Losing weight: Notes from the Kitchen

I'm totally off of sugar which feels great. For the most part I just eat nothing sweet, but when I NEED to have it, there is an (albeit expensive so you will want to conserve if you aren't rich) product called Organic 0 by Wholesome Sweeteners which is almost as sweet as sugar, and is made from sugar, but does not harm you, it is an organic and naturally occurring process.

I'm off of butter and have reduced other milk fats. I'm eating a non-transfat spread from the health food store which is just fine. I am eating non-fat Greek Yogurt and that is just as yummy as whole milk yogurt, I want to make it myself so that I can save $. I eat reduced fat organic cheeses and they are just fine. Olive oil and nuts, etc. are fine fats that help, but milk-fat doesn't do anything for you. I still have half and half in my coffee. Fat free half and half seems to have corn syrup which is evil.

I don't have wine every night, but switch between red wine and kombucha, which I make myself.

I eat cacao nibs instead of sweetened chocolate. Last night, I made tapioca pudding with unsweetened chocolate powder. I used the Organic 0 to sweeten it, and I put cacoa nibs and greek yogurt on top. Yummy. I gorged. Today I was less than yesterday on the scale. I love that.

It is gently raining outside right now, a wisp from the far off distant tail of Gustav which is currently over Louisiana and ruining everyone's life.

Hope

What means this Hope?

Hope is a future that is entirely sustainable.

Hope is a green energy policy that will bring us beyond oil.

Hope is an abundance of good jobs to implement a sustainable future beyond oil.

Hope is a passion for local food, and the end of unsustainable corporate agribusiness that use unstainable farming practices and unstainable energy practices to bring guilt ridden, unhealthy food to the table.

Hope is a healthcare policy that will include all Americans as their inalienable right.

Hope is our youth never having to go to war.

Hope is ethical banking and credit practices that don’t give credit to those who can’t afford it.

Hope is a coming together of people from all races and religions to a cause higher than prejudices of the past.

Hope is a joining of all nations to unite in a common cause of peace, justice and liberty for all.

And Hope is the Global turning back of the environmental mess we have made, so that end the end there will still be someone left…

to Hope

A Drink of Water

After a long dry summer, Fay appeared to cry all over Western North Carolina.

And that will be nothing compared to the tears I will cry if Obama loses this election.

My new home

The thunder crashes down every afternoon where the roots have just been planted.
Ticks run to bite and copperheads lurk in the fields but no twisters here.
A kitty that once was free now roams his North Carolina prison, purring happily.
The bedroom has been painted where Green Tara and Quan Yin will rule the nest.
The nameless shapely goddess with no face spreads her arms to the world.
With the twist of a wire the music fills the floors with sound.
Mahler’s fourth with an echo of tears wanders up the stairs.
Friends and family so precious and dear are far away now.
I gaze out at the mountain, the soft and rolling mountain,
My eyes wander to the plant outside the window.
And wonder if the leaves will survive the plight of the Japanese Beetle.

From the Aerie

FEBRUARY

Orange covered sky
Winter's rising from the bay
Warming hints of blue

MARCH




Dawn, the rising sun
On the Vernal Equinox
Vallejo Stonehenge







Moon follows sun's path
Full face smiles on Spring's first eve
Crane points to Aries





APRIL











Rising moon looms full
Shades of pink and grey tint sky
Where has the month gone?

Moon lantern through lace
Cable car flies up the tracks
Am I to sprout wings?

Chores Will Set You Free

The Government will not set you free, CHORES will set you free.

This is a phrase I heard for the first time while visiting Asheville, North Carolina last month. I attended a traveling puppet show by a talented group of young folk. Their show was reminiscent of 1960’s style counter-culture troubadours and was a delightful breath of fresh air. Sadly, I’m not remembering the name of the troupe, so if anyone knows it, please let me know and I will gladly credit them on my blog.

Meanwhile, the phrase seems particularly pertinent in light of the latest political grumblings in regards to Obama’s choice of the word ‘bitter’. You all know what I’m talking about, bitter, so they turn to guns and religion instead of government, bla bla bla. Does anyone actually think the government will come to the rescue? I think not. Rescue won't come until people are ready to rein in their spending habits, and get out there in their back yards, if they still have one that hasn’t been repossessed by the bank, and grow themselves some food!

