Tuesday, May 29, 2012

SNAKE



You're hopping along.  Minding your own business.  And suddenly it appears.


 
A snake in the grass.





Secretly slithering, it grabs you from behind. 

Quite unexpectedly ruining your afternoon.

Because you are now dinner.





You squeak, shriek, cry out to the world, "Save me!"  





But the humans ignore your cries.  

Too horrified to react. Too frightened to intervene. 

Even the few who find your predicament fascinating shake heads and mutter excuses: 

"Nature must take its course."





But nature must be mistaken!  Surely she has a different course in mind!

You struggle and strive, assuring the universe, "I will not be destroyed by this snake in the grass!"





Sunlight sputters.  Steps back for Shade.

 No matter how valiantly you resist, it appears that the snake in the grass may swallow you. 

Whole.



 

Fear not!  Struggle on!

Because God invented Boys. And Puppies. And sticks.

A Super-Hero trio that ignores humans, and can conquer any snake in the grass. 





Allowing all of us frogs to hop, and sing, for another day.





Thursday, May 24, 2012

PREPARE


It's one of those work weeks. 

Too few hours for all there is to do and all that must be done. 

Concerts, baseball games, award ceremonies, track meets, music lessons, basketball, graduations, after school pick-ups, pre-school drop-offs, vet visits, physicals, shots, blood-work, insurance calls.

Oh, and I was supposed to get that stuff in the mail. And return those calls. Emails. Texts.

The lawn, strung out from winter desiccation,  needs immediate attention.

Postus Interrupt-Us:  Winter Desiccation? Huh? We didn't even have winter! What is winter desiccation, and why does such a ridiculously spelled word require me to reseed 3 acres of grass?

No kidding. Our grass packed up its roots this spring and disappeared.  But the flower and veggie gardens are so overgrown with Audrey IIs, Men in Black must be summoned to take them down. Big-Boy-Toy-Weed-Wacker doesn't stand a chance.

Oh, and RAIN, sweet rain, why have you deserted us  (literally?) Weeks, months of 80+ degree days? C'mon!  It isn't even Memorial Day yet! This is BUFFALO!  The hard, cracked ground beneath my desiccated non-turf could double as the surface of the moon.

Fine. I can channel grateful.  I'll give a huge shout-out to the nurseries, newspapers, and magazines that feature lush, vibrant visions of neatly trimmed and ordered gardens, decks and patios.  

Love that they taunt me from every grocery store check-out line and physician waiting-room table.  

Love all their tips, suggestions,  and perfection.  I'm a huge fan. Really.  Not rooting for your obsolescence. REALLY.

Sigh. What's a gal to do when there's way too much to do?

This gal goes for a walk. Beneath the noon-day sun. With a woman I've never walked with before.

Meet L.S.  Years ago she spent her childhood in the house next door. Weeks ago, she arrived from the West Coast to care for her mom- because mom's doctors can't image or radiate, cut and suture anymore. The cancer that Wonder Woman had knocked down, battled, warred against, and held at bay for decades finally emerged as victor; claiming organs, bones, and spirit.

You remember L.S.'s mom.  I wrote about her in a March post called Landscape.  She is still Pioneer. Educator. Wife. Cyclist. Warrior. Mom. Builder. Activist. Friend. Grandmother. Humorist. Tribal Elder.

Thin and frail cannot dim unique and extraordinary.

As I walk with L.S., duty and responsibility take on new meaning. I hear tales of bedtime visits, greeting card read-alouds, and selfless acts of service- generated 24/7. Tasks and schedules are long forgotten as I listen to this woman who will soon say goodbye to the mother/friend who taught her, cared for her, and loved her more than anyone else ever will.  

Eventually, L.S. leads me from sidewalk to bedside so I can chat with her mom. We hug, gossip, and joke.  It's too soon time to leave, and my brave, gorgeous neighbor smiles her dazzling smile and says, "The best part about knowing you are going to die is that you have time to prepare. Put things in order. Say all your goodbyes and I-love-yous. Imagine all the people who never have such good fortune," she adds. "No time to prepare."

