Cruising “the Beast” from a ranch in Texas, to another ranch in Texas, towards the East Coast, dipping low into the Southern tip of Florida, where it resided in a dysfunctional relationship-- where a healthy appetite does not thrive-- and finally make a pit stop on the West coast of Florida, in Marco Island, where it was successfully roasted and then finished its’ journey back to good ole’ Fort Lauderdale. “The Beast,” as my formerly-vegetarian sister lovingly calls it, is the grass-fed all natural lamb shoulder that my father cautiously wrapped up in ice before sending me and the unassuming lamb into “the Real World,” on a two day road-trip, turning the pages of life towards a new chapter.
Eventually becoming more of a burden than pleasure, the frozen ‘beast’ and I fought tooth and nail, effectively leaving a two-year relationship, that ended with a sweaty mess of closet organizers in the lobby of the posh condo my former boyfriend and I had been living in. And as my belongings slid humiliatingly across the marble floors, the only thing that had remained in my arms was, “the Beast.” So she and I gathered the ice packs, left the crap I didn’t need, and peeled out in my Passat. Only to realize that the “charming little studio,” I had just moved to, did not have a freezer big enough for my little lamb.
Embarking on all new adventures: new job, new car, new friends, a new studio for us to live in; an altogether new life. It was me and my cooler of lamb, and yes, we are living in Fort Lauderdale, Florida—Spring Break central.
The only caveat was not only did my “charming little studio” not have a freezer or fridge large enough for ‘the Beast,’ but it also didn’t have an oven large enough to cook it in—nor had my gas been turned on yet. So night after night, I rubbed the beast down with some spices and olive oil. Never really sure if it was ever going to get cooked, but after several nights of the ‘Kobe beef rubbing’—I like to call it—the lamb and I were packed, once again, on a roadtrip, this time to a little island in the Gulf to visit my niece.
Three or so hours intot he roasting process, which was appropriately taking place in a sea-foam green and pink ‘80s’ decorated apartment, I had my niece turn the oven off, as the adults were out at the bar. Only to stumble home to a perfectly tender, juicy slab of meat, waiting to be accompanied.
After the weekend had passed, I took my half of ‘the Beast’ back to my side f the state, and after a day of deadlines—the paper was released to the press, and I returned to that ‘charming little studio’ and yet once again—it was me and ‘the Beast.’ Accompanied by microwavable ‘dirty rice,’ I devoured juicy chunks of lamb as the fat comforted my frail body and the flavors soothed my loud mouth, and the lamb fell apart, delicately swimming in a bowl of rice. The mellow taste and smooth texture softened the spicy rice, and with a beer, it all went down smoothly.
Now, while writing about my new friend, ‘the beast,’ I am finding a close similarity to a bedtime story I read to my youngest niece this weekend. Reading Shel Silverstein’s words, I notice my supply of lamb slowly diminishing in the fridge, but like “The Giving Tree,” the lamb’s spirit is sure to live on.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Meredith had a little lamb, it’s fleece was white as sand, and everywhere that Mere went, her lamb was sure to go…
Sunday, June 15, 2008
If you are what you eat: Then I’m a Daddy’s girl.
“More. More. More!” Were the first words that spat out of my mouth in between slobbery bites of corn on the cob. I was a toddler, in the process of teething, nonetheless still using my first front tooth to break into the buttery kernels of Wisconsin corn.
Ten years later, my father and I went head to head in a corn eating competition. The lack of teeth as a toddler never held me back, and neither did my braces as I finished thirty-three ears of corn—to beat my father’s thirty-two. Ranking as the youngest corn eating champion (of the family).
No one can deny my love of food. Despite my high metabolism and tendency to eat healthy foods, I will eat ANYTHING. Probably because, as I child—I had no choice.
I remember being in fifth grade, and my father was going through a phase of cooking spicy Mexican rice dishes. They were probably incredible; some with sausage, others with chicken, all I really remember though was my anxiety. I did not like my father’s cooking at the time, and stopped eating the large portions that I typically eat. What bothered me most was my worry that perhaps, I may be a “picky eater!” I pulled my Mother aside one evening, confiding in her my worries, and she assured me that it was just a phase that I was going through. And indeed it was, as I resumed my normal eating habits within the year when we moved to Texas, where BBQ became my staple.
The reason I was so concerned about my possible “picky” propensity, was because my father had instilled in me a love of food. Not just for the food itself, but for the process, whether it be cooking in the kitchen with my Dad, or going to the fish market to pick out dinner, as he would shove slabs of raw fish in my face forcing me to learn what fresh fish should smell like. Never have I flinched at my father’s appreciation of food. Instead I have stood by his side, in admiration and awe, as I learned bits and pieces about cooking along the way. He and I once made a Turducken—from scratch. My bony arms shaking to pull the tweed rope through the flesh of a turkey to sew up a turkey stuffed with a chicken and a duck. That was the last year we ever made our own, nonetheless the memories will always be with me.
After moving to Texas, we advanced from our eighties minivan, and bought a real pick-up truck. We were officially Texans. Despite my Father’s busy schedule at the Chicago Board of Trade, he still made every weekend an adventure. Once, my mother was visiting her family in East Texas, so he loaded my sister and I into the truck, and drove us across the state to meet her. Along the way, he stopped at EVERY farm stand that sold melons. I sat in the backseat with a Swiss Army knife, newspaper piled on the leather, and every kind of melon you could ever imagine, slicing up hunks for us to try. The melon was still warm from sitting in the warm Texas sun, which also produced a strong aroma in the pick-up truck, covering us in seeds as my sticky fingers were getting tangled in my hair.