Eat local. Grow your own food. Don’t spend more than you have. Vote for Obama if you agree that the last 20 years have given us bad government, at least he’s honest about that, maybe he'll actually bring something better. But don’t think of him or any presidential choice as a savior. It ain’t so. Do your chores, use that elbow grease, help out your neighbor, be active in your own community. I think that’s what it's all about.

Impact Dreams

I don't usually write about dreams on my blog, but this one seemed important somehow. For the record, I'd have to say this is about the 4th or 5th dream I've had in which Barack Obama played a positive role. I've never dreamed about Hillary Clinton or any other political figure. I find the dreams a little odd, I don't idolize Obama, although I do hope he becomes president. Remember when reading, it is a dream, and it is strange as dreams are...

The Dream:

I had a doctor’s appointment, and I intended to keep it. I had heard that President Bush was going to be coming to the First Methodist Church on Montgomery Drive in Santa Rosa, and I wanted to go, just to see a President. I was standing on the street in a crowd when Obama walked by, followed by some noble people in orange/red robes of justice. He stopped and pointed to me and another person and motioned for us to follow. I thought about my doctor’s appointment, but being hand picked to follow behind and become a part of his council, I felt I had to continue walking behind Obama. When we got to where we were headed, I told Obama that I had an appointment but I would be happy to cancel. He nodded his head, and left to go to Mars for an important council of leaders. As he left, a large part of earth was sucked out of the atmosphere like a ball, like the moon.

There were scenes of Obama in this place, making important decisions with consequences for the survival of the planet. And there was concern about the consequences of the hole in the atmosphere, and the ball of earth just rolling off and disappearing like it did.

Awaiting the return of Obama, there were large crowds of people in the place where I was. I was standing by the ocean. It was chaotic and frenetic and very dark. I didn’t know what was going to happen, and was afraid. If the ball were going to come back into the atmosphere and hurtle toward Earth it would crush us all. There was a fearful knowing of this among the people. Suddenly the air was raining objects, and the ball came into sight, green and blue like a little earth, it could be seen far off, spinning and coming quickly, its shadow looming over us as it approached. I reached out and took as many as possible into my arms, and everyone else was doing the same. The impact came as expected, but it wasn’t painful. Instead, it was as if we were all released. My cells felt the sense of intermingling, oneness. The missing part of the earth rejoined itself.

And then it was peaceful, and I was walking by the sea. Everyone I passed held up their hand and we touched hands together like prayers, and looked into each other’s eyes. We recognized each other and although we were strangers, we knew each other. We also knew nature, and when I breathed, I could feel the cleanliness of the air; the Earth was restored. That’s not to say there weren’t those who didn’t believe, I could hear comments of non-belief of the restoration being spoken by some. But they would soon see that it was true, because the evidence was everywhere.

And then, as is the usual final course of any dream, I woke up.

Walking with Pappy

Yesterday my father and I stepped out of our flat on Russian Hill in North Beach to walk down the hill to have lunch at a nearby Afghani Restaurant. It has been a dream of his for a while to go have their lunch buffet, and although he attempted it last week on his own, he found it closed. He made the mistake of assuming it was closed because of the massive crane that was up on the hill directly behind the building. So we decided to try again and walked down the three flights of stairs and down the street toward the restaurant.

Normally, for me, this is a 5 minute walk, but no matter how slowly I walked, I could not keep pace with my father. I had to stop every few feet and wait for him. My father has spent his entire life walking around this city, and it is a little disconcerting that it should be so difficult now. I remember when he first began slowing down; it was several years ago, and seemed to contain itself to the hills. However, as he has aged, so has he slowed. It is almost like a battery running down. Rue the day that he can no longer walk.

The restaurant was closed permanently, it seems they have moved locations, we won’t be going to the new one. Instead we went to a Chinese restaurant next door, which although it was a Hunan place, it was not so hot. My father took the bus home. I walked back home, stopped first at a couple of stores, and was still home at least 15 minutes before he was.

He’s a slow ol’ geezer, but I love him.