The juxtaposition of 'good fortune' and 'preparing for death' is stunning.

I have prepared for tests, finals, meetings, dinner parties, holidays, weddings, childbirth, kids off to college. But I have never even begun to contemplate preparing for death.

Until early this afternoon. When  I left a desk/house/yard of obligation to take a walk with an angel.

En route to great perspective, LS told me how she left a successful, cutting-edge career to become a volunteer for Hospice. Being of service to individuals and families confronting death brought her a purpose and joy she had never before experienced. It also helped her learn that life goes on - love and joy and laughter live on - even after our loved ones leave us. Now confronting unspeakable sorrow and loss, L.S. knows that she can carry on, even when her beloved mom is no longer a living source of courage and strength.  

This past weekend, U.S. Navy SEAL Eric Greitens addressed the 2012 graduating class of Tufts University. He challenged: 'What kind of service can I provide? What kind of positive difference can I make in the lives of others?' If you work every day to live an answer to that question, then you will be stronger....The best definition I have ever heard of a vocation is that it's the place where your great joy meets the world's great need."

My dear neighbor has lived a long, wonderful life, serving her community, her church, family, and the many friends she adored as family.

Her daughter is stepping into shoes that are all but impossible to fill. Effortlessly.

The journey that began with service in Hospice - preparing others for life's final passage - has not only enabled L.S.to care expertly and  lovingly for her mom in this time of great need. It has helped her prepare for life beyond Mom.  

Blessedly, they will have the hours for all that must be said and done. 

And she will keep the treasured memories of all that will be shared. 


QUING Hereby Decrees: Prepare, and banish fear.

Monday, May 21, 2012

BULLY

Fifth grade. I was a new student in the local elementary school.

Can't recall if I was standing in the cafeteria line, seated at a classroom desk, or walking down the hall with new friends.

But I do remember laughing. At the girl wearing pantyhose.

The kids I was with thought it was funny that a 10-year-old was wearing pantyhose - and heels - to school.

Decades later, the one detail I remember is the look on the girl's face- disbelief mingled with humiliation. Wounded, she valiantly attempted to ignore us and go on with her day.

I felt like a louse then, and even now as I reflect on my pettiness. So I'm trying to imagine being eighteen years old and tackling a fellow student, pinning him to the ground, and cutting his hair with a pair of scissors.

Imagine that.

Imagine forgetting that. 

On May 10th, The Washington Post published an article: 'Mitt Romney’s prep school classmates recall pranks, but also troubling incidents'.

The most troubling incident occurred in 1965 when new student John Lauber was "walking around the all-boys school with bleached-blond hair that draped over one eye." According to Romney's close friend, Matthew Friedemann, Romney was incensed by Lauber's look, stating, "He can’t look like that. That’s wrong. Just look at him!”

A few days later, Friedemann entered the school’s quad and found Romney "marching out of his own room ahead of a prep school posse shouting about their plan to cut Lauber’s hair. Friedemann followed them to a nearby room where they came upon Lauber, tackled him and pinned him to the ground. As Lauber, his eyes filling with tears, screamed for help, Romney repeatedly clipped his hair with a pair of scissors."

Five students recounted the incident similarly, adding that politics didn't influence their memory of the event.

Thomas Buford remembers helping Romney restrain Lauber. “It happened very quickly, and to this day it troubles me,” he said. “What a senseless, stupid, idiotic thing to do.”  He subsequently apologized to Lauber, who was “terrified.”

Phillip Maxwell, a childhood friend of Romney, was in the dorm room when the incident occurred. “It was a hack job,” he recalled. “It was vicious.”

Friedemann also said the incident transpired in a flash, with Romney leading cheering schoolmates back to his dorm room afterward.  Lauber "..was just easy pickin’s,” said Friedemann, expressing remorse that he failed to stop the attack.  He said he waited to see if Romney would get into trouble, as the prep school was known for strict discipline. Nothing happened.

