And Just Like That, It's Soup time in December

     I don’t mind when the sun paints my face, with thick broad gentle strokes, forcing me to recognize it, which I do.  It reminds me that I should focus on the now, the present.

     At this very moment, it’s all about today. Focusing on the elements around—the feelings, paired with sounds, sights and smells, has a balancing effect. My mind is racing elsewhere: thinking of the books I’m listening to, the wonderful big band music I saw and heard on Friday night, the headlines slapped across this morning’s newspaper, the dinner I will make tonight, the work I need to do, the nostalgia for family no longer here, one that profoundly infuses me this time of year. The elements, and the rhythm of my feet below, ground me and push me forward as I run.

     My mind goes back, as it so often does, to the recipes. The weather’s chill has me thinking of soup. And though I could rifle through my collection of saved NYT cooking recipes, or the many books that I still have (even after unloading hundreds haver the move!), I am set on one: carrot soup from Moosewood Cookbook. 

     And this is what brings my after-run steps to my book shelf, and right over to one cookbook in particular, to a page I have marked from long ago.

     

     Moosewood Cookbook, the original, was one of my first on-my-own cookbooks.What I mean by that is that I always had my mom’s recipes, yet I searched for those recipes I could adopt and call my own. Moosewood, at the time, was my great resource. 

    Moosewood was also the first cookbook I ever endeavored making just about everything from. The book itself, now decades later—food stained and a bit unsteady in keeping all the pages together— represents a period of time, my twenties, when I expressed a lot of my independence and creative energy through food. (Wait, am I still doing that?!) 

     This carrot soup offers the balance of two flavors I love combining:  sweet and salty. But as I sit to write this blog, I recognize that you might not share my passion for cooking. Still, I’m guessing you probably share my joy of eating.  It’s funny how when I teach, I touch on the topic of food and almost all my students have a positive reaction; though they are still struggling with English, their second, third, and even fourth language, food remains a first language. They wax nostalgic about their grandma’s cooking, dishes that say “home” to them. Food is their common ground…our common ground. This is why I still say if we could just all sit down and share a meal, we might have peace in this world.

       In the meantime, now and in the next year, I will continue my ever-expanding exploration of dishes (so many recipes, so little time!), as well as travelling, dancing, reading, writing, teaching, and of course enjoying the many meals I look forward to composing, creating, and consuming with family and friends. 

     With these thoughts, and this note, I wish you and yours lots of peace, and many many delicious soups and other dishes with loved ones during this holiday season, and in the year to come.

      

Carrot Soup Garnished with Roasted Apple, Toasted Almonds, and Parsley

 

 

In Walks September

 

“Is this the writing class?” A twenty-something, light brown-skinned woman asks  me in a slightly marked  accent as she steps into the doorway. “Can I come in?” she adds. It’s about 8:50, and class will begin at 9.

She’s slight, bespectacled, and smiling broadly, though I hear some nervousness in her voice. She sits right in the middle of the u-shaped  tables that face the front of the room. She’s the first of my 16 students to arrive.  I welcome her in, and she tells me she’s from Ecuador, from Cuenca.  I want to tell her that my son lived in Ecuador, but I save that.

“Yes! This is the writing class” I declare, and welcome her into the room. “Please tell me your name.”

“Alejandra,” She announces. “But you can please call me Alex.”

“Okay, Alex,” I say as I scan my roster and tell her, “My name is Arlen. And wow, Alex! You are the first to arrive!”

 “I like to be in time,” she proudly announces.

“I do, too!” I say.

Prior to that morning, I had seen all my forthcoming students' names on my roster, and considered how those names would “translate” into actual people, and how these same type-written names will look differently on that page after today, the first day of class.  

It’s the same feeling I’ve had for years: the anticipation, the excitement, and even some of the nervousness on the first day of school. All of my white board markers are ready, I’ve written the date and my plan on the board, along with a “Welcome!” I’ve played with the colors of the markers so that—I think—the board is visually pleasing. I like to alternate between colors, at least a bit. I’ve got my folders with handouts, and my pads with paper, in case someone needs paper.

