Letter To Cheryl.

I ran across this letter today. I wrote this and emailed it to one of my old professors the day I found out she died. She loved to email people. When I was a her student, I'd open my email box only to find about 40-50 emails from her all written within a couple of hours of the first one. She passed away in July of 2004. I still miss her.


Dear Cheryl,

I don't even know what to say right now.
I think of my reaction the minute after I found out you
were gone.

In those 60 seconds, years of memories came flooding
back; leaving me overwhelmed with a strange mix of
grief and joy. Grief because we have lost so much in
losing you; Joy because of the profound impact you had
on our diamond in the desert, Estrella Mountain
Community College.

In my two years at EMCC, I’m sure I took just about
every class the college offered in Theatre and
Communication. Being in the Leo Club and Masque and
Gavel, I saw you almost daily. But almost daily, I let
opportunities to say how much you were appreciated slip
right by.

How could we have known that you would touch us so
deeply? How could we have known that you were
connected to the very core of this college community?
Cheryl, you were its heart. No matter how crazy you
drove some of us-myself included…with your lack of
structure and organization. Which brings me to your
office. Jenn Rooks and I once dubbed it “The Black
Hole.” I was always so afraid of walking in there, so,
I never did. I would always linger at the doorway and
stop there. At five foot nothing, I had visions of
being buried underneath files, puppets, pictures,
children’s books, extra pairs of glasses and more than
a few syllabi. I just never understood how someone
could be so disorganized. I missed the point.

But I heard that another student caught it. It was
relayed to me that you were organized in a different
way. Your heart was organized. The students came
first and you never forgot that. You made sure that
we learned to open our minds to endless possibilities.
You showed us how to express ourselves. You showed us
how to laugh. Now I get it.

In your classes, laughter, sweet laughter, nourished us
inside and out. Stories abounded, trust exercises were
practiced, diversity and cultural awareness became part
of the beauty of theatre and the world; all of this
mixed in with unconventional teaching methods certainly
got everyone’s attention. You started the Children’s
Hour and got the community involved. I count that
event as one of my favorites, and was truly among my
fondest memories of EMCC. I can still see the
wide-eyed wonder on the faces of those children while
we told them stories, opened their minds and unlocked
their imaginations


On Friday, after talking to my priest about you,
Cheryl, he asked me:
“What is the one thing that Cheryl taught you that you
will carry with you for the rest of your life?”

Well, as any actor knows, there is one method of acting
called the Stanislavski Method. We discussed this
quite a bit when you worked with my acting style.
Looking back, Cheryl, what you actually taught me was
not Stanislavski, but what I call “The Bradshaw
Method.” To sum it up: You taught me to live my life
passionately…with my whole self. In that passion,
there is veritas, truth. Without that truth, whether
you are storytelling, acting, or living life…the
audience knows that you are faking. So now,
Stanislavski is out the door and Bradshaw has taken his
place.

So, Cheryl, today, I must thank you. For all of your
quirks; your goofiness; your "interesting" ways of
teaching; your warmth; your heart which seemed to know
no bounds when it came to understanding, acceptance and
compassion; for the example you have set for all of us
to follow; for your zest and passion for living, in
spite of what cards you may have been dealt; for all of
this and more, which will remain unspoken in my heart
and memory, simply because the words will not come, and
even if they could escape my lips, it would all sound
trite and insufficient; for all of this, Cheryl, my
friend and teacher, I thank you. May you find rest. May
you find peace. I love you.

EMCC will not be the same without you.

“Now cracks a noble heart.--Good night, sweet friend,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!” –Horatio
(Hamlet, V, ii.)

Forever your humble student,
Melissa

Bored!

Part II, Max grows tired of his kingdom.

Here's another set of lyrics I wrote for the musical version of WTWTA.
See Previous Post


I’m bored! There’s nothing to do…(Max grins)
Hey You and You!
I order you to march in place!
Now…you must make a funny face!

I want you to clean your room!
And do use that big broom!
(Max watches them do these things)

You’ll have no supper and go to bed!
Don’t ask me why! ‘Cause I said!

Now here I am alone,
With nothing but my throne…
And I think I’m unhappy…
And want to be-

Oh so far, far away
I know there is a place
Waiting for me, an embrace
In that place so far away…

I’ll sail and sail till the day is done
Beyond the setting sun
And the rolling sea
Where some one waits for me…

I'll Find A Place

A VERY long time ago I was the lyricist for a musical version of Maurice Sendak's classic children's book, Where The Wild Things Are. (The theatre company I worked for secured the rights for this musical...to be one of the last companies to do so before a movie version was to be made...)

I wrote the lyrics while studying abroad in Rome in November of 2001. This was my first paying writing job! I actually had a contract and everything! I sold my work to a theatre company in 2001. The theatre company has since closed. I have no idea who currently owns my lyrics. BUT I did find them in an old email; I am posting them here for you to ready anyway...I'll have them up until I'm told to take them down. :)


In this scene Max has been punished and sent to his room. He talks of running away and finding a "new place." The scene slowly changes...vines grow, and Max begins to sail away...


I'll Find A Place
Lyrics by: Melissa C. G. Alvarez

I'll find a place so far away
Where I can thump, crash, bump, and play
Where I have never been but long to be...

There, it is! I can see...
past the towering trees
with bright green leaves
Across the roaring sea that will take me

To find a place so far away
Where I can thump, crash, bump, and play
Where I have never been but long to be...

I'll sail away-away from here
across the days, the weeks, the months...
For a Year!
and that roaring sea will lead me...

To find a place so far away
Where I can thump, crash, bump, and play
Where I have never been but long to be...

There's no rules, no moms, no bed.
There's only fun, 'cause I said.
In that place that's real far...
(sees sign)
Where the Wild Things Are?

Two.

Midnight moon glistens
Casting light on still water
Serene scene calms me

Breathe
contented sigh
letting go of it all now
hoping
for the best.

The Haunting.

I’m left holding
Fragmented thoughts
Disintegrating dreams
Of yesteryear.
My dreams don’t fit
The mold
Of the life I made
My dreams don’t
Match
The life we live.

I ponder the roads
I could have traveled
And where they may have led
Had I chosen differently,
Would I still be right here?
Would I be the same?
I don’t know.

I catch a glance at my reflection
in the bedroom mirror.
My hair is grayer
The lines around my eyes—canyons.
The voice I have
sounds so different than
the one I had years before.
This one
speaks so softly
And catches
When I think of the past.

My heart begins its aching
My body longs
for the joy of song
The joy of performances
That echo from long ago

While vacuuming
I hear the melodies in my mind
Brahms, Britten, Verdi, Orff
I try scrubbing the floors
and think of
acting on a stage
While doing dishes
I catch myself mouthing lines
Sartre, Moliere, Shakespeare, Wilson, Durang

While folding clothes my fingertips caress the textures of each cloth
Sketches of costumes, make-up, lighting grids, props
pop into my head
The joy of creating something
Out of nothingness.
The memories fade out.
(Standby--Blackout--Go.)
It begins to fade to black
fade
Into nothingness
gone.

And I’m left alone
With my thoughts.

Silence.

A quiet home
In a strange place
Isolated.

What do I do now?
What do I do now?
I think of the things I sacrificed
A part of myself
A part of my life
to show I cared.
I left my dreams behind.
I lost them somehow.
Maybe I never really had them.
I feel like a stranger
In my own body.
In my own home.
I don’t remember me
I don’t remember anything.
I grasp for any hint
For any clue
That will lead to
A vocation
A passion
An outlet
Something.
Anything.
What is it that
Is in me to do?
The things I miss most
I’ll never have again.
Even if I knew how to get it all back
I don’t know if
I would even dare try.
I’m scared and I’m tired
I’m getting much older.

Where do I even begin?

Mantilla (Bunuelos)

Mantilla

Fragile vintage lace

Smells of grandma's perfumed hair

In church on Sunday.


Recipe: Bunuelos (Thin and Crispy Mexican Pancakes)

Bunuelos are very thin and crispy. They are quite delicate and remind me of a delicate lace mantilla. This is similar to my grandmother's recipe, but not quite the same...she won't let me share the family secrets. :) (Adapted from Elena's Famous Mexican and Spanish Recipes, Elena Zelayeta, 66th printing, 1965.)

Makes 2-3 dozen Bunuelos.

3 c. sifted flour
1 tbsp. sugar
1 tbsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
4 eggs
1 c. milk
1/4 c. butter, melted
1/2 c. water
1 tsp. Vanilla

Sift all dry ingredients together. Break eggs into dry ingredients. add milk and butter. Beat mixture well. Add as much water as needed to make a dough that can be handled without being too sticky.

