Play- doh breakfast for you honey

The reason I have abandoned ship., 

I have an assumed identity here,
I thought this would free me, finally find solace, a confession place,

A place where I could air out the things I can't - am afraid - to tell, not just to my partner, but even to myself.
But even here, I found myself afraid to put it out there - that which truly goes on in my life..
Even here, I find I am afraid of being judged for my choices  (by whom?).
I was pregnant with what would have been our third child and I chose to have an abortion.  (I said it)
I have only two followers, I don't think they would have noticed my absence as they are established busy bloggers who have added me to a long list of followers..
So basically I don't have readers.Still, I could not bring myself to talk.
Not being able to talk about the craziness in my mind made blogging unappealing.
How come even here and under an assumed identity I can not feel free to talk about what I really am going through?
Is it really about being brave?
Or maybe some things are not meant to be "out there" ?
It was a clear choice not to have this baby, the circumstances of my life simply do not permit it.
And yet, being pregnant once again, I found myself going through a whirlpool of emotions I never expected.
Of course, it all hormones as we women are always told.
But whatever we may call it - I was the one going through it and it felt real enough to make me want to jump out the window at times.
Now, almost 3 month later. It is still not over.
My body,
My state of mind
seems altered inexplicably.
I can not covey one ounce of it to anyone around me.
How difficult it is for people - even the ones closest to me - to phantom even a little bit of an experience they are not going through at the very moment.
This is a fact that never ceases to amaze me. But I know it to be true.
I have a friend who has lost her young husband to cancer, and as much as I try to imagine what she must ly, obviously be going through, I know I can not know the half of it.
I know that as much as I want and I try to be in the shoes of those around me whom I love and would love to offer help, even all the best I can do, I will still stand secure and removed from their pain, simply because it is not mine to experience (thankfully).
I was not going to even try to convey the myriad of emotions I was going through, to any of the busy mothers I know and consider friends.
I did not want to dwell on any of these emotions with my beloved partner, who was going through the motions of this decision himself.  And living with an emotional lioness I have become while this is going on.
So what's the big deal?
I got pregnant -
I had an abortion.
Get over it for hell's sake will you?
I'm trying.
And there, I said it,
maybe I can get back to blogging after all
maybe it is worth it to find my voice,
It scares me - what I might find here
But maybe it is something I need to do
Because I am longing to write,
My fingers tickle as I read other people's blogs
And maybe fighting it is what's doing me more harm than good.
Maybe.

So simple creamed split pea soup and the joy - without being specific.

It rained cats and dogs again today, so I continued with my soups and made a creamed split pea soup.

If it's raining where you are, or cold at all, this is the easiest most comforting soup. 

It's ever so velvet-y and sweet and with some fresh bread and butter it's true happiness. 

But as much as I recommend it  have and already made it and yes, enjoyed it and will post the recipe. 

This post is really about how this food translates into soul moments. 

In this one particular day of my life it is about asking myself, not at the end of the day (when it's too late), but throughout, if possible, at any given moment. What kind of 'you' am I being with my  Georgia and my Wylder and my Daniel today?

As it has not been easy around here lately, and the pressure does not seem to be about to relent anytime soon. It has been all too easy to fall into a pattern of being agitated, inattentive and with a growing desire exit through the front door,

and  not come back.

Yes, it's been  a pressure cooker lately and I'm naturally inclined to claustrophobia anyway. 

So I made creamed split pea soup and I thought that compared to all the soups I had made lately this was the easiest one.I did premeditate on it in advance because I craved it and because the peas require 2-3 hours to soak in water, but that's the only 'hitch' about this recipe, I promise. 

I do find, and this happens every time, that once I start translating a simple impulse to make something into instructions, they seem endless, as does the ingredient list. 

But just think of it this way,

it's just some vegetables (whatever you have, really) simmered in good oil for 10 minutes. 

then you throw in the soaked peas and 5 cups of water and that's it.

Keep this in mind when you read my instructions bellow and you'll be enjoying your soup in no time. 

And look at this now, don't you want to eat it?

  . 

She found the joy

it wasn't premeditated

there was no sign of its arrival in advance

in the real time experience of things she has learned

that whatever she planned, or hoped for, was sure not to happen. 

it must be in the art of surprise. 

the fickle art of  how not hope for what she hoped for?

how not to think, or imagine, or worst of all, yearn..../

this is what she found out:

as she had been disillusioned - many a time

as she had been disappointed- many a time

and now had lost her patience to a point numbness. 

she may not have been aware of this, but finally she had

let go, 

was floating.

