Corn Meal Mush by Any Other Name...

So, those of you who have been paying attention have heard that I'm trying a new hobby. I'm gonna be a foodie.

I realize that from the dyed-in-the-wool foodies' perspective, it isn't a hobby...more of a calling. Many are called but few are chosen. Now if I just had a foodie dictionary, I'd be all set. Honestly, when on "Chopped", one of the contestant's decides she's going to fix "pain perdue", it seems a little condescending and snooty. "Pain perdue", thanks to several years of grade-school French, I understand is literally "bread lost"...French toast for all those of you who don't aspire to such lofty heights.

Because, when bread became too stale for human consumption, the French, being all about fresh bread, decided to dip it in egg and milk and fry it. Southern blacks called it "lost bread"...wonder where they found the foodie dictionary to come up with that name?

In my family, when we were very small, it was called "Yellow Toast" or "Lallo Toast" for those of us too young to pronounce the "Y" sound. Perhaps because the egg turned the toast yellow? But I think that's probably just a family thing, not known in loftier culinary circles. Bet it wouldn't be in any foodie dictionary.

And don't get me started on all the weirdo fish they have in those mystery baskets on "Chopped"...some fish one serves raw (more on raw fish later) and some are cooked with skin on and some are cooked with skin on and then the skin is removed  prior to "plating" (one doesn't serve on snooty cooking shows, one "plates" the food). Once it's all explained by the judges, snoots all, it turns out that the fish in question is really just a halibut or a cod, found only in one small inlet in Nova Scotia or in some North Sea bay near Norway. If it had been caught off the coast of Maine, it would be called "cod".

Or the "protein" (as the snoots call it) is calf brain or octopus or the testicles of South American buffalo. Or something equally unappealing. The judges then pronouce it to be inedible ("Why didn't you know that it has to be boiled for 3 hours before braising?") or they pronounce "This is the best sheep arm pit I've ever had!" One wonders how many sheep arm pits they've actually tasted in their lifetimes.

I'm trying to be more adventurous, but honestly, sushi should be considered an abomination. RAW FISH??? If God had intended for us to eat raw fish, s/he wouldn't have given man the gift of Fire. Raw fish makes me think one should just inject the salmonella directly into a vein and be done with it. Why is it that pork chops are considered overcooked if they aren't pink inside. In high school, Mrs. Morehead's Home Economic class, I distinctly remember learning about trichinosis. Raw pork of any kind was to be avoided at all costs. And as for fish, I'd sooner put a piece of raw chicken in my mouth than a piece of raw fish, whether it's from Nova Scotia or not.

Last night's episode of "Chopped" featured chicken feet, not for the first time. I always thought chicken feet were kinda like pig's knuckles...parts of the animal that only poor people ate because they were cheap protein. Or like chitlins, which for the uninitiated, are deep fried pig intestines. Presumably, someone has washed them thoroughly and I mean thoroughly. So these trained chefs, who came from prestigious restaurants in New York and Las Vegas, didn't know to trim the toenails from the chicken feet. Do they really serve chicken feet at the Ritz?

Now, I've never been trained on proper preparation of chicken feet, but I would at least have the presence of mind to perform a pedicure on the damn toenail, if for no other reason than I wouldn't want to look at chicken toenails. I mean, REALLY! Yet three of the four contestants didn't do that and of course the judges were all snooty and said stuff like they should have known to trim the nails. Maybe, snooty judges, they've never had to eat chicken feet so they didn't know.

If I had a nickel for the number of times I've seen otherwise sane chefs prepare shrimp, leaving the tails on and serving them swimming into a creamy sauce of some nature, I'd be a millionaire. Especially, for some strange reason. when they are preparing an appetizer. I guess everyone gets to sit down with knife and fork during the appetizer round at their house.

I just envision myself at a stand-up buffet, having to pick up the shrimp with my fingers dripping with the creamy sauce, dripping it all the way down my blouse and having to lick the sauce off my fingers while trying to find someplace to stash the tail. Please, I plead silently, if you are going to throw shrimp into ANY sauce, take the damn tails off!