Knead dough well and roll into balls the size of walnuts. Rub each ball with a little oil (canola will do) to prevent them from sticking to one another. Cover the dough balls with a cloth and let alone for 20 minutes. Lightly flour a board or your counter top and roll each dough ball into a VERY thin large round (use your hands if you need to do so). Let stand 5 minutes, then fry them in hot oil until golden brown in color. Drain on a paper towel or brown paper.

You may serve them with a little powdered sugar or some honey. I like mine freshly made with a bit of honey drizzled on top. You may also sprinkle with some cinnamon.

Salsa (Melissa's Spicy Salsa)

Salsa

Heaven on a chip

I bit a jalapeno

Ah, the blissful burn.



SPICY Salsa:
4 small dried chiles (pico de pajaro)
1/2 medium onion diced
1 tsp garlic chopped
1 medium can of diced tomatoes
1 small can of tomato sauce.

Cut off ends (tops) off of chiles. Discard tops.
toast chiles in a small pan then cool momentarily.

***IF YOU DO NOT LIKE VERY HOT SALSA...REMOVE THE SEEDS FROM THE CHILES BEFORE YOU PUT THEM INTO THE FOOD PROCESSOR!!! Seeds=more heat. Pico de Pajaro chiles rank at about a 7-8 on a heat scale of 1-10...don't say I didn't warn you.****

Put toasted chiles into a blender or food processor.

Add onion, chopped garlic, diced tomatoes (15oz can), and small can of tomato sauce.
Blend/process the heck out of it. Add salt and pepper to taste.

This is a simple smooth salsa; not chunky like pico de gallo.


If you'd like a chunky salsa, you can mix this salsa with more diced tomatoes (either canned or fresh), some cilantro, jalapenos or other chiles and some lime juice.

Tortilla. (Flour Tortillas)

Tortilla

Hot, fresh, slathered, rolled
Sweet butter runs down my arm
I lick it all up.


Flour Tortillas.

I grew up in Arizona and come from a long line of excellent cooks. Some of my earliest memories are of being in the kitchen with my mother while she made homemade tortillas. The entire house would be filled with the aroma...and I, her little helper would be rewarded with either a quesadilla (a cheese crisp--a tortilla filled with cheese, folded in half, and toasted) OR a tortilla fresh off of the comal (the cast iron griddle used to cook the tortillas) and slathered with butter...Ah! Heaven.

A recipe similar to my mother's follows

4 cups of flour
2 teaspoons of salt
6 tablespoons of Oil (Mom now uses olive or canola oil, as lard is BAD for you...)
1 to 1 and 1/4 cups of lukewarm water.


Sift the dry ingredients, add oil and work it into the flour. Stir in a cup of the water and form into a ball; use more water if needed, until bowl is clear of all dough. Let dough sit for about 5 minutes. Knead on a floured board and make balls of dough roughly the size of an egg. Let sit for about 10-15 minutes. On a lightly floured surface, roll out each ball with a rolling pin until each is the size of a salad plate.

Put griddle or skillet on stove on medium heat.

Put the rolled out tortilla onto heated griddle/skillet. The dough will go from nearly see through to opaque...about 1-2 minutes, flip the tortilla to the other side, cook another minute. Stack on a clean dish towel or place into a tortilla warmer. Repeat process.

They taste best freshly made. They will keep for a week in a tupperware container or wrap them up in a clean dish towel then put that into a plastic bag--tie the bag.

Can be used for fajitas, sandwich wraps, quesadillas, or any number of things. I love them best heated with a little butter spread on it and then rolled up. :)

Joyful Simplicity. (Fall Stuffing)

I love the fresh scent of desert sage after a rare rain storm.

I would spend at least an hour outside after the clouds parted and

the sun came out of hiding.



Just so I could smell the sage.



When the smell began to fade

I'd grab the garden hose and demand the smell's return.

When I'd had my fill of sage

I'd head for the fig trees.



The sweetness of the figs made the climb worth it.

The scritch-scratch of the fig leaves that itched me

Made me hope that Adam and Eve had been smart enough to cover

Their nakedness with something other than fig leaves.



I'd shimmy down the tree after reaching the fruit.

Ashy knees and cuts along my shins, my dress dirty with fig innards.



We'd build castles with branches from the lemon tree and

the pomegranate tree next to it.

The young branches could be bent, twisted and tied together

to make flying buttresses

elegant archways

sturdy shelves

and large doorways.



The trees yielded natural brooms to sweep the entryways

and the floor of our castle.



For the brave, the blackberry tree could be conquered.

It's hidden treasure:

A spot in heaven

(Nana and Tata's roof)

A vast window that showed us the possibilities that waited for us

beyond Tolleson's boundaries

If we chose to accept the quest someday.



For now the brave descend,

returning to earth.

Carefully sailing beyond the murky sea that poured from the

Sea dragon's mouth onto the earthly scented sage.

I forgot to turn off the hose.


Recipe: Fall Stuffing.

I mentioned sage in my poem. Sage brings back many memories involving my grandfather and spending time with family...especially around my favorite holiday: THANKSGIVING. I offer you my prized Cornbread stuffing recipe--it contains sage. :) Enjoy.


Fall Stuffing.

Serves A WHOLE LOT of Hungry Thanksgiving Guests.

5 1/2 to 6 cups of corn bread, crumbled (--not too small, just break up the corn bread a bit. I usually make this from scratch, but you can use store bought)
1 pound of sweet turkey sausage, casings removed.
1 cup of onion, chopped
3/4 to 1 cup of chopped celery
1 3/4 tsp dried sage (you can use fresh, just use a little more)
1 1/4 tsp dried rosemary (again, you can use fresh)
1/2tsp dried thyme (I prefer fresh)
1 apple, cored and chopped. I use either granny smith, fuji, red delicious or gala apples
3/4 to 1 cup of dried cranberries (Craisins)
1/2 cup of chicken or turkey stock.
3 & 1/2 tablespoons butter (unsalted) melted. (You can use a butter substitute. I've used Smart Balance and other non-trans fat spreads)
1/4 cup -fresh minced parsley, if you use dried, use less--about 2 tsp.


Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a large roasting pan or large oven proof casserole/dutch oven, add corn bread pieces.

Remove casings from turkey sausage. In a skillet, brown turkey sausage on medium to med-high heat, breaking up the meat. Add onions. Stir a bit. Once browned, add celery, sage, rosemary, & thyme. Stir for 3-5 minutes to make sure flavors blend.

Pour the turkey sausage mixture over the cornbread pieces. Then mix in the chopped apples and the cranberries. drizzle the butter and stock over the top of it all. Mix again, carefully. Bake for about 25-30 minutes.

I usually don't put my stuffing into the turkey. If you choose to do that, stuff it loosely, and cook until the internal temp of the stuffing reaches at least 160-165 degrees F.

Remembrances. (Pan de Muerto)

Writing Project, Part 11. Remembrances.


I remember Mr. Zecca—My Sophomore English teacher. His sense of humor was razor sharp and God, there's that damn Alf puppet (with pasted on mustache...to look JUST like Mr. Zecca). Tom Petty's Free Fallin'. Zecca used that song to awaken a love of lyrical poetry in his students. He missed his daughter so much. I think one of the other teachers found him that day.

I remember Cheryl Bradshaw. Wild hair and caring heart. A big personality squeezed into such a tiny woman. Her office—Jenn and I dubbed it the black hole. The insurance company refused to keep her in the hospital. She was gone soon after.

I remember my dark-skinned Tio Goni with snow white hair and
my wrinkled great-grandfather, Aparicio, who smelled dusty. Goni served in World War II. Under Patton. Tata Aparicio had 12 kids. His wife had 6. His mistress had 6 more. He's the reason why we asked about family history before we dated anyone. My Tia Carrie almost dated her cousin. Goni and Aparicio were gone before I got to high school. Long before I had realized the importance of my family history. Two historical treasure troves gone before I had the chance to learn from them.

I remember Dona Aurora. The wrinkled old seamstress. She made my girl scout uniform. The finest uniform the brownies ever saw. I marveled at the quickness in which she measured and cut. She sewed on an old Singer. Mom told me about her passing. Nana said a novena for her.

I remember fair-skinned Christina. My friend. She loved the color blue. It was a car accident. Right before that year's graduation. Alex and I wrote her a poem and I sang the Our Father at her funeral in the high school gym. I think it was the saddest funeral I'd ever been to.

I remember Mila and her beautiful smile. She loved to run. She had a brilliant soul. Her real name was Milagros. I read about the car accident in the paper.