Several students follow Alex's lead and enter the classroom. I welcome them in,  and ask their names, trying to commit them all to memory.  They unpack their bags, reveal new notebooks, pens, and sharpened pencils. We are all poised, ready—and so we start a light conversation.

“Probably some will be late today, but let’s get started!”  I declare. They nod, albeit nervously—not knowing what to expect.

And so, it’s September. A time I’ve always embraced as a new beginning. Whether it’s in my classroom—or my kitchen—it’s a time to start something new, I think.

I play with my lesson plans, just like I play with my food. I try to find something new—something that will inspire. Something that sparks interest. Something that will resonate with my students. 

At home, I look for something that will resonate with my dinner guests.

Appetizers for an End-of-Summer Dinner 

For now, I’m still enjoying the farmers’ market bounty. Tomatoes are still out. I’ve even got some green beans from the community garden that Seth, my husband, tends.

I put all the ideas together, and come up with a fresh version of perhaps a dish I’ve enjoyed before. Building—or scaffolding (as we say in the ESL teaching world) so that one idea or dish flows into another. 

The beach is still fresh and welcoming. Pumpkins are out.  September has walked in. 

 

Living Art at the Beach

Pumpkins on Display 

Mid-July Contemplations and Colors

“It’s like we are all on a bus,” Silvia begins to tell me her theory of life, and death. "And then," she continues, "often without warning, the bus makes a stop, someone gets off. Still, the bus continues on, stopping from time to time.” 

Silvia’s life analogy resonates with me now more than ever, as it seems too many people in my life are getting off the bus, and, at this point, I can only see them in my memories.  

Silvia was an ESL student of mine at Concordia many, many moons ago. Like so many—if not all—of my students, she taught me way more than I could have ever taught her. Silvia introduced me to Pedro Almodóvar; I believe we saw, Mujeres al Borde de un Ataque de Nervios (Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown)” together. It was my first Almodóvar movie, and I was blown away by his humor, his cleverness, and his irreverence. (Of course, I loved hearing the Spanish, too.) 

Silvia also gave me a copy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s El Amor en los Tiempos del Cólera (Love in Time of Cholera). This book has made the move from our house, and survived with an inscription: Este libro y mi amistad, para Arlen, para Siempre –This book, and my friendship, for Arlen, forever. …And signed it. On this steamy and stormy mid-July day, I pull the book off my shelf and make a note to myself: it’s time to reread it. 

Also thinking about timing, food, reunions, and colors. More specifically, I’m especially focused on colors on my table. Some from the flowers that Seth brings from the community garden he so carefully tends, and others, from food. Long ago, I became aware of the importance of presentation of food. I learned a lot from Harry—of Harry’s Sauteuse—who wouldn’t let a plate go out unless it was garnished; parsley, for example, (his most popular of garnishes), had to be artfully placed on the dish. 

I also learned a lot from my mom, who was all about the creation of a plate/platter, as well as attention to detail. Maybe it was her artist’s eye that transposed a canvas, so to speak, onto a plate. Actually, it wasn't just the food and the table. All aspects of her meals and dinner parties were carefully choregraphed: the guest lists, who sat next to whom, the menus, the wines, the presentation, and of course, the music.  

July Garden Bounty 

Purple Potato Salad 

Coleslaw

Sautéed Shrimp in White Wine and Pepper Flakes 

Color on a plate, and a combination of textures—and of course flavors—that all complement each other, is something I still strive for and gain great happiness from. Yes, my ol’ dear Mambo 64 customers know I loved combining these key elements. 

These days, I’m combining at home—so when I can mix the deep blue/purple of a Peruvian potato, or the cream-colored meat of new potatoes, and contrast it with bright yellow of mango (yes—in a potato salad!) I do it. And yes, my friends, I do try to keep it more local for the most part, which is so much easier to do this time of year. And even the simple fresh green beans, cucumber, tomato, fresh herbs, and scallions (purple ones) radishes—and much more, topped with a sprinkle of fresh basil leaves, still dazzles.  