Not only has my Father provided me with endless memories of food exploration, he has also been my guiding light. In the kitchen and in life, whether it is a recipe for veal piccata or relationship advice, he has always selflessly offered any and all of his resources to those around him.
And with some short memories of my Dad’s adventures with food and in life, I would like to thank all fathers'. Thank you for the inspiration in the kitchen, thank you for instilling high morale, and thank you for motivation, the motivation that makes one achieve ones goals on a daily basis.
In honor of my father, I spent the day eating, cooking, and filling my “memory book,” as these are some of the greatest moments we spend together. In parting, I will leave with one more memory. One that provided me with great joy and hope-- even to this day.
Waking at dawn when I was seven years old, my father hustled me out of the house. He had me help arrange a bag of goodies, and as we quietly left the family sleeping, we jogged all the way to the middle of the Northwestern campus (maybe I was being pushed in the jogging stroller- can’t remember). I trailed behind my father up a temporary hill of scraps that had grown over with itchy weeds. He sat me down, passing me a Ziploc bag leaking of orange juice, another of milk, and some cheerios that made up our breakfast. And as the sun rose over Lake Michigan that morning, I remember being filled with the simple kind of happiness that you can only have as a child, and with respect for my father, who was surprising me every day with seemingly innovative ideas about how to live ones life. I learned by example, and continue to learn everyday from him. As a Boston Marathon runner, David Clements has achieved a great number of accomplishments in his life, yet it is the memories of crawling up “Weed Mountain” for a picnic, that continue to teach me life’s greatest lessons.
While it took me four years of studying philosophy to clarify my thoughts on life, it took us a morning jog and a sunrise to discover life’s greatest goods: happiness and love. Thank you Dad for teaching me.
Ten years later, my father and I went head to head in a corn eating competition. The lack of teeth as a toddler never held me back, and neither did my braces as I finished thirty-three ears of corn—to beat my father’s thirty-two. Ranking as the youngest corn eating champion (of the family).
No one can deny my love of food. Despite my high metabolism and tendency to eat healthy foods, I will eat ANYTHING. Probably because, as I child—I had no choice.
I remember being in fifth grade, and my father was going through a phase of cooking spicy Mexican rice dishes. They were probably incredible; some with sausage, others with chicken, all I really remember though was my anxiety. I did not like my father’s cooking at the time, and stopped eating the large portions that I typically eat. What bothered me most was my worry that perhaps, I may be a “picky eater!” I pulled my Mother aside one evening, confiding in her my worries, and she assured me that it was just a phase that I was going through. And indeed it was, as I resumed my normal eating habits within the year when we moved to Texas, where BBQ became my staple.
The reason I was so concerned about my possible “picky” propensity, was because my father had instilled in me a love of food. Not just for the food itself, but for the process, whether it be cooking in the kitchen with my Dad, or going to the fish market to pick out dinner, as he would shove slabs of raw fish in my face forcing me to learn what fresh fish should smell like. Never have I flinched at my father’s appreciation of food. Instead I have stood by his side, in admiration and awe, as I learned bits and pieces about cooking along the way. He and I once made a Turducken—from scratch. My bony arms shaking to pull the tweed rope through the flesh of a turkey to sew up a turkey stuffed with a chicken and a duck. That was the last year we ever made our own, nonetheless the memories will always be with me.
After moving to Texas, we advanced from our eighties minivan, and bought a real pick-up truck. We were officially Texans. Despite my Father’s busy schedule at the Chicago Board of Trade, he still made every weekend an adventure. Once, my mother was visiting her family in East Texas, so he loaded my sister and I into the truck, and drove us across the state to meet her. Along the way, he stopped at EVERY farm stand that sold melons. I sat in the backseat with a Swiss Army knife, newspaper piled on the leather, and every kind of melon you could ever imagine, slicing up hunks for us to try. The melon was still warm from sitting in the warm Texas sun, which also produced a strong aroma in the pick-up truck, covering us in seeds as my sticky fingers were getting tangled in my hair.
Not only has my Father provided me with endless memories of food exploration, he has also been my guiding light. In the kitchen and in life, whether it is a recipe for veal piccata or relationship advice, he has always selflessly offered any and all of his resources to those around him.
And with some short memories of my Dad’s adventures with food and in life, I would like to thank all fathers'. Thank you for the inspiration in the kitchen, thank you for instilling high morale, and thank you for motivation, the motivation that makes one achieve ones goals on a daily basis.
In honor of my father, I spent the day eating, cooking, and filling my “memory book,” as these are some of the greatest moments we spend together. In parting, I will leave with one more memory. One that provided me with great joy and hope-- even to this day.
Waking at dawn when I was seven years old, my father hustled me out of the house. He had me help arrange a bag of goodies, and as we quietly left the family sleeping, we jogged all the way to the middle of the Northwestern campus (maybe I was being pushed in the jogging stroller- can’t remember). I trailed behind my father up a temporary hill of scraps that had grown over with itchy weeds. He sat me down, passing me a Ziploc bag leaking of orange juice, another of milk, and some cheerios that made up our breakfast. And as the sun rose over Lake Michigan that morning, I remember being filled with the simple kind of happiness that you can only have as a child, and with respect for my father, who was surprising me every day with seemingly innovative ideas about how to live ones life. I learned by example, and continue to learn everyday from him. As a Boston Marathon runner, David Clements has achieved a great number of accomplishments in his life, yet it is the memories of crawling up “Weed Mountain” for a picnic, that continue to teach me life’s greatest lessons.