I remember Armando. He dated one of my friends in high school. He was also my friend Charlotte's best friend. He was nice looking--fair skinned and had beautiful eyes. Puerto Rican. He was shot in front of his brother...by an insane man in Northern Arizona.

I remember my Nina Della—oh, she was a tough lady. Loving in her abrasiveness, a gentle understanding in that booming laugh of hers. She chopped off my hair because she hated it long. She caught pneumonia and her body was too tired and worn out to fight it. She was my mom's age.

I remember my Mama Nina. Scary old lady. My great-grandmother. She evoked visions of hellfire and brimstone. She appears every time I smell lemon. Lemon halves, the homemade "hair gel" she used on me. I can feel the crunchiness of my hair already. She said she wasn't stupid. She bled like she was a young woman again. She died of uterine cancer in Mexico.

I remember Amy, vaguely. She was in my jr. high school class. She had a very hard time breathing. I met Becky at Saint Mary's, she had CF, too. Becky sang in the choir. She had to stop teaching, eventually. Dr. Menk went to the funeral and told me about it later.

I remember Helene—my tiny Hungarian angel. She carried an oxygen tank almost as big as her. She warned me about smoking and told me never to start. She brought us Pepperidge Farms chocolate cake. Father saw her at the supermarket buying things for the food pantry on Saturday. Later that week, after neighbors hadn't seen her in a while, the firemen kicked in the door to her apartment. She was on the floor. Already gone. I sang at her funeral.

I remember Cecil. A gentle man. Soft spoken and sweet, and so very funny, even at the very end. Alzheimer's took him.

I remember Thad. "Ted." He shuffled along and never stopped smiling. He joked that we should only stuff every other bulletin with a flyer…only half of the congregation read those darn inserts anyway. He could always make me laugh. He fell down the basement steps. He was too frail to recover.

I remember Scottie. How could I forget him? My Everyday Angel. The "Super Volunteer." Grew up on a farm. Went to a one-room schoolhouse in rural Indiana. Married his childhood sweetheart. Maryvon. She died years ago. He missed her so very much. Scottie, my sunshine. He sipped his coffee in the parish office and I basked in the glow. My days were always brighter after he visited. He gave perfect hugs. Maryvon came and took him. He died in the ambulance on the way to the Memorial. I sang at his funeral, too. The office doesn't glow half as brightly anymore.

I remember my Tata Gamez the most. My hero in a straw hat. White t-shirt and khakis. Old leather shoes, worn, almost soft. Caked with earth. Large hands like leather. He taught me to harvest nopalitos without getting spines in my hand. He sent me climbing the trees to send down the figs he couldn't reach. He made jam out of them. Together, we gathered flowers and offered them to La Virgen. He taught me to pray and showed me what faith could do, until Alzheimer's took him from me. He forgot who I was. Forgot where he was. Cried for his mother. Asked where his horses were. Wandered the neighborhood. Confused. Scared. In the nursing home, he bit a nurse who tried to beat him. I laughed. She got what she deserved. Stupid Bitch. He may not remember much, I thought, but he remembered how to fight back. He had a heart attack. They took him to the hospital. The place stunk of sterility. I hated it. Miraculously, he became lucid. Said his goodbyes to my Nana. Apologized for the trouble of caring for him in his state and begged for forgiveness. He told her he loved her. He loved us. He was unconscious again. I sat with him and he flatlined twice. He always came back. I knew death was near. I held his hand and told him I loved him. I kissed him on the forehead. I had to go. Fr. Bruce took me home. Dad came into my room fifteen minutes later and told me Tata was in heaven. He died right after I left the hospital. Mom and Tia Irene were in the room when it happened. Mom told me years later, when she thought I could handle it, that she'd held Tata's jaw closed before rigor mortis set in. She was afraid that if his mouth was open they'd have to break his jaw to close it again. She didn't want them to break his jaw. Not her father's strong, distinctive jaw. At the wake, I kissed his forehead one more time and placed a red carnation in his hands before they closed the coffin. I read at his funeral. I don't remember anything else.

I wish I could remember more.

I look at a sepia toned picture I took from my Tata Alvarez's house. This family portrait. Nearly one hundred years old.

My great-great-grandmother, my great grandmother, great-great uncles, cousins…a family. MY family. I see Tio Goni, 5 years old. Little dark kid. Deeply set eyes. Dark eyes. Dark hair. I knew him as an old man, so long ago. Dark eyes. white hair. Nothing like this mischevious looking little boy in threadbare overalls. Barefoot. Straw hat. I never even met the other people in the picture. They look like me.

I wish I knew more. I wish I had asked.

There are stories I cannot recall and there are people I was born to never meet.

They are a part of me, all of them. Always will be.

If I want to see them again, I need only look in the mirror and smile.



Pan de Muerto (Bread of the Dead)
Traditional Mexican bread for Dia de los Muertos.
Recipe from The Global Gourmet

Ingredients:

* 1/2 cup butter
* 1/2 cup milk
* 1/2 cup water
* 5 to 5-1/2 cups flour
* 2 packages dry yeast
* 1 teaspoon salt
* 1 tablespoon whole anise seed
* 1/2 cup sugar
* 4 eggs

In a saucepan over medium flame, heat the butter, milk and water until very warm but not boiling.

Meanwhile, measure out 1-1/2 cups flour and set the rest aside. In a large mixing bowl, combine the 1-1/2 cups flour, yeast, salt, anise seed and sugar. Beat in the warm liquid until well combined. Add the eggs and beat in another 1 cup of flour. Continue adding more flour until dough is soft but not sticky. Knead on lightly floured board for ten minutes until smooth and elastic.

Lightly grease a bowl and place dough in it, cover with plastic wrap and let rise in warm place until doubled in bulk, about 1-1/2 hours. Punch the dough down and shape into loaves resembling skulls, skeletons or round loaves with "bones" placed ornamentally around the top. Let these loaves rise for 1 hour.

Bake in a preheated 350 F degree oven for 40 minutes. Remove from oven and paint on glaze.
Glaze

* 1/2 cup sugar
* 1/3 cup fresh orange juice
* 2 tablespoons grated orange zest

Bring to a boil for 2 minutes, then apply to bread with a pastry brush.

If desired, sprinkle on colored sugar while glaze is still damp.

Petra. (Empanadas)

Petra


Within me courses ancient blood.

I feel her.

Petra.

She looks back at me in timeworn sepia pictures.

Her skin is parched and cracked--
like once moist desert earth.

Wrinkled and aged beyond her years.

Brown coffee Indian skin

Silver and ebony
Wisps escape from
beneath the lace mantilla.

Petra.

Life force flowing through

My veins,

My arteries,

My capillaries...

My heart.

Petra.

My great-great-grandmother.

Shrunken and shriveled.

Tough as well worn leather.

Petra.

Who saved her family from

Pandemic death

Abject poverty

And a revolution destined

To crumble her civilization

To strengthen her faith

To change the lives of her children

To change the lives of her grandchildren

To change my life.

Petra.

I hear her sometimes

Splitting the silence of night

In the rhythmic beating of my heart.

I close my eyes and

See the parched desert sands

(thump, thump)

Silhouettes there in the distance

Beyond the brilliant sun...

(thump, thump)

The Shepherdess

Petra.

She gathers her lambs

(thump, thump)

And they steal away

Run away from the past

To new life in a land of future promise

(thump, thump, thump)

Gypsies fleeing

Bedouins voyaging

Slaves sold into bondage...

(thump thump.)

Petra.

She speaks.

A melodic timber...sweet and gentle Spanish.

"Mija. Vivo en ti."

Her velvet brown eyes--my eyes.

An ephemeral flash--I see it all.

Petra.

The faces of her children.

The death of her husband.

The revolution. The soldiers.

The raping of girls.

The kidnapping of boys...

The fire consuming the ranch in Mexico.

The choice to leave.

The journey.

The struggle to survive.

Death, an enemy.

Survival.

Safety.

Insanity.

Pain

Illness.

Death, a friend.

Her velvet brown eyes--my eyes.

Petra.

She is my maternal voice.

The shepherdess within.

Urging me to gather lambs

And move them to safety.

Petra.

Demanding I live fiercely.

Petra.

Insisting I fight—

Fight for life with all that I am…and have.

I feel the blood coursing faster.

Red. passion.

Red. fire.

Red.

Mexican Indian
Curandera blood...
Burning
Red. Flames.
Mescal. flowing.
Vivo en ti.
Vives en mi.

Petra.


Recipe: Empanadas.

