I'm Too Tired to Go Out: The Care and Feeding of Depressed Friends

A kind gesture can reach a wound that only compassion can heal.

~ Steve Maraboli, Life, the Truth, and Being Free

May is National Mental Health Awareness Month.  Join me in blogging to erase the stigma of mental illness so our loved ones can seek the help they need.

M

isery loves company. Especially if that company also enjoys watching episodes of Psych.

A few weeks ago, I suggested to one of my local gal pals that we needed to institute a regular Girls Night In with Fake TV Boyfriends.  As we’re both WhoLock fans and Psych nerds, this turned out to be a brilliant plan.

Until the other night, when we realized that we really weren’t in our twenties anymore and apparently couldn’t handle two bottles of hard cider and talking until 3am.

But despite our cranked out sleepiness the next day, we discovered that we were better for having laughed, cried, and eaten comfort food together.

We took comfort in the fact that we were in this mental illness dance together.

The Care and Feeding of Depressed Friends

It’s tough to know what to do for your friends who are depressed.  Even though I suffer from it, I’m at a loss for words sometimes.

Image credit: Shiny Starr Light

So here’s my Top Ten list of how to care and feed your friends who are depressed.

1.       Find out what their Love Language is.

2.      Send them a card or write them a note.

3.      Give them a call.

4.      Listen.

5.      Make a care package for them.

6.      Go over for a visit.

7.      Take them shopping.  Not for clothes.

8.     Schedule a spa date for the two of you.

9.      Send them flowers.

10.  Bring/cook them dinner.

The key is to listen and engage with them.  Respect their level of energy.  If it’s really low, stay in and watch movies and order pizza.  If they’re having a good day, go get massages. Bottom line?  Let them know you care and that they’re loved and not alone.  

You don’t know whose life you may be saving with that unexpected phone call.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Show your friend support today!

The La Belle Daybook: The Write Opportunity

One half of knowing what you want is knowing what you must give up before you get it. 
~ Sidney Howard

S

ometimes it’s just good to put things down in black and white.

It can be humbling: Do I really think like that?!

It can be an A-ha! Experience: That doesn’t sound right.  Let’s try this instead…

It can hold us accountable to others: I said I would get that to you by Monday?  Oops…

And accountable to ourselves: If I’m ever going to buy a house, I need to map out a budget now!

When I first started writing these Daybook posts, I saw them more as a public To Do List, dull to mildly interesting; a way to fill my little corner of empty cyber space; a no-brainer way to make sure I blog for all thirty days of the Blogathon.

But now that I have been writing and posting eight days in a row, I realize that the Daybook is an opportunity to re-center myself and make sure my goals for the week (writing and otherwise) are on track.

And of course, writing begets writing. So it’s another chance to work the writing muscle.

Outside my window...a beautiful day.  That Andrea chick was really annoying Friday and Saturday ~ I thought for sure my tommy toe plants were going to drown!  Now maybe they can dry out a little.

I am thinking...about my friend Petey, who just lost her husband.  They were so made for each other; it’s difficult to realize he won’t be there next time I visit her and the babies.

My desk

I am thankful...for my hands.  Specifically my fingers.  Without them, I wouldn’t be able to write, especially personal letters.

In the kitchen...is a pan of maple sausage gravy (I told you I was vegan except for the meat!) and gluten-free sour cherry tarts.  Wow, did they turn out fabulous!  (Actually, they were so good, there’s only one left.)

I am wearing...a sweater.  Again, this Andrea chick!  Although I shouldn’t complain; cool temps in June in Virginia is a nice break.

I am creating...notecards.  I’ll share pictures once I finish.

I am going...going, gone! (Ha!)

I am wondering...why I say yes to creative projects when I really want to say no.  They usually turn out great, but I end up overwhelmed, worn out, and drained.  Need to work on that.

I am reading...The Nature Principle by Richard Louv and Obsession by Jennifer Armentrout

I am hoping...to  help a friend plant her garden this coming Saturday.  I love spreading the green love around!

I am looking forward to...the Gatsby Dance on June 22!

I am learning…as I go.

Around the house...are piles of hats and hat boxes.  Time to organize ~ there are more coming this week!

I am pondering...what to say to a certain someone this week.

A favorite quote for today...see above.

One of my favorite things...are rainy days with no set plans. Guess I got my wish!

A few plans for the rest of the week:

1. Write in my journal at least 3 days

2. Finish up to Chapter 3 in Man’s Search for Meaning

3. Stake my tomatoes and cucumbers plants

A peek into a typical day...document drafting and document editing.  And if I’m lucky, my friend Diane will be eating fried chicken on the train ride home.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

What do you use your Daybook for?

