Pointing Fingers

“My father was a scholar delivering newspapers.”  Ambassador Mattie

The man I spent nearly nine years with is a scholar.  He knows more than anyone I know.  He has the kind of head that can take in all the details and repeat them at any point in time.  He’d hear an interesting story on NPR and tell you every bit of it.  I so admire that ability.  I hear an interesting news story and about all I can say is, “Something big happened!”  This man reads a lot.  He spends more time in books than in life.  He has over eight thousand books in his home shelved and scattered and piled high on all surfaces.  I’m not exaggerating.  The first time we made love, books were flying. 

Today my friend Mattie talked about her father who was brilliant but whose “life took a path where fulfillment eluded him.” Mattie shared that she loved him and was close to him, in spite of his incapacities.  As she talked about this, I first thought about how that was true of the man I was with.  He’s the smartest man I know but fulfillment eluded him: a scholar delivering newspapers. He wished he’d gotten his Ph.D.  He wished he’d gotten his library degree.  He wished he’d learned to dance.  He wished, he wished, he wished.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few years, it’s the redirection of my finger.  A little buzzer goes off whenever I point a finger at someone else.  I turned that finger around and I saw how this was true of me.  I stayed in a relationship for many years that was not right for me. Many times I wished he would move away so I wouldn’t have to make the decision.  I wished someone would come along and whisk me away.  I wished, I wished, I wished.  I was a social scholar living ineffectively.  Just as I would tell him how to improve his life, to look for a job, to put down the books and join a choir, my friends would encourage me to end the relationship.  “You’re better than that,” was the message heard throughout the land.

So where does that flexible finger leave me?  I’m a little more compassionate, knowing that I can’t possibly understand, let alone judge his reasons for his choices, just as my friends couldn’t understand why I stayed with him.  I love this man still.  There are moments when I miss him terribly.  I am happier being alone than in a relationship with him.  I’m grateful I gained some scholarly wisdom and strength to leave him.  I’m not delivering newspapers now.  Besides, I couldn’t tell you what the stories are about anyway.  Something big happened!

However, I can remember all the details in this delicious recipe and I deliver it to you! 

Turkey Burgers with Chipotle Mayo

1 lb. ground turkey (I use free range because I care about turkeys even though they’re dumb.  Okay, so am I.)

¼ c. finely diced onions plus tears

½ c. finely diced zucchini

½ cup finely diced Portobello mushroom

1 T. tamari sauce (you can also try soy or Worcestershire sauce)

Salt and pepper to taste (I used about a ¼ t. salt and pepper.  Tamari has salt it in too.)

1-2 T. oil for cooking

It’s a messy job to knead this all up with your hands, but that’s what I do.  You can use a fork.  Form into four large burgers or five or six smaller ones if you like.  Heck, you could make twenty itty bitty ones as appetizers and use the chipotle mayo as a side dip.  What an excellent idea!  Why didn’t I think of that?  Heat oil in a skillet on medium high heat, carefully set burgers on hot skillet and cover, lowering heat to medium. Flip burgers when they look like they’re cooked through (about 3 minutes).  Top with feta or goat or your favorite cheese and cover for another minute just to brown the other side.

Combine 3T. of chipotle salsa (Trader Joe’s makes a really good chipotle garlic salsa) with 3 rounded T. mayo or Miracle Whip.  Adjust to taste.  I suggest toasting the buns or bread because these babies are juicy.  Garnish with fresh tomato slices and lettuce.  Remember to lick your own fingers before you point at the mess your companions are making.

Smoothing the Wrinkles

The other day I ran across a student from my first year teaching at a CPS high school.  Although we were too far away from each other to have a conversation, we both lit up and smiled.  Nearly eight years have passed since Steve was in my class and the fondness I had for him still smoothes me inside.  I believe this must be true for him.

Seeing Steve brought up a whole slew of memories about my first day at CPS.  I like to compare it to my first day at the private grammar school where I taught for the seven previous years.

Two weeks before school started, the principal, the pastor and we eight teachers met in the little library around a wooden table for some kind of religious prayer session that I politely sat through as the token heathen teacher.  Then we carpooled our way to Ann Sather for breakfast.  I remember sitting over coffee and cinnamon rolls, turning to my principal and saying, “Cushy job so far.”  This was the first day of our paid two week preparation time of morning meetings and full afternoons free to get our classrooms set up and our lessons and materials copied or laminated and ready to roll. 