From what I hear, my great great grandmother was one hell of a cook. My great-grandmother (Petra's daughter) was well known for her empanadas. My dad told me they were some of the best he ever had. These are good...but I'll never know how her's tasted. Her recipe was never passed down. I would imagine she'd approve.



Empanadas (Mexican Turnovers) (Adapted from Elena's Famous Mexican and Spanish Recipes, Elena Zelayeta)

2 cups of flour (All Purpose)
2 tbsp sugar
1/2 teaspoons salt
1/3 cup shortening (I use Smart Balance stick butter--it is 50% butter, 50% butter substitute)
1/3 cup ice water (approx.)
2 tsp baking powder

Sift flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt into a bowl. Work in the shortening as you would for pastry. Ass just enough ice water to hold dough together. Roll out dough on a slightly floured board and cut into rounds 3-4 inches in diameter. Place a spoonful of filling on one half of the pastry, wet the edge with water, fold the other half of the pastry round over the filling and press edges together to seal (I use the tines of a fork to gently press them down--also looks decorative). Bake in a moderately hot oven (375 F) for 15-20 minutes, according to size. Makes about 12 empanadas. (You may also fry empanadas until golden brown.)


Fillings:
You may make either savory or sweet empanadas. I'm a huge fan of the sweet pumpkin empanadas and HATE sweet bean empanadas (not getting that recipe from me!). Though, you may make apple, cherry, mixed berry, pineapple...the possibilities are endless. I offer a few ideas:

Savory:
Refried beans and cheese.
Use your imagination...chicken, green chile, and cheese; pork & chile...experiment.

Sweet:
Cajeta de Camote con Pina (Sweet Potato and Pineapple Pudding)
2 c. mashed cooked sweet potatoes
1 c. sugar
1c. crushed pineapple, drained
3/4 c. blanched almonds, ground fine.

Mix all ingredients together and cook over low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the bottom of the pan may be clearly seen. Place in serving dish and chill before serving. (Can be used as empanada filling or eaten separately.)


Mixed berry and apple filling: (adapted from Molly53's Berry Empanada Recipe #99408 on Recipezaar.com)

1 pkg frozen blueberries or mixed berries (I use the triple berry mix from Trader Joe's)
1 large apple, peeled & finely chopped
1/4 cup of walnuts
1/4 cup sugar
2 tbsp flour
1tsp ground cinnamon
1tsp vanilla
dash of salt

Mix apple, walnuts, sugar, flour, cinnamon, vanilla and salt in a med. bowl. Combine well. Mix in berries.

(1-2 spoonfuls of this mixture will fit into the empanada rounds)

Pumpkin:
A lovely lady from Indiana named Julie passed her pumpkin filling recipe on to me (she included it as part of a pie recipe she was sharing). Rather than using it for pie, I used it for the empanadas.

Preparing pumpkin:

1 small pumpkin will make about 2 pies. (4cups of pumpkin)
Cut your pumpkin in half. (Stem to base)
Scoop out all the seeds and strands.
Place on a baking sheet lined with foil with the inside face down.
Bake at 375 degrees about an hour until you can slide a fork through it.
Take it out and let it cool slightly to the touch.
Separate all the meat from the shell by Scooping it out and placing pumpkin meat in a bowl.
Throw a way the shell.
Chop up pumpkin meat and set a side in the frig until it cools

Preparing filling
Ingredients per pie:

2 Cups of fresh pumpkin (see above)
1 1/2 Cups of evaporated milk
1/4 Cup of brown sugar (you can use either dark or light - dark will make the coloring of your pie darker. I like the dark)
1/2 Cup Sugar
1/2 teaspoon of salt
1 teaspoon of cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon of ginger
1/4 teaspoon of nutmeg or allspice
1/2 teaspoon cloves
2 slightly beaten eggs

Mix until well blended.

Obviously, there is much more filling than is necessary for 12 empanadas...make more empanadas or use the rest of the filling for pie. :)

You can use canned pumpkin and then add the spices from Julie's pumpkin pie recipe, too.

You can also use canned pumpkin pie filling (NOT canned pumpkin--you want the stuff with the pie spices in it already) if you are the type who burns water. I know a more than a few people (who I love dearly) that I would never allow in my kitchen unsupervised...

How to Get Out of an AWFUL Date. (Date Balls)

I actually wrote a variation on this a LOOOOOOONG time ago. No.
I am NOT pregnant. I was just sitting around trying to write and this is what came out.

Again...I.AM.NOT.PREGNANT.

I've always laughed at the thought of lame first dates. I used to conjure up visions of how to escape that AWFUL first date if I really didn't like the guy...which got me to thinking...

"Hmmm. What would scare off some guy I barely knew?" The result is below.


How to Get Out of an AWFUL Date.

Will it be

Katie, Kelly, Cathy or Megan?

Julie, Jenn, Jenny, Gina or Anne?

Maggie, Meggie, Molly, or Sam?

Annie, Sunny, Dolly, Dawn?

Dana, Daria, Delia, or Sue?

Antonia.

Angela.

Zelda?

Imelda

Danielle

Dusty

Shannon

Regina or Jenn. I said that already.

Ellen, Andrea, Amy!

Amie? Aimee? Aymee?

Sheesh.

Jana, Joni, Gini, oh my.

Why do I even bother to try?

Oh. MY!

What if it's a Joseph, Joey or a Joe?!

John, Jack, Johnny or Jake?

Jim, James, Jesus?

…Jeez.

Mike, Michael,

Matthew, Morticai?

Gene? Justin? Jimmy?

Vinny? Frankie? Danny, Denny

Now I'm hungry. Denny's. Pancakes sound good…

Jeff, Jeffery, Jeffrey, Josh, Jonah.

Al. Alex. Alexander. Alejandro…Xander?

That's it. I've got it.

We'll name it after you.

What's your name again?


Recipe: Date Balls. (Adapted from AZ cookbook, 1st edition. 1983)

I haven't had these in years...pretty good and easy to make.

8oz Dates, pitted and chopped.
1/2 cup seedless raisins
1 cup chopped walnuts
45 vanilla wafers-crushed finely
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup of brandy (yum!)
2 tbsp. Karo White Corn syrup
flaked coconut (optional)

Combine all ingredients EXCEPT coconut. Roll into balls. Roll balls in coconut until well coated (unless you hate coconut...in which case, don't roll the balls in coconut.) (makes about 45 date balls).

Hombre/Man.

I am a man.

There is Desperation

There is Hunger

There is Desolation.


I am a man.

Not a problem.

You ask why we come

But you don't want to know.

You don't listen and don't care.


I am a man.

Not an alien.

Beneath this brown skin

There is Humanity.

I am a man.

Not a miracle worker.

My children are hungry.

My children are barefoot

My children are naked

My fields are bare.

We need milk

We need bread

We need help.

None comes.

You are deaf to our cries.

You are blind to our plight.

You are silent.

I am a man.

Not a liability.

I am a last resort

I'm left no choice

I left to find work

My wife stayed behind

Praying I made it across

That money be sent

That our lives be saved

So

Our children can eat

Our children can grow

Our children can be clothed

Our children can learn



I am a man.

Not a terrorist.

I don't want to make trouble.

I don't want to be here

But I don't have a choice.


I am a man.

Not a vagabond.

My home is far away

But always in my heart



I am a man.

If you were a man

And you had to look in your child's eyes

And you had to see how gaunt, how thin ---

Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same.

I am a man.

You Americans have dreams.

So do I.

Daily, you are given opportunities

I make my own.

I am a man.

I dream my children will not starve.

I dream of happiness.

I had to come here to find it.



I am a man.

Not a camel.

I survived the desert,

I crossed it on foot.

I crossed hell itself for my family

I lived to tell the tale

And because I came here

You're going to throw me in jail?

It doesn't make sense.

I don't understand why.

Why send me back?

I am a man.

Not a criminal.



I am a man.

Not a thief.

I never stole your job.

Name one American who

strives to pick cotton.

Name one American whose

goal it is to pick tomatoes in the fields.

Name one American who would do it.

No American today tells his child

Someday you will be a migrant worker.


I am a man.

Not a beggar.

You need me as much as I need you.
Without me

Your toilets won't be cleaned

Your bed won't be made

And your kids won't be watched.

your crops will rot in the fields

Hard work will go undone.

I am a man.

Not a dog



I am a man.

Not a threat.

Desperation

Made me do what I must

Don't make it harder than it must be.

To hell with your politicking

I don't have time to explain myself

I don't have the luxury.

I am a man

Not an issue.

Just let me work.

The job needs to be done.

My wife

My kids

My home

Depends on it.

My life depends on it.



I am a man.

Not a liar.