The Gift of Receiving: Accepting Another's Gifts

. . .the bridges had been blown up; we squat on piers that don’t connect anything. . .
~ Ruth Kluger 

R

uth Kluger wrote her memoir, Still Alive: A Holocaust Girlhood Remembered  about her experience in Austria during (and after) World War II.  After reading Richard Chess’ unpacking and exploration of her observations about bridging the gaps between “my memories” and “our memories,” I not only want to read the book, I want to take his class at UNC!

This gap is illustrated by an incident where Kluger and some friends were relating their experiences of claustrophobia.  The stories they offered seemed piddling compared to the one she could have told regarding her ride in s stifling boxcar to Auschwitz.  She felt that to have told it would have been rude, that somehow her friends would have resented her.  So she remained silent.

That struck me: this fear that Kluger had to share her story because it might make someone uncomfortable.  She said: “And so my childhood falls into a black hole.”  Chess goes on to discuss how an experience can be informative versus transformative and then relates that to writing. 

But I am stuck on the loneliness of Kluger’s statement.

Perhaps it would have been inappropriate to share her memories with the group.  Perhaps she knew that they would not have received it well.  But what if they had been open?  What if the sympathy she feared she might have elicited was what was needed in that moment?  Such a feeling could have been healing, both for her and for her friends.

Why is this?  Why is receiving a gift ~ whether it be of their time, talent, love, support, or even something material ~ so difficult for us at times?  What makes us uncomfortable with another’s generosity?  Chess discusses this discomfort and relates it to writing and learning:

The desire to understand may also be a natural reaction to the discomfort of being confronted with something new and strange, a discomfort that can trigger feelings of inadequacy and failure. Most of us, I expect, don’t want to sit with such unpleasant feelings, and we might be willing to do anything within reason to rid ourselves of them.

Feelings of inadequacy and failure.  Could that be why we are sometimes poor receivers?  Do we think we are unworthy of the gift?  Maybe we have received gifts in the past that were not freely given ~ that came at a price or with emotional strings attached.  But then, those were not real gifts.  They were bribes, Trojan horses.  So fear of gifts becomes a defense, a protection against further pain.

And we do not like pain.  As Chess says, we will do “anything within reason” to avoid it.  Some of us will even do things outside of reason.  But that is a topic for another post.

It might help us to move in the direction of becoming better receivers if we remember that a gift is always given twice: to the receiver and to the giver.  And when we don’t receive someone’s gift, we both lose. Henri Nouwen, the 20^th century mystic, observed

. . . by receiving we reveal to the givers that they have gifts to offer. . . . we make givers aware of their unique and precious gifts.  Sometimes it is only in the eyes of the receivers that givers discover their gifts.

What an incredible and freeing idea! That in receiving a gift well, we are in turn giving back.

May we all work towards becoming better receivers of each other’s gifts.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela 

Have you ever felt uncomfortable when you’ve received something?  Were you ever resentful when a friend shared their story?  Share yours in the comments!

2012 Goals: Second Month Check In

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go. 

~ T.S. Eliot

According to my calculations, I haven’t gotten very far in reaching my goals, even though I took a risk with such a huge list this year.  Try as I may, I tend to get overwhelmed pretty early in the journey, and simply stop looking at the road signs.  No wonder I get lost and end up looking over the Resolution Ravine ~ I see a lot of dried old bones and fresh carcasses down there!

So while I am trying to figure out what method of tracking my goals will help me to actually accomplish them, I have decided that in at least one department, I can add something that will definitely help: posting here weekly about my goal struggles and progress [when there is any!] and asking for your input on how you conquer the Overwhelmedness Ogre.

Together, let’s see how far we can go this year!

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Finding the Right Words

Better than a thousand hollow words, is one word that brings peace.
~ Buddha

Yesterday I attended the wake of a dear friend of mine.  Sharon was the light in the life of so many people: she always had a kind and encouraging word to say to everyone, was a tireless worker in the vineyard of the Lord, and had a mischievous sense of humour.  She will be greatly missed around here.

As I was tidying my hair before going into the chapel, one of her daughters-in-law came up to me and introduced herself.  She'd been crying and didn't seem to know what to do with herself.  I took her hand and told her who I was and how I knew Sharon, and how it was a shock to think she was actually gone from us.  And then I walked into the chapel and sat down several pews back from the family.

Every word of comfort, every poetic prose and turn of phrase I had ever thought of ~ out the window, up in flames, hidden behind a wall I couldn't penetrate.  Why is it that when people need the right words the most from me, I stumble and hesitate or merely grimace, hold their hand, and say nothing at all?!  I'm a writer for heaven's sake!  I should be able to say something worth remembering! 