The day I said good-bye to all the teachers seven years later, I cried saying, “I’ll miss the laughter shared with students over being accidently called mom.”  One of the teachers reassured me, “They may not call you mom, but they’ll probably call you what they call their mothers.”

True.  Check out this first day at CPS.  On Monday of the second week of school, I climb the steps of one, two, three entrances before I finally find the right door.  I was hired the Friday before in spite of sending my resume twice over the summer and making several follow up calls.  But let’s put that behind us.  I am told I’ll be teaching algebra and geometry in self-contained special education classes.  I pull together some materials for my first day since there are no books suitable for the special ed kids, according to some of the teachers.  When I get to school, the principal hands me some dry erase markers so I’ll be prepared.  I ask where the copier is and set off to the teacher’s lounge to make copies.  I push buttons but nothing happens.

“You have to get your code entered,” a teacher says.

“How do I do that?”

“Ms. D. has to do it.”

“Who is that?”

“She’s down in the main office.  It takes a day or two.”

“Is there any other copier?”

“What are you teaching?”

“Math.”

“You can try the math department.”

I find the math office and ask the department chair if I can use the copier.

“No, I’m sorry.  This is just for the math department.”

I’m confused.  I’m pretty sure I’m teaching math.

“This is for a math class,” I explain in case she misunderstood.

“Sorry.  What can I do?  This is just for our department.  You need to go to the special ed department.”

The special ed department doesn’t have a copier for the teachers’ use, but the case manager understands my predicament and lets me use it this once.

I enter my first classroom, nervous and disorganized with copies in hand.  Five students, three boys and two girls, show up in an afterthought of a classroom.  They’re mad that Ms. Taylor is not their teacher anymore.  I hand out my precious copies and begin to explain the lesson.  One girl keeps talking.  I tell her repeatedly to stop talking.  She keeps talking.  I tell her she needs to stop or leave the classroom.

She says, “Well, I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

I’m shocked.

She walks out.

I push the security button to report the student.  No one responds.  It’s broken.

I turn back to the remaining students and begin again.  I hear the girl whisper, “What a bitch,” to the boy beside her.  There it is.  I’m sure that’s what she calls her mother.  I’m not laughing.  I don’t know what to do.  I need help.

It’s now my prep period and my department chair informs me that she’s my mentor.  Oh, good.  Here’s someone to help me.

“You need to turn your lesson plans in to me today.”

“Lesson plans?”

“The forms are on the CPS website.”

I don’t know what that is.

“You have to include the state standards.  You’ll see where they go on the form.”

“Where do I get those?”
“You can find them on the ISBE website.”

“ISBE?”

My next class has twenty one special ed students and no aide.  Four of them should be on Ritalin and I wonder why the principal didn’t hand me any duct tape.

I’m in over my head.  I want to go to Ann Sather and eat cinnamon rolls.  Instead I go to the bathroom to cry.

I cry now remembering how hard that was.  That second floor bathroom holds a lot of my tears and a few powerful kicks at its walls. But I remember too how I found my first friends at CPS and how we helped each other through the worst of it.  And I remember Steve, one steady student in a class full of goofy, dishonest, lazy and disruptive boys and I feel lucky to have been a part of something warm and lasting.

You’re probably thinking cinnamon rolls.  Too much trouble to make them; it’s faster to go to Ann Sather.  But here’s a delicious mid-morning snack that’s a bit healthier and sure to smooth out your insides.

Healthy Cinnamon Toast

1 piece of your favorite whole grain bread

2 t. coconut oil

1 t. organic raw honey (That’s the healthiest but if you like sugar, use organic evaporated cane juice.)

½ t. cinnamon

A sprinkling of hemp seeds

Before you toast the bread, have everything else ready, including a cup of matcha tea.  Matcha is supposed to have something like 30 times the antioxidants of other green teas.

If you use coconut oil, you’ll need to flake off slivers with a knife so they will easily melt on your warm toast.  Spread the honey or sprinkle the sugar, then the cinnamon.  Sprinkle the nuts on top and place it under the broiler or in toaster oven for just a minute to warm it.

When you take your first bite, think of someone fondly and feel your insides smoothing. Stir in a sip of antioxidants and you’ve got a lasting recipe for a healthy warm heart.

Faith: The Ultimate Weapon

I wonder if I’m the kind of mother that would take a bullet for my children.  The movie Eleni with Academy award winner John Malkovich haunts me from time to time.  He plays a journalist who investigates the death of his mother thirty years prior during a civil war. He discovers her commitment to her children when he learns that when she is about to be shot in a lineup, she raises her hands up in triumph and shouts, “My children!”  Somehow I just don’t think I’m up for a bullet or an award.

