A Resolution

 can you imagine how different your life would have turned out if...you had heard the thoughts of those you encountered, particularly those who made life choices because of your life choices?

 and if that young woman, or young man, who "broke your heart" could have heard your thoughts, and read the intentions of your heart, would she, or he, have made the same choices? 

 cause and effect, like the cue ball angling toward the eight ball, heading for disaster, could be diverted by the precious thoughts of all there, at that time, at that place. but not in this world. but surely, in the next. but we are not there now.

 which brings me to the crux of the matter. how often have you re-visited that former friend, that former love, that former enemy and, in an attempt to find closure and peace, interacted as compassionate adults to uncover the panoramic view of that encounter? 

 as you age, you may find it healthier to go there, even if some of the participants do not join. is it not better to be free from unforgiveness, free from confusion, and free from guilt? we would do well to be disciples of peace rather than avengers of justice in the matter. better is a crust of bread shared in peace than a lavish table with enmity. 

 in theatre i used to challenge my acting students by placing them in the "park bench" scenario, an improv exercise where they were thrown, at a moment's notice, like life, into a situation where they were stuck on a park bench with one or more total strangers, each carrying his or her baggage and worldview. they were given very basic character premises, like one wandering through life, and then asked to respond. the exercise proved a character builder, an exercise in life, and an active seminar in dealing with people...not to mention a great exercise in honing acting skills...

 bringing together, either in person, on the phone, or online, "characters" from your past, you could also be engaging in "park bench." forced to face each other after years, separated by time, if there were walls between before, there should be no walls now. The past is not the present, if the present is staring in your face. i encourage you to move forward by recapturing the actors in the past in a scenario that could lead to understanding and peace, and resolution. life, this side of the veil, is indeed, too fleeting to leave without peace.

 

An expensive proposition

 Some of us need to have a yard sale, a garage sale, or a porch sale...a definitive downsizing...to know what is in the house. And, to find out where that receipt went, the one we need to take back...with that non-functioning blood pressure cuff to Walgreens. The cuff I don't even need.

Super stressed at one point, yer man can have symptoms of high blood pressure. If a doctor continues to take your blood pressure, like a worried grouchy father, you can almost guarantee it won't go be going down...as long as your sitting there spending a hundred fifty dollars just to sit in one of their rooms.

We are told to go in for a six-month checkup. For wellness. Whoever came up with that excuse had popsicles for brains because there's no good reason for it. The only one benefiting from it is the one benefiting from the money I paid them to have them ask me what is wrong. If I am going in for my wellness check, why is there something wrong?

It is a never-stopping merry-go-round, this thing they call "healthcare." We, the people, have to endure an industry that prescribes medicines with side effects that make you sick, that make you dizzy, lower your blood pressure, raise your blood pressure, make your face twitch, give you rashes, and interact with everything else you are on.

And, of course, the pharmacy texts you to demand you get a refill. A refill you may not need. Or want. When did the pharmacist suddenly try to take over my life? This is not good.

Last night, as I went to take a prescription my doctor told me I would need to take the rest of my life, I noticed that there were side effects that read like my morning waking up. Side effects I do not need. Nor does my body. 

I won't be taking that tonight before bed. If the side effect is worse than the condition, I think we have a problem. There are too many of these 'I think we have a problem" issues to continue to be that rat in the maze anymore. I am done with flippant diagnoses. I have passed the point of advocating for my health, I am taking it into my hands.

The best wellness is the one where your life includes a philosophy that is less stressful, a more naturally healthy life, without so many chemicals floating around in your body. My next doctor will be the one who adheres to that philosophy, not the one trying to control people's lives.

Escaping the Executions

in a high-rise apartment, 6500 miles from Tehran, Merat, a Persian man in his late 20s, closed the draperies to darken the room. he glanced at the closed door, and leaned forward...

"I went to army...but I served army just for fifty days."

my other friend, another Persian, motioned him to continue.

"There was regulation in Iran that when you finish high school...or after the university...then you have to serve in army corps two years. I finished. It was the beginning of the revolution.

I was a secretary. One day, the general came to our base and reported to us that the next day is our time to go to the street and shoot the revolutionary people. Those people were making riots, breaking glass. We were supposed to warn them, then separate them so we could shoot them. And I just couldn't do that. I never even shot an animal before.