After the wake was over and I was driving home, I thought of a few things I could have said that would have been sincere, authentic and comforting.  But to write them down for later use would be to run the risk of turning into a Mr. Collins!

I know I'm not the only one with this lapse of. . . what? Memory?  Prose?  What do you do in these types of situations?  How have you handled a loss of words before?

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Off the Shelf: A Thousand Days in Venice

When we no longer have good cooking in the world, we will have no literature, nor high and sharp intelligence, nor friendly gatherings, no social harmony.
~ Marie-Antoine Carême

Rain knocks insistently on my bedroom windows and thunder shakes the house. I curl deeper into the thick, cotton counterpane as lightening illuminates the pages of A Thousand Days in Venice. I had purchased it awhile ago until, distracted by life and other books, I put it aside and forgot all about it. Armed with more time and opportunity to read on my commute, and a kinder work schedule, I picked it up again and promptly fell in love all over again with Marlena de Blasi’s romance with Venice, its food and her life with a blueberry-eyed Venetian.

She writes with a comfortable passion ~ one that swells and sighs with the rhythm of every day life in Venice. Her description of the farmers’ market in Rialto is especially captivating. She walks “under a tunnel and out into the ruga, stepping directly into the dazzle of the market” and I step out with her, shielding my eyes against the morning sun. As she makes her way past the stalls, I feel the hot Venetian sun on my face and hear the sounds of the market all around me. The hypnotic rhythm of the rain outside my window fades into the background and I halt with Marlena

. . . in front of a table so sumptuously laid as to be waiting for Caravaggio. I move slowly, touching when I dare, trying a smile now and then. . . .I walk to the pescheria, fish market, a clamorous hall full of the stinging, dizzying perfumes of sea salt and fish blood. . . .I look in on the macellerie, butchers, who are cutting nearly transparent steaks behind their macabre curtains of rabbits, wild and tame. . . .

Earlier in the book Marlena talks about her frustration in understanding her Fernando and his Venetian ways: he cannot understand her need, her intense desire, to cook. After a scrumptious meal that includes batter-dipped squash blossoms, stuffed breast of veal braised in white wine, chilled yellow tomato soup with a wedge of Taleggio and a dessert of white figs and Maggion meringues, he says:

You mustn’t think I expect you to set a table like this each evening. . . I’m not telling you not to cook. . .What I’m saying is that your idea of everyday cooking is my idea of festival cooking. . . .Why is it so peculiar that I want to cook, really cook, every day?. . I cook because I love to cook. . . .

It has been months since I cooked a full five or six course dinner. Working a regular nine to five job and having a life just do not leave much time for “festival cooking.” And I certainly had not felt like cooking even a three course dinner for just myself.

Reading A Thousand Days re-awoke long buried desire. The very act of cooking brings me great joy, but in order for that joy to be fully realized, I have to cook for someone. My friend JB [a 3rd year law student] and his wife wanted to meet a UVA 1st year law student to swap stories and clerkship advice. Ah! A perfect excuse to cook! After much inner debate, I came up with the following Dinner for Eight:

Prosciutto & Melon
Feral Boar Prosciutto, local cantaloupe

Corn & Crab Chowder
Local sweet corn, Chesapeake Bay crabs

Heirloom Tomato Salad
Fresh, locally picked heirloom tomatoes, goat’s milk, pine nuts,
drizzled with lemon-basil dressing

Filet Mignon
Organic beef sautéed in a sherry and mushroom butter sauce, served with garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus

Lemon-Ginger & Mojito Sorbets
with ginger thins

All ingredients came from the local farmers’ market, Whole Foods, and America Seafood, a local seafood shop ~ all organic and fresh. The scent of the small cantaloupes was an intoxicating mixture ~ musky, earthy, sunny, ripe. The just picked heirloom tomatoes from Lois Produce practically burst their skin to get at the lemon-basil dressing I made from scratch ~ and no wonder! I have not seen basil plants grow so beautiful and bushy ~ especially amazing given how dry and hot this summer has been so far. I bought enough to make a mountain of pesto ~ my favorite summer dish. At the Mushroom Stand, I picked Honey Mushrooms purely for their looks [so shallow, I know!] and Maitake Mushrooms for their flavor and shock appeal.

Serving a different wine for almost every course would smooth the flow of conversation so that it was not all legalese: Northgate Vineyard’s Apple Wine with the prosciutto, Viognier with the chowder and the salad, Chambourcin with the filets and Fabbioli Cellars’ Raspberry Merlot with the sorbets from Sinplicity.