While it took me four years of studying philosophy to clarify my thoughts on life, it took us a morning jog and a sunrise to discover life’s greatest goods: happiness and love. Thank you Dad for teaching me.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Messy Mussel Sunday
Sitting at our high-top dinner table, with wine coated fingers flinging potent drops of mussel juice about the table; he said, “We love making a mess, don’t we!?” And for once, my not-so-articulate boyfriend had said the words to properly sum up our cooking adventures.
Yet another Sunday evening food adventure, resulting in kitchen catastrophe. Two pounds of mussels and half a pound of grouper in the fridge, and with an interview looming on my mind, I was looking for anything to distract me. Thus, what led me to a number of websites searching for an authentic moules Mariniere recipe.
Never having been able to successfully make mussels and pomme frites that tasted anything close to the paper baskets that filled my hands while in France, I attempted another try. I’m embarrassed at how surprisingly easy it is to achieve the true flavors. The secret and key ingredient to this recipe, which is considered to be a blue-collared dish in France, is shallots. We had a few rotting in the back of the fridge, a quick clean-up adding two garlic cloves and a chop through the Cuisinart, the mixture was added to melting butter that soon turned in to a fragrantly steaming pot of heaven. I knew that I had done something right, continuing with the addition of about half a bottle of wine, bringing to a boil, tossing in the mussels, another splash of wine on top and closing my pot of cold mussels. Meanwhile mixing my garlic and butter in the Cuisinart for yet another loaf of garlic bread, this one a bit more traditional and simple than last weeks, and keeping my fingers crossed that the ingredients were welding together in a fury of white wine steam. Keeping my paws busy elsewhere- I turned around to the most delightful surprise on my stove! I didn’t think that such simple steps could yield such beauty, however when I saw the shells opened wide, exposing the delicately swollen and plump mussels, I knew that finally, I had done something right. Mentioning this because the fear of failure that evidently looms in the atmosphere of a testing kitchen, when other options for dinner are not readily available- rather unexplainable to an unhappy boyfriend—is a consequence that I sometimes face. But, with my fathers words in mind, “you can’t go wrong with butter and garlic,” I continued in confidence.
Using a slotted spoon to drain the mussels out of the pot, keeping the heat on, in order to plop two nice pieces of grouper in the mussel broth. These too, were steamed and puckered up when ready to be eaten. Placing the fish on top of the bowl of mussels, pouring the entire pan of wine broth, steaming that heavenly scent, signaling that dinner was served. By now, my garlic bread was just about to burn- I always seem to catch it close! Tearing the hot loaf into three hunks and inserting them around the edges of the bowl, their tips sitting in the broth, soaking up the juices. Now, had I had the ingredient, adding handfuls of freshly chopped Italian flat parsley along the way, had made for not only a colorful splash, but also a tasty addition. Having lacked that, I have to say that it was just fine without.
Ten steamy minutes later, our table was a mess, and with one look in to the kitchen, Chris made his comment. Making a mess in a relationship may be inevitable, but making it together in our kitchen has only made us stronger- and our bellies more satisfied!
Yet another Sunday evening food adventure, resulting in kitchen catastrophe. Two pounds of mussels and half a pound of grouper in the fridge, and with an interview looming on my mind, I was looking for anything to distract me. Thus, what led me to a number of websites searching for an authentic moules Mariniere recipe.
Never having been able to successfully make mussels and pomme frites that tasted anything close to the paper baskets that filled my hands while in France, I attempted another try. I’m embarrassed at how surprisingly easy it is to achieve the true flavors. The secret and key ingredient to this recipe, which is considered to be a blue-collared dish in France, is shallots. We had a few rotting in the back of the fridge, a quick clean-up adding two garlic cloves and a chop through the Cuisinart, the mixture was added to melting butter that soon turned in to a fragrantly steaming pot of heaven. I knew that I had done something right, continuing with the addition of about half a bottle of wine, bringing to a boil, tossing in the mussels, another splash of wine on top and closing my pot of cold mussels. Meanwhile mixing my garlic and butter in the Cuisinart for yet another loaf of garlic bread, this one a bit more traditional and simple than last weeks, and keeping my fingers crossed that the ingredients were welding together in a fury of white wine steam. Keeping my paws busy elsewhere- I turned around to the most delightful surprise on my stove! I didn’t think that such simple steps could yield such beauty, however when I saw the shells opened wide, exposing the delicately swollen and plump mussels, I knew that finally, I had done something right. Mentioning this because the fear of failure that evidently looms in the atmosphere of a testing kitchen, when other options for dinner are not readily available- rather unexplainable to an unhappy boyfriend—is a consequence that I sometimes face. But, with my fathers words in mind, “you can’t go wrong with butter and garlic,” I continued in confidence.
Using a slotted spoon to drain the mussels out of the pot, keeping the heat on, in order to plop two nice pieces of grouper in the mussel broth. These too, were steamed and puckered up when ready to be eaten. Placing the fish on top of the bowl of mussels, pouring the entire pan of wine broth, steaming that heavenly scent, signaling that dinner was served. By now, my garlic bread was just about to burn- I always seem to catch it close! Tearing the hot loaf into three hunks and inserting them around the edges of the bowl, their tips sitting in the broth, soaking up the juices. Now, had I had the ingredient, adding handfuls of freshly chopped Italian flat parsley along the way, had made for not only a colorful splash, but also a tasty addition. Having lacked that, I have to say that it was just fine without.
Ten steamy minutes later, our table was a mess, and with one look in to the kitchen, Chris made his comment. Making a mess in a relationship may be inevitable, but making it together in our kitchen has only made us stronger- and our bellies more satisfied!
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Chrissy Omo and her Cheese Farm!