Some people liked the Shah...and they would kill. Many people committed suicide, they could not shoot the people. I chose to escape.

I bought very fast, expensive car two days before. I drove to the mountains near Tehran, but not too far. I changed my clothes, buried my army clothes.

I cut the fence to escape and the guards saw me and warned me to stop. In the army they only shoot after the third warning. The guards warned me again when I finished cutting through it. I got up and started to run. The guards, they were young and didn't want to shoot anybody.

I ran, and walked, about eight miles. (Unfortunately), I had army haircut, so everybody would know I was a soldier...so I went to a shop and bought a wig. 

I drove home. My father kept me in hiding for two months. Then, one day, I went, with my wig on, to downtown Tehran.

I was walking and I saw a bunch of revolutionaries rioting. My fellow soldiers were there....ninety of them who used to sleep in the same place as I did...and they were shooting the revolutionaries. None of those people had the same faces, all of them were sad, some were crying and shooting.

You could not find a square foot of wall not painted with slogans like Death to the Shah, or Welcome Khomeini. In Tehran, two million people came from the villages into the city because Khomeini promised them everything, 'I will give you free house and free food, and free this and free that.' So, everyone who was hungry came to Tehran. Khomeini promised "In six months, I'm going to make this country like a garden." Many people were Leftists, and they were trying to get rid of the Shah, and with the force of Khomeini, they thought they could. They thought they could get rid of Khomeini too, but he liked the position.

When Khomeini came and the Shah left, everything was mixed up, nobody had records of anything. So, I was able to get a passport and have all my papers work out."

He took some papers out of a drawer. One document had a list from the religious courts banning Mr. Nadir from studying in a school because he was Bahai, not Muslim. The other document contained the names of many executed for their religious beliefs. There were several detailing mass executions, all done on the grounds of "not being a Muslim following Sharia law."

Forty years later, this interview I did as an undergrad, once presented to a writing class, no longer sits neglected in a file labelled "Historical Accounts." For this history has come full circle, as Israel and the United States attempt to cause the removal of that revolutionary regime, the one the Leftists could not control...

my nature preserve

 There are few things more titillating than a biodiverse nature preserve with a rippling creek, stones, and enough flora and fauna to bring on a sense of euphoria. One can find respite in a cozy little corner of the world, where solitude will heal the stress of your modern-age merry-go-round lifestyle. Even if that place is...in very own back yard.

And why not? Why frame a nature preserve, a slice of peace in a world gone mad, in the middle of nowhere...when it can be in your own 60 x 80 lot? Beyond the 40 x 60 with your domicile and detached garage, there's plenty of room left over for carving out a wild kingdom. 

Why mow the lawn when your back yard can be a botanist's wet dream, complete with every strange species of flowering and non-flowering plant available from the most bizarre of your local garden centers? Why wax poetic with just wood betony and feverfew? Add a healthy dose of Amazonia, Patagonia, and the far reaches of the globe with a variety of various banana plants, some frilly ferns, and brilliant flowers sure to enliven your neighborhood. 

Be the hit of your block by acquiring worldwide treasures with varieties of heather and gorse, Scottish thistles, and Japanese holly. And if you have enough room, why not add a Redwood in the middle of the back yard? It will give you and your descendants hundreds of years of enjoyment, and a deep sense of historical significance. 

Be sure to add a fringe of rhododendrons, azaleas, and flowering laurel, creating your own natural boundary lines. These will help prevent your wildlife from becoming invasive species in someone else's yard. Species that will provide hours of rapturous entertainment are your goal, so why not add a family of ferrets, a Scottish Terrier, and a fishpond? After a year of drought, you can turn that mini-pond into a very useful compost area to add your stray limbs, leaves, and rotten cantaloupe...all while enjoying the benefits of a government-sanctioned nature preserve.