Twenty-five years after the incident, classmate David Seed, who also witnessed the assault, bumped into Lauber at O’Hare International Airport. “I’m sorry that I didn’t do more to help in the situation,” he told Lauber.  “It was horrible,” Lauber responded, admitting how frightened he was during the incident. “It’s something I have thought about a lot since then.”

Apparently Romney didn't think much about the event.  In a live radio interview he said the incident involving John Lauber happened “a long time ago.” “I don’t remember that incident,” Romney said, laughing. “Back in high school, I did some dumb things, and if anybody was hurt by that or offended, obviously I apologize for that.”

Romney emphasized that after being married, and going on a Mormon mission to France, he is “a very different person.”

Not the kind of person who reflects on such egregious past behavior, and is appalled that he was involved in it. The kind of person who considers such an incident unremarkable.

Indeed, presidential candidate Romney suggested that we focus on what he considers bigger issues — the economy, energy and labor policies, Iran’s nuclear development.  “There’s going to be some that want to talk about high school,” he said. “Well, if you really think that’s important, be my guest.” 

Thank you kindly, Mr. Romney. Because I want to talk about high school.

Because actions and choices matter - in high school, and long beyond.

Lynda Frederick recently posted a poem about the bullying she endured in high school on her Class of 1987's 25th Reunion Facebook page. Frederick wrote:

that little girl who came to school with the clothes she wore the day before
instead of asking why.. you picked on her
the little girl who had to walk to school while others rode the bus
instead of asking why.. you picked on her
the little girl who had bruises and was dirty
instead of asking why.. you picked on her
the little girl who was always crying
instead of asking why.. you picked on her

Her post shamed former tormentors who pleaded for forgiveness. “They’re all apologizing now for how I was treated,” Frederick said. “I had one man call me up and we talked for an hour on the phone. He cried and cried. I kept saying, ‘You can’t fix yesterday, so let’s fix today.’”

Frederick hoped to send a message to her peers about how bullying affects victims. “It never leaves you,” she said. “I wanted people to know that for the one who is doing the bullying, it could just be a phase, but for the person who is being bullied, it stays with you all your life.

One Facebook user who read Frederick's poem responded, "This poem touched me so bad I could not sleep. I cried."

Other classmates said they feel overwhelmed by guilt. "Just people in tears, like 'How could we have done this to her... they were just crying, saying 'Why did I do that?'"

Enough people remembered, and repented, collecting more than $800 for an airline ticket to fly Frederick to California for the class reunion. They also set up a scholarship fund in her name. A former student called Frederick "my hero because she succeeded through all of this."

Bullying is a hot topic these days. Just last week, NY Times columnist Nicholas D. Kristof published the winning essay in a contest he ran for teenagers. Over 1200 essays about bullying were submitted.  Infused by both heartbreak and hope, many of the anecdotes are impossible to read without being moved. 

Student Paulina Puskala, 17, eloquently stated, “Today’s problem isn’t so much the bullying itself — bullying has been around for centuries....The problem is that it is difficult to escape it...Technology-enabled bullies contain the ability to harass 24/7.”

Kristof notes, "Many of the essay writers argue that adults are either oblivious to bullying or turn a blind eye to it."

Some adults even dismiss bullying as stupid high school shenanigans.

Which is why it's important to remember, and talk about such hijinks, especially when - 50 years later- they would be deemed assault.

If the independent recollections of five of his high school classmates are true, it is unimaginable that Mitt Romney does not remember his role as perpetrator of the attack on John Lauber.

More likely, Romney does recall the incident, and chose not to publicly admit such a shameful and potentially dangerous act, either for political reasons, or so as not to call his character into question.

But generations of adults like Lynda Frederick who were shaped by the bullying they endured as kids deserved better from a man who may be President.

1200+ essayists, who had the heart and nerve to write about being bullied, deserve better.

Countless students who are bullied and suffer silently, or end their young lives in utter despair deserve better.

