If my mother-in-law Fannie were alive today, she’d be 101 years old. She learned to cook in the wilds of Magoffin County, Kentucky, with no electricity or running water. She was a master cook who could make hog’s head as tasty as fried chicken. Many of her recipes are lost, as she hadn’t relied on written recipes for years before her passing. I think of the following recipe as a fast way to bring a touch of Kentucky to our dinner table in Ohio, and I hope that Fannie would approve of its flavor if not its convenience.
As with most of my recipes, there is flexibility in this one for changes. I’ve tried this recipe with kale or spinach instead of collard greens, with good results. Different beans may be used as well. Feel free to lower the salt content through using reduced sodium broth, etc.
1 lb bulk breakfast sausage, such as Bob Evans Original Roll Sausage
1 cup beef broth
1 lb collard greens, chopped, or 2 14 oz cans collard greens, drained
1 15.5 oz can pinto beans, drained
1/4 t garlic powder
1 t dried oregano
1 T white vinegar
Crumble and brown sausage in a dutch oven. Add beef broth and bring to a boil. If using fresh greens, gradually add greens to pot and stir gently until wilted. If relying on canned greens instead, just stir them into the pot. Next add the beans, garlic powder and oregano. Simmer covered until the greens are tender and add vinegar.
Nearly two months have passed since I sprained my knee and began a hiatus from daily mindfulness about diet and exercise. In that time, I have seldom exercised beyond physical therapy and walking. I am pleased to report that I have not inflated in size and am enjoying a break from my workouts. This injury was not a setback but a call to balance. Looking at my Fitbit logs was starting to make me feel like I’d become something of a hamster running on a wheel, a daily grind whose reward did not justify neglect in other matters, such as the dust and unsorted piles of paper in my house.
I am emerging from this break thinking that I’ll focus on walking for exercise and do a harder workout once or twice a week. My sprain was an overuse injury, so higher impact exercise was not as helpful as I thought it was. If the price of all that intensity could be arthritis or a knee replacement in my later years, I would rather be walking, especially since that type of exercise seems to work best for me at controlling depression.
This week I recalled the moment that made me bold enough to believe I could walk away from a lifetime of poor body image, which was crucial to my later weight loss. Several years ago, I had a brief delirium during a bout with the flu. I looked at myself in the mirror and in that reflection was a hallucination of my body perfected. Instead of seeing a morbidly obese women with tangled hair, I saw a supermodel in that mirror. I have held onto that image ever since. Not long after that fever, I met the man who would become my husband, and I started slowly losing weight. How I thought of my looks made all the difference.
As I make less of a priority of watching my weight, I am not so worried that I will fall off the proverbial wagon. I am enjoying getting back to the kinds of things that can’t be multitasked so well with working out, such as writing. Even if I were to fail eventually with my weight, I have the comfort of a good body image that I’ve held so long that it would be unshakable even if I were to become super jiggly once again.
When I was a child, many of my peers asked me a puzzling question, “Are you Death?”
Since they looked irritated rather than scared, I figured that they hadn’t mistaken me for the Grim Reaper. I certainly didn’t have the right girth, height or clothes to resemble the Grim one. The context of the question provided the clue for its meaning. It would be the answer to the second or third time I’d ask a child, “What did you say?”
I had a unilateral hearing loss when I was a toddler. Between having a good ear and getting three years of speech therapy, I navigated the world of sound fairly well except for problems with apprehending the words of others at times. Aside from the annoyance of being asked if I was Death, life went on. Some of my hearing errors in later years could lend interest to conversations if I told people what I thought they’d said. For instance, imagine if Bruce Lee Mania had once ruled Italy instead of Mussolini. Moving onto theology, is it exegesis or Extra Jesus?
At times this hearing issue has helped me parent my daughter. When I first heard the Calorad radio commercial, I told her that it sounded as if they were singing a jingle about cataracts, and I had her attention for a short lecture on the history of patent medicine from snake oil to The Dietary Supplement Health and Education Act of 1994.
Recently I had an experience that informed me that I need to say aloud what I think someone has said if I have any doubt whatsoever of their words. One of my coworkers had mentioned several times that his daughter had entered a lamp into some sort of competition and that he’d be taking off work for her demonstration of said lamp. When he’d talk about this matter, I’d imagine that his daughter must be quite precocious to be entering a lamp she wired and designed into a science or engineering fair during her first few weeks of high school. Actually, she is a year younger than her classmates and is at the top of her class. I considered that the lamp probably had a paper thin LED light and was powered by some alternative form of energy.