Roots and Fire

Since I returned a little over a month ago, I’ve spent a significant amount of time watching the highway of ships moving in and out of the bay. I am drawn constantly into the little back porch that has that view, hypnotized by Alcatraz’ spinning beacon which casts its distant beam across the eyes in 5 second intervals.

Since the back porch is my favorite place to be, I’ve painted a picture, and also happened to make the room astoundingly clean. The picture is an oil painting of a burning forest at night reflected in a body of water.

I am longing to put down roots.

When I leave the back porch, I retreat to my room; a cave like room really. It’s almost in the dark save for one lone window that looks into an air well. I keep the top half covered with a huge stained glass piece of red, gold and blue. The lower half of the window is covered with a sheer golden curtain that is draped with shawls and fabrics. The walls of my room are covered with wall hangings and fabrics I collected while traveling. The floor has two Indo-Persian rugs from Agra. These three photographs that are a backup group for my Pegasus Theatre showing, are hanging on the wall, with their title cards. Also hanging on the wall is the burning forest painting. It seems fire and water at night is a theme on the wall of the cave which is my room.

From the group, Evening on the Ganges:

1. Rowing to Arti
2. Floating Prayers
3. Night Ride to Nirvana



From a desire to roam to a desire to nest. That is what has become of me.

In my room, I dream of putting down roots. Long tap roots that go into some deep crystal studded aquifer and take in the life giving mineral elixir. Growing green and strong as my branches reach out into the surrounding community, participating in art, music, dancing, gardening, friendships, openness, trust and …

Openness and trust…

Two days into my adventure, (and I am speaking of the very beginning of my trip which is well documented in the US Travel Writings portion of my website, www.catvibe.com), my father and I were in the parking lot of the Lincoln Motel in Austin, NV when I ran into Corinne, a Sebastopol poet I had interviewed several years before. She and her husband were off to visit their land in Colorado. We talked about my pending adventures, and Corinne, a huge fan of travel, was very encouraging, explaining that she and her husband had spent many years traveling, and there were times when they didn’t own any keys, opting out of homes for the sake of freedom to roam.

The funny coincidence is that two days after I returned from my travels, I went to Aroma’s Café in Santa Rosa, and ran into her as she was coming out of the restroom. I told her I had just returned from traveling around the world, and reminded her of our Austin meeting.

She told me she was addicted to travel.

“You know what I wish?” she mused. “I wish I could just keep that openness you feel when traveling,” she touched her heart.

“Yes”, I replied, “and the way you just let things go, even relationships, you just really enjoy people and then never see them again. Sometimes you don’t even learn their names!”

She nodded her head, “and you're really appreciating that person or that conversation on the bus or in the café, .”

“Savoring it,” I said.

Then we hugged and said goodbye. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again…

And trust…well that’s a whole ‘nother subject.

The Trip Ended

But not the adventure.

Ok, I went to Angkor Wat, back to Thailand for two days, and then I came home. The high point was really Chiang Mai, so why have a long drawn out ending?

I came home, and it took two weeks to peer out of my room, and another week before the next adventure was planned: two weeks in North Carolina with my mother in March. I'm thinking of moving to Asheville. It was written that it's one of the happiest places on Earth (Eric Weiner, "The Geography of Bliss"). We shall see....

Meanwhile, I've been busy preparing a photography show of some of my photos from India which will be displayed in the lobby of Monte Rio's Pegasus Theatre during the performance of their latest offering, The Perfect Ganesh. Directed by Peter Cooper, the play set in India runs from February 23 to March 22. The play also features audio and video I recorded while in India. Please come and check out the play and the photos. http://www.pegasustheater.com/

Some have asked me if I've experienced culture shock since returning? Everything costs too much in this country! Especially food. It is appalling to the senses. Food and medical assistance should not break the bank. Nor should your mortgage. One needs time away from work in order to slow down long enough to watch the flow of water.

Stay tuned for more USA centric blogging.