And all those who bullied in the past, and later regretted and apologized for their actions deserve better.

Actions and choices matter - in high school, in adulthood, and all the days in between. 

Maturing, accepting responsibility for our actions past and present, and making amends to those we hurt matters.

We demand it of our children.   

Why not our politicians?


QUING Hereby Decrees: If you did it, admit it.  Two simple words, "I'm sorry," can change one's perspective, one's memory, one's heart.

Friday, May 18, 2012

QUING Parties at the Palace with POPPY SEED CHICKEN


Comfort food, thy name is Poppy Seed Chicken.   

I'd all but forgotten this recipe, until super special gal pal called to ask, "What was that divine chicken casserole you brought to the house fifteen years ago after our dog died?"   

Hmmm. "Was it covered in crackers and poppy seeds?" I asked.

Immediate answer: "YES! Put it on the blog! I want to make it for dinner!"
 
Warning: I have posted the original recipe for you. It's a dish that might make Paula Deen proud, but for the inclusion of chicken. So if you'd like to give up a smidgeon of the yummaliciousness (i.e calories and fat,) make it with low fat sour cream and cream of chicken soup.  And pour less melted butter over the crumbs. Either way, it's a real treat for adults and kids.  GUSTARE!


POPPY SEED CHICKEN
(Serves 4-6)

INGREDIENTS:
3 pounds (6) split chicken breasts, bone-in, skin-on
3  tablespoons olive oil
8 oz sour cream
1 can cream of chicken soup
1/4 cup chicken stock
1 stack Ritz crackers- crushed
1/4  - 1/2 cup butter- melted
2 tablespoons poppy seeds

DIRECTIONS: 
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Clean the chicken breasts, pat dry, and place on a rimmed baking sheet. Rub chicken breasts with olive oil and sprinkle generously with salt and pepper. Roast 35 to 40 minutes, or until cooked through. Set aside until cool enough to discard the skin and remove the meat from the bones. Cut the chicken into chunks, and spread them across the bottom of a casserole dish. 

Mix together sour cream, cream of chicken soup, and chicken stock. Pour over chicken, and spread evenly with spatula. Sprinkle crumbs over creamy mixture. Pour or spoon melted butter evenly over crumbs. Sprinkle crumbs with poppy seeds.

Bake for 30 minutes, or until crumbs are browned, and mixture is bubbly.

COLLECTING


Forgive the respite from text and decrees.

No, I have not been soaking up the sun, listening to the surf, or collecting starfish and shells.

I've been collecting thoughts.  

Posts and Royal Recipes will be up later today, and throughout the weekend.

Till then , a Happy Friday, to you!  


-Q-









Friday, May 11, 2012

LESSON

Greeting cards.

I loathe them (perhaps loathe is too strong. Let's go with not a huge fan of....)

They speak in rhymes. Who does that?

They are generic. Or gross. Or dumb.

A five dollar piece of folded paper that is supposed to reflect my thoughts, wishes, feelings. Yet rarely does.

Occasionally, I'll be seeking the perfect prose and find it. I'll be taken aback by a verse that is laugh-out-loud funny. 

Lest you think you should never again purchase a card for me, understand that I love receiving cards; opening a brightly colored envelope, reading the sentiments inside, noting words and images selected just for me.

I'm a woman of contradictions. All great rulers are.

It's a greeting-card-sending, flower-delivering, breakfast-in-bed kind of weekend.  A day for celebrating moms. I'm one of the supremely fortunate kids who can still select - and deliver - a greeting card for Mom. Call her, just to hear her voice. Reach for her hand when tears need to flow. 

But a greeting card will never tell Mom how singularly important she is to my kids, my siblings, and me. Kindly indulge me while I give it a shot.

She filled shelves and tabletops with newspapers, magazines, and books; discussed politics, world affairs, and life lessons. I learned to seek answers.

She danced to Count Basie and Bob Seger, blared Percy Faith at bedtime, sang along with Andy Williams. I learned that music is as vital as sunshine.