If I fail

A promise unfulfilled

Starvation

Death

I have nothing…

So there is nothing to lose

Except everything.


I am a man.

I want what a man wants…

To provide

To live.

To love.

To be a man.



I am a man.

I'm not a stupid spic,

a wetback

a greaser

or a beaner



I am a man.

Treat me like one.

If I Were God

If I were God

I'd banish those bastards

Condemning them

Admonishing them

For hurting you so.

If I were God,

They may never have existed.



If I were God,

I'd see to it that you were safe

From all that would dare harm you.



If I were God,

I'd rid your world of illness and pain.



If I were God,

I'd make all of your financial worries

Disappear—

I'd make them fly away, like leaves dancing in the wind.

If I were God,

The world would be in trouble.

I'd judge quickly and harshly.

I guess it's a good thing I'm not God.



Though I'm not God, I have great power.

I cannot stop bad things from happening, but

I can hold your hand.

I cannot heal the sick, but

I can hold you when you cry.

I cannot change the hearts of men, but

I can listen as you speak.

I cannot make money grow on trees, but

I can be there as best as I can.

I cannot control time, but

I can pray for you.

I cannot mend a broken heart, but

I can be your friend.

I cannot be God, but

I can be me.

Hell, shared. 8.12.08.

Bomb the shit out of them

Bomb the fuck out of them

Bomb them to kingdom

Come, come , come

Poppies burn

Sinew flies

Bones splinter…

Bloody oil oozes from your pores

You lap it up, lap it up, lap it up.

Charred children smolder as you

Let the bombs fall…

Let the bombs fall…

You bomb the shit out of them

Bomb the fuck out of them

Bomb them to kingdom

Come, come, come



No time to talk

No time for peace

No time to think

No time for logic

No time for time

You won't talk it out.

You won't work it out.

You

War mongers

War managers

War makers

War Whores

War lovers…



Talk is cheap,

And you only want the best.

Through your hands

Money flows

grab it up, grab it all

grab it all.

Your blood soaked money flows

Because you bomb the shit out of them

Bomb the shit out of them

Bomb the fuck out of them

Bomb them to kingdom

Come, come , come

That will show them.

That will show them…

Them Them Them

Bomb the shit out of them

Them Them Them

Bomb the fuck out of them

Them Them Them

Bomb them to kingdom

Come, come , come…


Recipe: There is no recipe to go with this poem.
I wrote this in the middle of the night and frankly, was pretty jarred by what I typed. I reread it and get chills. I don't even know what else to say, so I'll leave you with the words of Joseph Pintauro and Jimi Hendrix:

"All we ask O Lord is to be safe from the rain just warm enough in winter to watch the snow with a smile/enough to eat so our hunger will not turn us to angry beasts & sanity enough to make a justice that will not kill our love of life." -Joseph Pintauro

"When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace." -Jimi Hendrix

My Fat Ass. 06.09.08.

I get stared at in stores

Little kids whisper and giggle when I pass

I can't fit into the clothes made for the whores

That laugh at my fat ass.


I walk into Borders or maybe, B&N

Diet books look at me mockingly and harrass-

Jeering and cursing, they mock the sin

That is my fat ass…


There are times that I wish I was thinner

I run, I bike, I chug Slim Fast…

All in the pursuit of an ass that's a winner.

As hard as I work, sure enough, here remains my fat ass.


Skinny Minnies and Buff Muffies agree,

Somehow, I offend others with my incredible mass…

That the world would be better without me

Long before they get to know my fat ass.


You shallow jackasses have a lot of nerve.

I have to shake my head and just say, alas,

I've had far more patience with you than you assholes deserve.

Y'all can kiss my fat ass!

Truth. 7.28.08.

In the darkness the Truth comes creeping.
In the darkness Truth stalks me.
In the darkness Truth comes ever silent,
but I feel Truth there.

I run away.
I don't want to think about it
I don't want to feel it.
I don't want to let it in.

I run toward any light I see
In the vain hope that Truth will not follow.
Yet, behind me, my shadow is cast
The truth waits there,
A mirror showing my past.



"Let me forget it
Let me live as none of it happened,"
I beg of Truth.


A hooded, shrouded Truth emerges from my shadow,

"Silly child,
Truth is all-knowing.
Truth does not relent.
Truth bargains with no one.
What I must show,
You must see.
You must face this truth.
You must accept this truth.
You must see this truth.
You must see Truth.
Look at me.
Look at what Truth you've chosen.
Look at what you've done.
Face me, now."


I weep and I tremble.


Truth's voice softens as he places a hand on my shoulder.

"Child, sooner or later you must give in.
Or this chase will never end."


I have no other recourse.

"If this is what must be,
Truth,
Show me what I've hidden from myself
Show me what I fear most.
Show me truth."


Truth removes his shroud.
And there I stand in front of me.

There--I stand naked
There--I stand bruised.
I look at the truth of me…
I look at what I dreaded to see.

There--naked, wounded and weak.
I approach…
Nearer and nearer.

The naked Truth--my mirror self---Looks at me and weeps.
I open my arms and embrace Truth gently.
"There, there…everything will be alright."

Prayer at Dawn. (Amen.) 8.12.08.

The morning seeps in through the blinds
I can feel your breath on my neck
Each time you inhale.
You sleep so soundly,
Your arms around me...
I can feel your heartbeat against my back.

I snuggle into your arms
Something holy about that place.
A little deeper
Something sacred in your embrace.
Each kiss,
Each hug,
A little “Amen.”

Slowly
I wriggle free.
Softly
I move your arms.
Quietly
I turn to face you.

You sleep so soundly.
Smiling
I watch you as morning
wakes you.
I wrap my arms around you.
Amen.

A Work in Progress. 9.10.08.

There is no sign pointing the way
There is no voice leading me onward
I’m standing here confused and…scared, I must say.
What exactly am I moving toward?

I have a pretty degree, embellished and such,
Proof of an education, I suppose.
It sits somewhere in a box and has not done very much,
I guess that’s how it goes.

Now and then I think of returning
To college, to school, to take a class
To enrich my life, and try my hand at some learning
To use my brain and get off my ass.

I dream and dream and so far I haven’t budged.
What gives? I ask myself. Maybe I’m lazy?
What gives? I think. And think and still don’t budge.
What gives? I thought. I thought maybe I’m just crazy?

I always thought I was unique, I must confess.
I always thought I knew what I was doing.
I always thought I was meant for greatness.
Now I’m not so sure. I have no idea where I’m going.

Who knows? Maybe I’m scared?
Who knows? Maybe I’m intimidated.
Who knows? Maybe I never really cared?
I know this for sure, though; Right now, I’m just plain addlepated.

Discouraged! Frustration builds inside
Why the hell can’t I find my path?!
Science, reasoning, religion I’ve tried and tried…and tried!
Theatre! Writing? Damn. I’ve even tried logic…and oh, how I hate math.

I guess I’m looking for something tangible
Something to hold, something to touch.
I think…I need something accomplishable…
I think…I think I think too much.

Nothing seems to satisfy my creative soul.
I’m happily married now and we have a lovely nest.
I have a gallant husband, my love, my match…I fill a devout wife’s role.
But still, but still, my unfound vocation leaves my mind without rest.

It never quits! I’m driving myself mad.
It never ebbs away! I’m making myself upset with grief.
I'm wishing. I’m wishing I only had…
Whatever it is…to give me blessed relief.

I pray for guidance, not a well lit path. I pray someday I know.
I pray someday I find what I’m looking for.
Maybe one day I’ll have something to show
For all the years spent poor

The years I spent wishing for something more
Than the life I led long ago.
Than the way things were long before…
Marriage, college, and travel…before I hit this endless plateau…

I just want meaningful time in my days.
I want work, honest work for my hands.
I want to explore my creative ways…
I want to know someone really gets me, really understands.

(Is that too much to ask?
Is that more than I should seek?
I should get to task…
Sigh. This could take all week.)


Note:
Still working on this one. Hopefully I'll get back to it soon.

Darwinism. 9.14.08

Grow up

Longing for more

Or just enough

The cycle repeats itself

Struggling for survival

Struggling for self

Struggling for him

When does it let up?

When do we succeed?

When do we rest?


The cycle repeats itself

Never rich

Never enough

Always poor

Almost

Rock bottom

Not quite

There's always room for failure

Always heights to fall

There's always a canyon to climb

Infinity looms,

We are infinitely climbing

Together we climb.