When he returned to work the day after his daughter’s competition, I was ready to ask him how her lamp had fared and what sort of questions were asked about her design. Before I had the chance to ask, he told me and another coworker that he had pictures of the event. On his phone, there was a photo of his daughter at a county fair standing next to a lamb with delicate fleece fur.
At the risk of being asked if I am Death, I need to keep asking people what they’ve said or tell them what I thought they said, or else lambs will light the way.
This week our bathtub cracked and leaked into two rooms. After we cleaned up the mess, my husband patched the tub, and we decided to shop for a new one. Step one was a home visit from a full service bath replacement business. The salesman tried to sell us a $7,800 bathtub on sale for the low, low price of $6,400. When my subtle attempts to decline the offer didn’t work, I told him that the only thing I’d ever bought for more than $6,400 was the car in the driveway. I also admitted that my washer and dryer were free. He laughed at me and suggested I was a thief. I told him, “No, I didn’t steal them. Someone no longer needed them and gave them to someone who did.”
Once this man left the house, I got to thinking that the bathtub situation reflects much of what I do not like about national politics. Find me someone elected to serve in Washington who wouldn’t or couldn’t buy a $6,400 bathtub. Either they’re bathing in something at least that price, or they are being lobbied or otherwise courted by someone who does.
The $6,400 bathtub people are out of touch with the daily choices of most Americans. They are baffled when we are generous with each other, such as when one of us gives away gently used furniture or appliances. They would rather keep us in constant class warfare so we don’t notice things like how much of our post-Recession economic gains went to the top 1%. It’s not so hard for them to stoke the resentment of the middle class towards the poor when our shrinking middle class is disproportionately burdened with funding entitlements. Unlike the rich and multinational corporations, they can’t afford to offshore or otherwise shelter significant amounts of their income from taxation.
Now that so many have slipped from prosperity, class warfare alone isn’t enough to keep us distracted, so all of the clamor over the Affordable Care Act has been useful to divide us further. It’s like Obama held a banquet at which he served universal health care, and the powers that be who dined on it shat out a long-wicked missile designed to drive prescription sales and resentment of the sick and poor. As they walked to their limos after that banquet, I imagine they joked that they could persuade the press and then the American public to nickname their mess after Obama. In attacking the ACA, they had the best divide and conquer weapon yet because through maligning it they could get us to resent anyone who needs health care. They want you to hate your fellow Americans, with your Lipitor prescription in hand, eager to eat the shit sandwich of self-funded health care.
As that salesman left this evening, he joked that I would never get anyone to give me a bathtub. I don’t want or need anyone to give me a bathtub. What matters is that I am the kind of person who would help give someone else a bathtub, just not a $6,400 one.
This weekend I read an exquisite article on the decline of free time by Stephanie Buck entitled “Our parents discovered leisure. We killed it.” In this essay, Buck reasons that the rise of hobby-based careers has eroded the peace we once enjoyed through pursuing leisure activities. Now that some people have made a living through their hobbies, there is a pressure to make a profit from such activities.
I am part of Generation X, and this article helped me make sense of several culture changes I’ve witnessed over the years. Back in my day, some of us went through a Peter Pan phase of sorts in which we hoped to eke out a living by writing novels or releasing albums on indie labels like Sub Pop. I don’t remember hearing that anyone was hoping to throw over a profession like teaching or engineering to sell cupcakes or fusion tacos for a living, yet these sort of dreams are widespread now. I think the Tiny House movement is related to the decline of true leisure, too. Let’s downsize to the point where one can leave a disliked job and live off a monetized hobby, and that hobby could be selling the story of building and living in as super small house.
I think the Tiny House movement does have value, but I also believe it’s strange that people are pressured into monetizing that experience by blogging about it, etc. Tiny House is crucial because in that movement we finally have an antidote for something we call McMansion here in the U.S., where people built 4000+ square foot homes based on mass-marketed building plans just because they could afford to do so. I think of McMansion as the terminal point of the conspicuous consumption of the late 20th century. Other signs of this sort of consumption were skin-tight Sergio Valenti jeans, watches with solid gold wrist bands and sports cars like the Mazda Miata that had little muscle under their hoods.