She sat beside me for hours, twisting cool water from a washcloth, dabbing my heated forehead, cheeks, and neck. I learned compassion.

She sent me outside to play. I learned to listen to birds and wind, to make sense of sensible clouds, and make up stories for those that floated off creatively.  

She let me fight my battles. I learned to duck, or fight back.

She left flowers on friends' doorsteps each May Day, rang the doorbell and dashed. I learned that surprise breeds delight - in giver and receiver. 

She quietly chided me for demanding a goody bag at my birthday party. I learned that I was not the center of the world.

She pulled on a flowered dress and heels, dabbed perfume on her wrists, reached for Dad's hand and snuck out for date nights. I learned that Moms and Dads need some fun, too.

She never yelled at me for sneaking off to the corner store to buy Bubs Daddies, even though the bike was flimsy, the  road was dangerous, and green apple wrappers were tough to hide in an underwear drawer.  I learned independence.

She listened when I told her that the neighborhood bully taunted my friend, and ran all the way down the block to confront him. I learned to stand up for those without a voice.

She set up a blanket tent, and stuck me and my stuffed nose beneath it - inches away from the melting tablespoon of Vicks floating in a steamy bowl of water. I learned that you have to breathe deeply, and endure the stinky stuff, before you'll feel better. 

She traveled with Dad, leaving six kids with a wicked old woman who'd raise an eyebrow and set terrified baby sisters dashing off to hide in closets. I learned to be gentle, and talk away tears.

She lingered beside the sea, and walked miles guided by moon and starlight. I learned to need nature.

She found a church on every vacation that included a Sunday morning away from home. I learned that faith doesn't take a vacation.

She labored creating St. Joseph's Day feasts, holiday extravaganzas, and grandma's specialties. I learned that traditions help a family make -  and keep - memories.

She allowed Captain Crunch and RC Cola only on Fridays, alternate weeks. I learned moderation. Sort of.

She stayed up reading till the wee hours of the morning. I learned that she didn't trust my boyfriend, or anyone who could hurt me.

She stayed up reading till the wee hours of the morning, even after boyfriend was long gone. I learned that those quiet hours were actually the way she nourished soul and mind, undisturbed by kids and commitments.

She served chocolate milk in china tea cups. I learned to make the ordinary special.

She treated friends and neighbors like family, invited uncles and aunts to breakfasts, dinners, holidays. I learned that family - and friends beloved as family - always come first.

She gasped when I first drove her toward the George Washington Bridge- a dozen green highway signs flashing, instructing, demanding our attention. I learned that my experiences would be very different than hers, and being brave was the way to go. 

She was given a death sentence, and swallowed her fears to defy doctors' declarations. I learned to fight and pray and believe, no matter what - because miracles only happen if we believe they can.

She wore pink sequined sneakers and danced at my wedding. I learned to savor joy and celebration, understanding it will be reimagined - and cherished - for a lifetime.

She suffered over beloved friends' illnesses and deaths. I learned to live and love in the moment, because the future comes quickly for some, but not all.

She adored her grandchildren, relished their accomplishments, empathized with their challenges, and mine. Her mantra was always heard, if not obeyed: Don't give up. Be patient. Remember what matters. Be good to yourself.  I learned to swallow my fears, so I could help my children confront their fears. To accept flaws and failures, and work to overcome them.

Pause. This is one long list of love and lessons!

Simply stated: Through every stage of life, Mom makes it all better. 

Brighter. Easier. Manageable. Survivable. 

Like millions of kids on Mother's Day, I'll be thanking God for the gift of my mom's life; for the gift of her love and sacrifice. And wishing I could send her a greeting card that says:

I carry you in my heart, Mom; guided and guarded by your wisdom and selflessness.   
You are a hand that steadies, a voice that advises, a hug that consoles. 
Pure love, poured with abandon.
Lucky, lucky me!

QUING Hereby Decrees: It's Mother's Day. Hug your Mom, and all those you know who are missing Mom.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

AUTHENTIC


What's with her hair?