In this unknown abyss

she had to relax her the soul muscles. 

take a truly deep breath 

(an art in its own right)

and then, and only then

when completely unprepared

without a thought of any kind

in the depth of sleep

it came upon her. 

unexpectedly. 

A warmth

enveloping her sleeping self. 

a sweet breath. 

a soothing touch and 

all her defenses 

fancy armor

fences of "touch me nots"

melted away 

just like that 

her conscious self

absent

and then

A blossom,

a shy bloom of a rare kind

to be known only by the touch of he who attends to her all year round

all day every day

who has and who holds

the moments

of the years

known in this twosome

her knight

in shining armor

her love

 Recipe for creamy split pea soup. 

21/2 dry cups of soaked split peas (before soaked in water)

4 cups of broth (chicken is my choice)

1 Tbls Miso dissolved in 1 cup water(or just another cup of liquid - water is fine)

1 medium onion. 

3 cloves of garlic

3 leeks, (optional) if big two will do. 

2 carrots. 

4 celery stalks. 

3-4 strips of bacon, or 5 Tbls of olive oil if you must.

1  tsp of dry or fresh Thyme

salt and pepper to taste. 

allow the bacon to render its lovely fat

throw in the vegetables and cook for 10 minutes, 

Don't let the veggies cook through, you want to leave them recognizable and bite-able. 

Add the peas the chicken broth and Miso water. 

Add Thyme and some salt, add more later and also the pepper in the end.

Allow to come to a light boil. 

Then turn down the stove and allow to simmer covered for 1:30- 2 hours.

When done mash the peas and vegetables with a hand electronic mixer. 

I do it very carefully when soup is still hot cause I can't wait to have some. 

If you are using a blender you will have to wait for the soup to cool down. 

when ready to serve drizzle some good Extra Virgin Olive oil. 

And don't forget fresh country bread and butter.

Now, and this is completely optional. 

while cooking it is recommended to have a glass of wine in hand (red or white - up to you). 

And for main course, 

A wonderful  home made lasagna, the epic preparation of which will be on my next post. 

Because this was one of those fun dishes that eveyone wanted to be involved in.

So the soup is really an appetizer if you will, 

But there's a long interval between the two courses (even a day). 

and for desert, cake is coming. . .

Pancakes for breakfast - good coffee, but no cake.

This morning started with buttermilk pancakes. Georgia and Wylder requested them as soon as they opened their eyes.

It is our favorite pancake recipe and if I ever try to vary from it,  even a bit (I attempted to introduce an oatmeal pancake recipe from the lovely Orangette lately), everybody complained fiercely.
I highly recommend giving this recipe a try, especially if you have kids,
Georgia and Wylder are the mixers and tasters.  As we stand crowded over the bowl they dip their fingers in the sugar, and try out the batter many, many times before it hits the griddle. So if you like it's a family affair. 
Recipe adapted from David Rosengarten. enjoy!
 Best ever Buttermilk Pancakes. 

Dry ingredients:
11/4 cup all purpose flour.
1/4tsp baking soda
1/4tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt

Wet ingredients.
In the pancake pan, melt 3 Tbls of butter (even let it burn a little, smells so good) and set aside.
In a bowl whisk together.
1 large egg
11/4 cup of buttermilk.
2Tbls sugar.
1tsp Vanilla
add the melted butter while whisking.

Now add dry ingredients, once brought together let sit for 5 minutes before scooping onto the hot griddle.
I usually use 1/3 cup size measuring cup as a scoop, this makes  for medium size pancakes. .
Although they are made with butter we always smear on more before we drizzle the honey.
Yes, honey. myself I'm a maple syrup girl, but for some reason (Daniel) everybody else takes honey on their pancakes - not me. . . .

If I have any batter left over(I usually do) I make them all and warp in aluminum foil to keep in the refrigerator.
They can be warmed up in the toaster anytime, up to a week later,  and they taste fresh and delicious.

For lunch it was simple chicken soup.

I had made it two days ago and am still enjoying it, as such soups get better a few days in. 

I added Cannellini beans while I was warming up a portion for myself today. I love their rich creamy texture and it went very well with the soup. There aren't too many soup justifying days in LA so I'm making the most out of what little winter we got here before the heat strikes yet again.

Chicken soup is always a soul comforting food for me as well as supposedly being a very nutritious food choice. 

Shortly afterward it was a perfect cup of coffee to that carried me through the afternoon. Sometimes I think I enjoy the choice of cup and the way it looks next to my computer, more than the coffee itself. I leave it on the desk a long time afterward just for the whiff of atmosphere it exudes.

I am trying hard to abstain from baking something this afternoon, as we still have some oatmeal muffins left, and no one in this household is as keen on baked goods as myself. 