The last piece of china washed, the last wine glass gleaming, is put back on the shelf. The dining room table is returned to it’s usual table-for-four state. I crawl into bed, tired but happy. Another successful dinner! I fall asleep thinking that Marlena de Blasi would approve.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

The Taste of Autumn

The autumn leaves
Drift by my window;
The autumn leaves
Of red and gold.
~ Autumn Leaves

I woke up Saturday with rain a pounding a steady bluesy rhythm on the shingles. I sighed as I made a pot of Gingerbread Spice tea. Normally I enjoy a good rain. it enhances the coziness of being at home. But this Saturday I had plans to drive out to Delaplane with friends to pick pumpkins and revel in the fiery and golden mountainsides. Now we would have to come up with another way to get our autumn fix. I do not mind walking the fields in a light mist, but a relentless downpour is quite another!

My friends and I decided to spend the morning and early afternoon catching up on errands and what not and then convene at my place around five-thirty for dinner and pumpkin carving. The only requirement was that everyone had to buy their own pumpkins from the store [sigh] and bring a knife. [Mwhahahaha!]

The pumpkin is king of the fall vegetable garden. Its myriad shades of orange and gold and plump, meaty flesh fit right in with the textures and scents of the season: knobbly sweaters and fuzzy blankets; velvety cups of spiked apple cider and steaming bowls of soup. Being versatile vegetable , however, it is not afraid of starring in a custard as well as pie; a soup as well as a fresh-baked loaf of bread. It is a comfortable vegetable.

And one of my favorite comfort foods when evening temperatures suddenly drop is chili. It is economical to make, it is filling and it invites a crowd. And although I usually connect chili with snowy winter days , I recently discovered a recipe that included pumpkins and turkey. Now that combination screams autumn!

To prepare for our pumpkin massacre that evening, I shopped at the Falls Church Farmers' Market and picked up a Fairytale Sugar Pumpkin [they have such an interesting shape and colour!], a few green chilis, and some large, juicy tomatoes. Then I headed to the nearby grocery store to pick up ground turkey and fresh cilantro. Once I arrived back home, I picked the last of our green peppers and set about chopping vegetables and put them in a bowl while the turkey browned.

You will notice that the recipe does not call for juice of any kind: no tomato juice or apple juice or liquid of any kind. I was wondering how this was going to turn out to be chili without it but my fears were unfounded. The ripe, diced tomatoes plus the pureed pumpkin create their own "soup" base. With several dashes of curry and ginger added, and a bowl of sour cream and a plate of freshly grated cheddar on the table, a simple but hearty dinner was ready by the time my friends arrived, pumpkin victims in tow.

Now all that's left to do is dry out the pumpkin seeds and roast them!

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Stopping to Smell the Earl Grey

The atmosphere of home beats almost any other place.
~ Alexandra Stoddard

Sometimes you just need a slow morning. I needed one today. This morning, I woke up in plenty of time to catch the bus downtown, but all of a sudden I did not feel so well. So I called in and told them I would be in later. Then I promptly crawled back beneath the counterpane and snoozed for another solid forty-five minutes. I woke up refreshed and feeling a little better, made myself a cup of Earl Grey with local honey and fresh squeezed lemon juice. It was glorious.

Even better, I was able to indulge in the slower pace without guilt. There was nothing pressing at the office ~ everyone who usually needs me is away at a conference. I brought my little plaid tea cup upstairs to my cozy boudoir with its warm and cheery cranberry walls [don't let anyone tell you you can't paint your bedroom red ~ it is fabulous!], lit a deliciously scented candle and sat down to catch up on my personal coorespondance. When I was ready to head in, I felt better not only physically, but mentally, emotionally and spiritually as well. And it showed as I smiled more readily and greeted strangers I met in the bus, the train and on the street.

Granted not every morning can be spent in such a leisurely fashion. Or can it? Is it possible to excuse oneself from the insanity that passes for living these days? How does one deal with the million and one duties that claim our attention and make a slower lifestyle seem like an unattainable dream? Becuase you and I may be forced by current economics to live somewhere other than a bucolic small town, but that does not mean we cannot live like we do. For the past seven years, I bought into the smoke and mirros lifestyle that is part and parcel of the Washington area. But no more!