I love my daughter.  She’s so beautiful, inside and out.  She’s twenty-one now.  But she was fifteen not long ago enough.  I would give you the highlights of our relationship back then but I’d be sure to lose all respect from you.

I had no idea how to take care of her and me at the same time.  Motherhood and self-care were at war.  I tried so many tactics and kept thinking, if I can just find the right words, she’ll come around. With guilt and hopelessness, I surrendered; she moved out to live with her dad.  I never in a million years thought I would be the kind of mother who would let her child live elsewhere.  I failed as the mother of my daughter. 

My misery was compounded by my job change from teaching little fourth and fifth graders who still wanted to please me to working with teenagers in a Chicago Public School who wanted to kill me.  My days and nights were filled with kids who more than anything wanted power and validation.  But wait!  That’s exactly what I wanted.  I was no more effective at it than they were.

I wanted an advocate who would follow me around all the time and whisper in my ear the right things to say and do.

Luckily for me I found the support of others who understood and offered strength, hope and tools for recovery from the uncivil war.  I also came to believe in a power greater than myself.  At first I called it a beneficent committee and visualized a group of old, wise people smiling at me, nodding heads when I get it right: “That’s right, Zuzu. That’s right!”  My understanding of a higher power has changed since then.  The most important part for me now is the belief in Goodness. Like bubbles rising to the surface, Goodness naturally is rising in the universe. Two great changes have happened because of this.  The first is I have come to feel that I have an advocate now who whispers in my ear.  I just have to be quiet and listen.  That’s the hardest part, but I work on it most days.

The second huge change has far reaching effects: a sudden faith in all that I taught my daughter and all that she was—delightful, conscientious, creative, smart, loyal and compassionate.  Even though those qualities weren’t visible, I had faith that she would come through the dark tunnel of adolescence and shine again.  I could feel that faith spread out like a cushion softening falls for both of us.  It guided my words of comfort, allowed me to let go of trying to tell her what to do and not to do because she didn’t listen anyway, and it started the change in our relationship.  At twenty-one and fifty-six, my daughter and I commiserate over the trials of being women.  We share and celebrate our creativity.  We show care by asking each other how life is going.  We listen and laugh.  I have made amends to her for some of my mistakes.  Each amends she takes to heart and we continue to grow.  I have many more to make and have faith and peace knowing I will when we are ready.  And she, by being kind, attending and really being present at family celebrations and reaching out to me for support, is making amends in a genuine way.  Our war is over and peace prevails.  I thank Goodness.

But of course, the war zone continues in CPS.  Daily I have to put on my bullet proof vest because I’ll be damned if I’m going to take a bullet for those punks, but I continue to have faith in Goodness rising in the classroom.  I know that eventually I can find ways to connect to the thugs, the painfully shy, the autistic growlers.  I give myself a pat on the back, in lieu of a Golden Apple award, for moments when I can see a smart young man flickering inside a dopey, disruptive kid.  I’m sure at that moment of clear vision he can see what I see.  Sweet!  And I thank Goodness.

I also thank Goodness for cake!  Very sweet!

Italian Cream Cake (award winning)

1 c. butter softened

2 c. sugar

5 eggs, separated—I hope you know that doesn’t mean keep each egg away from the others.

2 c. sifted flour

1 t. baking powder

1c. buttermilk

2 t. vanilla

2c. coconut

1 c. chopped walnuts

Cream butter.  Add sugar and cream again.  Notice how fun it is to see how your effort smoothes out the lumps.  Add egg yolks one at a time, stirring after each one.  Sift dry ingredients together and add alternately with the buttermilk. Stir in vanilla, walnuts and coconut.  Whip the egg whites with a beater until soft peaks form.  Gently fold in the egg whites.  Patience wins the race here.  Pour evenly into three greased and floured 8” round cake pans.  Cook at 350 degrees for about 35 minutes.  Do the spring test or the fork test.

Top each cooled layer with cream cheese frosting. If you’re good with a knife, frost the sides too. 

Cream Cheese Frosting

½ c. butter softened

8 ounce package of low fat cream cheese (Don’t use fat free.  It’s a disaster.)

1t. vanilla

Powdered sugar—about 2 c.  Keep tasting to make sure it’s not too sweet.

After the first piece your mouth and stomach will be at war with each other.  In this matter I can’t advise you.  You’ll have to listen to the whispers in your ear.  Or not.

