On Asparagus and Home

The cold, blustery Saturday brings thoughts of warm soups, and oven-baked casseroles as I search for the perfect recipe to use three pounds of asparagus before it goes bad. As I flip through my back issues of Cooking Light magazine, I remember Mom’s Chicken Divan. Actually I think it’s the Joy of Cooking’s Chicken Divan. I begin to frustrate myself, looking in almost every recipe book in my library, from In a Persian Kitchen, to International Recipes on Parade, a dossier of the 1966 Navy Wives Club. I’ve already looked three times through my copy of The Joy of Cooking, a 1954 edition handed down from my grandmother, worn and falling apart in places. Ingredients like sundried tomatoes and shitake mushrooms don’t make even a cameo appearance in the yellowed, batter-stained pages.

I have three bunches of asparagus, to be exact. Two from Henry’s Market, pencil thin, tender green shoots of asparagus and one bunch, magic marker thick, from Trader Joe’s, saran-wrap sealed in a recylable plastic dish. I confess to buying only one, and between my sister’s pre-holiday shopping frenzy, and my roommate’s excursion to the grocery store, three bunches of the green sticks ended up in my refrigerator. It’s not that I don’t like asparagus, but I have 3 bunches, and I hate to wasting anything.

As a last resort, I search the small pink and yellow box filled, in no particular order, with borrowed favorites like the green chile enchiladas Donna brought to an office potluck lunch eight years ago, and tasty hand-me-downs, like the giant foil-wrapped Laramie Loaf sandwich Midgie Brooks would bring to every picnic, Hawaii, 1972 to 1976.

I finally find the recipe on a folded piece of lined paper, tucked in between Lemon Bars and Beef Stroganoff. I don’t recognize the handwriting, but it is mostly legible, so I do a quick inventory of my larder before heading off to the grocery. All I need is chicken and cream of mushroom soup. I repeat this mantra as I drive to the store. Chicken Cream of Mushroom, Chicken Cream of Mushroom. I do this not only to remember what I’m supposed to buy, but to stay on task, to not to wander to the gourmet food section, Chicken Cream of Mushroom and to stay away from the bakery, Chicken Cream of Mushroom.

I manage to get in and out of the store in about 10 minutes, successfully carrying to the car one package of boneless skinless chicken breasts and 2 cans of Cream of Mushroom soup, 98 percent fat free. I’ll use one tonight, and save one for another rainy day, another casserole.

I had invited my friend Cathryn to dinner, and my roommate, Susann, and when my sister Debby called to see what I was doing, I invited her as well. I figured there’d be plenty of food. Well plenty of asparagus, anyway.

In my tiny kitchen, I retrieve the small square casserole dish that belonged to grandma, and prepare to assemble mom’s Chicken Divan… substituting asparagus for broccoli. I rinse the green stems and bend the tough ends until they snap, leaving only tender tops to layer along the bottom of the dish. I then layer the chicken and prepare the sauce, one can cream of mushroom soup, one half cup mayonnaise and 2 teaspoons of curry. The recipe also calls for 1 teaspoon of what looks like “juice” but I leave that out since all I have is cran-rasberry, which I’m pretty sure won’t work. My time spent with Cooking Light makes me feel a bit guilty that the mayonnaise is not fat free, but I pour the sauce over the chicken anyway. I again take liberties with the recipe, adding slivered almonds to the top instead of the recipe’s requisite breadcrumbs. I figure I’ve already challenged tradition, so I might as well go all out. I set the oven to 350 and slide the Pyrex in.

As I wait for everyone to arrive, I prepare a fire and light the candles on the mantle. Burning wood, citrus, sage, and cranberry scents mingle with the warm curry perfume emanating from the kitchen and my new apartment begins to feel like home.

Archiving my website: Poetry

I first started writing poetry in high school, you know the kind, angst filled teenage poems about the pain of life and first loves-- mostly awful, but very cathartic at the time. Then, a couple of years ago, I tried to write some more poetry. I approached the task as a craftsman of words, trying to sculpt the words to fit a thought or an idea. Again, mostly awful.
In April 2002 I attended a poetry reading. And I really listened. I listened for poems that I liked, and thought about why I liked them. What I found was that I liked poems that described a scene, a moment, a slice of life.

The next day I wrote three poems-- slices of my life. For the most part, they came to me as complete poems, with very little edits needed. I’m not sure how this happened, but I think it’s because rather than forcing words into lines of poetry, I let the words come to me. And let them fall into place.

Now, I'm working on personal essays, that are hopefully poetic ;-)
See samples of my poetry in comments below:

Archiving my website:: Prose

In the early ‘90s I toyed with the idea of getting master’s degree in journalism. I did end up taking some post graduate classes at Northwestern University in both journalism and public relations, then actually worked for a PR firm for a time before getting laid off... then moving back to California.

I’ve since had several freelance gigs writing press releases and writing for the Del Mar Times. In addition, I’ve written several articles for my Techniquelle group’s website as well as the newsletter for the 101 Artists’ Colony. I certainly don’t consider my coursework at Northwestern to have been a waste of time, and one of these days I may still go get that master’s degree... but there’s no training like just doing..

Samples of articles and PR archived here in comments section...

November

Is not here yet. But I wrote a poem about it.
Got a writing prompt in the email from Jill Badonsky of:
http//TheMuseIsIn.com

Naturally
Overt
Vibrant
Energized
Maple trees
Become
Effervescent
Red

Blogging is hard work

but not as hard as writing about tungsten electrodes!
I feel like I'm writing a term paper for school... problem is I didn't take engineering. or metalurgy or chemistry. In fact I pretty much avoided everything technical in favor of fun things like Spanish linguistics, Portuguese literature, French...

ah well. I am learning. I had no idea how important grind angle and tip diameter was to the creation of a TIG welding bead. My head is spinning.

Sharpie

The weird and wacky wonder ful world of welding: www.arc-zone.com where I work

Same ole same ole

Here it is August 5 and I've not done a blog a day... haven't written in my journal either. Too much to do, too little time.

I really mean that. I'm moving. I'm training for the Breast Cancer 3 Day. I'm going on vacation. What was I thinking???

Oh yea, not only am I moving my stuff, we're dealing with all of granddad's stuff. 94 years of stuff accumulated in a house for the last 30 years, I think that makes it something like 1950 years of stuff. Checks. Old checks going back to WWII.
eegads.

Day 2

Can I keep this going?
Is there a point?
Lots going on around here.
In my head.
In my heart
In my house.
Sometimes it easier NOT to think.
to write.
just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I've been blogged

Can't believe I finally did it. Wondering if I will blog as much as I journal.... Sometimes life is too overwhelming to write about. Takes time to process.

In
case
anyone is interested...

JeSais

is my nickname, derived one new year's eve. Actually we all came up with new names for ourselves that night-- new names for the new millenium. My friend Kim, became Miki, which is sort of the opposite of Kim... she was in the process of getting a divorce and we decided that she needed a new name for the wonderful new life she would be leading... actually I think the whole crazy plan was my idea, which was how I was dubbed "Je Sais"

For some time Ralph had been calling me, Je Ne Sais Quois (french for "I don't know anything) instead of my given name "Jennifer" so that night, in drunken brilliance, I was re-named Je Sais, which is french for "I know".

Marty wanted to be called Ibrahim... the Spanish translation of the name Abraham. He had a long explanation about how great Abraham (the biblical one) was... and the rest of us, laughing uproariously, named him "Ibby" as any translation of a biblical great was way too lofty for one with as big an ego as Marty...

Ralph became "Stack," an old nickname of a favorite uncle and the rest is history....