So, how do we slow things down? Perhaps it means rising a little earlier than usual [O! Perish the thought!] in order to relax with a cup of tea and your coorespondance. Maybe there is an hour or two in the evenings when you can make an appointment with yourself, close the door and do something creative, or take a bubble bath or read a book of Keats' poetry or do nothing at all! Personally, I am not at my best before nine in the morning. But after nine-thirty in the evening, I light a couple of candles, put Pandora on either my Josh Groban or Frank Sinatra station and read, write letters, work on poetry or a new song. I am always amazed at the energy and healing that takes place when you just slow things down to a more normal speed.

Because I assure you, my dear readers, that the current pace we are living cannot be sustained without some insanity creeping in. It is not normal and it is not healthy. And it does not have to be that way ~ no matter where we live.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

The Bear Climbed Over the Mountain: Final

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in their way.
~ William Blake

We spent more time climbing over boulders the size of small elephants, taking pictures and “drinking it in with our spirit.” Then we turned around and climbed back up and made our way to the trail.

The trees in Swallow Falls Park are royalty. The majority are hemlock and white pine and most are over three hundred years old. The branches of the hemlock resemble lace ~ feathery and delicate. Touching the trunk of one such hemlock, I closed my eyes and was instantly standing in a virgin forest on the brink of discovery, the sound of both pioneer and moccasined feet approaching in the distance. I opened them again and almost wept in disappointment over being stuck in the twenty-first century.

I enjoy the convenience of hot showers, electricity and the ability to speak to loved ones miles away in an instance. But modern man is lacking. He has lost touch with his soul and a sense of the Divine. With that goes his respect for the beauty of creation and the duty to preserve it for the next generation. Thankfully, no all are lost and so we have state and national parks, which are preserved from the plundering of fool and knaves.

The sheer magnitude of the boulders jutting out over the trail continued to astound me. Some appeared to balance by an invisible thread, while others looked like giants had played a game of dominos. They exuded an unearthly quality. I was reminded of the standing stones of Avebury. Oh, to step into the Tardis and be there when they first broke off and fell to their current, moss-covered resting places!

We had not gone more than a few paces, when we veered off the trail again ~ this time to make our way over the rocky giants in the middle of the Youghigheny River. While Ames, Aurelius and Jeanette alternately skipped stones and threw basketball-sized rocks into the river, Marly and I lay on a flat rock smack dab in the middle and watched tiny whirlpools form and disintegrate around us. The science of it eluded us, but we remained there transfixed, laughing like children as we stuck our hands into the miniature vortex.

Everywhere, besides the rhododendrons, were mounds of lush green moss. It was detailed and felt rather stiff, unlike other types of moss I have encountered. It looked almost like a pine tree branch in miniature. The feeling of timelessness continued to envelope me as we hiked up the Youghigheny River. I wanted nothing more than to stay alongside her banks, exploring every nook and cranny. But around about then, yours truly began wishing she had packed at least one protein bar.

I was not a Brownie/Girl Scout long enough to learn the mantra of always “be prepared.” We had enjoyed a substantial lunch (Marly prepared her famous stuffed sandwiches) and had not thought I would be hungry again. But none of us had counted on being enmeshed in the beauty of our surroundings to the extent that it was now fast approaching supper time. However, I had not come all this way to let a little hypo-ness cut short our hike. There were still more falls to see. So on we trekked.

Swallow Falls was a little less exciting than Muddy Creek ~ but I will allow that I was really hungry by then and although I had voted to complete the rest of the loop, I no longer lingered. The amount of more scantily clad people doing belly-flops may have also had something to do with my reluctance to linger and gaze at the falls. There is a place for everything, including belly-flops. But here in this magnificent place, it just seemed just a little. . .crass.

And then we arrived at the last set of falls ~ Tolliver Falls. When we started at Muddy Creek, and I found out that they were tallest falls in Maryland, I wished we had began the trail from the other end ~ so as to build up to seeing the more majestic falls. But somehow, coming up Tolliver Falls at the end was the perfect ending. There was no one else around; the falls were tiny and the pool tranquil. I plucked a rhododendron leaf and placed it in the pool as an offering to Titania or perhaps the descendants of Galadriel. Adding to the air of mystery, was the distinct sound of music. It seemed to come from both far away and somewhere deep within the earth. We stood mesmerized and curious as we watched the water spill over ancient rocks and decaying logs, the spaces between giving back melodic sounds. Who was it that said music is the space between the notes??

Three days is just not enough time to take all the beauty that Garrett County has to offer and we are already planning a return trip either in the Fall [the colour there must be eye-popping] or in February [which is their busy season]. I cannot wait.

Titania and Galadriel and their subjects are waiting for me.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

The Bear Went Over the Mountain: Part Two

The bigger stones give it character. The rock is what makes this waterfall.

