State of Emergency

Today is Day Three of my vacation. On Day One I picked up a rental car in Chicago and drove to Kentucky. The plan was to spend two nights and one day hanging out with my best friend, who lives there. Maybe we would go to Berea. I was hoping to buy a few inexpensive wooden spoons and suchlike to give as gifts along the way. We would definitely eat delicious food, probably drink some bourbon, talk, laugh. It was going to be great. Then, from there, I planned to drive to Tallahassee for one night before heading to the beach on Sunday morning for a week before finishing the trip with a visit to friends and family in Atlanta.

Well. The best laid plans, as they say. Whatever it is they say, whoever they are. I know I could look it up but I don’t want to. I do not want to be precise. Because really I don’t care what the saying is. I know the point: your plans are going to get fucked up. Life is change. Human lives are tiny and we cannot truly control anything. Except how we are in the world. And even that takes a tremendous amount of work.

I suspect I’m going to be learning this lesson over and over for however long I live. Today, though, felt like a big one, like maybe I moved up a level . Which of course means the challenges will get bigger now. But still. I’ll take it. With gratitude. Because right now, writing this post, I feel like the luckiest person in the world.

When I left Chicago on Thursday the weather was perfect. I knew a storm was coming but wasn’t too worried. Cut to today. This is what the road looked like around 7:15 this morning when I left Richmond, Kentucky, Jan 23 2016my friend’s house. I was behind a giant tractor, which was pushing snow out of the way. I felt good about the trip. So good that I did not check the weather before I left.

Snow bunniesI know it seems crazy. But we’d checked yesterday, thoroughly, in between shoveling their rather long driveway. Speaking of which, that itself held a few lessons: (1) Communicate frustration directly, not sideways, and if you love the person you’re talking to, remember that; (2) shoveling snow is even harder than it looks; and (3) surrender. Ask for help. It will come.

Mine came in the form of a man of few words who was driving a small, green, John Deere tractor. I was standing at the end of the drive, nearfrozen braid the place by the street where I’d gotten stuck earlier that day (we had to go out because my friend had a physical therapy appointment that wound up being cancelled via a note on the door), and I guess I looked pathetic. I know there was snot pouring out of my nose because that’s why I’d stopped, to get a tissue from my pocket. Anyway, there I was when this angel of a man drove up, stopped, and said, in a slow Southern accent, “need a hand?” Yes, I did. So he took over. Cleared the drive. Then stopped again, said, “good enough?” and drove away. It was magical.

Before that incident I was close to tears, frustrated and anxious. Holding on and managing to notice then consciously soften clenching, both physical and emotional. But not in a great place. Afterward, though, I felt all this internal space. I came inside where my friend (she’s the one with the frozen braid) was marveling at our good fortune with the tractor angel, and I practiced yoga for an hour. There was a minor catastrophe during my practice (we’d inadvertently broke the heat by shoveling snow into the furnace vent), but I was blissfully unaware and by the time I emerged it had been resolved. So we ate cheese, hung out for a while, then had an early night after noticing that the driveway still seemed clear. Outlook for travel seemed good.

Ha! I’m nohighway madness near Bereat sure when I’ve been more wrong or felt less competent. At first everything was fine. Sure, there was a little snow on the highway, but it was no worse than the aftermath of a storm in Chicago. I just had to go slower than usual and maybe wouldn’t make it to Tallahassee that night. It was going to be great. Until it wasn’t. This happened somewhere around Berea, just a few miles away from my friend’s house. As I learned when I checked my phone, there was a huge traffic jam on I-75. Some people had been stranded for 12 hours. And me? I drove right into it. In the world’s least suitable car. With less than a half tank of gas. So foolish. The only upside was that I didn’t have time to drop off my dry cleaning before taking off on Thursday, so had a bunch of sweaters in the car. I wrapped them around my legs, Finding humoradded a couple of layers, and waited. I made a few calls, I took pictures, texted friends and family. I tried not to freak out.  At some point, in a text, my dad noted how handy all my mindfulness training must be about now. In another text a very wise friend  suggested that maybe the universe was giving me alone time. Not that this was happening in order to give me alone time, of course, but that I could choose to be miserable or to look at as an opportunity. And that’s when I found my sense of humor. It all became so funny. Scary, yes, and uncertain and far from ideal. But also hilarious. Especially when I decided to get out my crystals and put them in various places throughout the car. I put them in the little compartments in each door, in the console at the front, and on the back seat. I surrounded, bathed myself with this energy of something that I don’t understand or quite believe in.

And yet. I always feel better with crystals around. It’s an admission. Right here. I don’t like a lot of what I consider to be hippy paraphernalia (although I love hippies. Seriously. Just not the look.), and crystals used to be a prop in my store of mockery. Until something changed. In Zion National Park. Which is a story for another day.