We can't look back

Pillar of salt

We can't look down

Hell will swallow you whole

Mind body soul

Aches

Burning

pain

Just have to keep climbing

Though your nails bend away from their beds

And the blood makes you slip fast

Though you can't see straight

Though you hunger

Though you thirst

Something better has to lie ahead

Something better has to be above you

Dig in your heels

Dig in your nails

Climb damn you

climb

Help me I'm falling

Help me I'm failing

Help me I'm crying

Help me I'm tired

Help me

I've fallen through the cracks

I've fallen out of sight

No one cares enough

To care

No one cares enough to

Help.


This is what we've become

This is what's come to pass


The others keep on climbing

The others continue to move past.



We've become the forgotten

We've become the unimportant

We've become the dust

Beneath the feet of those

Who've left us behind



They'll keep moving onward

Until we look up into vertical horizon

And the dots they've become

Eventually disappear.

Darkness will envelop us

And they won't give a damn.

Here we'll stay

We can't climb out

Although we'll try.

In this place here.

Here.

In this hell

Down here

we'll die.

The End. 09.20.08

The end.
It hurts too bad
The truth.
It hurts too much
The pain.
He wants it gone
He sits there shattered.

He hides it all inside
He doesn’t know he’s alive
He walks through life numbly
He doesn’t want to feel it at all.
He doesn’t care.

There’s no way to turn back the clock
There’s no way to make things right
There’s no way to get things back to the way they were
Hard reality to face
Hard truth to swallow
Hard way of living
Hard way of dying

Shattered. Glass in the carpet
He didn’t intend on things getting this bad.
Shattered. Frames on the ground.
He selfishly believed he could handle it
Shattered. Vows.
Shattered heart.
He killed a part of her in his greed.
Shattered wife shattered life.

He hides it all inside
He doesn’t know he’s alive
He walks through life numbly
He doesn’t want to feel it at all.
He doesn’t care.
He hides it all inside
He doesn’t know he’s alive
He walks through life numbly
He doesn’t want to feel it at all.
He doesn’t care.

Drunken memories linger and haunt
He can’t embrace her anymore
Flashes of torn up pictures --confetti on the floor
Moments of smiling lies--believing he could change.
Images of his rage—broken doors and holes in walls
That’s all he could offer to her.
Records of bruises and handfuls of broken promises
Worthless words and strung out love
That’s all he could give her anymore.
He pushed her away, punched her away.
Saved her by breaking her…at least
that what he thinks in his mind.
He gets high to numb it all
She ran away from it all
He doesn’t blame her
He’d run away too, if he only could.

He hides it all inside
He doesn’t know he’s alive
He walks through life numbly
He doesn’t want to feel it at all.
He doesn’t care.

He chugs another beer believing his salvation
Waits at the end.
Not finding it, he tries another can instead.
He screams,
“I sit here Shattered.
Tremble here shattered.
In this corner shattered
Our future shattered
By my own hand…”

He reaches for a bottle again
With his own hand
Burning warmth he swallows down
He holds up the bottle and smiles,
“You’ve shattered my life, But Hell; at least you’re still here.”

He hides it all inside
He doesn’t know he’s alive
He walks through life numbly
He doesn’t want to feel it at all.
He doesn’t care.
He chugs another beer believing his salvation
Waits at the end.
He hides it all inside
He doesn’t know he’s alive
He walks through life numbly
He doesn’t want to feel it at all.
He doesn’t care.



Note:
I've had some friends who've had their lives torn apart by alcoholism or drugs...I'm not necessarily fascinated by that, but I've often wondered what the person doing the hurting must be thinking or feeling to inflict that kind of pain on others. This isn't about anyone in particular, so don't jump to conclusions. My marriage is wonderful and Dave isn't an alcoholic, nor am I. Just letting thoughts flow from my mind to the keyboard...that's all.

Bittersweet Blues. 09.20.08.

I wrote quite a bit when I started college, including a five page poem called "Bittersweet Blues." Of course, I can't find the portfolio I had it in...the hard copy is lost, the disk that I had it on is unreadable...this poem has been missing for about 8 years. I decided to revisit the feeling/thought of the poem...it isn't even completely close to what I wrote long ago, but I'm trying to remember it. This is what came out today.

Those Bittersweet Blues got a hold of me.

Bitter bitter sweet sweet

Rhythm of torture holding fast

Bittersweet Blues holding on tight.

I'm thinking of you

Hoping you'll walk in

Longing to hold you again.

Outside,

raindrops bang out the beat

Thunder fills in the bass

Thoughts of you burn inside

Thoughts of you make me run outside

Run outside

Let the rain put out the flame

Raindrops beat me.

I continue to burn.

The flames slow dance inside my heart

Bitter bitter sweet sweet

I can't escape thoughts of you

Sweet sweet bitter bitter

I can't stop hearing your voice

Bitter bitter sweet sweet

I taste you I feel you I hear you

Bitter bitter sweet sweet bitter bitter sweet.

I love you I need you I hate you

I flee you

Heart beating in time

Beating faster in perfect time

Bitter bitter sweet

Sweet Raindrops driving the beat

Heart beat bitter

Lub dub sweet beat

Bitter lub beat sweet bitter

Bitter Lub sweet dub

Bittersweet blues got a hold of me.

Rhythm of torture holding fast

Bittersweet Blues holding on tight.

I'm thinking of you

Hoping you'll walk in

Longing to hold you again.


I taste you I feel you I hear you

I love you I need you I hate you

I flee you.

Let me go

Let me live

Let me be.

Lullaby. 09.20.08

Do not think on the mess of today

Do not let it seep in.

Let it go.

Let it drift away.

Sleep, my darling one,

Sleep and dream of

Sweet things

Dream of beauty

Dream of green grass soft beneath your feet

Dream of fragrant blossoms whose varied colors glow vibrantly

Dream of painless days

Dream of kisses

Dream of God's warmth

Dream of goodness, truth and love

Dream of hope

Dream of trees swaying in the gentlest breeze

Dream of cool nights by the fire

Dream of good wine and better friends

Dream of laughter

Dream of what can be.

Dream of what cannot be imagined.

Sleep.

Peacefully. Sleep.

Sleep.

Quietly. Sleep

Il Viaggio. 9.20.08

Decisions
make
paths and roads

We must
walk, skip,
dance,
or skulk along

We may
gather company
along the way

at times

masses

at others

only one or two

or maybe

we walk
alone.

Thorns and brambles
may catch us

Or our way
may be sunny
and scenic

No matter the course,
we must continue.

How will you walk along?
Will you moan and groan,
focusing on the pebble in your shoe?

Will you take off your shoes and barefooted,
Reveling in the feeling of grass between your toes?

My journey is mine
Your journey is yours.
But I hope one day the roads may cross
Here and there.

That I may greet you with an embrace
Or a kiss
And share laughter--giggles,
a glass of wine,
And perhaps a meal or two.
And before we part,
we embrace once again,
wish each other well,
and pray we find one another
once more at journey's end.

Thoughts on Reunion (An Elena--An Alcoholic Drink.)

I look at the pictures of the laughing women.

Beautiful, impeccably dressed,

Perfect jeans, perfect hair, perfect bag, perfect heels.

Caught mid-laugh, or smiling wide for the camera

Perfect teeth, blindingly white.

Make up—perfect, not a flaw to be seen.

They line up for the picture,

Arms around one another

And the picture is snapped,

Perhaps by a waitress or random bar patron.



The perfect moment captured forever--

The perfect group having a perfectly wonderful time.



These are the women

I wanted to be.

This is the group to which

I desperately longed

To belong.

I'm not in the picture.



I was the square sucking in her gut,

Starving herself in a desperate attempt to

Fit into the circle.

I was the third wheel that tried

Not to squeak.



My smile--wasn't as bright,

My make-up--all wrong

My clothes--second-hand

My shoes--clunky

My gait--awkward.



Though I was there,

I really wasn't.

I allowed myself to be

a shoulder to cry on

here.

a sounding board,

hear.

a helping hand

there.



During those times

I felt needed.

I felt like a part of something.

I felt like I finally found my place.

Then, in an instant,

The problem was solved,

The problem was forgotten,

And everyone had moved on.

I wasn't needed anymore.

I'd find myself outside trying

To find a way back into the circle.



There were a few

who went out of their way

To make me feel at home.

To make me feel welcome…

To remember I was there.

Even so,

The group, collectively,

spoke volumes

in their indifference.



I just smiled and

masked my hurt feelings.


After college,

I reached out
time and
time again.

Hoping for
an email

a letter

a phone call
a word.

Nothing ever came.


Over the years,

Life has changed

Time has passed.

Crises have arisen.

Choices have been made.

Some friendships have been forgotten,

While others, forged in fire, will endure forever.


Now.

Time has blessed me with vision

Now.