Picky Female

Single Grey Female Seeks Tall Strong Male

Rather shy
Tall, slender Naturalist
Interests include outdoor activities
Music in the park
Sunsets and gentle breezes that tingle my limbs
Favorite artist: Picasso
Favorite song: I've Got My Eye On You
Looking for a strong, flexible male
who can protect without overshadowing
who can appreciate the passing seasons
who is not afraid to dance in the wind
Kids: OK. Because frankly, who cares?

In the past twenty years I’ve often been told “You’re too picky.” It’s a phrase that used to make my fur rise up along my back. My teeth ached and my face got hot. I felt diminished. A character defect: I’m too picky. My head would spin wondering how everyone else can live accepting of what they don’t want. How can I start liking weak coffee? How can develop respect and love for this man who doesn’t value me?

My condition was pointed out to me when I admitted to my mom I wanted out of my marriage. “You’re too picky.” At an all time low, vulnerable to anyone else’s opinion, I bared my teeth, ready to defend myself. Then I’d cower, tuck my tail between my legs and wonder if that were true. Should I just accept a loveless marriage?

My dad, too, was free to express his judgments about my choices. Even my decisions in a restaurant, choosing not to eat anything if nothing on the menu appealed to me always attracted a pointing finger: “Lindsay, you’re just too picky.” I wasn’t cute like Meg Ryan, “I like what I like,” in When Harry Met Sally.

I heard the phrase again recently, and I was riled only momentarily. “You’re too picky,” my friend determined. I was telling her about my online dating possibilities. “They keep sending me old men with comb-overs. And they live so far away.” She hit my knee and tsked her tongue at me. This friend is someone whose wisdom I greatly respect, so for me to listen to myself over her took a new found strength. After my initial hair raising, I stood firm. “Really. Life’s too short to spend it in a car driving to see someone I’m not attracted to.”

I realize today that I can be grandly picky. Instead of defending myself and getting all hot and hissy when being diagnosed as too picky, I can smile and declare, “I know!” I feel grandly, richly picky because I have many choices. And if I don’t see what I like on the menu, I can always go home to my safe kitchen, open my dark, overcrowded refrigerator and make a delicious treat that I will grandly enjoy. I appreciate my own moans of pleasure. Better to be alone eating delicious food than to feel stuck in lousy company, eating unappealing food, feeling defective. Oscar Wilde, I believe would agree. “To love one’s self is the beginning of a lifelong romance.”

Here’s a sandwich that is delicious if you are picky about matching up taste and textures in the best order.

Hearty Messy Fresh Veggie Sandwich for the Picky at Heart

Your favorite bread toasted—but wait until everything is ready so it doesn’t get cold. I really love the texture of Trader Joe’s honey Oat Bran Bread.

Hummus (Red pepper hummus is nice, but if you like another kind, choose it. Don’t let me tell you what to do. Isn’t that an ironic statement? If you do it, you’re not doing it; if you don’t do it then you’re doing it. What to do? What to do?)

8 Fresh basil leaves—I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest that you use the younger, more potent leaves.

Perfectly ripe avocado sliced about 1/8^th of an inch so it doesn’t bland up the sandwich. Just a little is a nice complement to the sharpness of the hummus.

Stick with me, and some day you’ll see the reason in all this!

One sweet, I mean sweet, tomato sliced thinly—again: some day. If it’s not sweet, throw it out. I mean, why bother?

½ a cucumber sliced thinly so they adapt to the contour of the sandwich you’re building—the pickle cucumbers have smaller seeds and are crispier, if you like that kind of thing.

Sautéed portabella slices with thinly slice sweet onions—best to slice the mushrooms an eighth of an inch thick because they cook thoroughly inside and don’t overcook on the outside. Oh you’re so picky. I know! Isn’t it grand?

12 fresh baby spinach leaves

Spreadable goat cheese—a winner every time.

Building Instructions:

Once you have everything sliced and ready to go, toast only one slice of bread because the other one will get cold and hard while you’re working.

1. Evenly spread hummus.

2. Cover with basil leaves.

3. Lay avocado slices on toast like they’re spooning.

4. Add tomato slices. Remember: sweet!

5. Spread cucumbers, like a deck of cards, in three rows across the sandwich.

6. Lay out the portabellas and onions, being sure to cover as much surface as you can.

7. Now you can toast the top slice of bread while you’re laying out the baby spinach leaves.

8. Spread goat cheese on the top toast and cover your creation with a loving squeeze.

Good luck eating it. Best to do it alone—the best of company at times like these—with a large napkin. The sound of your own moans will be thanks enough for your divinely picky self-care.