Which brings me to corn meal mush, a dish my mom served fried for breakfast, with butter and syrup on it. A nice, cheap, stick-to-your-ribs kind of breakfast. When there was nothing else in the house to serve for breakfast, Mom brought out the mush. Had it for years. Adored the flavors and textures of this simple breakfast. Directions on how to make corn meal mush are even in my red-and-white-checked cookbook that I've had forever.

I only recently realized that polenta is THE EXACT SAME THING. My mom learned to cook first by her English-born stepmother, then by the seat of her pants. As a "mother's helper" at the tender age of 13, my Mom supported herself and put herself through college cooking for families and tending the kids in exchange for a bed and a roof over her head. In Detroit, Michigan. So I guess we are forgiven if we had a different name for it. Like "lallo toast" for the much more expensive and snooty "pain perdue". You change the name, you change the price.

Here I've been thinking that polenta was all snooty Italian food and I've been eating it for years. And none of that store-bought polenta for me. I make it at home, from scratch. Because, you see, it's a bout a million cups of water and one cup of cornmeal and you cook it on the stove for 15 minutes and you're done. It costs much less to make, pennies on the dollar, too. I've seen it on the pasta aisle at the supermarket in little tiny packages costing $8. Just as long as it says "polenta" on the package. If it said "corn meal mush", it would be 95 cents.

I've seen the chefs on the Food Network use polenta to make chilled salads (kinda like couscous) and bake it (always with mushrooms that cost $100/lb.)...there's always one chef on "Chopped" who thinks that, despite all evidence to the contrary, they will be able to cook polenta or rice (and not just any rice, but rice that is grown wild in the mountains of Borneo) in the limited time they have. I've never seen one succeed, so I'm somewhat puzzled as to why they would think they alone could do it. I guess because they, being snooty chefs, can somehow bend the time/space continuum and stretch 20 minutes into 2 hours. Or something.

Foodies are becoming ever more global, borrowing from cultures around the world and using the native language's name for dishes. Maybe that's why my Mom's English influence called it mush, whereas if she'd been taught by an Italian-born stepmother, it would've been polenta. But really, I don't believe for one second that those chefs have been to some tribal village in east India to sample the local foods and bring them back to America. They just had it in some snooty restaurant in Paris and placed small samples in their handbags and brought it back to be chemically analyzed so they could steal the recipe.

Have you ever noticed how imported vegetables, always more expensive than locally grown, are much preferred on those cooking shows? None of the lowly cucumber or tomato for THEIR recipes. It's English cucumbers and imported greenhouse German potatos and Egyptian tomatoes for them. Because, as they are quick to explain, you CAN make this dish with common vegetables from your own garden, but it won't TASTE the same. Snooty city.

They always make HUGE quantities on those cooking shows. I hope that they have some nearby soup kitchen that they donate the leftovers to. Because, although they are only serving 3-4 judges and they could use a silver dollar as a cover for the small amount of food they actually plate, they seem to have pots and pans full of food leftover. My Mom, who grew up terribly impoverished, is spinning in her grave at the amount of waste. There are starving children in China who could eat that food!

And yet, contrarian that I am, I aspire to be in this group. Why? Beats me. Maybe because I want to travel and see the world and I can't afford that so I stay in my little old-fashioned kitchen and travel through cooking. But I promise never to be snooty. If I get snooty, just slap me up side of my head with a cod.

The Bible Tells Me So

I'm having trouble getting into the Christmas spirit this year. Perhaps it's because the news is so bad. Little children shot in their classroom, while gun nuts defend their right to own Howitzers and tanks and grenade launchers. Fake-o Christians getting their dander up about a fake-o "War on Christmas" ginned up by a fake-o "news" organization.

I actually feel guilty about passing on the posts by well-meaning individuals who post pictures of the Bible and tell their friends to "like" if they believe in it. (And don't get me started on the totally phantasmic, anachronistic Kincaid-style paintings of Santa Claus kneeling before a manger with a beatific swaddled child and the legend "Jesus is the reason for the season."!) Being a little OCD and a lot Grammar Nazi, I always ask myself, "What does that mean?" Are you asking me if I believe that book exists? Yep, I'm pretty sure I've seen several hundred of them in my lifetime.