Exhausted after a flight from Miami in to Austin, and a long drive to my parents’ town in the hill country of Texas, they drove me straight to their precinct insisting that they get my vote in before the caucus was to close. After hours of unsuccessful chaos, a mouth-watering meal of pho the size of a fish tank, seared duck breast with plum sauce on an arugula salad, bottle of malbec, and a fiery plate of basil beef from August E’s- Fredericksburg’s hottest new restaurant- my body was ready to retire.
A refreshing sleep, only to be awoken by my sixty-one year old father, risen at sun-rise, ready to take “the day to its knees,” as he would say. Dressed in running gear, I realized that if I took half an hour getting ready, he would have already become too impatient and would have left for his run without me. Lucky for me, my strategy was achieved and when he came in sweating I sat satisfied in the kitchen, cup of coffee, filled with relaxation. That is—until I heard what was next on the agenda! I was to be picking up my boyfriend at the airport that afternoon, so when my father suggested that we all make the road trip together, and casually stop at a “goat cheese farm” along the way- I was a bit hesitant. Taken by surprise, I was simply happy to hear that the goat cheese part would be over before my boyfriend arrived- as he will have no part in anything to do with goat.
Another winding road trip through the hills of central Texas lead us to a farm where goats greeted us at the door of our car as opposed to dogs- like most homes. Alarmed at first, Chrissy simply implied that they wouldn’t hurt, and indeed you are encouraged to treat them as if they were pets. Chrissy is the young woman who practically runs the entire goat cheese farm- CKC Farms; everything from the milking to the churning, to the creations of flavors, gaining her skills from traveling in Italy.
I say young, because Chrissy is younger than me, and many of you know—I am only twenty-two years old. She and I hit it off as friendly young women would, and then suddenly a wisely mature young adult developed before my eyes. Her business goals, her gratefulness for her family, and willingness to work hard, were all qualities that are rare to find in a young woman. Sitting with a smile on my face, tasting her incredible samples- my favorite being the ash-coated chevre- I saw a woman who I not only admired, but also related to, and in that moment I felt incredibly comfortable in her warm aura of talent and confidence.
A refreshing sleep, only to be awoken by my sixty-one year old father, risen at sun-rise, ready to take “the day to its knees,” as he would say. Dressed in running gear, I realized that if I took half an hour getting ready, he would have already become too impatient and would have left for his run without me. Lucky for me, my strategy was achieved and when he came in sweating I sat satisfied in the kitchen, cup of coffee, filled with relaxation. That is—until I heard what was next on the agenda! I was to be picking up my boyfriend at the airport that afternoon, so when my father suggested that we all make the road trip together, and casually stop at a “goat cheese farm” along the way- I was a bit hesitant. Taken by surprise, I was simply happy to hear that the goat cheese part would be over before my boyfriend arrived- as he will have no part in anything to do with goat.
Another winding road trip through the hills of central Texas lead us to a farm where goats greeted us at the door of our car as opposed to dogs- like most homes. Alarmed at first, Chrissy simply implied that they wouldn’t hurt, and indeed you are encouraged to treat them as if they were pets. Chrissy is the young woman who practically runs the entire goat cheese farm- CKC Farms; everything from the milking to the churning, to the creations of flavors, gaining her skills from traveling in Italy.
I say young, because Chrissy is younger than me, and many of you know—I am only twenty-two years old. She and I hit it off as friendly young women would, and then suddenly a wisely mature young adult developed before my eyes. Her business goals, her gratefulness for her family, and willingness to work hard, were all qualities that are rare to find in a young woman. Sitting with a smile on my face, tasting her incredible samples- my favorite being the ash-coated chevre- I saw a woman who I not only admired, but also related to, and in that moment I felt incredibly comfortable in her warm aura of talent and confidence.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Taking a turn.
This is a story from my childhood- an instance in my life where I tasted hints of my passion for food. This passion soon blossomed into a full on love affair, never to cease.
Fritters for the Family
Every year my family and I would join the Lind family in a neighboring Chicago suburb for a Christmas Eve meal. The youngest children would run around this beautifully restored historic home chasing the dogs and knocking over vases, while the teenagers would be in the basement listening to music, playing pong-pong and probably coming up with some rascally scheme that usually resulted in getting themselves in trouble. While the house was bustling with pets and children everywhere, the parents would always be in the kitchen. There would be several bottles of wine circulating and the occasional cigar being passed between the men. For as long as I can remember, this is where I wanted to be. I didn't really know why, but I was fascinated by the noticeable transformation throughout the night. The raw ingredients would transform into delectable delights. The conversations and laughs would progressively get louder and louder as more vino was consumed. The kitchen would become smokier, dirtier, noisier – in a way – homier.
My father would often pick at the food that was cooking – always when it was too hot, and when it was cooled, he would sometimes slip a nibble to me, in a way similar to when kids sneak food under the table to the family dog. But if I were to go in for a bite by myself, my hand would get slapped in the same way one would smack the family dogs nose when it would leap up for food. My father would look at me and say, "Only the chefs get to taste the food." It was obvious to me at that point that I would become one of the many chefs in that warm magical kitchen.
