Yesterday's post was abit of a cheat. All of it true, but it was very short and very simple.
Not unlike today.
And.
Not so bad, that, short and simple.
Good to have around.
Like the sun.
It is out again today. And I am loving the sun when it is out.
In the winter in Maine the sun, out, is a gift.
Simple. And usually short. And sweet.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Beet Bits in a Bowl
So okay. I read about roasting beet bits and right away it was something I wanted to do.
This recipe uses a number of pans, but is eaten with only one bowl.
Roast a lovely chicken that has been buttered and sprinkled liberally with salt and pepper.
Put on a pot of brown rice.
Peel and slice three beets. Dice. Roast in the oven with a little olive oil. And hey, the red beet
juice will not stain your fingers when uncooked. Kindof like natural magic markers for the body ...
washes right off .... however design work on white t-shirts will remain as a lovely reminder.
Roast beet bits for about an hour.
Fill one large salad bowl half-way up with raw baby spinach. Add roasted beet bits. And some walnuts. And some goat cheese.
Enjoy.
You will not eat all the spinach and so when the rice and chicken are done put little scoops of both in your bowl.
It will be delightful, even more so when you find left behind beet bits and walnuts.
One bowl dinner.
This is nicely shared with one guest or three.
This recipe uses a number of pans, but is eaten with only one bowl.
Roast a lovely chicken that has been buttered and sprinkled liberally with salt and pepper.
Put on a pot of brown rice.
Peel and slice three beets. Dice. Roast in the oven with a little olive oil. And hey, the red beet
juice will not stain your fingers when uncooked. Kindof like natural magic markers for the body ...
washes right off .... however design work on white t-shirts will remain as a lovely reminder.
Roast beet bits for about an hour.
Fill one large salad bowl half-way up with raw baby spinach. Add roasted beet bits. And some walnuts. And some goat cheese.
Enjoy.
You will not eat all the spinach and so when the rice and chicken are done put little scoops of both in your bowl.
It will be delightful, even more so when you find left behind beet bits and walnuts.
One bowl dinner.
This is nicely shared with one guest or three.
Gifts
I am overwhelmed by the inauguration of President Obama.
Stories are bubbling up.
For everyone.
My story is about my mom.
I am so sorry she was not alive to see President Obama take office.
She would have cried all day.
Too.
These memories of her flood in me and they are gifts.
I must have been four when I first remember our annual six day journey
on remote southern roads to visit my grandfather. It was just the two
of us. Always. We drove an old green Rambler with the windows rolled
down to help with the summer heat. She refused to use the "white only"
fountains and bathrooms and lunchrooms. She was 32 years old in
1957, she was divorced, and she had a young daughter with her. My God.
I thank her.
At eight we went into migrant camps. She carried lessons for the children who
had to quit the third grade to work in fields so their families could
eat. She spoke very little on the drive in, it was just what you did. I thank her
for recognizing the work andsharing it with me.
As a public school teacher she never made alot of money but she
quietly paid for the dental work for classroom assistants. And as a woman figuring it out financially she shared the possibilities of teaching with Geraldine,
the school custodian, also figuring it out on her own. Geraldine
became a teacher at the very same school after ten years of night
school. My mom and Geraldine plotted in our home some evenings after
school. I thank them both for this vision of one woman supporting
another woman and breaking barriers.
My mother cried watching on television the civil rights struggle in
the deep south, and she was desperately sad that she had not gone in support and to
ride the buses. I watched her and as a child I felt both the despair
and the determination of the time. I thank her for sharing how close
injustice cuts us all.
These are just a few of my experiences growing up as my mother's
daughter. On Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday I remembered my mother. More.
More than I had remembered my mom for decades.
Obama remembered my mother in his inauguration speech. She was one of
the people in this country who is nameless but who contributed in
countless ways to overcome racism. I was very lucky to have been her daughter,
to have witnessed her love of humanity and her willingness to work for justice.
Healing comes in a variety of ways.
And it spreads.
Stories are bubbling up.
For everyone.
My story is about my mom.
I am so sorry she was not alive to see President Obama take office.
She would have cried all day.
Too.
These memories of her flood in me and they are gifts.
I must have been four when I first remember our annual six day journey
on remote southern roads to visit my grandfather. It was just the two
of us. Always. We drove an old green Rambler with the windows rolled
down to help with the summer heat. She refused to use the "white only"
fountains and bathrooms and lunchrooms. She was 32 years old in
1957, she was divorced, and she had a young daughter with her. My God.
I thank her.
At eight we went into migrant camps. She carried lessons for the children who
had to quit the third grade to work in fields so their families could
eat. She spoke very little on the drive in, it was just what you did. I thank her
for recognizing the work andsharing it with me.
As a public school teacher she never made alot of money but she
quietly paid for the dental work for classroom assistants. And as a woman figuring it out financially she shared the possibilities of teaching with Geraldine,
the school custodian, also figuring it out on her own. Geraldine
became a teacher at the very same school after ten years of night
school. My mom and Geraldine plotted in our home some evenings after
school. I thank them both for this vision of one woman supporting
another woman and breaking barriers.
My mother cried watching on television the civil rights struggle in
the deep south, and she was desperately sad that she had not gone in support and to
ride the buses. I watched her and as a child I felt both the despair
and the determination of the time. I thank her for sharing how close
injustice cuts us all.
These are just a few of my experiences growing up as my mother's
daughter. On Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday I remembered my mother. More.
More than I had remembered my mom for decades.
Obama remembered my mother in his inauguration speech. She was one of
the people in this country who is nameless but who contributed in
countless ways to overcome racism. I was very lucky to have been her daughter,
to have witnessed her love of humanity and her willingness to work for justice.
Healing comes in a variety of ways.
And it spreads.
Friday, January 9, 2009
In-between
I am in-between but don't want to talk about me. Here.
I wonder about this. The blog.
I want to write about civil rights and world peace in the
neighborhood ... instead i feel compelled to begin with
the space I am in or not in ... I am in-between.
I wonder about this. The blog.
I want to write about civil rights and world peace in the
neighborhood ... instead i feel compelled to begin with
the space I am in or not in ... I am in-between.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
the new
I want to get good at this. So good that I add photographs and talk about my dogs.
Easily. My dogs are watching me this morning. They want me to be good at this too.
Easily. My dogs are watching me this morning. They want me to be good at this too.
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