I always feel that cooking of any sort needs justification beyond just me and I don't want to over feed my family members especially not with cakes and muffins.  That said, I need to bake, or at least cook something very soon and it will probably be on my next post if not tonight.
A good cup of coffee in the afternoon is always a mini celebration though, even without cake. 
You might have noticed it's been mainly soups lately,
and no lovely sex to report either.
Yes, it's not just the lack of cake, but funny things go together.
There has been nothing sweet about our financial woes lately and these have not brought on a romantic mood.
Daniel has had to take on a job that he hates and while I'm hoping that some of our designs will be ready for a Baby show in Las Vegas next year (and that we'll be able to afford making them) Right now things are dire.
But things can change in an instant sometimes. It starts with something small and then before you know it there's hope and joy and sweet things too.
Next time you're here, if you see a cake . . . .
This is Mrs. Butterfly and Mr. Caterpillar made by Georgia this afternoon.

Soul search in Barley soup and oatmeal muffins?

Today, required soul food and these are the foods that warmed me up from the inside.
I got the idea for Barley and beef (Ram steak in this case) from a wonderful blog called Feeding My Enthusiasm.
When I saw the picture of that soup I felt like something deep and forgotten from my childhood was unearthed and needed to be attended to.immediately. I had completely forgotten about barley and boy how I missed it.
The next day the soup was made and the flavor was better than the childhood memory.
The muffins were baking in the over while the soup was cooking on the stove and this place smelled like where I wanted to be. I added frozen Okra to my soup and used bacon to rendered fat to soften the vegetables instead of olive oil or canola oil, I know, I'm terrible, but I'll take bacon fat over the others any time. I also added parsip to the suggested celery, carrot, and mushrooms.
So you see, it was not even up to me, I was attacked by an urge to cook from beyond and was surprised to find out how soothing and healing it was to obey, eat to my satisfaction, and be calm.






She was not there,
Who was?
She could not be sure, but it wasn't herself.
It had been too long. The person she had come to identify as herself had changed and she did not know how to make friends with this new one, new what?
She missed some quiet, she had no patience, too often, she found no joy, but then, where did she want to be?
As the days wore on she learned to make it through, it took changing every single thought in her routine of thought.
No wonder she had become someone else, but staying away from the deep end depended on it. After a while there was no going back, the tracks had been erased, she had no desire to find them anyway.
In the new world, there was no use for the old ways.
She had to face it, all of it, all the time - reality
it never went stops, what with its multitude shades of gray.
New layers of it kept unfolding and there was no averting what was exposed, staring as it was - right in the face,
It was too much, for anybody, really, . . . so she had to numb it out - called "detach."
Detach, what an ugly word, but necessary, she kept practicing.
What to do?
Where was the inner voice that was suppose to know ?
It is said; if you look inside, fearlessly, relentlessly, unabashedly, you will find a new meaning, a new peace.
She tried, it wasn't there, really.
"Always, the non believer, . . . why should anything miraculous happen to you?
But she needed a miracle, so desperately. . . .
To feel her body floating up in the air in meditation. . .or something of the sort, it's all in the mind, why couldn't it happen?
just that feeling, for once, of having overcome her daemons?
So true to her nature she kept trying, because if nothing else she had always been a per-severer.
What was it that had the controls over her soul?
No, don't say it. It is to much to comprehend that it all boils down to chemical imbalances. .. that all she was came down to matter over soul any time any day.
Soul being merely the thing that trapped her inside this body.
Make yourself a cup of feel good tea and drink up, cause it ain't gonna get any better than this.
Yet, only earlier that very day she was so high on cloud nine.
And even as she was walking on that cloud she was aware, too aware of being in an ever so happy moment.
And what was going through her mind?!!!!!! here it is: "How long before the fall?"
Yes, that's what she was thinking!
She should have slapped herself right there in the middle of the step she was taking in the middle of that sidewalk she was walking, in the middle of the day she was living.
She took a picture.
A mental picture; one foot in the air, holding hands with her two children, one on the left, one on the right - a moment - her moment.
Her existence in that split second so palpable, she could taste it - the taste of newness, of delicious hope.
And all the while her mind contemplating the end of the step, the fall.
What was it, this way of thought robbing her of that protective innocence which was the very thing defining who she used to be?
Having lost it, how could she hope to be in the moment?

Yes, she knew the answer all along, still, she now had to survive it.