So, one of those nights at around the age of maybe six I wanted to partake in the action. Mrs. Lind fastened an over-sized durable red and white striped apron on my fragile bony body, pulled my long brown straggly hair back out of my face, and my father and I began to formulate antipasti, which would eventually be named, with the aid of several glasses of wine, "artichoke fritters." I tossed the quartered artichokes through a light egg wash and coated them in a breading made of coarsely chopped stale baguette. My tiny fingers were more coated than my precious artichokes, but I didn't care. Dad and I tossed them in a hot oiled pan on the stove and let them sizzle away. My father has this way of parenting where he would get us started on something in life and then let us loose. For example, teaching us to ride a bike, he would make us feel so comfortable and trusting in him, while he sturdily got us going, and I swear – just as he got us going – he would say something to the extent of : "It's all you" or "Go get 'em." On occasion this method would be beneficial, however many times it would result as a massive crash into a huge bush with twigs in my hair and big "bees on my knees." So, like bike riding, he handed me two potholders that covered my entire forearms past my elbows, put me on a stool for a little height, and let go of the spatula, leaving me in charge of the fritters. While sautéing an artichoke may not seem like a big deal, it can be if your forehead barely skims the top of the stove. So with a big smile on my face, and excitement in my heart, I flipped and fried these little guys, dousing them with fresh lemon and eventually serving them up to the adults in the kitchen. This was when I noticed the true benefits to be reaped of working in the kitchen. I received tastes of wine, bits of titillating adult conversation, compliments of my cooking, and as many bites of artichoke fritters and other exciting appetizers as I wanted. Needless to say, sitting at the kid's table for the next ten years or so, was something I always tried to get out of!
Fritters for the Family
Every year my family and I would join the Lind family in a neighboring Chicago suburb for a Christmas Eve meal. The youngest children would run around this beautifully restored historic home chasing the dogs and knocking over vases, while the teenagers would be in the basement listening to music, playing pong-pong and probably coming up with some rascally scheme that usually resulted in getting themselves in trouble. While the house was bustling with pets and children everywhere, the parents would always be in the kitchen. There would be several bottles of wine circulating and the occasional cigar being passed between the men. For as long as I can remember, this is where I wanted to be. I didn't really know why, but I was fascinated by the noticeable transformation throughout the night. The raw ingredients would transform into delectable delights. The conversations and laughs would progressively get louder and louder as more vino was consumed. The kitchen would become smokier, dirtier, noisier – in a way – homier.
My father would often pick at the food that was cooking – always when it was too hot, and when it was cooled, he would sometimes slip a nibble to me, in a way similar to when kids sneak food under the table to the family dog. But if I were to go in for a bite by myself, my hand would get slapped in the same way one would smack the family dogs nose when it would leap up for food. My father would look at me and say, "Only the chefs get to taste the food." It was obvious to me at that point that I would become one of the many chefs in that warm magical kitchen.
So, one of those nights at around the age of maybe six I wanted to partake in the action. Mrs. Lind fastened an over-sized durable red and white striped apron on my fragile bony body, pulled my long brown straggly hair back out of my face, and my father and I began to formulate antipasti, which would eventually be named, with the aid of several glasses of wine, "artichoke fritters." I tossed the quartered artichokes through a light egg wash and coated them in a breading made of coarsely chopped stale baguette. My tiny fingers were more coated than my precious artichokes, but I didn't care. Dad and I tossed them in a hot oiled pan on the stove and let them sizzle away. My father has this way of parenting where he would get us started on something in life and then let us loose. For example, teaching us to ride a bike, he would make us feel so comfortable and trusting in him, while he sturdily got us going, and I swear – just as he got us going – he would say something to the extent of : "It's all you" or "Go get 'em." On occasion this method would be beneficial, however many times it would result as a massive crash into a huge bush with twigs in my hair and big "bees on my knees." So, like bike riding, he handed me two potholders that covered my entire forearms past my elbows, put me on a stool for a little height, and let go of the spatula, leaving me in charge of the fritters. While sautéing an artichoke may not seem like a big deal, it can be if your forehead barely skims the top of the stove. So with a big smile on my face, and excitement in my heart, I flipped and fried these little guys, dousing them with fresh lemon and eventually serving them up to the adults in the kitchen. This was when I noticed the true benefits to be reaped of working in the kitchen. I received tastes of wine, bits of titillating adult conversation, compliments of my cooking, and as many bites of artichoke fritters and other exciting appetizers as I wanted. Needless to say, sitting at the kid's table for the next ten years or so, was something I always tried to get out of!
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Sunday, November 18, 2007
In Thanksgiving....
This began in Heathrow Airport, and I finally got back to it tonight....
Well, I did it. I did many things. I made it out of Africa safe and unharmed, I gained extra body parts from the carbohydrates and hydrogenated oils that consume an Africans diet, and I also put on one of the first fashion shows that Tanzanians have ever seen outside of television. It has been a journey that will always be held dearly in my heart, and will consume many thoughts of contemplation long after its days are completed. I have been struggling to find the words to sum up my experience. There are many more stories to share, however, perhaps they will not be shared right away. As there are many moments in life to pass along my experiences.
After a couple days of traveling through Nairobi, and after spending several hours perusing London’s duty free amusement park of goodies, and after many long uncomfortable flights, the words in order to articulate my trip are yet to come to me. Maybe it’s because the luxurious mani/pedi I received in Nairobi, or perhaps it is the hours of perfume testing I just endured that has killed many brain cells, whatever the case may be, it’s difficult to tap into what has just happened in the last two months. When exploring the memories, part of me feels robbed of the potential to make more memories. I think I really wish I could have stayed longer. The friendships I made seem as though they were stripped brutally off of me, because of my deadline for departure. I feel such strong emotions about this because I owe a lot of my success and happiness in Africa to the wonderful women I was able to work and live with. More particularly, to Clara my closest local friend, my ever incredible “pundas” who shared a room with me at the end of the trip, Gemma, Kate, and Bronwyn, a charming couple named Peter and Tara, and of course the strong willed, ever-determined women of KIWODEA. Without all of these influential people my experience in Africa would have been greatly altered. In looking back on the trip, I suppose, as I have just shown, that my first response to it is overall gratitude. I am overwhelmed with appreciation for the whole experience altogether. However, as with many things in life, this trip only came together in the unbelievable fashion that it did, due to the people who helped me achieve it in all ways from financially to just simply providing love, smiles, and inspiration. This trip has been so much about the people in ones life. I would like to carry on for pages of thanks to all the people for providing me with this experience, from the Goldfield’s for housing me for several nights in Nairobi, to people like Oliva and Catherine whose smiles, hand holding, and whines of emotion were reassuring to hear because it was the only language that we could all understand, and to most importantly- not that there is an order, but truly without them there is no possible way I would have endured such an incredible experience- my parents. Thank you for helping me go the whole way, for being my biggest admirers, for believing in me, and for enlisting such breathtaking motivation into me as you followed and pushed me with every step of the way.