Someone needed to stop this mania for buying more and more just to show others one could afford to buy those things. While it is regrettable that there is now an expectation that one should profit financially from a hobby, at least we are moving away from the trend of consumption and spending as a measure of success. It is possible that my grandparents’ generation (born in the 1920’s) had it best in striking a balance between work, leisure and consumption. I think of my paternal grandpa in particular. He worked on the railroad, never drove a car and helped raise five children in a 846 square foot house. His hobby was carpentry, and he used that hobby not for profit but to help furnish his home and give gifts. When I look at the bookshelf he built for me and my siblings, I hope I live to see an era where his sort of life would be considered a great success.
My husband collects vintage bicycles, and he had a nap dream this afternoon in which he had acquired a Journey-themed bike. All of the bike needed restoration except for the head badge and its screws. He said that the head badge was roughly as large as a beer can, and he was puzzled at determining how he’d reattach such a large badge to the bike, especially since he dropped one of the screws from this pocket while trying to fix a two story high tar paper roof. I asked him if the badge included the scarab beetle featured on many Journey album covers, and he replied that it had little detail but the band name Journey in large red letters.
I recall a dream I had almost twenty-five years ago that featured the Journey scarab beetle. It was one of those instant sort of dreams that seems to flicker to life as soon as your eyes close. I saw the scarab beetle’s progression through history, that it was merely borrowed by Journey as Gru had hired the Minions. Unlike the Minions, the scarab beetle lent itself to just one cause, the glory of Journey. As the dream progressed, the scarab beetle revealed all of its guises in a silent montage saturated with color beyond the spectrum visible in waking life. He concluded by revealing the next Journey album cover, which was not to be released due to friction within the band.
A couple years later, I heard a DJ introduce a Steve Perry solo single with the disclaimer that Neal Schon would not be indicted because he played no role in the song’s creation or recording.
I leave you with what I believe is Journey’s finest song. I imagine that the album cover shows the scarab beetle’s awakening from a dream of this song, before it was written in our reality.
I noticed that Ben and Jerry’s has a pun-intended ice cream flavor called The Tonight Dough. If I were to create a frozen treat, I would call it Ice Cream Tonight: Dough, designed to be eaten upon a 3 am, PMS-fueled awakening. The ratio of dairy to dough would be an inversion of the usual cookie dough ice cream, with just enough slow churned ice cream added to make the dessert pliable upon direct exit from the freezer. When one awakens in the night with pressure of such a hunger, there is not enough patience to wait a few minutes for ice cream to thaw enough to keep spoons from bending or to find an ice cream scoop in the darkness. When I was a teenager, all of the spoons in my parents’ kitchen looked as if they’d been lent to an Uri Geller spoon bending summer camp.
Now that I am entering the territory of perimenopause, the periodic fire of my early days is waning. Over the years, I have written so little about this subject. I don’t know if I was caught in worrying that I would sound sexist in talking about how deeply my cycles have affected me, or if I was giving into a social taboo on menstruation. What I do know is that there is a great degree of variation in how deeply these cycles affect individual women. For some women, the differences in their moods are so insignificant as to merit no reflection. For a few women, like me, the experience was more like a periodic natural disaster. Since for every occasion or topic there is a song lyric that can be bent to usefulness, I will quote a line by The Killers and tell you that my PMS was like riding on the back of “a hurricane that started turning when you were young.”
My ride began on July 3, 1984. A couple of my cousins claimed that anyone who flipped off the haunted house in their neighborhood would bleed within 24 hours of that offense. We hopped on our bikes and dared that haunted house to make us bleed. The timing of this ritual was impeccable for me. I remember riding home the next evening from the fairground fireworks and singing along with “All I Need” by Jack Wagner with my friends, pleased that there was no silence to fill with the news of my first change of life.
Thirty-two years later, I am easing into the end of all of this commotion. I can still imagine a perfect PMS snack and know that this is another endeavor in which perfection cannot be attained. If I actually had PMS, I would not have the patience to make such a meal. My perfect 3 am snack would be a plate of hot french fries that have about half the potato skin peeled before frying, topped with crumbled bacon, beer cheese sauce and lowbrow Mexican restaurant salsa. Scattered on top of all of this would be a dusting of cold romaine lettuce. My dessert would be Ice Cream Tonight: Dough, with a few butterscotch and semisweet chocolate chips sprinkled on top.