~ Paul Collins

The whole reason we ended up in Deep Creek Lake to begin with was because a few years ago I came across a magazine article about the waterfalls in Garrett County. I had long since forgotten the magazine and the county name, but I knew it was somewhere in the far western part of Maryland. Thank goodness for Google!

So, now the love story [I told you I fell in love with a park]. Friday, we lazed around quite a bit (after a couple of us got our morning jogs and planks in) and then headed off to Swallow Falls State Park.

I love waterfalls. Granted, I have not seen many of them to date, but I certainly love the idea of them. There is something timeless, powerful and romantic ~ in the Byronic sense, not the tingly-luhv sense ~ about waterfalls that has always fascinated me. And now I was going to experience them up close and personal.

The map said that the trail began just past Muddy Creek Falls, so we headed in that direction. The Muddy Creek Falls are the tallest (measuring fifty-three feet) in the state of Maryland. It is the most incredible feeling, to stand on top of the falls, no more than a few feet from the edge and look down into the spray of icy cold whiteness as it pounds the rocks below. No fences. No guardrails. Just nature ~ unbound and unveiled. There is nothing lovelier.

Garrett County receives more snow fall than Fairbanks, Alaska, so I can only imagine Muddy Creek turns into a roaring Mr. Hyde of itself when the snow melts. When we were there, however, we saw only little pools etched into the smooth, flat stone at the top that told us the water level is usually much higher. I do not know how long our party stayed on top of Muddy Creek ~ time seemed to be in slow motion and there was just you, and the Falls and the moss-covered banks and an endless sapphire-blue sky. All I can say is God is an amazing artist and I gave myself over to embracing this particular canvas.

My fellow travelers and I took our shoes and socks off and stepped into water. Whew! Ice. Cold. And I mean ice. It felt wonderful. What struck me most was the power. You know the old cliché: still waters run deep. Well, these waters were not still. And where I was standing, it was not very deep. But the immense power of the current whipped my breath away. If it were deeper, it would have swept me along and over the edge. But even so, I felt profound respect and caution for the invisible power coursing over my ankles.

I did not want to leave; if we had spent our entire weekend just at the top of Muddy Creek Falls, I would have been content. (If I ever get married, I want to honeymoon there; yes, it is THAT awesome.) However, there was still a mile of trail to hike and three more falls to see, so we made our way down to the bottom of Muddy Creek. And promptly took a detour.

The bottom of the Falls is difficult to describe. I suppose it is technically part of the river bed. But it is completely made up of huge boulders. The Falls end in a small but deep pool surrounded by medium to large rocks. Several local teenagers use it as their watering hole ~ several, rather scantily clad ones were diving off the bottom-most rock shelf of the falls. It was the only blot on the landscape while we were there.

We made our way carefully over the boulders and down towards the very bottom of the river, where it forked and joined the Youghigeny River. The entire left bank of the river was covered with rhododendrons. I had never seen so many rhoadies in one spot and I certainly did not know they grew wild. You can take the Bahamas and any number of resorts: this is Paradise.

To be continued. . . . .

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

The Bear Went Over the Mountain: Part One

Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home.
~ John Muir

Never has a truer word been spoken. And to think Muir penned those words in the 1800s ~ certainly not a time we in the twenty-first century think of as being “nerve-shaken.” Ahhh, yes ~ some things never change, do they?

As regular readers know, a small group of friends and I vacation together every year. In 2007 we stayed on the coast of New Hampshire, eating lobstah and wading in the ice-cold ocean. 2008 saw us in a cabin in West Virginia, which touts itself as being “almost heaven” and I would definitely concur. This year, we decided to stay local again, but went a little farther north. And I fell madly in love. With a park.

More on that later. We arrived while it was still daylight on Thursday. We were staying in a rental cabin this time (no house sound system, alas), and while it was comfortable and cozy, we hardly saw it the four days we were there. There was ust too much to do and see ~ and we did not see nearly as much if we had stayed more than four days.

After dumping our bags off, we trolled into the little town of Deep Creek for dinner. Somewhere, someone had read that the Black Bear Tavern was a good place to eat.

Wherever that was written and whoever wrote it must have had no tastebuds.

Ok, fine. I admit it ~ I am foodie. I have champagne taste and an imported beer budget. I use local, fresh Blue Ridge Dairy butter to cook my local, organic filet mignons. I have friends from New York City bring me a pound of Bayley Hazen blue cheese from Jasper Hills Farms whenever they come to visit, because regular blue cheese just isn’t the same. I am a foodie ~ hear me cook and relish!