I guess it’s the freshness and immediate gratification of food –admiring it before devouring it—that still gets me. But it’s not too different from the way my body reacts to a beautiful scene—wild flowers, sunsets, a new baby connecting with a parent—sibling, or grandparent. 

Pre-Yoga Class View of Bryant Park 

Last Wednesday, when I was walking by Bryant Park in Midtown Manhattan, I saw a different kind of connection. There was a yoga class going on, and several hundred people were participating. As the teacher directed, they reached up to the sky, they all stretched up, in unison, and the sea of arms—not unlike an Esther Williams swimming movie, only more colorful as far as shades of skin. The collective movement was evocative. There they were, all different people, all different ages, moving in the same way, reaching for the same goal. It was an illustration of togetherness—of human contact positively and constructively achieved. 

I walked away from that scene, got to meet my son for a quick coffee,  and headed to my flamenco workshop. Still, a few thoughts about that Bryant Park yoga scene, along with some others from recent days, have stayed with me. I’m sharing four of them with you here: 

 1) Life is so crazy short. We need to take care of ourselves, and our loved ones, as best we can. So much is out of our control, so we need to foster the things we can. 2) We need to express our love, enjoy our loved ones, and celebrate what and  when we can. 

 3) It’s important to speak out about what we believe in, but equally important to listen to others, and hear where they’re coming from.

 4) There’s so much to live and learn—languages, books, music, art, dance, recipes—ah, places to visit! People to meet! 

My list grows in all different directions and I hear both of my parents’ voices encouraging me to continue on all fronts. As they would often say, “If we’re lucky, we keep learning—always.”

I wish you all days rich of joy and laughter, the courage, confidence and assistance you need to work to change things that you are unhappy with, and the opportunity to find happiness in learning,  and living,  many kinds of experiences.

With love always,

Arlen 

Mid-May Musings

 

Moss That Carpets the Rocks in  New Paltz New York 

Introduction:

On this mid-May day, the air is fresh and sparkly. I’m lucky to work and duck out for a run, and then get back to work. The run clears tangled thoughts in my head, allows me to catch la vida cotidiana or daily life of the people around me. It helps me put the headlines aside for a bit, admire the babies that parents and  grandparents push in strollers, the kids playing in the schoolyards and parks, greet people on the street, watch the crazy construction machines as they paw voraciously into the earth, while others stretch up to the sky, and move my body which, in turn, always helps my mind.

On this mid-May day, I reflect on the past few weeks, and try to organize some thoughts and slices of life. Today I consider our capacity for so much in life—our strengths and support, and our multifaceted ability to live many lives in one.

Part One:

“Flamenco class, right?” The older elegant Black gentleman who monitors all the events of this West 43^rd Street building greets me with a broad smile. I’m delighted he has identified me as a flamenco dancer.

It’s Saturday, and I’ve come to dance for an hour, to gain insight and wisdom of movement. I see the goal in my mind; I want to be like my teacher—like the other dancers—for whom all the gestures, the movements, the sounds, flow gracefully. I’m in love with everything about flamenco: the music, the emotion, the expression, the feeling I get when I watch it, and how I feel when I attempt to dance it. I recognize that achieving my goal requires time. 

With My Beautiful/Wonderful Teacher, Deirdre

Time. And effort. I’m relishing both.

Time, lately, has invaded my thoughts, it seems. I’m finding ways of dividing it, categorizing it, and most of all, attempting to enjoy it and shift it into different realms of being.

Perhaps that’s why references to time are fascinating to me. Just a few weeks ago, when I was reading Elizabeth’s Gilbert book Signature of All Things, I learned her protagonist, Alma Whittaker’s, proclamation that there are many types of time, ranging from Human to Divine, and including Geological and Moss Time.

Moss Time. This may be my current time of choice.

It moves slowly, and in a colorful manner…softening the rocks it rests upon. 

