Braking Tradition

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No traditional Easter luncheon for us this year.

No baked ham.  Deviled eggs.  Nor scalloped potatoes or pineapple.

No family gatherings around the dining table.  Which is fitting, I suppose, since I’ve no dining chairs to gather around the table.  A case of poor timing on my part, they’re off being re-upholstered —  and my three married children are off celebrating elsewhere.  Kara and Kate are at their father’s place in Chandler and I think Bryan and new daughter-in-law Amy are in Tulsa with her family.

Today, we are a trinity of diners  — father, son and an unholy ghost of a mother, who once would have ensured she had at least touched based with all her chicks to know their plans, to perhaps let them know they were loved, if not with exact words, at least with action, as in an invitation to dine.  Or to drop by for dessert and a visit — perhaps, the perennial pink-swirled sugar cookies, called “Sweeties,” that became, without thought of tradition-making, my signature grandmother cookie.  Or maybe, if I had a few kinds souls to help me eat it, my very favorite coconut cream pie.

Alas, it’s chocolate cream pie for us today.  My sacrifice for the two I live with, since husband and son prefer chocolate to coconut.  But that’s okay since it’s becoming a day for breaking traditions — it will be my husband, instead of me, cooking in front of the stove today.  He offered to cook Cashew Chicken over steamed rice.  And I accepted.  It’s one of my favorite dishes he makes that — as luck would have it — he no longer enjoys.  So making it will become his sacrifice for me.

Perhaps all this off-with-the-old traditional meal and ways of celebrating is a good thing to do at Easter — and other holy days, too — at least on occasion.  Who knows but maybe the little sacrificial acts won’t bleed into everyday life.  But, even if they don’t, it’s good to take breaks from tradition.  Because, I confess, tradition blinds me.  It makes me deaf.  So much that it takes something new to wake me up — to stir me back to life — to the who and what which lies beyond and beneath the traditions of celebration.

So today, having no need to work heart out in the kitchen — for a feast consumed in thirty minutes or less — I’ve been contemplating the what’s and who’s of my life.   I’ve thought of the past, about parents and marvelous Easter dinners I’ve been blessed to enjoy.  I’ve thought of past egg hunts at my Granny’s house, when the egg-hiders —  my mother and her sister Jo and sister-in-law Georgia, who then seemed old beyond years, but — I see far more clearly, now, even with failing eyesight, — were oh so young — as they told us kids to close our eyes and not to peek.  As they’d wander off together laughing, toward the front yard with real boiled eggs dyed all the colors of the rainbow.  I’ve thought of other hunts that had nothing to do with boiled eggs, the one all the way back to that first Resurrection Sunday, to that young trinity of visitors to Jesus’ tomb — Mary, Peter and John — and how frightened they were to find no body home.

Funny how I’ve yet to think of the future.  But, thinking there now, I can’t imagine the thought of breaking the tradition of ham and hunts and family gatherings forever.  I cannot bear the thought of never again hosting all of my children and their families  to future grand Easter feasts and egg hunts.

Instead, I hope today is only a slowing down, a braking rather than a breaking of Easter traditions.   That I’ll soon recover my motherly mojo — not that I ever had a full cup of this, but at least whatever portion I once enjoyed — enough, to gather my chicks home, to a place that celebrates our joined and imperfect past as it builds bridges to some shared imperfect future.

Because no body, but nobody, like Jesus, lives here at this house.  Though sometimes, even in the smallest sacrifice, I catch a glimpse of him or two.  Maybe a ghost of his holiness.  A taste of him on my tongue.  If not in the breaking of bread, then in the braking of tradition.

Cashew Chicken, anyone?

Cashew Chicken for Three

1/2 lb boneless chicken breasts, cut in thin strips
1 Tbsp soy sauce
1/2 Tbsp cornstarch
1 Tbsp canola oil
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 small onion, diced
1/4 lb mushrooms, trimmed, sliced thin through stems
1 Tbsp canola oil
3 cups cabbage, shredded
1/2 tsp sugar
3 oz cashew nuts, salt rinsed off, dried
1/2 tsp cornstarch

1/8 cup soy sauce

In small bowl, blend soy sauce and corn starch and add chicken.  Let stand at room temperature for 15 minutes.

Heat 1 Tbsp oil with salt in wok over high heat.  Add chicken and stir-fry until white and firm.  Add onion and mushrooms, continuing to stir-fry until vegetables are soft.  Transfer wok contents to bowl.  Add remaining oil to wok with cabbage and sugar.  Stir-fry about 3-4 minutes until cabbage is crisp-tender.  Return chicken-vegetable mixture to wok, add cashews and toss to combine.  Sir in final cornstarch and soy sauce.  Cover and steam for a minute.  Uncover and stir until sauce is thickened.

Serve over steamed rice.

The Right Word

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The difference between the almost right and the right word is really a large matter — it’s the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.  — Mark Twain

In spite of appearances to the contrary, my standard poodle Max is inspired to action by the right words.

And aren’t we all?

