Days of Play
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| Big boy reading to little boy. The lovely thing about this was that it happened after supper, when CJ was begging for entertainment, and Albus right away offered to read him a book: Green Eggs and Ham. Albus has become such a reader over the past year or so, devouring chapter books, but reading out loud is yet another step. |
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| I gave the kids a mental health day awhile back, and this is one of the activities we did: colouring, water-colouring, and drawing on a large single sheet of paper. The end result was not overwhelmingly amazing (I did not hang it on the dining-room wall, as the kids requested), but the process was a lot of fun. Reminiscent of the kind of hands-on directed-activity parenting I used to do on a regular basis, that is now fairly rare. It’s nice that it’s rare, because it means the kids play independently and creatively all on their own, but occasionally it’s also nice to get to be a part of that play, too. But only occasionally). |
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| Snow day/P.D. day play. |
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| Fooey was out for an hour, along with several other kids (I was babysitting that day). They ended with a game that involved jumping off the porch and swinging on the chain that in summertime holds up one of the hammocks. I didn’t find out about that til later. Hands-off parenting/babysitting has its downside. Though everyone came in unharmed, glowing, and happy, and devoured a snack of hot chocolate, marshmallows, and apricot cake. Is there a lesson in this? |
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| Tuesday and Thursday mornings. As soon as the big kids head out the door, the little kids throw themselves into play. (What will we do next year when Fooey goes to school all-day, every-day?). This morning. Started with puzzles. Moved on to cooking and baking. |
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| Followed by eating, of course. And nope I’m not involved in this game. I’m sitting at the computer nearby, typing this post. (They’ve moved on to naptime right now. Sounds good to me …). |
Red Herring
I’ve been writing more regularly on my side-project blog, Swim/Run/Bike Mama (yup, it’s on the triathlon project), and less regularly, perhaps, here. Since finishing the 365-project (apparently, I thrive on projects), I’ve hardly picked up the camera. I am giving myself a full week of breathing before even thinking about what to do next, photography-wise; but one interesting discovery is that out of 365 photos, there are about thirty that stand out, and among those, a few that might just come together to tell an interesting story quite apart from the project and apparent subject matter: ie. I can make something else out of them. Maybe that’s reason enough to continue taking a photo every day. Because at any moment, something lovely is waiting to come into existence (surrounded by a lot of other moments and attempts).
I’m linking to a piece in the National Post by my former boss, Noah Richler: he argues that funding the arts provides a public service quite beyond what can be valued monetarily. The salient point is: some things aren’t done for profit–how do we measure their value? And what does what we value and support say about our country?
And, you know, on a very personal level my thinking has been heading this way, too: questioning my compulsion to evaluate what I do in a very black and white, cost-versus-profit manner. I wrote a few posts back about wanting to be independent, financially. That’s not a superficial desire. On the other hand, it doesn’t take into account–or value–all the ways that I do support my family and contribute, ways that aren’t and probably can’t be compensated in a “fair” way. In our marriage, we try not to do too much horse-trading, ie. I did the dishes so you have to put the kids to bed. Because that just creates a feeling of unfairness: maybe the dishes are worth only two kids being put to bed; or maybe on that particular evening, the kids need a bath, which is more time-consuming, so it should be worth an extra round of dish-washing; or … well, you see where I’m going with this. In the same way, there is no way of measuring the effort that goes into, say, writing a book, and compensating it “fairly.”
Do I need to be financially independent? That’s a really personal question, I guess. I haven’t got an answer yet. But I’m interested in all the reasons that maybe, maybe that question throws me off track. Maybe it’s a red herring. Maybe the question is: can I accept that the work I’ve chosen to do may never be compensated at a rate that would allow me to be financially independent? What matters? Is it money?
Recipes on Demand
Lentil soup in a crockpot. It’s easy to throw together in the morning, fills the house with delicious smells all day, and makes a satisfying meal over rice or with pitas. Top individual bowls with yogurt or sour cream or crema la vaquita, or crumbled feta or queso duro blando. Either soup could just as easily be made in a pot on the stove, with a much-reduced cooking time–about an hour from beginning to end, or until the lentils soften. (You’ll note, too, that both soups can be prepared not only as vegetarian, but as vegan).
Here are two recipes for the price of one. My kids love both, although AppleApple is not a curry fan, thus making the curried soup a more difficult sell.
Curried Lentil Soup
In a small amount of olive oil, saute 2 chopped onions, 2-4 cloves garlic, and 1 tbsp minced ginger (subsitute 1/2 to 1 tsp ground ginger), and approximately 1 tsp salt. Toward the end, add 2 tbsp mild curry powder and cook off the raw flavour. Scrape into slow-cooker, adding water to the pan to get every last bit out. Black pepper may be added to the mixture, too.
Rinse 2 cups of red lentils and 1 cup of green lentils, and add to the slow-cooker. Now here’s the ad hoc portion of the recipe. If you like your soup thicker, add about 8 cups of water or broth. If you like it soupier, use more liquid. I use a 3kg container of frozen homemade chicken stock, and add water, following the whims of the day.
Cook on low, covered, all day (8 hours or so).
Finally, just before the soup is ready to go to the table, stir in the juice of one lemon (or a couple tbsp of cider vinegar). Don’t skip this step! It’s what finishes the flavour sensation. If you have fresh cilantro, chop and add a bunch at this stage, too. If not, it’s still going to taste really good.
Harira
In a small amount of olive oil, saute 2 onions. When softened, add 1 tsp each: powdered ginger, cumin, turmeric, and ground black pepper. A bit of extra cumin won’t hurt, either. Fry for about a minute, then scrape into slow-cooker, adding water to loosen every last yummy bit.