I know who I am.

Now.

I know who they are, too.



Now.



I look at the pictures of the laughing women.

Beautiful, impeccably dressed,

Perfect jeans, perfect hair, perfect bag, perfect heels.

Caught mid-laugh, or smiling wide for the camera

Perfect teeth, blindingly white.

Make up—perfect, not a flaw to be seen.

They line up for the picture,

Arms around one another

And the picture is snapped,

Perhaps by a waitress or random bar patron.



The perfect moment captured forever--

The perfect group having a perfectly wonderful time.



These are the women

I wanted to be.

This is the group to which

I desperately longed

To belong.

I'm not in the picture.

I never will be.

And that is perfectly fine with me.



Recipe: An Elena. (An Alcoholic Drink)
Why an alcoholic drink? Because, frankly, I needed about two or three Elenas to calm myself down when I wrote this poem.

What is an Elena, you ask???

The Elena is a drink I named after my husband's cousin. She is an incredible soul--quite funny and someone, I would imagine, would have been one of my dearest friends had we met in college--She's fun-loving and witty, to boot. She's quite a good friend now. :) My husband and I drove up to her home in Shrewsbury, PA to have dinner and hang out with her and her hubby. She served me a simple drink, ginger ale spiked with peach schnapps. No measuring...just added however much alcohol I wanted. Let me tell you...that night, I found my new favorite drink.

The drink is quite tasty and I introduced it to my sister when I went to visit AZ at Christmas last year. She asked me what is was called...it didn't officially have a name, so I dubbed it the Elena, in honor of the ORIGINAL Elena.

An Elena:

One glass. Doesn't matter what kind...high ball, low ball...a pilsner glass...use a margarita glass, for all I care.

Cold Ginger ale (for a twist on this recipe, use cranberry ginger ale...it tastes great! BUT don't bother trying it with the green tea ginger ale that is out there--it is horrible.)

Peach Schnapps, preferably Peachtree Schnapps.


Generally, I pour 2 parts ginger ale to 1 part schnapps...if you don't want to measure, just pour in schnapps until the glass is almost full. If you want a stronger drink pour a little ginger ale, then a little schnapps...a little ginger ale...a little schnapps...etc..etc...If you want to be a fancy-pants show off...you may use a shaker to mix this drink.

Ice is optional.

It is best served ice cold.

November 11th. 11.11.08. (Poppy Seed Recipes)

Poppies, daisies
Snow white Lilies
and Roses red
Bundled together
Tied with twine and left on aging graves
Remembrances for the dead
Who dedicated themselves
To service and freedom
And fought for
Our defense
No flowers enough
No tears enough
To pay the price
For lives given on the battlefield
For sacred blood spilled
On the snow at Valley Forge
On the hills of Gettysburg
On the fields of Flanders
In the waters of Pearl Harbor
On the crimson shores of Normandy
On the soil of Korea
In the jungles of Vietnam
On the desert sands of Iraq
In the mountains of Afghanistan
On the battlefields of history
Long forgotten and fading with time.
On this day—
Veterans’ Day, Remembrance Day;
We thank those who have
Guarded us
Protected us and
Served us well;
May we nations today
Remember
The price of war
The price of hate
The price of love
The price of conflict
The price of peace
The price we have paid
And continue to pay.
We must not forget
We cannot forget
The meaning
The sacrifices
The lives
The time
The blood
Given on our behalf.
There are those who will condemn war
There are those who will condone war
But neither must be allowed
To subtract the honor
Bought through
The spilling of the soldiers’ blood--
The sacred blood
That stains our memories
And our battlefields;
Though hidden by
Verdant fields of greenest grass
Peaceful meadows of reddest poppies
Serene waters of deepest cerulean blue
And the sepia touch of time—
The blood still remains.
So bear in mind this day—
And everyday
All that was given to you
And to me
As we bow our heads in silence
In this eleventh month
On this eleventh day
On this eleventh hour;
Let us give thanks
For those brave souls
Who’ve long since gone,
Whose names are unspoken
And unremembered
As time has gone by;
For those brave souls—
Fathers, brothers, husbands
Mothers, sisters, wives
We’ve loved and lost and miss;
And for those brave souls
Who fight on still…
Let us give thanks.




Recipes: Poppy Seed Dressing & Poppy Seed Cake.

In areas of the world on November 11th each year, people wear poppies to remember those who have given their lives in defense of their respective nations. (This practice is mainly observed in England, Canada and Australia...it is traditionally associated with WWI and the Armistice.) Additionally, in some countries, at 11:11 on November 11th, two minutes of silence are observed.

Why poppies? Read on...

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
— Lt.-Col. John McCrae

You can read more about Remembrance Day at Wikipedia.


Poppy Seed Dressing

1/2 c. fresh lime juice
3 tbsp. oil (you may use canola or olive oil)
2-3 tbsp. honey (I like mesquite blossom honey)
1/4 tsp. poppy seeds (a little goes a long way)
1/4 tsp. Dijon Mustard.

Combine and blend well. Pour over salad.


Poppy Seed Cake
1/2 lb. butter (2 sticks. I use Smart Balance 50/50)
2 cups of sugar
5 eggs separated
2 1/2 c. sifted cake flour (NOT all purpose flour!)
3 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp vanilla
1 tsp. grated lemon rind
1/4 c. poppy seeds cooked in 2/3 c. of milk
powdered sugar

Preheat oven to 350 F.
Cream butter and sugar; add yolks and mix well. Add sifted dry ingredients alternately with milk/poppy seed mixture. Add vanilla and lemon rind.
Beat egg whites until they are stiff. Carefully, fold stiffly beaten egg whites into the cake mixture. Pour batter into a tube pan (angel food pan). Bake for an hour at 350 F. Cool cake for about 40 minutes to an hour. Once cake is cool, dust with powdered sugar.

LOL? WTF?...Free Writing, 11.07.08.

The ignorance can be stifling.
Listening to the scantily clad co-eds speak
Parroting the intolerance
And insensitivity
I’m sure they heard from their own parents;
I momentarily felt as though
I’d been transported
To the days whites
Relegated coloreds—
My tanned and brown ancestors, included—
And the very poor—
To the cotton fields
To the orchards
To the vineyards
To separate fountains
To separate toilets;
To the days before
MLK
JFK
RFK
FDR.
To the days we toiled
Sweaty and aching
To eke out an existence
Beneath the heels of the upper crust.
I snapped out of my momentary haze
Only to realize I was not in the time of
FDR
JFK
MLK
Or
RFK.
I was in the age
Of
IDK
And
LOL.
These children
Trying desperately to be
Women
Trying to articulate an argument
Could not come up
with anything
Other than
Poverty is a choice
If you work in a sweatshop
That is what you deserve.
If you want something go out and get it.
The poor choose their lot.
The poor deserve their poverty.

These little girls
In J. Crew tees and Hollister jeans
Chewing on manicured nails
Perfectly dyed hair tied back in ponytails
Have never gone to bed hungry
For lack of money
Have never gone without clothes
For lack of money
Have never had opportunities withheld
For lack of money.
Have never lacked an education
For lack of money
Have never heard “No.”
For if they had
The would have noticed the girl in the back
of the classroom
In well worn sneakers patched with duct tape
In Goodwill jeans and a hand-me-down shirt
Holding a used textbook in calloused hands;
Worry lined face reddened with the anger
that causes ther to clench her fists and
tighten her jaw--
In outrage mixed with shame
Over
Ignorant words that wound
Her heart
For they spit on the gift of life
bestowed by her very own parents.

These girls walk a gilded road
And dance along without
Noticing the rarely trodden paths
That are hidden among the brambles.

They lead
Beyond the horizon.
There lies
A rusted iron gate
Locked to those
Without the key.

Just past the gate,
there is
A haven
For the poor
For the oppressed
For the hated
For the forgotten
For those who have

Never

Known

"Yes."

Shielded by brambles
Guarded by thorns,
Not everyone notices the pathway.
But those who open their hearts
Those who open their minds
Those who hold out their hands
Find the key
After embracing
Humanity.

It is given to them
As a token
For
Compassion,
And goodness
Offered up
Without
Want
Of
Reward.

The tasks are simple enough.
Live Love.
Just love.

(A work in progress. I will come back and refine it some more. –MCS)


Recipe: My Favorite Banana Bread. (Betty Crocker cookbook)

Nothing makes me madder than ignorant idiots that have no real clue about how badly other in the world have it. I hate when people don't think of the poor. Those lousy attitudes remind me of over-ripe bananas. They are black (the bananas) and look like they are beyond hope...who wants to eat a smushy banana that looks like crap? But take that banana and mix it in with other good things and you get something delicious. (I know this is a stretch, but go with it. Humor me.) I hear those ignorant statements and try to do something to enlighten those who are clueless. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. If there is anything good that can come from ignorance it is this...those statements make me all the more adamant about living a loving life...about caring for the poor, about living the golden rule.