Now, now, . . . A phase, just a phase, . . . it'll be alright, it'll be OK,

"I am a child of the light,
I am loved by the light,
I am born into the light,
I am sustained by the light,
I am protected by the light,
I am surrounded by the light,
I am born anew into the light every moment of the day.
Amen!"







to be specific without being specific

Assorted bean soup for a rainy day in LA and some thoughts about love (making)

Although she does not go to school Georgia has registered herself (by demand) to an afternoon "home work club." A program run by the city in our neighborhood park which allows kids to get help with homework after school.
Georgia, as I have mention before, is going through a Pokemon stage and that, for now, is the main incentive for going (so she could exchange 'valuables' with the other collecting club mates).
Of course, she is supposed to finish her assignment of work first.
Assignment being; writing a chapter of her own book.
For now her title is "A 7 year old journal." She has written quite a few very cute chapters that left us in awe, but as soon as we put it out there that she should write a chapter every time she goes to "Home Work Club" it wasn't interesting anymore.
That's how it works with Georgia.
Still, as I sit here and try to figure out what is most on my mind (besides food) to put down today, I can't help envy the ease with witch Georgia's pure and unencumbered psyche comes up with themes. True, her themes are a little underdeveloped and straightforward, but that is the enviable quality I so strive to achieve.
A 7 year old chapter (re the Horrid Henry one, Georgia's favorite book at the moment )can astonish with it's straightforward ease of flow, not to mention the incredible drawings that accompany some of the pages.
Call me crazy, but how do I achieve that?
Well, as an overloaded adult the only true writing comes from becoming a master editor. Yes, sadly good writing is good editing.





Being a person of accumulated memory and experience, I find my mind takes me on whimsical journeys of a sort that take me by surprise. It is my task to make sense of them and to put them down coherently.
Last night I found myself in my Grandfather and Grandmother's fruit tree garden (yes, like the Garden of Eden, exactly!). My grandparents had every fruit tree you could imagine in their yard, Including a huge Avocado and pecan tree. Looking back I can't believe the assortment of fruits they had. I don't recall my Grandpa, or Grandma doing anything special besides watering in order to get their trees to yield all that delicious fruit: There was plums (yellow and purple) pomegranate, clementines, small red berries of a sort unknown here, which my grandma would use to make preserves and another exotic fruit I have not seen here, kumquat and orange. When the grand kids came for holiday visits we were all over the trees picking and eating straight off the trees. My parents lived in a city apartment and so this (my grandparents' house) was the house of my childhood. Also the house were I spent my army years and lost my virginity when I moved to live with them at 19. Yes, I was a virgin until then.
Last night I was in that balcony on the second floor, the little guest quarters where I spent that time of my youth. I could smell the plum blossom and I saw the view of that little neighborhood on the outskirts of the big city, with the triangular roofs and electric lines and TV antennas, I saw myself sitting on the cold marble, leaning against the iron rail (which I could smell clearly as well), in that state of young pining I had forgotten all about. It is my acute memory of scent that had brought back the plum blossom beneath me as i sat there. In my reminiscent state of mind I remembered the smell of the air on that hot summer night and I remembered the way my youthful mind entertained the excitement in reliving secret moments of love from the night before (oh, if my grandfather found out!).
That house has been demolished for many years now, a big rich monster built instead by the new owner who purchased the land from the feuding siblings - the ones who were the beloved aunts and uncles of my childhood.
How ugly it all became since, have I?
I hope not. It is another life though, could easily be someone else's. The girl that I once was, so far from me now and when my brain brings her back so vividly, so alive, when I literally smell her thoughts - a lump forms in my throat. I just want to hug her, like I never did when she was me. And she needed a hug - from me.
What up? I asked my brain at the end of the day.
It was last night's love making that brought it on.
Stolen moments of closeness with Daniel after Georgia and Wylder finally fell asleep.
Some nights, it's suddenly different. Magically, a moment of connection that hankers back to something the mind didn't know it remembered.
And I know I could write a whole book about her, she whom I once was. Looking back and having the advantage of knowing - it turned out pretty interesting - her life did - for her.
This however, and without undermining the beauty, is mine.