Part Two:

People who know me, know that I am “enamoradiza.” It’s one of those words that can’t be translated easily from Spanish into English. Still, I can explain the meaning: it means I fall in love easily.   

Recently, and perhaps due to the accumulation of decades of life experience paired with some thought of looking ahead, I’ve been trying to fill myself with experiences and knowledge—of many sorts. More and more I’m considering what I want to do paired with how I am supporting myself (and realize that this is a privilege). There are, I see, ways to fill life up with a myriad of choices that are both enjoyable and meaningful. Ideally, they are not mutually exclusive. I also like the multiple life theme…

And I’ve got some great models; I know plenty of people who have multiple lives. Take my older brother Shawn, who works in construction by day, and as an artist by night—and on days off. AND he works with a whole group of construction workers who are also artists! And he plays soccer. And more…

Funny, I remember my parents talking about “Gentle Julius” when I was a little girl. Apparently, he was not only a dentist—which is how they met him in the first place—but also an accomplished violinist.

I remember being fascinated by that. I had never heard of someone able to do such disparate things. After all, I thought teachers lived at school—and slept there. I viewed employment as monogamous. As a child—and despite the many activities and even teachings of my parents--I thought people did one thing—and that’s what they did.

My, how wrong I was!

Part Three:  

“Onward ever, backward never!”

This is yet another quote, one of many notable ones, from Elizabeth Gilbert—one of the authors I’m currently in love with. (Told you I was enamoradiza.)

She’s been talking to me (yes—it feels that much more personal when someone is speaking in your ear—even if it’s an audio book narration!) about setting time aside, about not being afraid, about enjoying the process. I recognize that this is a luxury that I’m lucky enough to be able to enjoy.

I take in her words, and then scatter them throughout my own thoughts—not unlike sprinkling my much beloved cilantro, fresh lime juice and salt on my avocadoes. Her words complement my ideas. They bring out the best in flavor.

Part Four:

The Audiobook

Listening to a good audiobook is like trying a new recipe: there’s an unknown bit that can bring delight in the form of flavors of thought.

Words fill my ears—some go deep, some stay with my earrings. In the past few months, I’ve discovered the joy and depth of audio books.  Voices accompany me on my walks—and runs—and as I cook.

The beauty of the audiobook is that it’s flexible: you can start it whenever you want—and you don’t have to carry it with you. Like a paper book, you can go back and replay sections.

What do I look for in an audiobook?

·       The narrator’s voice has to be one that I enjoy hearing. (I started my whole audio book foray with a voice that I most enjoy: Barack Obama’s)

·         A plot/story of interest: this is obviously key.

·        Interleaving of nonfiction and fiction titles, and a diversity of authors (though now I realize that my latest books were all written by women).  Some of the books are pictured below. 

 Conclusion:

On this mid-May day, I share with you dreams of peace, an end of so many wrongs in our world, and wishes for love…always.

With love always,

Arlen 

 

A Few Days in March: Spring is on the Way

 

                         Early March Comfort Food: White Beans, Spinach, Tomatoes, Potatoes...and Some Sausage 
March 5^th

“Last week I was thinking about what games to buy; this week I’m thinking about arming myself.”

These were the words of a Ukrainian guy I heard interviewed on NPR. Talk about playing the last week at this time game…

Still, I’m playing with time and going back weeks, months, years. It seems like photos make time seem that much more tangible.

I don’t mind not being able to see what’s coming; divining the future was never one of my three wishes. (Though—I have to admit—my number one wish was always the greedy, ‘I want more wishes!’ wish!) Of course, I did always want to be like Bewitched, and touch my nose and make magic happen—or maybe more like I Dream of Jeannie (always liked the outfit),  so I could just cross my arms and nod my head to make some magic happen.

However, and maybe, I’ve matured a bit. Though I still have many wishes, these days, I speak my wishes aloud, with palms pressed together in front of my chest, while I’m standing on my favorite rock at Davenport Park, feeling the sun on my face, and facing the ever-inspirational water. These days, I wish for the health and wellbeing of my children and my loved ones. I wish for food and shelter and equity of treatment for all. And I wish for peace. These days, my wishes are more embracing of a larger picture.

