I’m at the dining room table in the afternoon, yet my eyes are glued to my daughter in the kitchen where she is quietly making fresh pasta. I don’t like cliches but I can’t get past “quiet determination.” What a workout; leveraging her body weight into the three magical ingredients to knead it, fold it, press it, roll it, cut it, and do it again. Go Girl!
.
ClaraJane making fresh pasta
.
Of course for Daddy, “Fresh Pasta Night” includes a heaping “side” of chicken (or however you say “Protein,” in a low, monosyllabic, grunt). It is simmering in a bubbling stew of onions, carrots, bell peppers, garlic and that magical Chef Paul Effect that surpasses a mere monosyllable.
.
CJ may have made the pasta, but she’s still fired up about the CHICKEN.
.
How I plated mine, not very intentionally:
My heavy handed dusting of parmesan obscures the subtleties of Paul’s lovely textures.
I’m not even a fan of watercress, but it was the perfect compliment to this rich cozy meal. I’m gulping down the scrumptious pairing and some is falling out my mouth. I catch my husband’s loving gaze and yell, “DON’T LOOK AT ME!”
.
And now, Chef’s plate:
.
A Chef’s Eye View
.
And there you have it, Auntie Lolo. A Wednesday night dinner with your brother.
But that we could fast forward to when we can all share with you once again I.R.L.
CJ delivers Peter Parker to the vet tech at PetMedic in Watertown MA.
.
I am a pet owner who just paid $130 to be told my cat is not, in fact, sick.
.
Parky Baby endures the car ride back home.
He’s just FAT.
.
I know how this happened.
On Thanksgiving this past year is when we sadly buried our most rambunctious, hilarious -if obnoxious- bunny, Boomsy.
Boomsy used to chase and nip and bully Peter Parker. Parker had to strategize carefully how he would get his R&R, and there was little of it to be had.
Now we are two months out; no dominant bunny, no problem. Also no exercise. It’s gotten so bad that instead of leaping gracefully up onto my lap (or *shoulder* god forbid), he just looks at me plaintively. Instead of jumping up shark-like to gobble a treat, he reaches his paw up and points to it, longingly.
.
Parker contemplates how the new cat toy feels fluttering against his BELLY while he just LIES there.
.
SMDH.
Dear Hubsand points out this cat is still imminently qualified to perform his chief duties: sprawling out on my lap, or chest, or foot of the bed.
With the Washington Monument in the background, President-elect Joe Biden with his wife Jill Biden and Vice President-elect Kamala Harris with her husband Doug Emhoff listen as Yolanda Adams sings “Hallelujah” during a COVID-19 memorial, with lights placed around the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, Tuesday, Jan. 19, 2021, in Washington. (AP Photo/Evan Vucci)
.
I was unprepared for such a display of dignity, class, caring, recognition, commemoration, grief, honor, hope, beauty… and determination.
Inspired by these words below here, on this day I signed up for an online meditation thing.
.
This person Dr. Amanda Kemp is someone whose black voice I’d like to tune to, and amplify when possible.
I get that this country was based on abduction, genocide, rape, religious hypocrisy and systemic violence against blacks, women and Native Americans.
And I get that I need to listen to nonwhite voices and amplify them when possible.
Also, when events of the world are stressful, I understand that *action* is the best form of self-care.
.
So I log on at 11am for this 15 minute action. We “hold space for transformation,” “get into our bodies,” “connect with breath,” and focus on an “intention that is aspirational and beyond the anxiety; a higher being to bring into yourself and your being.” Like “Love” or something.
We spend a few moments (90 seconds actually), focused and breathing together in light of the recent state of affairs what with our Nazi president inciting violent seditious insurrection. You know.
After giving space to our feelings (outrage, disgust, incredulity), we are then asked to share what more vulnerable feelings might lie underneath.
I notice that under my outrage is a sadness, grief and fear, because I also see myself in those repugnant, despicable hateful, disgusting, brainwashed tRump supporters. Like them I am also human and am capable of horrible violence, at least in spirit. I see their hate, and I feel hate. I see them wishing harm and doing harm, and I wish harm upon them.
Take this guy for example (real or not);
While there is debate as to whether this guy’s fatal heart attack was from tasing his own balls or just from what a hard-on he had for cosplaying “Nazi Militia” with his homies.
Either way, I find myself 100% fine with the fact that he died. And wishing *lots* more of them lost would have their lives during the insurrection. And fantasizing about lots more of them winning similar Darwin Awards. And I would be fine with the Capital Police blowing holes through as many of their heads as possible and not just the sole woman they did that to.
So there’s that. I ‘m not proud of these feelings. I am acknowledging them though. I know that violence is not the answer. And I have no wish to INCITE violence. But I see I have violence in my heart. It would be nice not to have it but I think first I need to understand that it is there.
Gee you think I need more meditation practice?
.
Lastly, I noticed that -while I am wrestling my inner demons- I am interconnected with a circle of people who are aspirational and working on bringing peace and healing into the world.
And they’re. ALL. WOMEN.
Every single last one of them.
ONLY women. NOT. ONE. MAN. Signed up for a 15 minute exercise in the interest of elevating consciousness and bringing about healing.
What a fucking bill of goods we’ve been sold in society; indoctrinating us with the notion that it is MEN who are wise, powerful and most qualified for leadership.
F#CK THAT NOISE.
Only a society with women and minorities represented in governance will have any chance at peace and equity.
circuskitchen 