I ordered a crab cake. It is Maryland, right? Maryland is known for its crab cakes. I should have had a clue when I asked the waitress if the fresh-water fish on their menu had been caught in the 3900 acre Deep Creek Lake and she said they flew their fish in. I ordered the crab cake anyway. I figured even though we were in the mountains, it was still Maryland and that meant it did not have too far to fly.

The crab cake wept. It practically apologized to me for its sorry demeanor. I looked around at my fellow table-mates and all were having a similar experience with their dinners: uber salty and mediocre. There was much ego stroking as one by one they expressed their anticipation of dinner on Friday as I would be cooking. Did I ever tell you musicians need love? Well, they do and so do cooks. ;-) We live in fear that someone will not eat our creations! I do not think this cook was living in fear ~ I think they had stopped living altogether. All I can say about Black Bear Tavern is: WT heaven. And no, I am not going to spell that out for you, dear reader.

Tomorrow: pictures and more thoughts on the trip.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

A Frozen Fourth

Gazing on beautiful things acts on my soul,
which thirsts for heavenly light.
~ Michelangelo

While most people were planning how many hamburgers and hot dogs to grill and where to watch the fireworks this weekend, I was involved in two distinct, but related endeavors: getting together with my St. Cecilia Group Board of Directors on Saturday and shopping and cooking for an arts dinner on Sunday.

The Board meeting went quite well and several key decisions were arrived at ~ mainly related to the logistics for this year’s annual Arts Festival on November 21. More to come in the following months, so watch here for updates and announcements!

Sunday, I hosted a dinner to introduce some of my artsy friends to the Foundation for the Sacred Arts and the director, Ann Marra. The Foundation supports and encourages new artists who compose, paint or sculpt new liturgical art. Guests in attendance were Imelda Franklin Bogue, Richard Rice, Ligori and Mary Catherine Levri.

I kept the menu light ~ perfect for the Fourth of July weekend weather:

Prelude
Prosciutto wrapped melon slices

Adagio
Northern Virginia Gazpacho
served with French bread

Andante
Local seasonal greens and Jasper Hills Bayley Hazen salad,
with olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette

Fortissimo
Organic chicken, sautéed in a
Vermont Creamery butter, lemon, basil & white port sauce.
Served with seasonal vegetables and garlic whipped potatoes

Postlude
Lemon and Basil Ice Cream

Lemon and Basil ice cream? Oh yes, dear reader ~ do not knock it until you try it! That quart of homemade goodness did not last in the freezer. It actually disappeared before the lemon ice cream. I decided to make ice cream for dessert as it was the quintessential American sweet, but being a creative foodie I could not serve plain old vanilla or chocolate. Our basil crop this year is phenomenal and since I was already making a lemon and basil sauce for the chicken, I searched Epicurious for a good recipe for both types of ice cream.

Whatever you do, do not boil the custard too long ~ it will curdle and that is not a pretty sight! Not to mention you will get less custard to freeze into ice cream. The lemon custard came out like a dream ~ smooth, rich and oh, so lemony! I was sure I had ruined the basil custard and was practically ready to pitch it out and start over again. But I kept straining it and the aroma was out of this world. So I decided to make a batch and see how it turned out. It raised some eyebrows, but as I said, it was the first to go.

The other edible highlight of the evening was Jasper Hills Bayley Hazen. Ligori brought me a pound of this heavenly blue cheese from New York. The dairy cows at Jasper Hills Farm listen to classical and jazz music during the winter months. I do not know the science behind this practice, but I am here to say that it works! The Bayley Hazen is the smoothest, richest, creamiest blue I have ever tasted. Alas! They have corrupted my taste buds ~ they refuse to let any other blue pass my lips! Thank goodness for foodie friends up north. You can only buy Jasper Hills Farm cheese in New York City at one or two markets. I am going to make this one last as long as I can!

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

Little Green Children

I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny with a love that nobody could share or conceive of who had never taken part in the process of creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a rose of early peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green.
~ Nathaniel Hawthorne, Mosses from and Old Manse

Nate was right. The feeling that overtakes one when you go out to check on the garden and to give all one’s little green children a nice long soaking drink. You train a light, caressing shower over each verdant row, telling yourself that soon, soon there will be flowers and then fruit, but not yet. Patience. Patience. And then to spy tiny fruit!! Ecstasy!!

Such was my joy last evening. I was chatting with a neighbor, with whom we enjoy a wee bit of friendly garden competition. I had not been able to visit the garden in the last four days or so (never fear, there has been so much rain here, we need to start designing an ark!) and I was already pleased as punch to see how lovely and green and robust everything was. But I was not expecting our tomato plants, in all their bushy glory, to have any fruit yet. But low and behold, there they were, tucked away beneath lush, protective leaves. Still so young and tender, they were still fuzzy. Ahhh!