Since it's cooler, I go back to making comfort foods.

            Red Lentil Sweet Potato Soup--with Spinach, Cilantro, and Toasted Coconut

March 12^th

It’s a rainy/snowy day. I’ve finished Educated, by Tara Westover, and have re-started Calypso, by David Sedaris. I’ve got Caste, by Isabel Wilkerson, The Beekeeper of Aleppo, by Christy Lefteri,   and am continuing We are Each Other’s Harvest, by Natalie Baszile.

My book pile is my treasure. The books are filled with ideas that will plant themselves in my head, and will be woven in between my own thoughts—will support the ideas and beliefs I have. They will make me laugh. They will make me cry. Most of all, they will make me think. I start, and then put them aside so that I can write. The words the spring forth—though inspired by the words I’ve read, expressions I yearn to adopt—sometimes I feel like they might not be mine, but my brain envelops them, embraces them all, and moves them into the realm of my own usage. They become mine.

Though I’m writing, I am distracted by my book pile. I stop writing, and look—due to force of habit—at my phone. I scroll through my messages. There are many I could/should erase.  I’ve kept a few from my aunt; she passed away last year. I can’t erase her messages. Yet.

I listen to her voice and a collage of tangled memories comes fourth—and though they delight me on one hand, they deeply sadden me. I haven’t been able to listen to my mother’s voice—recordings—since she passed away, now almost exactly 4 years ago. Wow. Four years.  I imagine speaking with her—I have so many questions that are known lying, suspended in air. Unanswered. I also think about what I’d like to update her with. 

March 13^th

The sun is out—the wind is biting, but the sun manages to wiggle its way onto my face and I hold it there. I’m walking/running—and watching others do the same.

I see a young man, walking near Viva Grande in New Rochelle, and talking on the phone. I can hear him speaking in Spanish—commenting on the weather, “A veces, sí—demasiado frío,” and I imagine he’s arrived, perhaps from Mexico—judging by his accent--not too long ago, and recounting bits of his job…and the weather.  The wind is whipping is straight black hair around, but he lets it go. I want to see whom he’s speaking with, and imagine his mother—and maybe others gathered around. He smiles at me—perhaps because he sees me watching his hair dance. I smile an hola back to him.

My thoughts drift. I think about other young—and older men— and women, in his same position: those who have left their country and family behind in search of opportunities.  

March 16

It’s back to spring. The children’s squeals at Trinity Elementary School are paralleled by the parrots’ squawks. I wonder if they notice each other.

The children are not wearing masks—only wait, some have them as a kind of chin strap. I imagine their moms saying, “Make sure you keep your mask on!”

That brings me to thoughts of my mom, who passed away almost exactly four years ago, in four days.

Now running, I'm at the bottom edge of Davenport Park. The water glistens in the sun. I climb atop my prayer rock, the large one that rests right over the Long Island Sound. I think of peace, stability, sanity, health—and all the people I want to send warm thoughts to. I close my eyes and let the sun rest on my face. I tell my parents I love and miss them.

I turn around,  and run up the hill back to the street. Running up the hill today seems easier, but still, it’s not easy.

Then I run back to Viva Grande, my market, where I’ll pick up some vegetables and more for dinner.

Comerse el Coco: A.K.A. Rumination

My Illustration of one of my Parrot Friends 

Their voices catch me by surprise—as do their green tails. I stop my running, pull out my earbuds, and look up into the tree to see and hear them. 

Well, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen the parrots of New Rochelle, here, next to Trinity school. But it’s winter, so I was not expecting them. I stand under the tree where they’ve gathered, and watch them as they dance above me. They're all feasting on the small buds that line the smaller and very thin twig-like branches.

It was then that I had my “Axolotl” moment (I refer to a wonderful short story by Argentine author, Julio Cortazar). In the story, the protagonist loses part of his own sense of self, and experiences a type of metamorphosis: he adopts the identity of the creatures he’s observing.