Like today, for instance.  Today my right words were Curly Dock — which I learned was the name of the mystery plant growing in my east garden for the past year — the very one I watered when it wilted in last summer’s triple digit temperatures, the one I was so happy to see survive our mild winter intact, the one I’ve been observing every little bit this spring, waiting to see how it would develop and what it would become.

Today I learn it’s a weed.  The perennial kind, hard to remove, because it has a long, thin tap root that snaps apart when handled.  It lives in the east garden where nice hollyhocks and feathery cypress vine and forever four o’clocks thrive.   No way did this resemble a weed to my eye, since its form was almost fern-like.  It was only a few days ago I became suspicious, when she sprouted an ugly set of flower stalks.  Enough so that I decided to take time to identify her by name this morning.  And dig up what I could.  And to walk away, knowing I will only be able to remove it, once-for-all, with help of chemicals.

“Chemicals are our friend,” my chemical engineer husband tells me all the time.  Though I try not to use pesticides in my gardening, he’s right about chemicals, when it comes to Max.  Finally, after months of searching for the just right cocktail of medicines, Max is growing like a weed.  Last November’s scary scarecrow look — when he reached a low of 36 plus pounds — is gone.  I pray for ever.  Today, thanks to the just right dose of chemicals, he carries close to 50 pounds on his princely form.

To say he carries does not imply an overly active dog however.  That would be his sister dogs Maddie and Cosmo.  No, Max prefers to carry his heavy load why lying around.  Like this morning.   When I was attempting to remove Curly Dock from my garden, this curly dog of mine was far removed from dirt and bugs and weeds – lying high up on the back porch, under the comforting cool shade of the Cherry Laurel.

But speak the right word and this prissy poodle of mine will move like a bolt of lightning. No lazy lightning bug flittering about , mind you — when he hears the word “hungry?”, it’s better to get out of the way fast to avoid being mowed over.  I don’t know why we burden the word, hungry, with a question mark.  But this I know: while it’s good to mow down most weeds, it’s better to be mowed down by at least one.

It’s the difference between Curly Dock and curly dog.

Time for Midnight’s Children

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I’m not sure why I said yes.  I’m no good at book clubs and reading groups.   But in spite of past failings, and because I fell in love at first sight with the novel’s opening paragraphs, I signed on to read Salman Rushdie’s award-winning Midnight’s Children.

Rushdie birthed this masterpiece while I was in the midst of mastering the pieces of my busy young life  — marriage, career and motherhood without apple pie but plenty of midnight feedings to compensate.

Older, if not wiser, I’m still busy.  It’s the way I keep time.  But not too overextended for this travel piece —  this story in a story that I believe, once I’ve arrived to the final word and period, may point to some greater truth that lives just off the page.

Why do I think this?  Well, because this story moves. Though not always in chronological order.  Like a pendulum, the story grants peeks into the future, speaking of events and characters without proper introductions — then swings back to make sure we’re still hanging on to the story line.  In a fictional world where time is elastic — stretching forward, snapping back, keeping readers at attention — it’s good that Rushdie never loses control.

We are safe, following the trail of words left by expert hands, even while “traveling” such strange lines across India, even as we careen through the countdown of time to reach the end of British colonial rule.  Strange, as in, where are these sentences leading me?  And where will they take the three generations of family the author introduces in Book One, whose lives intersect with the wilds of three great world religions?

Hinduism, Islam and Christianity are all present and accounted for — while the story’s patriarchal grandfather, poor soul, loses his faith in God before we’re barely out of the gate.  It happens — on page two of the story — in such a humiliating, unforgettable way: Nose first, Aadam Aziz dives to prayer mat and, rather than encountering God, crashes into the earth.  Three drops of blood fall.  A hole in his soul opens up.  And his faith in God leaks out so fast he becomes “caught in a strange middle ground, trapped between belief and disbelief…”  Readers are left with a holey hero, who lives a young life into an old one, stuffing his hole to the brim with marriage and career and children.

Hmmm.

I’m thankful to the wise organizers of this reading experience who built in plenty of time for spacious reading. The schedule has not only granted breathing room for life but allowed me to fly back to the beginning to re-read Book One with “traveled eyes.”  Once was simply not enough for me, since I missed too much, even traveling slow.  I was getting the gist of the story but leaving too many fine details and scenery behind.

I don’t want to miss anything along the way, if I can help it.  Every word, every image, every potential connection that bridges one idea to another feels important.  Of course, I am missing details.  How can I not?  There is just too much to take in.  And the author knows it.  He has written a novel made to read over and over again; he implies as much when he writes, toward the end of Book One,

“To understand just one life, you have to swallow the world.  I told you that.”

Since I’m just a “tourist” traveling in a foreign land and time, I cannot hope to swallow Rushdie’s world.  But like any tourist, I hope to carry away sweet memories of my visit.   And, since I do not armchair-travel alone, I look forward to enlarging my perspective by reading other reactions to Rushdie’s story at today’s first of four meeting stops.

Maybe others will mention why they said ‘yes’.

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