Are you asking me if I believe its teachings? Well, that depends on which teachings. I believe we should be more loving. I believe we shouldn't judge each other, 'tho that's probably my greatest sin. I don't believe that we should stone people who touch pigskin on the Sabbath, or whatever. And I certainly cut my hair and eat pork and in general break quite a few of the more strict teachings. I wouldn't dream of forcing a widow to marry her husband's brother, regardless of what the Bible says about that.

Are you asking me if I believe it's literally true? Once again, the Grammar Nazi in me comes out. I believe the Bible has some "literal" Truths-with-a-capital-T to teach us, like the aforementioned being more loving and less judgemental. But do I believe that all the events which are reported in that book really, seriously,  happened? Uh, nope. Or at least not most of them. And, to me, it doesn't really matter whether they happened or not.

It has nothing to do with our ability to use the Bible as an moral guide. Some people seem to use the Bible as a bludgeon, beating the crap out of anyone who disagrees with their interpretation, and only certain passages but not others, at that.

The events described in the Bible were part of an oral history, first told by the Jews, then by the early Christians. Oral historians were also called "storytellers". It was many centuries before literature even distinguished between "fiction" and "nonfiction"...the listeners didn't care. While they were listening, they believed it actually happened, whether or not it did.

I had this conversation with my sister this summer, while we were driving along the road to a family wedding. She, who believes that everything in the Bible is literally true (despite some contradictions), became quite upset when I tried to explain that it is a more important book, a more influential book, if one believes that it contains certain Truths, just not stories that may or may not be "true".

I used the example of the parables. "Do you believe that the parables actually happened," I asked. Well, no she didn't. But we can still glean Truths about how to live our lives and treat our families through those parables, right? Right. So why couldn't the entire Bible be suggestions on how we treat each other and live our lives?

Of course, the strictures against killing each other or cheating on your spouse, I consider to be more than just "suggestions". But did you know that in some translations, the Commandment "thou shalt not kill" is expressed "thou shalt not murder"? The ancient Jews rightly felt there was a difference between accidental killing, mercy killing, etc.and the outright purposeful murder of another in order to gain something he had. A different kettle of fish altogether.

Equally hard to pass by are those posts by well-meaning friends who wouldn't understand my system of morality if I talked to them for three days, let alone understand a Facebook quip which might be taken the wrong way. But it is tempting to reply, when you see someone railing against the innocuous greeting "Happy Holidays" and claiming that we are declaring war on Christmas and trying to take Jesus out of the season and for all they know, we eat little children for breakfast.

I've tried to explain that I began saying "Happy Holidays" years ago when I was dating a Jewish man whose family celebrated both Hanukkah and Christmas. My best friend from college celebrates Kwanzaa and Christmas. Some of my friends celebrate Christmas only. But I really don't want to question my mailman about what holidays, if any, he celebrates. Some social interactions are much too brief to be able to sit down with the check-out clerk and determine which holidays her family celebrates, so as not to offend with the wrong greeting. So, by insisting on "Merry Christmas", those folks are actually insisting that everyone celebrate their holiday and no other.

When I was in high school in St. Louis County, we lived across the street from a Reformed Jewish family who had a son my brother's age. Tim and Gary were inseparable and Gary happened to be at our house when our Christmas tree was brought in and decorated. Never having had a tree, he wanted to experience that particular tradition. (Which, let's face it, has nothing whatsoever to do with Jesus' birth). My parents first called to check with his parents to see if it was okay, then allowed him to help. We even nicknamed it a "Hanukkah bush" in Gary's honor.

(Parenthetically, my mom used to say that the Prestons were the most "Christian" [as in "Christ-like"] people she knew. The day we moved in, Ann was at our door with a pot of hot coffee [always a plus with my caffine-addicted parents] and a plate of hot rolls. The first Sunday it snowed, there was Joe, out shoveling our driveway so we could get to church. When my dad asked Joe what the heck he was doing, he said we shouldn't have to work on Sunday and since it wasn't his Sabbath, he would do the work for us. Naturally, the next Sabbath it snowed, Daddy went out to shovel Joe's driveway so they could get to Temple.)