Assorted bean soup for a rainy day in LA.
2 cups of assorted beans soaked over night.
5 strips of bacon.
1 healthy looking onion,
2 big carrots chopped.
4 celery stalks chopped.
1 fresh fennel chopped.
1 can of roasted tomatoes,
or 4 freshly cubed tomatoes. ( I dont' bothrer blanching and peeling if I use fresh)
4 cups of soup stock of your choice.
1 tspoon of cumin seeds,
1 tsp fennel seeds,
3 sprigs of fresh herbs, preferably thyme.
sea salt,
Malabar pepper.
Lots of parsley for garnish and nourishment. Mint is good too.
To make.
In a very big pot let the bacon yeild it's wonderful fat over high heat.
throw in vegetables and let soften, but don't thoroughly cook.
add herbs.
Wash and clean the soaked beans and pour into the pot.
Add the tomatoes, and cook for 5 minutes,
Add soup stock and salt and pepper.
Bring to light simmer partially cover (leave the crack in the lid so it doesn't over boil)
Cook on low heat for 11/2 - 2 hours,
Check to see desired texture.
When ready to serve drizzle olive oil and sprinkle parsley.
YOu can also puree part of the soup and pour it back to the pot for added thickness.
Daniel and I have been enjoying this soup 3 days now
It keeps getting better:-)
Enjoy!

Olive oil Muffins.

So today, Sunday morning,
Georgia, Wylder and myself and I finally made those Olive Oil Muffins I found on Smitten Kitchen and have been conspiring to make ever since.
I have to admit, this sort of baked good is really my thing and no one else in this house hold shares my enthusiasm for bran and olive and other heavy baked goods of the sort
Kids will be kids, and Daniel whose favorite cake (which has now officially become his traditional birthday cake) is an almond and custard filled Gateau Basque, did not understand the charm of these muffins.
Now, having said this, it occurred to me that chocolate would be a great way to give these a perk.
Indeed, Georgia and Wilder, were all over them as soon Nutella was added..
To me the nutty chocolate-y Nutella only enhanced the flavors of the olive oil and citrus. Everybody was happy.
Well almost everybody, Daniel remained unsold on the idea. "Where do I fit in a craving for such a muffin. Is it breakfast? afternoon? dinner?"
I say all of the above, because (and not that I recommend this on a regular basis,) Georgia and Wilder are stuffed after having one of these satisfying muffins. Dinner will be served much later tonight.
Here's to lazy Sunday afternoons in the kitchen.
And then, to watching the sunset from the bedroom window.

What did she want after all?

Breakfast.











She took him in.
A decision based on the way of his smell.
It was a scent she had never known in a man. Clean, but not from soap. The scent of his sweat staying buried in his dark armpits, irrupting from the depth of his movements surprisingly sharp yet enticing, pure, clean, innocent - of him.
It made her go back to a time when she played doctor with the boy next door.
Of hidden places in the back yard, the musty smell of wet earth in places that remain shaded. Could he be that boy ?
With him, she sensed his awareness to the warmth that almost attacked him as soon as he entered.
Hers was a shrine of personal collections, soft and rough in a contour of throbs that came and went.
Watching the moment form outside herself she felt that overwhelming wave that seemed to begin in her inner muscles and spread out in circular motions all the way to her heart.
The slightest of touch was enough to transport her into his existence, 180 degrees from her own. It made made for another wave of circular muscle emotion wash over her.
His, being unaware of anything besides the focused physicality of the flesh.
Completely engulfed in the totality of the now.
Always watchful she had grown old with herself, time and time again. Bored with her inability to participate.
He was in her protectiveness now.
All hers to keep warm and safe from the hurtful world - of course, that was her job.
She couldn't help thinking it, feeling it, as hard as she tried to resist, the maternal instinct.
Close to her breast she was too aware of her nipples contracting hard enough to hurt.
She couldn't suppress the thought of milk, of holding a baby boy, this warmth - unearthing a connection despite what should be an alienating difference. This, which sucked the marrow out of her woman's soul time and time again.
This knowing, that came with cradling an entity so different from her own - a man's.
She touched the taut soft skin of his arms, shoulders, back, his movement inside of her so determined, guided by a force beyond them, unstoppable, programmed sometime so long before now.
His face buried in that place between her shoulder and neck. The scent of his hair taking her to the balcony of her youth, to that hot summer night with the blossom of the plum tree mingling with the the new scents of a night after which everything would change forever.
A young girl yearnings for the love in a life ahead of her not knowing that the seeds of change had been planted already. From withing this watchful observation she was almost there again, experiencing her young self, allowed a precious peek into her long forgotten innocence, what it felt like to be untouched by the maligning nagging of a more experienced self. A self that never turns off, a constant noise that cannot be shut down. Why was it that she needed to be outside of herself to be inside of herself?
He would never bother to be so interested in going back into past moments. No, how pathetic, what purpose would that serve?
But she wanted him to look into her eyes right now, if only for a moment. It was she living this moment, even it was a repeating moment in time.
If he did, , , , had he looked in her eyes - the moment would freeze.
The scents, the memories would crack like icicles.
Would fall off and pierce her heart.
She wouldn't like it.
She would avert her eyes and turn cold.
She would die.


So what did she want?