Those are some serious bags under her eyes.

She looks exhausted. Withdrawn. The job must be wearing on her.

What is she thinking, journeying to Bangladesh and India to meet heads of state - and the press - without wearing any make-up?

And those videos of her dancing and drinking - from a beer bottle - in Cartagena! First the Secret Service lets loose. Now we have to deal with Madame Secretary becoming unhinged?

CNN, and other media outlets are concerned enough to ask Hillary Clinton why she appears to look so, well, ordinary, these days. Clinton's answer? "I feel so relieved to be at the stage I’m at in my life right now.  Because, you know, if I want to wear my glasses I’m wearing my glasses. If I want to wear my hair back I’m pulling my hair back. You know, at some point it’s just not something that deserves a lot of time and attention." 

Au contraire.

It deserves lots of attention.

Because after all these years in the public eye, Hillary Clinton has become the model of authenticity.

And Authentic Matters.  

For decades, when Mrs. Clinton was dressed and coiffed in whatever best suited her carefully packaged and controlled image, when she was nipped and tucked to the satisfaction of her husband's handlers, when she was dolled and spiffed - and prepped to be so composed that even a scandalous affair with an intern didn't seem to shake, rattle, or roll her - the public could only surmise who this lady was.

When the doors were closed. And the camera lenses capped. 

We knew she was smart. And ambitious. And she didn't like baking cookies.

But even when she teared up during an interview, while running for the Presidency after 15+ years in the public eye, half the viewing public was shocked to view her emotion. The other half thought her tears were contrived.

Before polls, politics, and a very public life demanded more from her than talent and smarts,  Hillary Clinton sported head bands and scrunchies. Public policy mattered far more than persona. Eventually playing the role of political wife and fashionable First Lady, she seemed to be not at all well-cast, regardless of how well-suited.

An imposter in her own life.

Compare this Democratic FLOTUS Past to the FLOTUS Present. Both Ivy League educated. High-powered attorneys and activists who left successful careers to support their husbands' political ambitions. Working moms, dedicated daughters, and friends.

And there the similarities end.

Uninterested in governing, the current First Lady focuses on military families and America's youth. She's comfortable, and gorgeous, in high-end couture or Target tees.  Michelle Obama plants and harvests veggies, dances with kids, jumps double-dutch, and tells her husband he's acting a bit uppity whenever she thinks he's acting a bit uppity.

She is quick with a hug, a smile, a joke. Approachable. Comfortable in her skin. Seemingly powered by a voice inside that reminds her who she is, where she came from, and what really matters.

Michelle Obama is authentic. She does what she wants and says what she thinks, regardless of how the world may judge her actions and thoughts. She seems content. And the public trusts and adores her.

The older she gets, and the closer she comes to leaving public life, the more natural Hillary Clinton becomes; with her make-up, hair, and persona. She is now content to say, "... if others want to worry about it, I let them do the worrying for a change," and we believe her.

More concerned with her job and her legacy than her image, more comfortable with herself,  more relaxed and open with the public, Hillary Clinton has become one of the most popular politicians in Washington.

Methinks it isn't often that we learn a whole lot from our First Ladies (probably won't learn a whole lot from The First Gentlemen to come, either.) (Oh, and apologies to you, Eleanor, because you were a rock star.)

But the evolution of Hillary Clinton, and the authenticity of Michelle Obama, are proving to be an important lesson for women, old and young - as well as our daughters and granddaughters: Undoubtedly we'll be the most content, and make the biggest difference, when we remain true to ourselves; when we are guided and empowered by our inner voice, and steadfastly ignore the toxic judgments and images of the media, and those around us who seek to control, weaken or destroy.  

Hillary Clinton is thrilled to be near retirement, feeling "so relieved" to be at the stage of life when her appearance is "just not something that deserves a lot of time and attention." A tremendously accomplished woman, she has made quite a difference in this world.