Those who claim that Christmas has been co-opted should perhaps take a look at Christian history. Because the Winter Solstice, celebrated by pagans for millenia, was co-opted by early Christian missionaries to the British Isles. That's why Christmas is celebrated in December, to dissuade the horrible pagans from practicing their heathen rituals and get them into church. Because most biblical scholars (including the Pope) believe Jesus' birth might have been in late spring or early summer.

(I'm also sure that it's no coincidence that Hanukkah occupies the same month...come to think of it, Jesus would've celebrated Hanukkah, right?)

The Christmas tree is also a pagan symbol, since pagans believe that spirits live in trees and plants as well as in animals. The evergreen, since it didn't "die" and lose its leaves in the fall, was a symbol of eternal life and rebirth, just as the Solstice was a celebration of the rebirth of the Sun.

So don't get your panties in a twist, folks. Axial tilt is the reason for the season and we can all respect and honor others' religions and traditions without being disrespectful of our own. And that's the Truth!

Thanks Mrs. Holt

In a continuence of my blog, Technology 1.0, where I talk about my Kindle and the demise of real books, I have to address something I heard the other day. While subbing for 4th graders, I was writing a note to their regular teacher, something I always do. (The kids are informed at the beginning of the day that their behavior, both good and bad, will be recorded for posterity...or at least for their teacher to deal with as s/he sees fit. It's remarkable how much that changes their behavior for the better!)

Anyway, this kid was watching me write my note and said, rather wistfully, "You know how to write cursive? My mom said she'd teach me cursive but it looks hard." Let me repeat...this was 4th grade!

At that particular moment, students were lining up to go to Tech class (one of the "specials", along with music, art, PE) where, presumably, they would learn to touch-type (or more correctly, "touch-keyboard") and sail through the World Wide Webs with the click of a mouse or the tap of a finger. Sigh!

Because, you see, when we were kids, we couldn't wait to learn cursive writing. It was so grown-up, so advanced from the block letters painfully printed. Tongue hanging out in concentration, we labored between three pale blue lines with the tall letters and caps rising all the way to the top line, while the short letters made it only to the middle line. We learned cursive in 3rd grade. In 4th grade, Mrs. Holt painstakingly taught us "penmanship". ( have no idea where she got the patience!) We knew how to laboriously make the letters, but we practiced our "hand", making the ends of words "smile" with a flourish.

I remember spending hours practicing her meticulous handwriting and getting good marks for the roundness of my a's and o's, the straightness of my t's and l's and k's. I never had a teacher, after Mrs. Holt, squint at my book reports and say, "I can't read this...what does it say?"

And to this day, the few times I sign a check (mostly debit card now) or a note to a teacher, I frequently am told that "it's amazing...I can read your signature!" (Side note: I wrote "Nana's Wardrobe" about a thousand times in order to use it in my logo, wanting it to look like what used to be called "copperplate", not to be confused with the typeface you'll find on your computer called "copperplate"...a different kettle of fish altogether.)

I heard recently that some school districts aren't teaching cursive anymore, since no one writes letters or book reports by hand any more. Evidently Forsyth County Schools is one of those districts. These kids seem to want to learn it, like we used to want to learn calligraphy or Chinese pictographs.

Mind you, these children are the future of our medicine and space industries, the future designers and inventors of new forms of energy. And since they really have to learn to interface with a computer, (not to mention all the other stuff they have to know to navigate in the world) it isn't surprising that cursive handwriting would have to go away. I mean, all that instruction time spent on something none of them will ever use? I get it.

But I repeat. Sigh! Are we going to lose the eye-hand coordination that is taught along with rounded o's and a's, the practice skills that it takes to learn to write well? The slowing down of the brain to think about what we are writing?

Ever since I learned to type in high school (on an old manual machine bigger than a laptop which broke fingernails on a regular basis and developed finger muscles  you never knew you had, since the keys were so hard to push down), I've used mechanical means to record my thoughts because I could type or key as fast as my brain could go.