So why not act while the time is ripe...while the flowers are blooming...while the birds are still singing...and before your Yard Nazis invade your poor pathetic lawn with their unprofessional and unconstitutional regulations your grandfathers would have fought a war over to repeal? Spring is here, and summer is coming on, and you must gather your flora and fauna now...before it is too late. 

second adolescence

second adolescence

you're crushed, like in high school...

sophomore year sitting in the back of class

shorter than anyone else

you lose your attention span

birds fly by the window to where you would go

you...beyond this room, beyond this interlude.

but your history...a senior in Latin class

the last one they ever had there

sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt

the words echoing in a narrow hallway

like a structure for the weary mind

or a recitation of your phone number

your mother made you repeat it 

until that lingering uneasiness left your soul...

you...who wandered aimlessly through adolescence.

you're crushed, like in a dusty old book

sitting alone in the crisp breeze at a picnic table

more silent than anyone else

more alone in this connected world

the children chattering like squirrels playing

you...waiting for the coming ice cream

a second adolescence has descended

and your mind is wandering aimlessly again.

Turkey and Noodles in an Apple Broth

 

There are few culinary disappointments like a turkey and noodle dinner that is about as tasteless as a cardboard box. The trick to making a turkey breast taste wonderful is what you cook it in and what you marry it to. In this case we are going to marry the turkey and noodles with a sweet future, one that will bring you memories even after the meal- the ceremony- is a distant dream. To do that, you will need specific ingredients:

1/2 pound of Inn Maid Noodles (egg noodles, preferably German or eastern European style)

54 ounces of Turkey Broth (2 cans of Walnut Creek Foods Turkey or Chicken Broth)

1 pound of turkey breast (1/4 pound meat per person)

2-3 cups of Simply Apple Juice (an Apple cider is even better). Just make sure it is not a processed, light apple juice which won't do for this

1/4 pound Kerrygold Butter

4 cloves of garlic

Ground peppercorns

Tarragon (1 tablespoon dried, 2 sprigs fresh)

Thyme and Rosemary to taste

Large saucepan, large pot to boil noodles and cook finished meal, large cooking fork to use with the turkey, large spoon for cooking noodles and finished product, serrated knife for cutting turkey breast, butter knife

This recipe serves four people 

In a large saucepan, place the turkey breast, apple juice or cider, ground peppercorns and tarragon. Place a lid on the pan and cook at a low-to-medium heat. Test it to see if it is done by taking a serrated knife and large fork and cutting through the meat to make sure nothing is pink. When the turkey breast appears cooked, set it aside. 

At the same time, or later if you have just one source of flame to cook over, in a large pot heat up your 54 ounces turkey or chicken broth until lightly boiling. Then, add the noodles and the "broth" (formed from the apple juice/cider and turkey cooking) in the saucepan. Cover and cook. Since all flames vary as far as how fast they cook an item, check occasionally. Add the rosemary and cut up cloves of garlic when it looks like the noodles are almost ready. The best thing to do, is to check the taste or appearance of the noodles. If they taste done, turn off the heat. Keep the lid on the pan and let the flavors steep for about 5-10 minutes. 

When the noodles have finished cooking, add thyme to taste if desired. I like to use thyme if it is fresh from my garden. Add the butter or add it in in individual bowls. Serve hot and fresh!

 

When life is kind of clunky

 I've a friend who just broke her elbow. She's getting on in years- into the Silver category. Not aged enough for "Gold," which usually involves a leakage issue, but leakage depends on several things.

Aging leads to a life of being clunky. Gravity seems to be taking more interest in our limbs, often taking pot-shots from our formerly favorite pieces of furniture...

Take the hall tree, for example. They're deadly. Now some of you won't even know what I am talking about, but your hall tree is a wooden or metal instrument standing in your way, or about to fall over and pin you to the floor. I would know, they fall more regularly than vending machines...

....and we know just how deadly they are. Between 2008 and 2021, statistics indicate that 36,600 people went to the emergency room because of an accident related to a vending machine, most from a machine falling over on them. (National Electronic Injury Surveillance System statistics)

But back to the dreaded hall tree. According to the US Consumer Product Safety Commission, 20-30 people die every year from falling furniture. And those are just the most unfortunate. Over 20,000 people are injured, on average, every year in an incident related to furniture. I was one of them back in February, when an industrial-age metal lampstand took my foot (and job) out of commission for weeks. 

While I have searched for answers explaining why my older friends experience an increasingly sense of gravity's revenge, there seems to be no one in the medical profession who can make a positive correlation between a sense of increasing gravity and aging. 

Frankly, I think we are just not there in science, nor medicine. We have no 21st century Newton, expanding our knowledge on the basics of living on a spinning blue planet. An 80's wall philosopher, feeling some angst, postulated it this way...."There is no gravity. The earth sucks."