Still, I can't help but wonder what more she might have accomplished - and how much happier she might have been - if she'd long ago ignored the aides, pollsters, and critics, dissed the contacts for the glasses, let the blonde turn gray, and the world see the bright personality beneath the polished veneer.

Authentic Matters. 


QUING Hereby Decrees:  Spell it out loudly: B-E-A-U-T (pause) H-E-N (pause) T-I-C! Be authentic! Be AUTHENTIC!

Sunday, May 6, 2012

QUING Parties at the Palace with BRUSCHETTA


I couldn't wait anymore.  To make (and devour) my all-time favorite, simple, luscious, healthy, gorgeous treat.

BRUSCHETTA.

Lunch, dinner, snack, appetizer, mood-enhancer - bruschetta does it all.  Every time I make it, I dream about living an uncomplicated, earthy life in the Tuscan countryside; baking bread, tending to my gardens, drinking wine, and gabbing with near century-old neighbors who sing, gossip, and curse in Italian; all the while teaching me how to make their secret family recipes.

Yes, bruschetta transforms from delicious to sublime when I tug sun-ripened Roma tomatoes off vines in my backyard, rinse, chop and mix.  Or when I purchase such Romas from our local farmers' market in July and August.

But the tomatoes I purchased today - from a grocery store that sells top-notch produce - were acceptable. Buy yourself a dozen, plus a bunch of basil, a red onion and some garlic, and begin experimenting with your own bruschetta.  By the time vine-ripened tomatoes are available in your neighborhood mid-summer, you'll be a Bruschetta Master.

Loved, worshiped, and adored.   Right, Annie?  GUSTARE!


BRUSCHETTA

INGREDIENTS:
1/4 olive oil
1/4 cup red onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic - 1 sliced, 2 finely minced
8-10 medium-sized Roma Tomatoes, seeded and chopped
10-12 basil leaves, slivered
1/2 -3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
Ground pepper to taste
1 Baguette; white or whole wheat

DIRECTIONS:
In a small skillet, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add sliced garlic, and heat until golden brown.  Remove from heat and cool slightly.

Toss onion, minced garlic, tomatoes, basil, pepper, and 1/2 teaspoon of kosher salt into a medium sized bowl. Drizzle with half a tablespoon of the warm olive oil. Toss to combine, and taste, adding more basil, salt, or pepper if needed. Cover with saran wrap and let sit for an hour. 

Slice the baguette into diagonal slices, a half inch in thickness. Place on a rimmed baking sheet, and broil a minute or two under high heat, until bread is lightly browned.  Remove from the oven, and flip the bread over (using a fork or metal tongs.) Remove the browned garlic slices from the heated olive oil with a slotted spoon, and discard. Brush the soft side of the baguette slices with the warm oil, then arrange on a platter, oiled side up.  

To serve, carefully drain water from the tomato mixture. Stir once, and spoon generously over the slices of bread.

Friday, May 4, 2012

AVENGER


Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor are too busy lifting weights, squeezing into star-spangled spandex, and saving the universe from Nut Jobs.

I'm going to have to take care of these injustices myself.

Be Avenger.  Righter of Wrongs. Retaliator (say it like Arnold: "Re-tahl-ee-ay-TOR!)

Challenger of Outrageousness. Nonsense. Absurdity.

Call me QUINGINATOR.

It's Frustrating Friday. The royal robe is being swapped for a crusader cape.  The crown for a mask.

Swoop with me, then, into madness.

In the workplace.
Americans work more than anyone in the industrialized world. More than the English and  French. Lots more than Germans and Norwegians. We even put the Japanese to shame.  

We work longer days, take less vacation, and retire later. More than 35% of us now work on weekends, too. Dr. Gerardo Marti, a sociology professor at Davidson College, says, “Work is no longer confined to the office ...it bleeds into our time at home, our commute, even when we’re on vacation. It’s harder and harder for us to segregate our work identities from our home lives. For many people, the two have become one and the same.”

People like yours truly.