I still write the occasional letter or notecard...a thank you to the lovely man who did the flowers at Dad's funeral, a note of encouragement to a nephew who is struggling with his own place in the world, a letter to a teacher about how badly Johnny behaved but what a great help Sean was, a jot to my neighbor saying I've stolen his dogs for a playdate with my dogs, to keep them out of his hair while he struggles with a kitchen remodel. Cursive causes me to be polite and thoughtful and thought-full.

I'm glad I have a good "hand", sorry that that skill isn't seen as important any more, but aware of all the other, more important things that children these days have to learn. I'm not suggesting that we bring back cursive handwriting...just that its passing should be noted and mourned.

God bless you, Mrs. Holt.

Ritual

Just attended my second family wedding of the year and I have to say, my family knows how to do this ritual right.

Having said that, I was sitting in the beautiful San Antonio Botanical Gardens, trying not to cry (I always cry at weddings, but at family weddings, it's a torrent).  The words to "Sunrise, Sunset" float through my mind along with my own little slide show of these grown women as babies, as kids, as teens. Where do the years go?

So, in order to distract myself, I try to think of other things. On Sunday, I pondered where we get some of our most cherished wedding rituals. I mean, who's the genius who thought of seating the bride's friends and family on the same side that the bride stands so they can't see her face? Ditto for the groom's family and friends.

And why flowers? Flowers are practically a sacred object for me, since my church is nature, but who was the first couple to jazz up their local parish church with flowers. (In the case of churches in general, I think they add a great deal. I mean, most churches are more of the somber and awe-some and awe-full architecture and decor, so they really need some joyful elements.) But why is that? Shouldn't our churches be as full of light and joy as a botanical garden?

I have to say that the flowers on Sunday were brilliant! A single large trough-shaped vase with the same flowers spilling onto and weaving into the grass. As I said, brilliant!

And I certainly understand the origin of gift ritual (taken from the days when a couple setting up their own  houshold). Similar to the old-fashioned "pounding", it was a way for a community to support the youngsters, who no doubt didn't have a spoon or a kettle to their names. Nowadays, with so many people delaying marriage until they are older and already having a household set up, one needs to be more creative than the toasters and fondue pots of my generation. I hope I was creative with the picnic basket for two, a reminder that romance belongs in marriage more perhaps than it belongs in courtship.

More brides are foregoing the veil and the promise to obey, which in my mind is all to the better. The veil in particular seems to suggest those long-ago days when brides were purchased and the groom didn't get to see her face until well into the ceremony, when it was too late to back out. Remember Jacob marrying the wrong sister in the Bible...he had to work 7 more years to purchase the chick he was really in love with.

And as for the obey pledge...I always wondered why the brides were required to pledge obedience when the grooms weren't. I mean, don't successful modern marriages compromise on stuff?

And don't get me started on the pledge to "remain faithful"! Just heard the statistic that 75% of the American people see nothing wrong with an extramarital affair, as long as they don't get caught.

Candles at this particular wedding were out, which made sense since there was a pretty stiff breeze the whole evening. (Although I know there would have been a fight at our table over who got to sit closest to the candle for the heat it might produce!)

A new (to me, anyway) tradition was born with mani/pedis for the wedding party women and they included aunts, sisters and cousins. I know it wasn't the real cause for our gathering, but to me it was the most significant. Three generations of women, all together after burying our matriarch in February, all sharing moments.

I brought out our grandmother's rosary and missal, offering it to my niece's soon-to-be husband for their vows in the Catholic church in a few weeks. Sweet tears. Stories of their growing up. Sweet laughter. My funny niece keeping us in stitches. Raucus laughter. The rhythm, ebb and flow of remembering, choosing a nail color, being pampered, and sharing it with women I'd be proud to know, even if they weren't my blood. Let's hear it for new rituals!

I'm still a little iffy about the ritual of "giving away" the bride by the parents. Once again, it smacks of bride price. But it survives, perhaps, because it signifies the family's acceptance of the groom. I just wish they'd give the groom away too! That would make it more equitable.

A relatively new ritual is the officiant's admonition to the congregation and getting them to pledge their support of this marriage that is beginning this day. This is good ritual.

I remember one of my co-workers a while ago, who was embroiled in the planning for a "pull out all the stops"  wedding. He asked for my advice and strangely, some actual words of wisdom popped out of my mouth (didn't know I was that smart!). Without thinking, I blurted out, "Just make sure you spend at least as much time planning your marriage as you have spent planning your wedding."