In my case, I knew I wasn’t actually becoming a parrot—despite my desire to join in, feast, and then fly with them. But I started to ponder: How do these parrots see me? Here I stand, a white female human with cream-colored knit hat, almost nest-like blonde meets brown curls of hair sneaking out underneath, a red down vest, black leggings and red rimmed socks poking up above my black running shoes. I wonder what they notice and if, in fact, they are observing me observing them.     

Looking up at this bevy of birds, thinking about their impression of me, reminded me of something else: a story about noticing, one that I’ve told my students over the years. 

My story starts several decades ago, when I was hired to do a training in a university in West Virginia. The school had been recently acquired by a Japanese company. At the time, I was working with predominantly Japanese students at Concordia College in New York, and had done some presentations about cultural differences in communication styles of English language learners from Japan. Hence, I was hired to travel to this university to work with their teachers for a couple of days. Little did I realize that I was more foreign to this group of instructors than their new Japanese students were. 

I remember I dressed in one of my standard NYC-type suits (we’re talking about the early 90s)—which was a simple black linen single breasted, shoulder-padded waist coat and a matching almost knee-length skirt. I wore ivory stockings, and black Mary Jane heels and a pair of longish Peruvian silver and lapis lazuli earrings that poked out from time to time between my dark brown curls. 

When I saw them, I noticed right away that they were all white, mostly quite a bit older than I was then, and more conservatively dressed. The women all looked like Aunt Bees to me (from Mayberry RFD), with grey or dyed sand-colored hair, piled up high. Maybe wearing pearls?  

One gentleman, who looked a bit different from the rest of the crowd, sat in the front row. He was wearing a white mock-turtleneck shirt, and a navy-blue corduroy jacket with suede patches on the elbows. His hair was straight and sandy blonde and long, and pulled back into a tight and long ponytail. 

“Aha,” I thought, “here is my ally.” 

But I was dead wrong. 

I told the teachers, as part of my spiel, that their new students might not be as voluntarily vocal as some of their others. In fact, I continued, they should of course encourage all of their participation, but then call on individual students to speak up. Additionally, these students might not answer as quickly as we might like. To this end I advised, when asking questions of their English language learners from Japan, teachers should wait a bit longer for a response.   

My “ally” in the front row leaned back, and spoke up: 

“What do you mean, wait longer? What are you saying? Is five minutes long enough?” His rapid fire questions were shot off  in a sarcastic-meets-accusatory tone. 

I tried to rapidly recover from the sting. 

“Let me clarify,” I began. “It’s that many of your students may not have had the chance to practice their spoken English, and they will be concerned about formulating the correct answers prior to saying them aloud.” 

I went on to explain that English classes in Japan generally—especially at that time—didn’t focus on speaking skills, but  instead primarily on grammar and writing. 

I didn’t look directly at him, but scanned the audience. The group nodded in what appeared to be understanding. However, according to my memory, that man in the front row with the ponytail and corduroy jacket unthankfully grimaced. 

The rest of that workshop is blurry to me. But I do remember vividly that later, at break time, as we gathered next to the large coffee pot, sipping from white Styrofoam cups and eating delicious homemade peanut butter cookies, the Aunt Bees graciously thanked me, and apologized for their colleague’s behavior.

That was when I became aware of two things: I was judging them all based on my personal collection of preconceived notions and, well, they were doing the same thing. 

So, what does this have to do with “comerse el coco?” Well, that expression means—literally—to eat your head; to ponder many things at once, and have these thoughts crashing around with jagged edges. Rumination.  I think we all do this—especially these days, when so much is going on immediately around us both locally and globally. This pondering is not necessarily a bad thing. But it’s a thing. 

I’m back to the present. I’m still under the tree. Suddenly, I feel something lightly tap my head, and think, “Wow! Bird droppings! This could mean good luck.”

I take off my hat to examine, and immediately discover that it’s a small twig. 

Still, I feel lucky.