All Clear

 

 

The Day of And a Few Days Later

“Well, it’s like this all the time in New Delhi!” an older woman said to me last Wednesday, in Midtown Manhattan, waiting at the crosswalk. I had noticed her cane, her stance, and her lean on the mailbox prior to the change of the walk sign at the cross walk, and so I had asked her if she was okay. She said she was, and, in typical NYC fashion, that was the end of our exchange. The light turned green, and we separated.   

This was on the day that NYC was blanketed in sepia, the day the wildfire smoke hit the city. Dazed and masked, people twirled, phones in hand, recording and marveling at the scene. Words like “apocalyptic, smoky, orange,” echoed through the throngs on Fifth Avenue.

Fast forward to three days later. The sky is blue, the air seems fresh, and yes, it appears to be all clear—at least around here.

We are always looking for an all clear. Or, perhaps, in my case, I’m also looking for clarity—and hope I offer the same. Thinking about relationships, work, stories, and trips, I consider that all clear is synonymous with a go ahead, or that we can proceed in a positive way. I'm also equating all clear with clarity. 

The Clarity of Reflection 

I can’t help but remember a student I had at Concordia College, so many years ago. Lorenzo, from Puerto Rico, came to Concordia to play volleyball and, like many on his team, also to learn English.

At that time, I had a habit of asking my students, “Is it clear?” after explaining something in my ESL class. (Wait—maybe I still say that!)

Lorenzo frequently responded, with a grin, “As clear as mud, teacher!”

He chided me, and was often quite the jokester, but sometimes he was on target: my explanations often required a second round. I take that recognition with me, and try—whether talking to family and friends or students and teachers—to be clear. It’s a skill I’m still working on.

But back to last Wednesday, I walked up to the Museum of Modern Art, where I had decided I wanted to revisit Georgia O’Keeffe’s exhibit. I watched as people stopped in front of one work or another, saw them observe, listened to their commentary, accolades, and more.

An older bespectacled gentleman with tanned skin, a white beard, and a straw fedora, came to a full stop in front of “Evening Star.”  He stood, hands behind his back, and gazed, deeply at one painting, and then the others in that series.   

From Georgia O'Keeffe--One of the Many Currently at MOMA 

I wanted to ask him what he was thinking when he looked at them.  Was a meaning clear to him?  What was clear to him?

But he moved on as a young couple with a toddler moved in front. 

As I continued to walk around the museum, my thoughts of clarity continued. I considered how clarity comes in different realms: art, communication, movement, music, and another one of my favorites, flavors.

Recently I found clarity in a dish I made: Crispy Lemon Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce

Since it was quite well received,  I decided to explore variations on the theme. A few nights later, I made pork chops with an orange sauce that somewhat emulated the previously-made lemon-infused dish. The result? Another sunny, and tasty citrus-themed plate (served this time with broccoli and wine-caramelized onions, and roast potatoes). 

 Crispy Lemon Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce

Crispy Pork Chops with a Fresh Orange Sauce

I enjoy clarity of flavor as much as I enjoy clarity of explanations, communication, and more. I find clarity when I run, when I cook, when I dance, when I draw, and when I write. 

Today as I ponder the message of all clear and clarity, I think of the bold, dazzling colors of nature that boast their individuality, yet work and grow together. 

 

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 

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.