Brilliant, if I do say so myself. Because, despite the comfort of ritual and the community's acceptance of the new family begun, that's the crux of why we gather to celebrate. We hope that, despite all the pressures to the contrary, this union will be one that lasts.

I envy my two sisters who have been married for forty plus years. Our parents were married for 60 plus years, literally "till death did them part." But I'm hopeful every time I attend a wedding. I used to not attend if I didn't think the marriage would last, after attending an abyssmal wedding years ago where a full 3/4 of the congregation knew it wouldn't last. It lasted all of 8 months.

But now, having grown older and wiser, I attend every wedding I'm invited to that I can arrange to attend. Because the ritual is more important than I ever realized. (And also because I've occasionally been wrong about how long a particular marriage might last. Mea culpa.)

The very last part of the wedding is what put me over the edge, crying-wise. Because, you see, we have a ritual in our family. Mother's favorite piece of music EVER was Debussy's Claire de Lune. She had Uncle Bill (a masterful musician) play it every time we got together. Uncle Bill played at our weddings. Uncle Bill played it at our parents' funerals. So Claire de Lune was the last piece of music played at Leah's and Sara's weddings. Sob City. I didn't cry delicately into a lace handkerchief. I soddened at least three tissues.

But it was comforting too. Like the session at the spa, it cemented our family and assured me, at any rate, that despite now being the oldest generation in my family, ritual will go on. Our parents' deaths were sad, but not the end of our history, our rituals. Ritual is still important.

One of my rituals is baking bread and making soup on the first cold day of the Fall season. I feel some soup coming on.

Food to Gag You, Part Deux

So, in my previous post by the same title, I opined that Mole, that supposedly luscious sauce used in Mexican cuisine, wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

I decided that I really shouldn't judge the book by its cover (in this case, tomatoes and chocolate in the same dish) until I tried personally to make it and eat it. I'm trying to expand my horizons by cooking more gourmet. You have to understand that my baking and cooking skills have tended to draw heavily from crockpots, church basement suppers and hospital auxiliary cookbooks. Recipes that include a lot of Jello and catsup.

I've been embarked on an attempt to cook more things the Food Network might feature, or at least not turn its collective nose up at. So far, my successes have included pate and onion marmalade. The pate was so-so...the marmalade divine!

So how did the mole turn out? In a word, blechhhh! Okay, so now I've tried it and I have to say, I was right the first time. Tomatoes and chocolate don't belong together. I can't say I can really taste the chocolate, but I'm of the opinion that, if you can't taste it, why add it in the first place? Same applies to the whole almonds and whole cinnamon sticks...peppers tend to overpower EVERYTHING so if you're not a big fan of hot and spicy, what's the point?

(Plus, I also secretly believe that people who like spicy food have so burned out their taste buds that they can't appreciate the subtleties of almonds or chocolate or cinnamon or lemon.)

This dish took about 4 hours to make and dirtied every pot and pan and bowl I own (and I own quite a few). I had to run the dishwasher a couple of times and still had a half a dishwasher full left over of knives and whisks and spoons and saucepans.

But that's not the real judgement. If this dish had turned out like I've heard other people wax eloquent over, the four hours would be well worth my time. It didn't. It wasn't.

My mole tastes almost exactly like the sauce you get when you buy those El Paso frozen Mexican dinners...you know the sauce that's supposed to be over the chicken enchiladas but somehow ends up over the beans and rice?

I could've just bought a can of that El Paso enchilada sauce (I know, 'cause I buy it for my chicken enchilada casserole)! And if it didn't taste chocolate enough, I could always add some Hershey's syrup to the sauce!

I wasted some perfectly good chicken by pouring this sauce over it and braising it in the oven. Now the chicken is enfused/confused with that sauce and I can't say I like it.

For starters, I had to buy several different types of peppers, only one of which was readily available so I went to like three different stores and ended up substituting. Then I had to buy tomatoes because my vines have kinda petered out this late in the season and my late season stuff hasn't begun to produce. THEN I had to buy about a hundred different spices whch aren't in my very well-stocked spice cabinet. This whole sauce must've cost about $60, not counting the chicken. And NOW I have all these weird spices I'll have to figure out some use for.