Back to today. I’m going on and on and am not quite sure what I’m saying. I suppose just that this happened. I was pretty miserable and scared. Then I decided to trust that everything was going to work out. I gave myself Reiki. I breathed as deeply as I could. I waited. I talked to my best friend on the phone, asking about the weather (because my stupid old phone wouldn’t give me the full report) and I got irritated when she wasn’t telling me what I wanted to hear. But I managed to work within the irritation instead of getting lost in judgment, and state what I needed directly. We had a conversation, clear and direct, in which each of us moved through our individual fear and frustration and came through the other side without a misunderstanding. In the 30 years I’ve known her, this might have been the first time. At least for me. It was cool. And then? At the first opportunity, I got off the highway, even though it wasn’t what I wanted, because I had allowed myself to soften, which allowed me to hear the concern from friends and family and see that it would be foolhardy to go forward. I found a gas station. A man, maybe the man in one of my photographs, backed into me. There was no damage, everything was okay. Except him. He was driving a U-Haul and had been stuck on the road, right there, for 12 hours, then just got off and found gas and was stuck in snow at the gas station and hit me trying to get out. I wound up hugging him. I hope he’s okay. I’m going to send that hope to him, wherever he is.

After my little crash, the men inside the gas station advised me not to enter the lot at the Day’s Inn, that maybe the Hampton would be better. Less of an incline. So I went for the Hampton Inn. Where I did not get stuck in the parking lot and where they had one room.hotel room bed This room.  With a king size bed and a comfy chair and a kitchenette and room for yoga. I’m pretty sure I am the luckiest person ihotel yogan the world. Which has always been true. What’s new is that I’m finally realizing it and not taking it for granted. I feel gratitude. Huge, warm, flowing gratitude. For being safe and warm and deeply, deeply loved. If you’re one of those people who loves me, thank you for that. If you don’t, I thank you, too. Because more and more what I know is that we’re all love. It is the only thing that matters. Yeah, maybe that reality got lost in all the hippy fluff. But John Lennon had it right. So many other artists get it right. And I’m finally getting it.

I decided to write this post because I wound up cooking myself this crazy gruel in the kitchenette, gruelfrom hotel kitchenettefood that I had in the car. I thought it was so funny, yet also practical and kind’ve cool. I wanted to share. The idea came from a good friend who I’ve been teaching Forrest yoga for the past two months–she’d mentioned the other day that you can take just a small amount of oats and make a beverage. So, today, starving and stranded, I remembered her talking about that and decided to give it a shot. I didn’t have a bowl or a spoon, but I had a wide-mouth mason jar I’d used for chocolate milk (raw w/ cacao and honey) that I made for my trip to Kentucky. And I had oats and prunes that I’d brought from home for the beach. So, I decided to boil some water in the microwave, toss in a handful of oats and couple of prunes, shake it up, and let it sit for a while. Voila — gruel! Pretty tasty, actually, and definitely nourishing. Maybe not worthy of a full-on recipe, but good inspiration for a post.

And wow. I had no idea I was going to say all of these things. From gruel (which name reminds me of my youth in Tallahassee, Florida) to crystals and love. Perhaps I will regret this. But I think I’m going to post it anyway, as is. With love. And gratitude. From Kentucky.

 

 

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Boston Baked Beans

Once again, it’s been a very long time since my last post. Dreamsofmyfava is languishing. Yet I am thriving. Living. Slowly learning how to be in the world more fully as I am. Which maybe isn’t the same as being the person I wish I was or could be. It’s all very interesting. At least to me. I’ve also been very busy with big projects at work. Indeed, I think maybe all my energy for writing has been directed there. So that I’m now writing this blog post only because on Friday I finally finished the reply brief in a really big case I’ve spent huge amounts of time and energy on in the past year and won’t start work on a new case until Monday. Mental space is crucial.

view from the gazebo at Pete and Anna's cabinBut this post is meant to be about Boston Baked Beans, which I made yesterday. I was inspired by my recent trip to New England. I was there last weekend to visit a dear friend and her husband, who live in Cambridge, Massachusetts. We spent a little time in Cambridge, but mostly we were in their family’s cabin in New Hampshire.

The cabin has no electricity or running water. Which maybe sounds terrible. But instead it was lovely. I’d been there once before, for their wedding several years ago. This time was different, though, because it was just the three of us and their dog, surrounded by and immersed in nature. And probably because I am so different now from how I was then.

My friend’s parents built the cabin thirty years ago, and have gradually added a million thoughtful details. Like this handletree handle on the screen door to the gazebo. Or the handwashing station next to the outhouse, which I didn’t photograph. So you’ll have to trust my words to convince you that it somehow managed to be more luxurious than any bathroom I’ve ever visited. An outhouse that smelled of wood and air.

I guess it smells of wood and air because there are trees everywhere and not much else. Except a few large stones, because the area was formed by glaciers.

As for the man-made aspects, another standout, which I again failed to document, was the garden, where one could easily get lost in meditation while ostensibly choosing and picking herbs and leaves for sandwiches, salads, eggs.

The cabin itself seems to have arisen organically, as if it was grown rather than built. Because there are so many considerate touches. Like the candleholders that are placed here and there and everywhere, so that they’re just where you want them, including one with a handle, and others that have been mounted to the wall in the back bedroom where I slept. That bedroom also held a basin so I was able to wash up a little inside just before bed and in the morning.

More extensive wash ups come with swimming outside in “The Pond,” which is apparently the New England word for “lake.” Whatever you called it, this pure body of water is deep and cold and still. Diving in you feel completely alive. And somehow extra clean.

Pone in the morningI think it was the lack of electricity that rendered the world of the cabin so special, so healing. My breath was deeper, like the way it is after yoga before I emerge into the clamor of city during days here in my normal life. Such a contrast from the cabin, where I felt like I could hear everything inside and out, uninterrupted by the noise I’ve become so accustomed to in Chicago. It was amazing. At one point, I even imagined I heard the trees speaking, not in words but with unmistakable meaning. Clear, direct communication.

During this moment when I believed I heard the trees speaking to me, my friend and I were in the gazebo. It had just rained, was raining, with alternating bouts of gusty wind and soft, barely audible patters. I was attuning her to Reiki, level one. (Because I’m a Reiki master now. Which is pretty cool.) I felt a deep sense of connectedness, with the trees and the stones and the rain and the gazebo and also with my friend, her husband, their dog, everything as one. And suddenly the trees were sending this message about how much they cared about my friend’s well being, recognizing her goodness, her beauty, the feeling they had of her belonging there, with the family, in that place. The trees were expressing their support for what we were doing. Which is cool. Because the trees are such a big part of everything there. It view from gazebofelt good to know or at least believe that we had their support and what felt like their love.

Now, writing this, I fear that maybe I sound a little crazy. Or, at best, eccentric. Whimsical. Like my imagination has gone overboard. Which very well may be true. But what I realize now too is that it doesn’t matter. What matters is that feeling. Because the feeling, whether objectively true or not, creates an opening. And with that open heart I allow the world to come in. Then, in that opening, I’m able to come out of myself with a deep faith that things are ultimately good.

Which brings me to the recipe. Finally.

Boston Baked BeansFor a long time baked beans were the only kind of beans that I liked, especially the kind that came in a can with heavy, syrupy sweet good sauce and awful chunks of fatty salt pork that I would fish out and cast to the side. As a kid growing up in the South I would doctor cans of Campbells beans by adding dijon mustard, brown sugar, and a little ketchup, then I’d bake them until the sauce was thick and bubbling. I liked to scoop them up with potato chips as a side for burgers.

When I was married my then-husband and I graduated to Bush’s baked beans, which tasted without doctoring similar to those beans of my childhood. I ate them the same way, scooped up with chips. Although he preferred plain Lays to my beloved Ruffles. The consequence of his strong personality and definitive taste combined with my insecurities was that I, too, learned to prefer plain Lays. (Now that I’m divorced I like both. Chips, which are gluten-free, may be my worst vice.)

Nowadays, when I’m trying to avoid anything with refined sugar, I eat almost no processed food. (Except chips. Damn chips.) This means I no longer buy any kind of canned baked beans. But I still love them. So, when we stopped at Calef’s County Store on the way home from the cabin, I was super excited to see these beans.Calef's Beans Then, last Sunday, lying in the guest bed in quiet, quiet Cambridge, I searched my friend’s extensive cookbook collection for baked bean recipes. And I decided on this one, an adaption from Slow Cooker Revolution. It took a really long time and wound up having to finish in the oven. But the flavor is perfect. I recommend.

Boston Baked Beans

2 oz. diced bacon
1 onion, minced
4-1/2 cups water
1 pound (2-1/2 cups) dried navy beans, soaked overnight
1/4 cup molasses (I used blackstrap but recipe calls for mild)
1/4 cup maple syrup (subbed for brown sugar)
2 bay leaves
1 tsp dried mustard
1/4 tsp ground cloves
2 Tb cider vinegar
salt and pepper to taste

If using the oven, preheat to 350. Drain and rinse the beans. Transfer them to the slow cooker insert or a dutch oven. Cook the bacon in a skillet over medium heat for 5-7 minutes, until the fat has rendered. Add the onion and cook another five minutes or so, adding the mustard and cloves for the last minute. Add the onion mixture, molasses, maple syrup, and bay leaves to the beans. If using the slow cooker, cook on low for ten hours, or on high for seven hours. If using the oven, cover and cook for a couple of hours. Check occasionally and add water to cover if necessary. When the beans are soft, add a teaspoon or so of coarse sea or kosher salt. Stir and continue cooking until the sauce is thick and bubbling, and the beans are tender but not mushy. I wound up using the oven to finish because the sauce didn’t thicken in the slow cooker. But I will try again. If you try this out, please let me know how it goes. And good luck!