The Best Banana Bread I've Ever Had.
Makes 2 loaves.

1 & 1/4 cups of sugar (you may use Splenda)
1/2 cup butter/margarine (I use Smart Balance 50/50 sticks)
2 large eggs
1 1/2 c. mashed VERY ripe bananas (about 3 medium)
1/2 cup buttermilk
1 tsp. vanilla
2 1/2 c. all purpose flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
1 c. chopped walnuts

Move oven rack to low position so that tops of pans will be at center of oven. Heat oven to 350 F. Spray loaf pans with non-stick cooking spray.

Mix sugar and butter in large bowl. Stir in eggs until well blended. Stir in bananas, buttermilk, and vanilla; beat until smooth. Stir in flour, baking soda and salt until just moistened. Stir in nuts. Divide batter evenly between pans.

Bake 8 inch loaves about 1 hour, 9 inch loaves for 1 hour 15 minutes. Cool 10 minutes in pans on wire rack. After 10 minutes, loosen loaves and remove from pans. Cool top side up on wire rack. Let cool at least 2 hours before slicing. Wrap tightly. May be stored at room temp for 4 days or in fridge for 10 days.

(Adapted from Betty Crocker cookbook)

Perpetual Tug of War. (SOS)

A breath away from homelessness
it struggle never ends
What I wouldn’t give for blessed rest
Some days I wonder
if I would be better off
Dead and gone
Without a single care
no bills
no worries
just peace
just silence

just--

Reality of that thought hits me
The sin of that mindset
Makes me come to.
Only God will take my life
(However worthless it may be.)
We’ve tried for so long
We’ve worked for so long
To see those years wasted
To see our hands bare
Still empty.
thirty years and still
nothing.
Where were those American dreams we had?
Faded in time
The dream house is a rented shack.
The car, corroding and rusting out back.
The pension lost when he was laid off.
Our best years
working for nothing…
Dust.

More dust.

The dust rapidly rises in the breeze
a sandy wall
blinds me momentarily.
I close my eyes
and think back
on it all.
The years
The times
I lived.
Marriage and kids
Made it all worthwhile
We kept together
In each house
Starved together
in each house
But we made it through.
Loved together
Though it was hard sometimes.
Rejoiced together
Anytime we could.
Mourned together
More often than not.
Wept together
To let it all out.
Laughed together
To keep from weeping.

I open my eyes and peer
Back into our shack.
Home for now.
Now.

Now …

The kids are grown
The rooms where
youthful noise once
Echoed
Now are silent.
I’m left alone…
with my husband
while he wonders
Where the days have gone
Where the years have flown
The days of babies in diapers
Of dresses and pigtails
Of and footballs, baseballs, guitars...
Now live only in my mind,
He wasn’t always there.
He can’t live those times again.

Pain.
My feet ache
My heart aches
My eyes weaken
My resolve wanes
I find myself tired
Just want to rest.
Waiting for time to slip away.
Waiting for better days
Waiting to see what is next.

Waiting.






Recipe: SOS (S*** on a Shingle)

I was thinking of my mother when I wrote this. We never had a whole lot growing up...as a result, we had to be creative in the kitchen. Here's a recipe for one of my absolute favorite meals when I was a child...apparently, dad used to make this for me when I was a toddler...I couldn't get enough of it.

SOS (S*** on a Shingle)

1 can of cream of chicken soup
2 hard boiled eggs (peeled)
2 pieces of bread to make toast.

Cook the soup according to directions.

While soup is cooking, put the peeled eggs into a bowl and smash them up a bit with a fork.

Toast your bread.

Once toast is done, put it on a plate.

Spoon soup over toast.

Sprinkle the smashed eggs over the "shingles".

Eat.

Life Eternal. Free writing. 9.29.08 (Corn Bread)

Sepia pictures
Some torn
Some stained.
Some ripped
from the frames
That held them
prisoners for ages.
Smiling faces,
nameless now.
Destined for some antique shop?
Or maybe Goodwill?
Ticket stubs of
old movies,
plays,
and concerts.

Scraps of paper with
Old phone numbers
Meaningless dates
Nonsensical scribbling.

All that
Remains
Of lives
Lived long ago.

Long before
I ever thought
Long before
I ever dreamed
Long before
I ever breathed
Long before
I ever was.

Black and white
Sepia toned.
Unfamiliar
Yet familiar faces
The noses
The eyes
The full lips smile.
That smile could be mine.

Later,
I look in the mirror
With my grandfather’s eyes
Furrowing my great grandmother’s brow
Wrinkling nana’s nose.
I carefully put my mother’s hair
up into a bun on my head.
I laugh my father’s laugh
When the realization hits--

The past lives on.
The present reflects
What came before.
There is continuity.
There is eternal life
For my ancestors—
Those I never
got a chance
to meet;
All I have to do
Is look
at myself
And
Smile.


Recipe: Corn Bread
I'm very connected with my past. When I think of my family, I think of cooking. My family LOOOOOOVES carbs. Especially in the form of corn. Corn fritters, corn tamales, corn casserole...corn muffins and CORN BREAD!

My dad makes a mean cornbread...mine is better, though I don't tell him that. :)

Melissa's Homemade Corn Bread (adapted from an old Quaker Corn Meal Recipe)

1 ¼ cups all purpose flour
¾ cup Corn Meal (I use yellow corn meal)
¼ cup of sugar (you may use Splenda sugar substitute aka sucralose—just make sure it is the kind that is equivalent cup for cup to sugar)
2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
1 cup of milk (I use buttermilk for a nice flavor. You may also use skim milk.)
¼ cup vegetable oil (I use olive oil, better flavor.)
1 egg, beaten.
½ cup of fresh or frozen corn kernels
1 small can of diced green chiles (optional—IF YOU ARE NOT USING CORN BREAD FOR THANKSGIVING STUFFING.)
1/3 cup of cheese (I use cheddar or Monterrey Jack) + a little more to sprinkle on top of bread. (Cheese is optional...I only use it when I'm making corn muffins/bread to go with chili.)

Heat oven to 400 degrees.
Grease 8-9 inch pan OR muffin tin if you decide to make corn muffins. Combine dry ingredients. Stir in milk, egg, and oil. Stir in corn and cheese. Mix. Pour into prepared pan/tin. I top the corn bread/muffins with a little cheddar cheese before I bake them. Bake 20-25 minutes until golden brown and toothpick inserted into center comes out clean.

Life...Sans "Bailout." October 17, 2008. (Mexican Pizza)

The desperation

overwhelms her calm voice

I can smell it

I can feel it

The dank

darkness

boa constrictor squeeze of it

choking the air

choking the life out of them

I feel it.

Even over the phone

As a child

Even the worst times

Were never this bleak

We made games of the poverty

Because we were too young to understand

The seriousness of the situations

Grown up,

The games are no fun

We've figured it all out.

Dad's checks shrink every week

Mom's worries grow instead

Three thousand miles

Separate us

Light years

Class separates now

I'm building the bridge as fast as I can

Tying, knotting the sheets to toss across to you.

The chasm continues to widen

I've run out of twine

I've run out of sheets

I've run out of life preservers to throw.

My arms can't reach you

No matter how far I stretch out in front of me…

All I can do is stand here

Looking at you over there

The canyon widens

The chasm deepens

You drift farther away

I watch until the dot I know to be you

Disappears

Alone,

I weep because I don't know what else to do.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I love you.

I'm sorry.

Recipe: Mexican Pizza
I grew up pretty poor. As a result, we didn't always have a whole lot to eat and we had to be pretty creative sometimes. As the oldest, it was my job to look after my brother and sisters once we got home from school and our parents were at work. I'd make this snack for them after we got home.


1 large tortilla for each person.
1 can of tomato sauce
some pizza seasoning (or dried oregano, if that is all you have)
cheddar cheese (or gov't cheese if that is all you have)

Heat up a comal (cast iron griddle) or a pan on medium heat.

Put tortilla on the comal/pan.
using a tablespoon, scoop some tomato sauce onto the tortilla and spread around, like you would if you were making a real pizza.
sprinkle some cheese over the sauce.
sprinkle with dried oregano.
cook until the tortilla is stiffly toasted. Watch it carefully, as the "pizza" may burn if you aren't paying attention.

Repeat as necessary.

Eat.

Yum.