There really is nothing quite like standing over one’s garden and breathing in the odour of “green.” And in this Nate is also correct: it is "a love nobody could share. . .who had never taken part in the process of creation.” I am sure if anyone had chanced by at that moment, they would have thought me quite a loon, standing in breathless rapture, clapping my hands excitedly over the voluptuous basil plants, cooing at the tomatoes and praising the green beans.

But I shall have the last laugh over dinner. ;-)

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

Food, Fado and New Fans

Worries go down better with soup.
~ Jewish Proverb

A fellow singer asked me the other day if I were Portuguese. She overheard me regaling my friend Jeanette with the details of the fado appreciation dinner she had missed. No, dear readers, I am not Portuguese. But as you know, I love fado. And I love to cook. It is a marriage made in heaven. And one which brings great rejoicing to my friends.

Introducing more of my friends to fado has been on my to do list for over a year now. Since the last Mariza concert, actually. But I did not want to simply play fado for them, or even tell them the history behind the genre. Such passionate and soulful music calls for a proper setting. And I could think of no better setting than to cook a (somewhat) traditional Portuguese meal. This meant doing a lot of gastronomic research.

The first thing I learned was that no matter what else I cooked, I must cook caldo verde, a staple of Portuguese cuisine. It means, quite literally, green soup and although I found several variations, the basic ingredients are potatoes, onions and kale. Sometimes cabbage is also included, but the recipe I chose did not include it. Several cooks suggested making the soup the night before to allow the flavors to seep into each other. The recipe calls for pouring the cooled soup into a food processor, but I have had two mishaps with a potato-base soup turning into glue that way, so I used a Cuisinart hand-held mixer and it was fantastic. I did everything but add the kale ~ which I left to do the next day before serving the soup. Two changes I would suggest to this recipe: one, add more salt. Two, saute or steam the kale in a little olive oil or butter before adding it to the soup. It came out a little too raw for my taste.

For the main course I came across a couple of schools of thought as well. More traditional Portuguese dinners consist of three main entrees ~ usually fish, pork or chicken and meat. In the interest of time and maintaining the sanity of the cook, I decided to make two entrees. This proved to be a wise decision ~ as I barely held on to sanity with just two!

So much of Portugal's identity is wrapped up in its coastline. It is still the economic lifeline for many Portuguese ~ as it has been for their great-great grandfathers. Portuguese tradition says that there are 365 ways to prepare cod, which is so plentiful it is practically the national fish of Portugal! So in deference to the Portuguese fishermen who are inextricably linked to pathos of fado, I made a gratin called Sailors Bacalhau Gratin. I used fresh cod (instead of salt cod) from the local fishmonger. If you make this recipe with fresh cod as I did, I suggest adding copious amounts of salt.

Both pork loin and chicken breasts were on sale, so I bought both. But I found a recipe for Chicken with Port Raisin Sauce that sounded absolutely wonderul, so I used that instead of the pork. It turned out to be incredible and the star of the table. To save time and sanity, brown the chicken the night before and then cook it the rest of the way about half an hour before serving. Chicken is so delicate ~ it can so easily become dry. This recipe did not dry out the chicken at all and the port-soaked raisins complemented the mushrooms. My friend Penafort even asked for thirds!

Coming up with a well executed dessert proved to be a challenge. There were some desserts with awesome names, like barriga de freiras (nun's belly) and papos de anjo’ (angel's cheeks). But as I was making this for the first time for my guests, I wanted to keep it simple, but still interesting. So I chose to make filhozes, Portuguese Cinnammon Doughnuts. Unfortunately, I cannot remember which recipe I used, but the one I have linked to has a dozen eggs, which is what my recipe called for as well. I had not made doughnuts since I was a Brownie in second-grade! I had forgotten how much fun that was. I think that my guests had as much fun watching me make them as I had frying them up. The oil may have been too hot as my doughnuts came out looking more like bear claws than little round puffs. But they tasted exactly like the recipe promised: solid but tasting like an eclair. I still have half a pitcher of batter left over and have been using it to make crepes, pancakes and the occasional doughnut.

While we all enjoyed either a twelve year single malt Scotch or a very smooth Reserve Porto, we watched the live concert Mariza did in Lisbon a couple of years ago. I have seen her three times in concert now, but it was a moving experience to see her perform for her countrymen. They understood not only her language but her heart. And it communicated itself to my friends watching. At the end of the evening, I had converted ten more fans.

Maravilhoso!

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela