Barriers and blackberries
Plus, food you can carry in your hand
Check in
Go slow now. Take time, feel gratitude, forgive.
Remember what matters: Spirit, authenticity, justice, words.
Every day: Watch things grow. Live with silence. Reflect.
Ethical dilemma
How do you vote?
Is the sentiment worth marring the bench?
Quotes* to start our day
Don’t worry
Be happy
—Meher Baba, 20th century spiritual leader and avatar of God Don’t worry about a thing,
'cause every little thing gonna be alright
—Bob Marley, “Three Little Birds"
Bobby McFerrin snagged a couple of Grammies in 1989 for “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” But I still think this teen with her ukulele is sweet. “It’s all good.” A humor article in The New Yorker wrestles this phrase to the ground.
There are symbols everywhere. There is synchronicity. There are cycles and patterns. —Amy Cowen, Illustrated Life
Do. Or do not. There is no try.
—Squat little guy in The Empire Strikes Back*In my copyediting life, I was taught that “quote” is what your contractor gives you, and “quotation” is the only proper word to use when repeating someone else’s words. Well, nuts to that. I’m retired and I can do what I want. Pithy things I wish I had written will hereafter be referred to as quotes. Or quotations. Depending on the rhythm of the sentence.
The Praying Detective
I don’t read a lot of detective fiction. I listen to a fair amount on audiobooks while I’m sewing or working in the kitchen.
Seldom do I listen on a wheelchair walk/stroll . . . that’s noticing time. Words are distracting. Better are silence and bird calls.
Seldom does a hardboiled detective (could the female form be detectrix?) come to Jesus, but sometimes they pray. As part of their daily routine.
Virgil Flowers
John Sanford, journeyman mystery writer, has written several books involving Virgil Flowers of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. I like the settings because I grew up in Minnesota.
Virgil, the son of a Lutheran minister, is an affable man. He talks to suspects, he talks to lovers, he talks to his boss. He also talks to God as he lies in bed waiting for sleep.
Nothing deep, just a little conversation.
One of the Virgil Flowers books, Bad Blood, is set partly in Esterville, Iowa, a town where my mom and her four children spent a summer between leaving Sioux Falls and moving to Tulare, Calif. The church that ran the hospital where she worked as a nurse anesthetist lent us a huge house right next to it. It was the summer, and the air was suffused with the stink of the town’s rendering plant. As far as I can figure, it's still there, but Sanford doesn't mention it.
Ava Lee
Ava Lee, the diminutive hero* of a series of darkly woven mysteries by the Canadian writer Ian Hamilton, prays daily, at night to St. Jude and as part of her morning routine (which also, invariably, involves instant coffee.) She visits Buddhist temples, bearing small offerings: fruit, flowers.
She’s a Canadian of Chinese descent who partners with “Uncle,” a shadowy Hong Kong figure. They are forensic detectives, which may sound like CPA material but involves plenty of intrigue and action. They find large sums of money in places where it shouldn’t be and return it for a cut of the cash.
Uncle provides leads and background, and Ava is the field agent. In a job like hers, prayer could matter.
*Despite my detectrix crack above, in keeping with AP’s recent ukase about preferring non-gender nouns, I suggest we sub “hero” for “heroine” and “widow for widower.”
Father Brown
One assumes Father Brown prays as a part of his calling as a Roman Catholic priest in G.K. Chesterton’s novels. I don’t remember the books, though.
Perhaps you have another candidate for the praying detectives list? Use the comment button.
Oh, and TV
Christopher Meloni’s character, Det. Elliot Stabler, on NBC’s long-running procedural “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit” is a practicing Catholic who spends time in churches. He engages in theological discussions with a friendly priest whose name I can’t recall. Maybe he prays, but not on camera.
Now for something different . . .
Barriers
This is hard to write.
That’s because the barriers that keep me from moving freely are a constant reminder that I can’t move freely.
I love my new power chair. It takes me everywhere, starting with the Trimet bus.
But once I exit the bus, things are less rosy.
Public spaces in our country have been much improved with the installation of curb cuts at every intersection and accessible buttons at traffic lights. But there are still myriad hazards for anyone who uses a cane, a walker, a scooter or a power chair.
Hillsdale trip
The route from the bus stop at Ida B. Wells High School to the Hillsdale Library trends up a hill. I ride most of it in the street, dodging traffic, because the pavement is raised in a couple of places on the sidewalk. Big bumps, with sharp edges, to navigate.
Once, many years ago, I was tooling along on a scooter on Southeast 28th Avenue, and someone in a passing car yelled, “Use the sidewalk!”
Well, buddy, I’d have loved to, but sidewalks riven by tree roots and bisected by deeply slanted driveways made it too hazardous. Mobility scooters have a high center of gravity and are easy to fall off. I’ve done that several times.
Park to nowhere
Across Southwest Dewitt Street from the library is a small park, Dewitt. I’ve never seen anyone use the swing set or slides. There’s no path for strollers. The only way in is to climb the hill.
There’s a short sidewalk on the north side of the street. It’s in front of the adjacent fire station. It leads from nowhere to nowhere.
Farmers market
Hundreds of people swarm the Hillsdale Farmers Market in the Ida B. Wells school parking lot on Sunday mornings. Even those pushing baby strollers seem unfazed by the steep speed bump that spans the entire lot about three-quarters of the way from the entrance.
It is too steep for the wheelchair to tackle. I have to go around.
Access cuts in the concrete berm lining the parking lot are minimal, but usually I just glide through one of the booths to the sidewalk that parallels the parking lot.
One of my favorite vendors, Scratch Meats, is on that side of the bump. I’m a big fan of a sausage they make called “lamborghini.”
Blueberries to go
Last week, every booth was built out to the edge of the next. No egress. I ended up asking a woman to clear a path for me in a booth that sold blackberries, raspberries, blueberries, and strawberries. She spent about five minutes moving a few dozen boxes of blueberries out of my way.
When I was ready to return, though, she had re-piled all the berry boxes. I couldn’t ask her to move them again. On the opposite side of the lot I found a second sidewalk, more roughly paved, with very few access cuts. Fortunately, one of them was clear of booth clutter.
The market organizers are working on a solution, but no progress yet. Families with strollers just lift them over the bump.
Stoppable
Bricks and vines On the wall I just hit. Tooling along through life Happy as a moth. Lapping up the miles, the days Happy in my womb of being And then—the wall. Full stop. I can’t go around. I can’t go over— I’m disabled, dammit! How am I supposed to climb, My feet on rough bricks and vine? I can see the sky beyond, Fifth-chakra blue, the more intense hue, Mocking me with my own mantra: Be. Here. Now. Frustration is annoying But not as dismal as regret, Nor as cloying as shame, Nor as fearsome as anger. Frustration makes you Ball up your fists and yell at the Universe: “I do not accept this wall!” And as you ready a retreat, Turning away, away, away, An enormous crash! A rumble and grumble, Tearing foliage, Destruction and debris. The wall collapses into rubble, Dust in the air. Not defeated, now, Nor destroyed. Just a different wall— One in pieces you can pick up and toss aside Clearing a way To the rest of your life.
I’m not finished with access
There’s lots more to write, but that’s for another week. If it bores or bothers you, that’s what comments are for. Otherwise, just punch the “like” icon above.
Passport of old
A friend of mine, Janet LaRossa, 100 years old this year, showed me a passport issued to her and her husband, Bernard, in 1972. It was a dual passport, and the two of them could travel with it. Bernard could travel on his own with this passport, but Janet could not. Those were the rules in 1972.
Bundles
I wrote about pasties, handheld meat pies, last week. They are not the only pies you can hold and eat.
Over decades, I’ve amassed a huge collection of recipe clippings, arranged in oversized notebooks. One of those has a section devoted to “bundles,” my name for food with the good stuff on the inside.
Here are some of them:
Calzones
Empanadas
Empanadillas (appetizer-size empanadas)
Pupusas, Central American meat pies made with masa flour
Sfeehas, Lebanese meat pies, often with lamb and pine nuts
Tiropita, Greek filo triangles with cheese filling. Spanikopita, with spinach and cheese, can also be triangles, though it’s sometimes layered like baklava
Samosas from Southeast Asia (India and Pakistan)
Spring rolls, salad rolls, egg rolls
Collard wraps (raw green leaves surrounding spring roll ingredients)
Stuffed cabbage or peppers, known as golubtsi in Ukraine
Pierogi, Polish dumplings with noodle dough, cheese and potatoes
Piroshki, like pierogi but with leavened dough
Tortellini, manicotti and ravioli from Italy. Calzones, too
Little guys
Many bundles are smaller than hand-sizd, and are served in broth or with sauce.
These include pierogi, piroshki, tortellini, potstickers, wontons* and gyoza. Potstickers and wontons are Chinese dumplings. The Japanese version is gyoza.
Wrapped without dough
Aside from sushi rolls and collard wraps, most stuffed vegetables are too messy to eat by hand. Among them are stuffed cabbage and peppers. Stuffed potato skins push the bundles definition too far.
*I credit my Berkeley roommate, Charlie Lee, for cluing me in to the proper pronunciation of wonton: “wun-tun.”
Try this
Empanadas are the first recipe I remember making from “Gourmet” magazine (RIP). This recipe from September 1978 came from the embassy of the Dominican Republic. The raisins and green olives are memorable additions.
Empanadas Makes 10
1 large onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
2 tablespoons butter (or oil)
1/2 pound ground chuck (less lean beef)
1/4 cup raisins
1 tomato, peeled, seeded, chopped
3 pimento-stuffed olives, chopped
1 hard-boiled egg, chopped
2 teaspoons chili powder, such as ancho
1 teaspoon flour
1/2 teaspoon sugar
Salt and pepper to taste
Pie crust pastry using 2 to 3 cups flour
Cook onion and garlic in butter until onion is soft. Add rest of filling ingredients and cook five minutes, until meat is no longer pink. Cool.
Roll dough 1/8-inch thick; cut in 5-inch circles. Divide filling among rounds, moisten edges and fold the rounds in half, crimping the edges with a fork. Arrange on a lightly buttered baking sheet and brush with an egg wash (2 yolks, 2 teaspoons water). Bake at 375 for 30 minutes, brushing frequently with the egg wash, until they are golden.
Empanada memories
Decades ago, I took a basket of empanadas to a potluck BBQ at Oregon Episcopal School, where a daughter attended for a few years. They were well-received.
OK, I was trying to one-up the society moms who sent their kids to school with designer sweatshirts over their uniforms. You fight with what you have.
I knew the man grilling hamburgers. He was the proprietor of the Burlingame Market, a specialty store near where I lived in Southwest Portland’s Collins View neighborhood.
Here is a string of coincidences around the Burlingame Market.
In the late hours of Sept. 18, 2001, I heard sirens, many of them. Although there was a fire station just half a block away, the Burlingame Market was destroyed by a fire.
The owner, who carelessly neglected to turn off the security cameras, was later convicted of arson.
I remember the date because I flew to Ireland the next morning to visit my sister. I was so focused on my flight that I didn’t notice the damage to the market. It was inky black outside when I left for the airport.
It was a time of too much news. The Twin Towers had fallen just a week before, on Sept. 9. I saw National Guardsmen with scary-looking automatic rifles patrolling Logan Airport in Boston. My sister’s friends in Cork were sympathetic about the Twin Towers and wanted to comfort me.
Check out
It’s been hot, I know, but I hope you have been able to walk outdoors. Early summer mornings are special, kissed with dew and possibility.
As always, I encourage you to work on you. Nurture the seeds and intentions that blossom into happiness and fulfillment. Write, meditate, pray.
Cook with the fresh bounty of the season. Blackberries will be coming on this week, free for the picking from wild brambles.
Take care, and please come back. I love writing for you.
Found a link to a page that tells about the Mormon detective movie. Brigham City: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0268200/
There was a movie, made by a then avid Mormon, about a small town sheriff in a very Mormon town. Started out where he's waking up, immediately on his knees to pray, and then moves on through his day. Turns out the killer was his own deputy who delighted in killing women of suspicious albeit unsubstantiated repute. Sad to say, I can't remember the title of the movie or the producer/director/male lead, but it was in interesting look into the daily rhythm of actively, devout Mormons. Thought raised in SLC and in the Church, I and my family were never of that ilk. Anyway, nice little murder mystery. No detectrices, but a detective who prays.