Like many life formative experiences, I will be looking back on these months in Africa in great contemplation. I traveled to many destinations in East Africa while I was there, but in addition to the people I met along the way, and the travels that will forever fill my memory book, and the work I endured in hopes of improving lives, I think that what it all comes down to are the lessons I have learned.
They are not straightforward, more like simplistic observations. I learned from the Tanzanian children who would greet us daily outside of our compound and chase our cars, waving and smiling with their perfectly round symmetrical faces and tiny innocent hands extended by malnourished arms as their soft fingers extended love and adoration to those of us who extended ours in return. These pure hearts of virtuousness that is exhibited by the small ones of Tanzania taught me gratitude and compassion. My resistance to the snotty noses and impoverished living conditions taught me tolerance and adaptability. The bizarrely slow and frustrating way business is run in another country has taught me patience and forgiveness. Even when people on the same deadline and goals as me took days to get anything accomplished, I was forced to accept the way another culture gets things done. The incredibly bumpy roads, lack of transportation, and somewhat less than inhabitable living conditions, have given me perspective on the simple luxuries that our country possesses. The way that Tanzanians welcome you time and time again into their homes and hearts has helped me to open my heart to others and to myself. The fear that plagued my utter existence in the first weeks of gut-wrenching culture shock has taught me to not take myself so seriously. The ignorance I once possessed has now provided me with a welcoming heart.
In Africa or in any remote place of this sort, where there is plenty of time for your mind to wander and your heart to peruse its eternal existence, you learn a lot about yourself. Most importantly, you learn to be comfortable with yourself, I got glimpses of what it means to really truly love yourself. Walking in to the compound where I lived, it seemed as though an entire layer of skin was melting off of me. More like singeing off of me, because what I saw and felt was so painful. It was not the poverty of Africa, as one may think from that statement, it was the panic that suddenly crept up on me like a ghost in the night. I asked myself over and over again, “what was I thinking when I signed up to live with four women in a room smaller than a dormroom in Africa for two months without immediate communication to the outside world?” I was lonely and scared, the pain gripped my stomach into knots squeezing tears out of my eyes as my face lost all color. I panicked, I cried, and I kept asking myself “why,” as if someone or something had died. It was in the bathroom that night with my mind and spirit tangled in horrific fear, when I realized that I wasn’t there for myself. The communication with familiarity that I so longed for was no longer there, it was just me. I answered my questions, I remembered “why” I was there: I was there to volunteer. I was there to be there for others, to help others, and all I really had to offer was myself. So, with my mind, body, and spirit finally coordinating I pulled myself into my bunk bed having gathered one of the greatest lessons in life. Tucking my mosquito net in that first night, I realized that I was going to be ok, and that I was going to be able to help. And that’s exactly what I did. I helped others, and they helped me. And for one of the first times in my life, a fog began to lift, and I felt sound and stable, in my own body, in my own mind.
The last week that I was there was the accumulation of all my work at KIWODEA with the women. We successfully put on a “fashion show” in the dirt yard at the KIWODEA building. There was a donation made for the kids of a local orphanage to have clothes made for them by the women of KIWODEA. So, in order to provide awareness and support of these two organizations, I put together this little publicity event for them. The orphans modeled the clothes on a batik runway, with African drumming, the sun setting behind Kilimanjaro, and the neighborhood and volunteers all joined us in dancing, singing, drinking banana wine in celebration of the launch of the clothing lines. There was about 150 people there, the women were able to sell their goods, and they made local foods for all the guests. It was a blast, everyone laughed, danced, cried, and took lots of pictures- hopefully I can share some soon!
