny says.  "Alli did too."
     Okay, that's better info.  Alli is thirteen, bit of a fashionista in her own way, pretty sophisticated and is, at the moment, busy separating herself from all things Mom.  She'd be a tougher critic, so if she liked it, the stuff must be pretty good.  We don't need to ask if husband Tom likes it, he pretty much likes everything that doesn't include fresh tomatoes.
     "I'll give it a try when we get home from Black Butte," I say.  And on the next Tuesday, I did.  We were planning to have fish, so I got some tilapia filets to pan fry, and in ten minutes from start to finish, had dinner on the table.  Larry frying the fish while I made the following (for two people, a third of the recipe)  Loved it! :

JENNY'S FRIED RICE

3 cups cooked rice, chilled*
3 Tbs. peanut oil
2 eggs beaten (for 1/3 recipe, 1 egg)
1/2 cup onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, chopped *
1 1/2 inch fresh peeled ginger* (chop the crap out of it because it's so fibrous)(Jenny's words, not mine)
1/2 cup carrots, small dice
1/2 cup peas
4 scallions
3 Tbs. soy sauce.

Heat 1 Tbs. oil in a large nonstick pan.  Saute onion for a bit and then add carrot, garlic and ginger.  Saute for a bit longer.  Push the veggies to the side and add a little more oil.  Scramble eggs, breaking into small pieces.  Add more oil and add the cooled, cooked rice.  Fry the rice with the veggies and eggs for 2 to 3 minutes.  Add peas and soy sauce and stir fry for one more minute.  Add green onions and serve!

*  I usually make up more rice than we need, and freeze the extra in snack-size baggies, so had some of that on hand for the recipe.  A good idea, by the way -- you should try it!  (Of course, I do have a freezer in the pantry, a luxury not available to every one.  I get that.)

*  Jenny's lazier mom has discovered Gourmet Garden tubes of ginger paste and chunked garlic, which seem to last forever in the refrig.   Yes, the real thing would be better, but if we're talking about a ten minute dinner, not a bad option.

 

alli ederer

will ederer