  

 

Silent Censorship

 Someone working at X tried to label this blog as "spam." 

Have I tried to sell swamp land in Florida to my readers from Singapore, China, and Indonesia? Or, is it someone who thinks free speech is a dangerous thing?

Maybe Elon needs to go back to X to straighten things out and let "Big Balls" and the rest of the crew at DOGE keep up the good work.

makes you wonder....how dangerous is free speech?

The taste of grace

It is a dangerous place to be if we think we are better than everyone else, if we think we have arrived at some spiritual point that we will never slip up, or if we think we belong to Jesus' own denomination and the others are incorrect. Such arrogance will lead those of such thinking straight into Hell. 

While the Bible does call the elect "saints," those who are sanctified through Christ, we have little to do with our being viewed that way. It is our submission to God, through repentance, that puts us into a state where we can be viewed as being "saints." It is The Christ who is the sole one who has made us appear saints in His eyes. You or I cannot work our way into a state of sainthood, of holiness, no matter how hard we try. Who can lead a godly life? Who can be above sin through the length of their lives? Can a monk, who shuts his mouth through a day and night, but may covet a piece of bread, thereby sinning? Or a nun, who denies the flesh, denies her emotions, and lives as if she is following a rote-by-numbers life? Without a close relationship- as the created with the creator, no nun can achieve a Christ-like state of bliss.

There was a time long ago when I read everything I could find written by a peculiar Catholic monk who seemed to have his head on straighter than anyone I had ever known. I was a bookish lad, surrounded by my grandparents' eclectic library, and had been exposed to the Latin Mass, contemporary mass, and several protestant interpretations of Christianity. I poured over Seeds of Contemplation, and "the contemplative life." I plowed through books written for a much more experienced audience, in an effort to find answers to the questions my mind asked late at night. 

But even as I gained answers, more questions came until I found solace in that mystery of mysteries, the actual Bible. No longer content to pursue the way of the monks (including persuading my mother to regularly purchase Monk's Bread that came from a monastery in Vermont), I found the Bible more Irish, in that some of it, you just settled on confirming that what you did not know would be a mystery until you passed beyond the veil to the real alternative to Tir Na N'Og, to eternal life. I learned to accept what might be vaguely Catholic in my answers, as if the deep questions were sometimes too much of "an ecumenical matter."

But coloration...whether denominational, cultural, or existential, faded as I read and studied the actual Bible and gave up concentrating on a particular shade of worldview. There was, within the actual text, a distinct worldview, not quite matching anyone's denominational take, nor a philosophy championed by a particular scholar. The text was the foundation, woven more intricately than a Solzhenitsyn novel, or moody like a Chekhov story, it had such emotion contained in deep, engrossing sentences and paragraphs. 

A student's lifelong search might be to understand the full meaning of "Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." It is, in my humble opinion, so deep, I have spent decades searching the depth of that well, while still finding more meaning beyond what I knew previously. And that is one sliver of the sweet cake contained in the New Testament alone. 

It is with a heart knowing I am only one of billions created, whom God has still chosen to love and forgive, that is humbling. How can one be full of pride realizing that truth? Grace, undeserved mercy, is humbling when you know you have not lived up to holiness. 

There is only one holy Creator, and everywhere I look, I see His artwork. In the faces He has created. In the eyes and smiles of strangers. In the world around. And while some is certainly a mystery, I know the taste of grace. It is unmistakable. It is what brings me to my knees. It is what blows away every haughty thought, every haughty answer. It is at the core of a life I hope will please my maker forever. I have not yet passed to a glorified state, that place where we will know eternity and the One we will call Father. But one day...we will know, as we are already known...

a run-on sentence to the brain

 they say truculence

 is the opposite of sagacity,

 as wisdom is the opposite

 of petulant foolishness.

 a storm of words no man can tame

 is a run-on sentence in the brain.

 when one coward feigns confidence

 tis our duty to expose this countenance

 as his crippling, rippling-down drudgery

 brings waves and waves of criminality.

 this storm of words no man can tame

 is a run-on sentence in the brain.

 fields and fields of skeletal remains

 spread under drone-filled cloudy skies

 the ruminations of senseless spirits

 the ruminations of too many lies.

 this storm of words no man can tame

 is a run-on sentence to the brain.

 

 

 

 

 

Charleston Waterfront

Your man has been busy wandering around the streets of Charleston, South Carolina, while you were off watching the rest of the world. I am sorry the local connectivity has feigned an allergy to my phone, leaving me wordless this past week. I have provided a more visual picture for you to explain the beauties of the Charleston waterfront. 

The Battery...walking along the edge of land and water...

rows of antebellum mansions...

like this pink house facing the waterfront...

and this pink rose along a wrought iron fence in the front gardens...

and strange, gnarled trees spread across the waterfront parks...

with a view of the bay...

and the Atlantic Ocean...

love is a many freckled thing

 Like an epiphany of unexpected grace,

I find much beauty in a lovely, freckled face.

She may be Russian, she may be French,

she may live in a glen, or near a stone bench.

A work of art the master defines,

she may be a princess in one of our minds-

For I am not ashamed, I’ll freely admit,

I’d rather look at freckles, than freely submit

to a life with no spots, to a life with no form,

or no interesting patch of freckled decorum.

so far I will travel, so far will I roam

and hunt for the elusive, even far from my home,

But one day I’ll find her, and one day she’ll find me

the spotted, lovely lass for our home by the sea.

So if you don’t mind, friend, if you don’t care,

I’ll hang out my shingle, for one who looks fair.

The Preacher Hall of Shame

 Back in the day...when I was an undergrad...back when I had to stay up late finishing a hand-pecked, typewritten paper...my housemates and I would stuff our stomachs with bowls of Chicken Soup, down a few bottles of Double Cola, and play a steady diet of never-ending radio preachers to give us stamina to finish the job. 

We'd set up our typewriters on the dining room table- sometimes two or three of us- and ride the caffeine cola buzz as we spit out each painful page while entertaining our boredom with the likes of the Reverand Ike and lesser-known characters like Doctor Cross and "Rosie-velt Franklin, the Original Georgia Prophet."  

Between a maddening number of trips to the toilet and the blessings of Double Cola, we wrestled paragraphs out of our heightened memories, usually ignoring the "service in progress" on the radio. It was only at "break times" did most of us listen more than a few minutes. 

But the sequence of prosperity preachers, spiritualists, and downright wackos gave us comedic episodes in between our essays on Stoicism, Summerhill, and The Egyptian Book of the Dead. 

The Reverand Ike, who we knew from Fred G. Sanford, featured testimonies that usually included a woman in Harlem "getting a brand new pink Cadillac." Ike's show would go to "the service already in progress" a few minutes after the introduction, which was pure comedic genius, and became fodder for a series of late-night jokes.

Before midnight, Ike and the better-known radio programs ruled the airwaves before giving way to "Rosie-velt Franklin, the Original Georgia Prophet." Sure, there were other preachers, but Roosevelt, he was the greatest of all. "Remember, I'm the Original Georgia Prophet."

From midnight on, the "Preacher Hall of Shame" went into overkill, with Doctor Cross, who could "fix it, or unfix it for you." He talked about a woman throwing "goofah dust" on you. This "spiritualist" sounded more like a Voodoo practitioner than anyone who had darkened the door of a church building, let alone a seminary (or "cemetery," as we students used to call it).

The later it got, the stranger the preachers, the more deviant from any shade of Christian syncretism they proposed. The preaching became so non-sensical that it sounded more like bad actors trying to sell electrical healing units to Amish people than anything anyone sane would listen to and believe. But since our college town had a group of Hare Krishnas two streets away (Hare Ramen) and a couple of well-developed cults, we laughed off these crazy preachers rather than find them harmful. If we could scare off the Hare Krishnas, these wackos were juvenile in comparison. 

But the truth is that these preachers became wealthy enough to have churches and programs that enriched them, and they became more manipulative, when not just individuals, but the masses fell for their tricks. 

The world is full of strange and irrational preachers on every existing form of media, and while they are so simple I ignore them, there are too many out there who can fall for their age-old tricks, as long as there is one who doesn't know reality, one who doesn't know the truth, one who doesn't know The One these preachers should have been preaching about from the beginning. 

Mind The Gap

 

Running around metro Dublin... on the train, off the train. Mind the Gap. To the tram, off the tram. Tap on, tap off. Mind the Gap. A week later and the message to mind the gap between the platform and the door opening tumbled around in my brain till the message stuck in my head like a locked laundry door. 

Every time you get off the train and must stretch over the gap to get to the platform, you leave where you were and head to where you're going. that gap between the train and the platform is serious. one wrong step, and you've hurt yourself. or, like the large gap at Tara Station, in Dublin, it can be so wide, you're hopping out, jumping across the gap.

We go about our lives daily, oblivious to the danger. How many times have we missed a disaster? 

It is easy to do something stupid...like break your toe running into a heavy lampstand. Unfortunately, inertia and gravity effect the best of us, and like the lady who complained that she had "fallen and I can't get up," it happens to the young, the old, and the in-between. I would know...I am that feckin' eejit who managed to run into a heavy lampstand.

I did not "mind the lampstand." I did not follow "safety first." I should have, like minding the gap, stopped and looked at what was in front of me. It is times like these that remind us that there is nothing so important that we need to forget what situation we are in...to get somewhere fast. 

And while there are situations that require quick thinking, it is instructive to remind ourselves that flying around like a seagull on steroids is not the best way to live life. 

I had forgotten the message from Irish Rail...Mind the Gap. I shall not...hopefully, forget again. Pray you step over the metal lampstand. 

short tan and teddy

 I was born a poor white boy- it went downhill from there. I was the shortest dude in third grade- I had to stand at the back of the line because the teacher had us line up according to height. That was my first sign someone was bulking up on the Miracle Grow. 

In fourth grade I found out I was “white.” Someone called Felipe Lopez “brown,” and I questioned why they did that. The pale kid with the missing tooth said, “Because you’re white, man.” I never knew that. I went to look in the mirror and I swore I couldn’t figure out what in the world he was talking about. I grabbed a Crayola, but there wasn't one crayon, even the factory-reject tan one, that came close to my skin color. 

Enter the age of Puberty. My Puberty Bowl problems were bigger than the Crayola box. The taller, gangly-looking guys, uglier than sin, were the object of intense giggling from the females in class. You could be too tall and have a zit the size of Montana, and some buxom blonde thought you were a "hunk." I was never tall, except to my stuffed animals, and kids that still drooled. Rarely did being short have its advantages, except when trying to hide from bullies. 

As I passed into adolescence, things did not seem to improve. Some of the girls started showing some shape, but I was not keeping pace with the boys who got their attention. I could still crawl under the school desk. I was a bigger hit with the teachers, who enjoyed my adolescent naivety, when I did my Carnac the Magnificent (Johnny Carson) impressions, with little understanding of what made them so funny to an adult man.

Then, one day, after doing the voices of Richard Nixon, Jimmy Stewart,  and Ed McMahon, I told the latest Carnac line to a shocked Math teacher, some tall boys, and some cute girls. That math teacher ordered me into the hallway and gave me a lecture that seemed to last all afternoon. I was banned from stand-up comedy...and even sit-down comedy. He took away my only talent for getting the girls to notice me. I left class feeling about a foot high...

...because I was told to go upstairs to the office of the weirdest woman I ever met. She asked me ludicrous, insane questions. I determined that my teachers had ended up getting me in trouble instead of implicating themselves. Frankly, the psych woman was so off her rocker that I left her office feeling like I had just met the most unstable woman in the world.

Well, I won't do that again.

That did not stop me from telling jokes or doing impressions, just not around the teachers. I found out I could be myself and the female race would actually pay attention. As I aged, and grew facial hair, a few found me "teddy-bear like" enough to want to be my girlfriend, and even hug and kiss. You're the cutest little teddy bear in the whole wide world...

So eventually I gave up trying to be tall, dark, and handsome, and settled for short, tan, and teddy. I did not grow up to be the most handsome man in the world, but thank God, I did grow up to be cuddly.  

Ginger Curry Chicken

Chicken can be bland, even boring. One way to maximize the flavor of chicken is to pair it with spices and herbs- in that order. Garlic, ginger, french tarragon, mushrooms, butter, curry powder all contribute to this dish to make it a tasty meal. The recipe below serves two people, or as I like to say, three people with the appetite of a small bird.

1 pound of chicken

Three or four mushrooms

fresh ginger root

 French tarragon

fresh cilantro

fresh parsley

1/2 cup plain whole milk yogurt

2 scallions

Broccoli

olive oil

butter

3 cloves of garlic

black pepper

curry powder

rosemary

Large sauce or frying pan

knife

fork

In a large pan, usually used for preparing a meal over a stove or fire, drizzle olive oil in the pan. Wash chicken pieces and place in the pan. Cut up three cloves of garlic, a large piece of ginger, 2 scallions, small pieces of broccoli, and three or four mushrooms. Place in pan around chicken pieces. Cut up cilantro (and parsley if desired) and add black pepper, rosemary (to taste) and curry powder and place on top of the ingredients. Cover with lid and heat on low to medium level flame, so as to keep from burning the chicken. Let cook about 15 minutes, then add 1/2 cup plain whole milk yogurt, and spoon in more curry powder with that yogurt. Cook about 20-25 minutes on low heat, checking to see when finished. With a knife and fork check your chicken a few times to make sure the chicken is cooked and not overdone. Overcooked chicken is your enemy as much as making sure it is cooked and tender. When finished, dish out on plates and add a generous amount of butter to top each meal. Bon appetite!

                                                                                                                                          

 

Forgotten Places

 

Deep in the folds of the foothills, a window of America is in decay. The last remnants are metal, concrete, and stone. All the wooden buildings, wooden siding, door handles, and slate roofs lay downstream from the present. 

Along the backroads, even the edges are decaying...rusting road signs, rusting pipelines, rusting oil wells...

...and abandoned gravestones, missing heads and bodies, like the characters they commemorate, buried beyond history.

This is a window into a rural America that tells a tale of death and rebirth...the disappearance of a community, and the advancement of young growth...twisted, wiry trees in a bottom land along a creek bank...

the streets missing, the houses missing, the people missing...

their memory fading with the signs...

The majority of this town along Dye's Fork disappeared with the 1913 flood, washing away hopes and dreams. The rest of the town died when the Pauls, Raceys, and Blackburns began inhabiting the two cemeteries, rather than the village, and culminated when a coal company bought the land around the general store. Finally, in 1972, that store closed. The structure collapsed in on itself, and only a skeletal bridge, a historical sign (that has faded), and part of a stone wall survive.

This town, Renrock, Ohio, reflects the story of many rural towns in the hills of Ohio, passing from a time when pioneers settled, through natural disasters, and into oblivion, aided by death, real estate agents, and the passage of time.

There are many Renrocks in this country. It is my intention to discover many of these forgotten places, to unearth their history, and showcase  their remains as warmer weather comes to the edge of Appalachia.

Join me in the coming months as we explore forgotten places in Appalachia and the Midwest.

Egg and Avocado Burritos

In this new improved world we live in, we have a better understanding of the necessity of supplying our bodies with good fats to maintain a healthy body. I have added a recipe to feature some of the finer fats and eggs to make a "light" dinner.

Daithi's Egg and Avocado Burritos

Ingredients:

Three soft-boiled eggs or three scrambled eggs in butter

One Avocado

Pico De Gallo

Butter

Black Pepper

Dill Weed

French Tarragon or Cilantro

Dona Maria's Napolitos

Queso Blanco

Two tortillas

Medium or large frying pan or saucepan

Spatula

Knife, Spoon

In a pot of water, boil the eggs about 6 minutes. In a small bowl, mash the eggs and add ground black pepper to taste, with a pinch of french tarragon (or cilantro), and a few sprigs of fresh dill weed.

Or, in a medium sized frying pan/saucepan, scramble three eggs in butter, ground black pepper, a teaspoon of french tarragon (or cilantro), and a few sprigs of fresh dill weed. 

Put the egg mixture aside on a warm plate. Slice the avocado in half, and remove the seed. Spoon out, or remove with a knife, all of the avocado and place it on the same warm plate, or bowl, as the eggs. Add a tablespoon of napolitos (cactus) and stir the mixture. Extract two tortillas from a package, and place them on another plate.

Put the egg-avocado mixture into the tortilla, add desired pico de gallo, and shredded or cut queso blanco to taste. In the frying pan or saucepan, add enough butter to saute the burritos. Wrap the ingredients into a blanket-like burrito and put carefully into the pan. Turn the flame on low and saute them. Using a spatula, press down on the burritos as they cook. Flip each burrito over once each side is colored, but not brown. When each side is colored- 5 minutes or so, turn off the flame, and remove the burritos from the pan to a plate. Enjoy!