The last week of my time was filled with excitement, sadness, and remembrance. I wanted to soak in every detail. Never shying away from putting my head out of the window while cruising at high speeds through the hilly countryside of Africa. There was something so freeing about those moments. Taking in all the smells, the warm African sun, and the simple joys that surrounded my life. I realized while I was there, that a place so poverty stricken, doesn't have to be sad. In fact it probably- no definitely- possessed some of my happiest moments thus far in my life. You realize that while everyone is seemingly living in shambles, unable to afford the simple things that we as Americans tend to take advantage of. Rather, this is their life, with the exception of the occasional TV, the people who inhabit such beautifully ancient earth have become one with their surroundings. For those who do not dwell on the poverty, there is a life that exceeds it all
In the end I have come away with so much gratitude and so much growth. I would like to depart with one last story. This is a story about a man named Peter, and his wife Tara. Peter volunteered almost two years ago at an orphanage in Moshi. This particular orphanage, “Upendo” which means something to the extent of “love” in Swahili(they actually don’t have a word that directly translates to love in Kiswahili.) Well, Peter had an immediate connection with a little girl at the orphanage, then learned she had a twin sister, he took these girls in giving them the attention they needed. Side note- this particular orphanage is one of the more impoverished- the children there eat dirt because their bodies are so malnourished. Long story short, Peter called his wife back in the states, and proposed that they adopt the girls, who are about two years old named Sevorina and Senorina. One long grueling year later, about five trips to Africa, an expensive lawyer, and a lot of pain and happiness later, the judge has finally granted them the chance to take the girls home to the states! I met Peter on Tara the day of the fashion show because they had just flown in for the final hearing from the Moshi judge, and I had the twins modeling a line of clothing in the show. They helped me prepare for the event all day. Even helping me to bring all the rented chairs to the site. We didn’t have a car, so we stacked about four plastic chairs on our heads like the Africans do, and walked almost a mile in midday African sun in our conservative clothing, just like the people of the culture that we were living in. It was myself, and some of my closest friends, all women, all different ages, local and foreign—and Peter and Tara. In those trips back and forth with the chairs on our head Tara talked to me about how difficult the process has been to adopt the girls. They have been through hell and back with the process- Madonna not having helped it with her little stunt in Malawi. Peter was to stay longer than her to finalize the process, she is a pediatrician in North Carolina, and they have two boys at home. Learning from this strong couple, Tara told me of her Christmas wish. She described the vision she held of her Christmas present. It was of the twin girls getting off the flight with Peter holding their little hands, and herself waiting there with their two boys, and to finally have the family united in the holiday season.
It is this vision of a family finally being brought together in a happy loving home, that I have left with. My mother often tells me that there is no stronger love, than the love for your family. It may have taken me to fly across the planet to figure out some minor life lessons, but in these past few months I have come away with gratitude, growth, and most importantly love. Not just with the people of Africa. But, What it all comes down to is, I have fallen in love with the world. For now, this is my story. These are some of my stories, thank you for listening, and I invite you to love the way that I did. Some days its hard to remember these lessons, but as I bring myself back, I sit simply. Smiling to myself having been shown one of the greatest gifts in life. Thank you for all of you who have helped provide me with this experience. Thank you.
Well, I did it. I did many things. I made it out of Africa safe and unharmed, I gained extra body parts from the carbohydrates and hydrogenated oils that consume an Africans diet, and I also put on one of the first fashion shows that Tanzanians have ever seen outside of television. It has been a journey that will always be held dearly in my heart, and will consume many thoughts of contemplation long after its days are completed. I have been struggling to find the words to sum up my experience. There are many more stories to share, however, perhaps they will not be shared right away. As there are many moments in life to pass along my experiences.
After a couple days of traveling through Nairobi, and after spending several hours perusing London’s duty free amusement park of goodies, and after many long uncomfortable flights, the words in order to articulate my trip are yet to come to me. Maybe it’s because the luxurious mani/pedi I received in Nairobi, or perhaps it is the hours of perfume testing I just endured that has killed many brain cells, whatever the case may be, it’s difficult to tap into what has just happened in the last two months. When exploring the memories, part of me feels robbed of the potential to make more memories. I think I really wish I could have stayed longer. The friendships I made seem as though they were stripped brutally off of me, because of my deadline for departure. I feel such strong emotions about this because I owe a lot of my success and happiness in Africa to the wonderful women I was able to work and live with. More particularly, to Clara my closest local friend, my ever incredible “pundas” who shared a room with me at the end of the trip, Gemma, Kate, and Bronwyn, a charming couple named Peter and Tara, and of course the strong willed, ever-determined women of KIWODEA. Without all of these influential people my experience in Africa would have been greatly altered. In looking back on the trip, I suppose, as I have just shown, that my first response to it is overall gratitude. I am overwhelmed with appreciation for the whole experience altogether. However, as with many things in life, this trip only came together in the unbelievable fashion that it did, due to the people who helped me achieve it in all ways from financially to just simply providing love, smiles, and inspiration. This trip has been so much about the people in ones life. I would like to carry on for pages of thanks to all the people for providing me with this experience, from the Goldfield’s for housing me for several nights in Nairobi, to people like Oliva and Catherine whose smiles, hand holding, and whines of emotion were reassuring to hear because it was the only language that we could all understand, and to most importantly- not that there is an order, but truly without them there is no possible way I would have endured such an incredible experience- my parents. Thank you for helping me go the whole way, for being my biggest admirers, for believing in me, and for enlisting such breathtaking motivation into me as you followed and pushed me with every step of the way.
Like many life formative experiences, I will be looking back on these months in Africa in great contemplation. I traveled to many destinations in East Africa while I was there, but in addition to the people I met along the way, and the travels that will forever fill my memory book, and the work I endured in hopes of improving lives, I think that what it all comes down to are the lessons I have learned.
They are not straightforward, more like simplistic observations. I learned from the Tanzanian children who would greet us daily outside of our compound and chase our cars, waving and smiling with their perfectly round symmetrical faces and tiny innocent hands extended by malnourished arms as their soft fingers extended love and adoration to those of us who extended ours in return. These pure hearts of virtuousness that is exhibited by the small ones of Tanzania taught me gratitude and compassion. My resistance to the snotty noses and impoverished living conditions taught me tolerance and adaptability. The bizarrely slow and frustrating way business is run in another country has taught me patience and forgiveness. Even when people on the same deadline and goals as me took days to get anything accomplished, I was forced to accept the way another culture gets things done. The incredibly bumpy roads, lack of transportation, and somewhat less than inhabitable living conditions, have given me perspective on the simple luxuries that our country possesses. The way that Tanzanians welcome you time and time again into their homes and hearts has helped me to open my heart to others and to myself. The fear that plagued my utter existence in the first weeks of gut-wrenching culture shock has taught me to not take myself so seriously. The ignorance I once possessed has now provided me with a welcoming heart.