A Kiss in Chiang Mai

One of the best purchases I made in Bangkok was a used mobile phone, found in a stall in the hectic electronic section at the MBK: A Thai mall that defies Western sensibilities. When I got to the Chiang Mai bus station, I took out my Lonely Planet guide and called a list of moderately priced budget options, but found them all booked. Then I noticed a very basic one that a friend had recommended, Sara Guesthouse, and gave them a call. “We have a room and we’ll keep it for an hour,” said a female voice with a British accent. ‘Must be Sara,’ I thought to myself. “I’ll be there in 5 minutes,” I said. I picked up my bag and walked over to the Tuk Tuk driver who was sitting in his rig with his feet up. He came to attention as he saw me coming, “Where you go?” he asked. “Sara Guesthouse,” I showed him the address. We sped off in some direction and arrived a few minutes later down a very quiet soi (alley) in front of Sara Guesthouse.

The room was basic, but clean and quiet and with an attached bath. You can’t do better than 250 baht a night in Chiang Mai (about $7.50). I never did actually speak to the woman who answered the phone, she was always off doing something, but instead I talked to a Thai woman who seemed to be managing the place. I asked her if there were any good cooking schools, so she gave me a brochure. I called and made an appointment to take a two day cooking class beginning in the morning, then went out to see where I was.

I was in a vibrant and interesting city with temples and pagodas on every block, some of them very ancient and rich in history. I was in a shopping haven with everything from well crafted soft cotton clothing to Thai silks to laquers and silver and Hill Tribe antiques and oh my god! And I thought Bangkok was enticing. I was in an outdoor adventure advertisement arena with trekking, rafting, elephant riding, and more being advertised on every door front, there is no lack of things to do in Chiang Mai.

And I was signed up to spend all of the time I had in a cooking class.

In the morning, the minivan came to pick me up for the class. We drove to the market first, and had a tour of the kinds of foods used in Thai Cooking. Then we went to the school, which was set up, as Tom, a fellow student said in his German accent, “Like a military operation.” The staff was completely efficient at teaching a group of about 15 of us in a very assembly line manner, each group of 5 had its own assistant to teach a particular dish. We learned all the basic elements of Thai Cooking, sugar, coconut, fish sauce, chili pepper, kaffir lime leaf, basil, lemongrass, ginger. Once you have made a few dishes you realize that the above ingredients are used in every single Thai dish in varying proportions. We ate all of what we cooked, and we were all completely stuffed. I realized one day was all I needed, and got out of my two day commitment so I could spend more time exploring Chiang Mai.

I walked back to my guesthouse to freshen up, and then went out to take a walk, looking specifically for Wararot Market where I heard there might be some good silk deals. Winding my way through the streets to the market, I found myself in a Chinatown. It is always very obvious when you’ve come to a Chinese section of town, although the people look similar, the landscape changes. Suddenly everything is lined with red, red lanterns, red trim around the store, Chinese characters appear in the signs, and the population of the very small area increases by hundreds, it's difficult to miss. In any case, the Wararot market was a bustling food market by the time I got there. There were many kitchen utensil stalls behind the food markets, and although there were fabric stores, they only sold fake silk.

Around the market are many alleyways that are adorned with stores, and in some of those stores I found some astoundingly good deals on beautiful cotton clothing. It was on one of those little streets that I wandered into a store and noticed all of the Indian and Nepali things being displayed. The storekeeper had his back to me when I asked him if he was Indian, but when he turned around I knew I had it wrong. “Close,” he said “I am from Nepal.”

“Oops! Yes you are!,” I said, “I saw you from behind, I can see you look Nepali.”

“Thank you!,” he smiled.

“Where in Nepal?” I asked. It turns out he comes from a village up the same Nepali road where my bus crashed last Spring, a common occurrence there, so we got to talking.

The conversation moved on as it usually does, where do you come from, what do you do, etc., ‘I do media, bla bla bla’ I handed him my business card.

“Can you sit down and talk for a while?” he asked me, pulling up a chair. Always feeling a bit on the defensive with salesmen, I wondered what he had to sell me, this sitting down technique was employed by many Indian and Nepal sales folks I have encountered. Instead, he asked me more about my work, and about traveling, and we talked about the frustrations of traveling in India; a never-ending source of storytelling.

“Can I take you to get some dinner tomorrow night,” he asked me, “to chat?” I don’t remember doing this consciously but somehow at some subliminal level I must have been taking in his creamy youthful delicate skin, his warm brown eyes, the lovely shape of his lips.

“Sure,” I said without thinking, “why not?”