In Why We Work on the Weekend, author Clair Suddath interviews a NY video producer who works weekends - on her laptop, or checking e-mail on her phone. Why? Because everyone else does. “It’s probably not that necessary, but I like to be ‘on it,’” the producer says. “Plus, we seem to have a culture in my office where everyone tries [to be] the last one still working.”

But more than a century of research has proven that shorter work hours actually raise productivity and profits -- while working overtime lessens them. Knowledge workers can only put in six productive hours in a day, and manual laborers, eight. 

Sheryl Sandberg – No. 2 at Facebook and Forbes’ fifth most powerful woman in the world – used to hide the fact that she left work every day at 5:30 p.m. to have dinner with her children.  Why? Because her colleagues (and the public) might wonder if Sandberg is committed enough, working enough, serious enough to be successful. 

We shouldn't question Sandberg. We should applaud and emulate her.


Swooping to the courts:
To be delivered to The U.S. District Court in Greensboro, N.C., asap: 

Dear John,

It didn't seem possible to empathize more with your wife, Elizabeth, than in those last few years of her life when she was so publicly forced to confront your betrayal, infidelity, mistress and child, a prying public, her insidious cancer and inevitable death. Who could have imagined that headlines- more than a year after her death - would be filled with tales of her collapsing on the pavement outside a private airplane hangar as she confronted you; screaming, crying, exposing her chest to a husband who ".. didn't have much of a reaction."

The fact that the public is privy to these stories - told by aides under oath - is almost as shameful as the fact that your daughter must sit behind you in that court of law and suffer her mothers' indignities - and your disgracefulness - so publicly. You have quite possibly out-done every dishonorable politician in history.

Wish you had saved some of the donations from your 101-year-old heiress, John, to bribe the judge for closed court proceedings - and spare your deceased wife, your children, and the public from this spectacle. 

Kudos to your hair for weathering the storm spectacularly.


Swooping to the Vatican:
First the black-robed Powers-that-Be sent Cardinal Bernard Law packing - to run a gorgeous Basilica in Rome - rather than inhabit a prison cell in Massachusetts.

Then they issued a report stating that ordaining women as priests is nearly as grave a threat to the church as pedophilia. “Sexual abuse and pornography are more grave delicts, they are an egregious violation of moral law,” the Vatican’s internal prosecutor Monsignor Scicluna explained. “Attempted ordination of women is grave, but on another level, it is a wound that is an attempt against the Catholic faith on the sacramental orders.”

And now, in a Doctrinal Assessment of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, they are chastising American nuns for straying from church doctrine and adopting "radical feminist" views.

Disobedient nuns who focus on social justice issues and education, rather than broadcasting church doctrine.
Radical sisters who work tirelessly for the poor and marginalized - individuals who are invisible to other parts of the church.

Never mind that Vatican II asked religious orders to modernize, which for many nuns meant focusing on and responding to the needs of their communities. Forget that, as Sister Joan Chittister, a prominent Benedictine nun, says, ".. the sisters are — in the streets, in the soup kitchens, anywhere where there’s pain. They’re with the dying, with the sick, and people know it.” 

The changes made a half-century ago have fallen out of favor in Rome, and the Vatican expects all religious to fall back in line.

So Rome has ordered Seattle's Archbishop, along with two other bishops "who are the church's authentic teachers of faith and morals" (as opposed to women who are inauthentic teachers of faith and morals?) to begin monitoring all operations of the LCWR.

Those good old boy bishops - bona fide instructors of faith and morals - will review "all policies, all speakers, all conferences, all publications and all letters of support," for the more than 56,000 nuns in the LCWR. 

LCWR members can agree to work with Rome on making the mandated changes, or they can choose to form a new organization independent of the church's hierarchy.

Dear Sisters, make a list of your grievances.

Your groupies will help you pin copies of them on every church door.  

Let's begin with St. Peter's Basilica. 

Rome, anyone?



QUING Hereby Decrees:  Disturbed by the Absurd? Cope with the Cape.