In Africa or in any remote place of this sort, where there is plenty of time for your mind to wander and your heart to peruse its eternal existence, you learn a lot about yourself. Most importantly, you learn to be comfortable with yourself, I got glimpses of what it means to really truly love yourself. Walking in to the compound where I lived, it seemed as though an entire layer of skin was melting off of me. More like singeing off of me, because what I saw and felt was so painful. It was not the poverty of Africa, as one may think from that statement, it was the panic that suddenly crept up on me like a ghost in the night. I asked myself over and over again, “what was I thinking when I signed up to live with four women in a room smaller than a dormroom in Africa for two months without immediate communication to the outside world?” I was lonely and scared, the pain gripped my stomach into knots squeezing tears out of my eyes as my face lost all color. I panicked, I cried, and I kept asking myself “why,” as if someone or something had died. It was in the bathroom that night with my mind and spirit tangled in horrific fear, when I realized that I wasn’t there for myself. The communication with familiarity that I so longed for was no longer there, it was just me. I answered my questions, I remembered “why” I was there: I was there to volunteer. I was there to be there for others, to help others, and all I really had to offer was myself. So, with my mind, body, and spirit finally coordinating I pulled myself into my bunk bed having gathered one of the greatest lessons in life. Tucking my mosquito net in that first night, I realized that I was going to be ok, and that I was going to be able to help. And that’s exactly what I did. I helped others, and they helped me. And for one of the first times in my life, a fog began to lift, and I felt sound and stable, in my own body, in my own mind.
The last week that I was there was the accumulation of all my work at KIWODEA with the women. We successfully put on a “fashion show” in the dirt yard at the KIWODEA building. There was a donation made for the kids of a local orphanage to have clothes made for them by the women of KIWODEA. So, in order to provide awareness and support of these two organizations, I put together this little publicity event for them. The orphans modeled the clothes on a batik runway, with African drumming, the sun setting behind Kilimanjaro, and the neighborhood and volunteers all joined us in dancing, singing, drinking banana wine in celebration of the launch of the clothing lines. There was about 150 people there, the women were able to sell their goods, and they made local foods for all the guests. It was a blast, everyone laughed, danced, cried, and took lots of pictures- hopefully I can share some soon!
The last week of my time was filled with excitement, sadness, and remembrance. I wanted to soak in every detail. Never shying away from putting my head out of the window while cruising at high speeds through the hilly countryside of Africa. There was something so freeing about those moments. Taking in all the smells, the warm African sun, and the simple joys that surrounded my life. I realized while I was there, that a place so poverty stricken, doesn't have to be sad. In fact it probably- no definitely- possessed some of my happiest moments thus far in my life. You realize that while everyone is seemingly living in shambles, unable to afford the simple things that we as Americans tend to take advantage of. Rather, this is their life, with the exception of the occasional TV, the people who inhabit such beautifully ancient earth have become one with their surroundings. For those who do not dwell on the poverty, there is a life that exceeds it all
In the end I have come away with so much gratitude and so much growth. I would like to depart with one last story. This is a story about a man named Peter, and his wife Tara. Peter volunteered almost two years ago at an orphanage in Moshi. This particular orphanage, “Upendo” which means something to the extent of “love” in Swahili(they actually don’t have a word that directly translates to love in Kiswahili.) Well, Peter had an immediate connection with a little girl at the orphanage, then learned she had a twin sister, he took these girls in giving them the attention they needed. Side note- this particular orphanage is one of the more impoverished- the children there eat dirt because their bodies are so malnourished. Long story short, Peter called his wife back in the states, and proposed that they adopt the girls, who are about two years old named Sevorina and Senorina. One long grueling year later, about five trips to Africa, an expensive lawyer, and a lot of pain and happiness later, the judge has finally granted them the chance to take the girls home to the states! I met Peter on Tara the day of the fashion show because they had just flown in for the final hearing from the Moshi judge, and I had the twins modeling a line of clothing in the show. They helped me prepare for the event all day. Even helping me to bring all the rented chairs to the site. We didn’t have a car, so we stacked about four plastic chairs on our heads like the Africans do, and walked almost a mile in midday African sun in our conservative clothing, just like the people of the culture that we were living in. It was myself, and some of my closest friends, all women, all different ages, local and foreign—and Peter and Tara. In those trips back and forth with the chairs on our head Tara talked to me about how difficult the process has been to adopt the girls. They have been through hell and back with the process- Madonna not having helped it with her little stunt in Malawi. Peter was to stay longer than her to finalize the process, she is a pediatrician in North Carolina, and they have two boys at home. Learning from this strong couple, Tara told me of her Christmas wish. She described the vision she held of her Christmas present. It was of the twin girls getting off the flight with Peter holding their little hands, and herself waiting there with their two boys, and to finally have the family united in the holiday season.
It is this vision of a family finally being brought together in a happy loving home, that I have left with. My mother often tells me that there is no stronger love, than the love for your family. It may have taken me to fly across the planet to figure out some minor life lessons, but in these past few months I have come away with gratitude, growth, and most importantly love. Not just with the people of Africa. But, What it all comes down to is, I have fallen in love with the world. For now, this is my story. These are some of my stories, thank you for listening, and I invite you to love the way that I did. Some days its hard to remember these lessons, but as I bring myself back, I sit simply. Smiling to myself having been shown one of the greatest gifts in life. Thank you for all of you who have helped provide me with this experience. Thank you.
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