Rinse 2 cups of green or brown lentils. Add to slow-cooker.
Toss in 1 whole cinnamon stick. And one can of tomatoes–diced or pureed or whole (I use a quart or half-pint jar canned last summer; size doesn’t matter). If you happen to have a bunch of fresh cilantro on hand, toss it in, stalks and all (and fish out before serving).
Again, the amount and type of liquid added is up to you. I use chicken stock if it’s handy, but water is a-okay. Add between 6-10 cups. If you’re using water, you’ll need to add approximately 1 tsp salt; with chicken stock, you may not need any. Taste before serving and re-season, if needed.
Cook on low, covered, all day (8 hours or so).
Finally, just before serving, stir in the juice of one lemon. Really, it’s the secret to many good recipes. Cider vinegar makes an excellent substitute.
Note: You are most welcome to add diced carrots or shredded zucchini or other veg to either recipe! I refrain, because that level of mixing and mushing of ingredients does not please my children. I find the most popular slow cooker recipes are those with a short ingredient list. Raw or other cooked veg can be served on the side.
Flip flop
Post-yoga thought: guidance. Sometimes it takes pushing to get to where one wants to go; sometimes all the pushing in the world won’t do it. I’ve had some doors open for me, over the years; and some stay firmly locked.
I’m not a huge fan of waiting for things to come. I prefer to be active. I’m an action verber: a do-er, a go-getter.
But I’ve pushed a whole lot to get to where I am right now (thinking about my writing). And I think it’s time to sit quietly and wait for guidance. That sounds extremely hokey, at least to me, it does. But I think so. I think it’s time. In a good way.
Word of the Year
Heart.
Because my heart, speaking literally, powers my body as I work toward the goal of completing a triathlon and/or half-marathon this year.
Because I live in my head. Because I want to allow myself to respond spontaneously, without checking in with my head. If the heart says do this, I want to. At least, most of the time. Okay, even some of the time. (I’m a little bit afraid of giving myself over to my heart; I sense that mistakes will be made; I sense also that mistakes must be made).
Because of love, compassion, empathy. Because in my efficiency, I am sometimes deficient in these most important gifts.
Because it’s a challenging word, filled with challenging ideas, for me.
Because I want to explore other aspects of myself, even if it means just pushing ever so slightly against the seeming-solidity of who I am, right now.
But I’m keeping spirit, last year’s word. I nominate it to be word of the decade, an umbrella under which I will develop different aspects of the spirit. What does spirit mean, to me? It means the life unseen, not of this world, and yet expressed within this world, through words and deeds. It means: there’s more to life than what can be seen. It means mystery. It means being moved. Being open. Being emptied out to make room for God, for the divine.
My poetry book club met for the third time on Saturday evening. We were unable to get copies of the book we’d planned on reading, a collection by Giller-winner Johanna Skibsrud (Gaspereau Press, we suspect, is even now hand-sewing the binding in readiment for shipment by ox-cart); so instead, we all brought favourite poems to share. We were giddy. It was ridiculously fun. We are getting to know each other that much better. And best of all, there’s poetry. I was deeply moved by a number of the poems, unexpectedly moved, caught off guard: ah, there’s my heart, opening.
Being moved by a poem. It feels of enormous significance to me, right now, as I struggle to balance my ambitions and my sense of self, to figure out what matters, and why.
To create something that moves someone else, it’s a strange talent. It might not even be a talent, but a gift, given and taken away on a whim. It’s also a strange thing to want to do: to express the mysterious, to give it shape and form, and to share the beauty, joy, grief, loneliness, ache with others. It’s not a profitable enterprise. It’s not of this world.
Hello, January.
My new year’s anomie seems to be somewhat late-flowering; 2010 was a fine, fine year, and it seemed, at its end, that perhaps nothing needed changing, not a whit. Four weeks in, and it suddenly seems everything needs changing.
I’m conscious of my underlying desire to be independent, financially; not because my survival depends on it, but because, as Fran Lebowitz says in an interview in Bust magazine: “Here is the key to independence: earn your own money … This is true of life–people who are paying you, whether they are paying for you like parents who pay for children or paying like a boss pays an employee, they’re in charge of you. You don’t want someone to be in charge of you? Don’t take their money.”
Now, I am in a marriage I consider happy, in a partnership I consider equal; nevertheless, the fact that I earn next to nothing, that I rely on Kevin to support our family financially, bothers me, and it has for a long time. I read that Fran L. interview on Saturday and it went click in my brain: the key to independence. (I read it out to Kevin, too, and he understood). I wish I could say that writing were my key to independence; but it’s not. If my family relied on my earnings, I would have to do something else, use my current skill-set in a different way; and I can’t think of any job I’d want to do that would use my current skill-set. And so, I continue to return to the question: do I want to retrain? Do I want to gain a new skill-set? Do I want to equip myself for an entirely different job?
It’s not that I imagine myself never writing, were I to earn my money differently. It’s that I imagine myself writing the way most writers write: look around–most writers, even successful writers, have day-jobs. The most successful writers, those earning a reasonable living from their writing, work their tails off pitching stories, writing grant requests, and working freelance from job to job until they become Mordecai Richler and editors come to them with story-requests (and I happen to know that Mordecai Richler was an extremely hard-working and not at all precious writer).
I’m not much good at pitching stories. I work pretty slowly. My overall interest, when I write, is to make something lovely, not to earn money.
And that is why I come back to the idea of retraining and earning my living in another way. Earning my living, period. I’ve given myself the imaginary deadline of CJ entering school, which is in a year and a half, when he starts kindergarten. I will be thirty-seven, not too old, I think, to start something new.
I’m not sure that heart relates remotely to this dilemma. Or, maybe it does and I haven’t puzzled out how, yet.