He smiled. “Six O’Clock” he said. “I can pick you up at your guesthouse?”

“I’ll come here,” I said, thinking that would be easier than trying to explain where my guesthouse was.

It did not hit me until halfway through the next day that I had agreed to go on a date, a recognition that immediately brought a shot of panic into my system. I had spent half the day walking through the section of town that sold silver, and then crossed the river into the inner moat section and explored all of the temples and pagodas therein, photographing signs advising ethical behavior which adorned some of the temples. By late afternoon I was completely exhausted and I began to feel my date fears really set in hard. It would have been very easy to cancel it at that moment and I almost did, but instead I called him and asked if he would come to the guesthouse and we could go somewhere close by. I gave him my phone number so he could call me when he arrived.

At about five minutes after 6, I heard a cat crying. It was very loud and regular and it was extremely close. I opened the door of the room to see if it was out on the balcony, but as I stuck my head out the door, I noticed it was farther away. That’s when I remembered that I had set the ring tone on my cell phone to ‘meow’. My date was calling, he was just outside the gate.

He picked me up on his motorcycle and took me up to a beautiful restaurant in a flowering garden overlooking a lake in the foothills of the mountains around Chiang Mai. We really did have a lot in common it seemed. He studied journalism and at one time had a radio show in Kathmandu until he was kicked off the air for interviewing a Maoist Folk Singer, someone who is now in favor. He told me gruesome stories of his days reporting, of the Maoist rebellion and of friends lost.

It was my last night in Chiang Mai, I had an early morning plane ticket. Things moved quickly for lack of time to move slowly. We tried to eat the banquet he had ordered but it seemed neither of us had much of an appetite, we nibbled. The mood was sweet. His eyes beaded as his smile broadened and the twinkle in his eye melted any last puritanical thread that might have been holding me back.

Despite the overwhelming desire to accept the kiss he was leaning in to give me at the restaurant, I remembered the sign in the monastery making it clear that such public displays of affection were strictly not acceptable in Thailand, so I held him off. “I love you,” he said as he stole a kiss from me in the dark outside the restaurant. ‘I don’t know what love is, but this sure feels good’ I thought as I melted into his arms and returned the kiss. I pushed him away as the lights of a car attempted to reveal our secret transgression. “Let’s go,” I said, putting on the motorcycle helmet.

I held on to him tightly as we navigated the way back through the city. The night air was thrilling as it rushed past my face. As we wound our way through the alleyways to the hotel, my eyes met a woman who was hawking at a massage parlor. I had seen her several times while out walking. Her glance and smile implied her suspicions of our intentions. I smiled back, confirming her suspicions. Weaving our way through the maze of alleys, we arrived at the guesthouse, parked the bike and walked up the stairs towards my room. I fumbled with the key and finally got it into the lock and the door opened. We walked nervously into my room and closed the door behind us. The sign on the back of the door was prominent:

“Guests who are not registered at Sara Guesthouse are not allowed in room.
Sara Guesthouse takes no responsibility for consequences as a result of not heeding the above rule.”

...

He gave me a delicate kiss before leaving in the wee hours of the morning and I shut the door behind him. I listened as he made several attempts to kick start his motorcycle before the engine eventually caught and the silence swallowed up the sound of him riding into the night. If I slept at all, it was superficial.

In the morning, he was gone, I had a plane to catch, I went to get a cup of coffee and some breakfast at a little restaurant down the street. Eva Cassidy’s lilting vocals came over the café speakers singing ‘Fields of Gold’ and that’s when I felt it; that pang of desire to hold on to that sweetness, that passion, to kiss those lips again and again, that hope that maybe Love really is in there somewhere and maybe a little piece of it could be ours…if only I could stay in Chiang Mai a while.

Oh hell…that song always makes me feel that way, even if there is no particular person I’m thinking of. And besides, I CAN’T stay in Chiang Mai a while. I finished my coffee and paid, ran back to the guesthouse and got my bags.

I caught the Tuk Tuk to the airport, spent one crazy day in Bangkok at the dentist and the tailors, caught up with my son James for a few short hours in the middle of the night, endured negligible sleep rations, and then flew off to Cambodia early the next morning to explore the treasures of Angkor Wat.