I have whole fennel seed. I have whole cumin. I have whole anise. I have several ounces of dried peppers. This recipe called for whole everything on account of it wants you to toast all the seeds prior to grinding them. In fact, you toast or burn practically everything in the recipe.

I did at least reserve about a quart of the damn sauce so I could give it away. I've decided that my new culinary adventures will be confined to stuff I personally like. I hear a lot of TV chefs talk about blending of savory and sweet. Okay, I'll buy that in an onion marmalade but no more mole for me!

War on Women

I'm getting pretty tired of having a target on my back when it comes to national policy about women's health.

I know, I know, there are those ostriches who claim that there is no war on women. "Why, whatever do you mean, Char?"

I'm talking about our basic rights, as women, to control our  bodies, to make decision about our health, in consultation with our doctors, which affect our health. I'm talking about being treated equally in the workplace.

I'm particularly upset about the poor girl who died because they discovered cancer in her body but she couldn't get chemo because she was pregnant and it might harm the fetus. (BTW, the fetus died when she did so they saved neither person.)

Come again??? Let me repeat that concept...her life was devalued over the value of a proto-human. I wonder what the value of a proto-human is who ends up being born female. The second she's born, she has less value than when she lived in the womb. A rational baby would just stay put, getting sustenance from her host/mom until at least the age of majority, when she might be able to vote people out of office who don't value her worth.

I'm inspired to take on this issue after last week's dumb ass remarks by Rep. Todd Akin, the idiot who somehow managed to wrangle a position on the "Science committee" of the august House of Representatives of the most advance nation in the history of our world. (He probably has some really choice views on evolution as well.)

He actually believes (although he now denies it) that a woman's body has super magical properties by which her magical glands secrete super magical chemistry which allows her to control which sperm get in and which sperm don't. The logical extension of this belief is, if you got pregnant, then you must not have been raped. You must secretly have wanted it, because if it were "legitimate" rape, your magical secretions would have kicked in. Rep. Akin, you are so full of it!

If women actually had that power of "conception/not conception", don't you think the poor women, who can't afford expensive fertility treatments, would have a talk with her super magical glands and tell these magical glands: "Look, fellas, my husband and I would kinda like to have kids, so you guys allow his sperm in, okay?"

The ultra-sad part of this very sad story about the gullibility and ignorance of one of our supposed smart politicians is, he not only believes this hokum, enough of his constituents believe this hokum to send him money. All I can say is, "I'm glad you're not my ob/gyn."

I guess Akin didn't look at the stats too closely, 'cause 32,000 women in the US get pregnant every year due to rape. And don't get me started on the definitions of "rape", "legitimate rape" and, the term Akin used in his apology of sorts, "forcible rape".

Evidently, according to some in our Congress, women should just "lie back and enjoy it" when raped...maybe that's the way to make the super-magical glands secrete whatever it is that they secrete to ward off unwanted sperm.

Oh, and another evidence of the war on women is the utter insanity of being against abortion and also against women's access to birth control. These folks do realize, don't they, that they are causing the need for more access to abortions, not less?

Planned Parenthood, one of the finest medical entities in the country, whose services are provided to all women, regardless of their ability to pay, is the big buggaboo, evidently. The great state of North Carolina's legislature just voted to defund PP, bless their little minds. Never mind PP's fertility counseling, their cancer screenings, their health services. Never mind that they have talked women out of abortions when they think the woman is responding to pressures from boyfriends, husbands, parents, instead of listening to their own hearts.

Let us never forget that, despite serious race issues in this country, black men got the right to vote 50 years before women, white or black, got it. Let's not forget that the ERA died an ignominious death at the hands of state legislators who, in at least one case, voted against his own constituents.

Don't let us forget that women just got the right to sue employers for equal pay, not the right to actual equal pay. And that "right" was granted in 2009. As in, in the 21st century. As in, in a country which isn't waging war against women. Right.

Let's not forget that when Senators and House members (most of whom are male, God love 'em) vote to slash social welfare programs like WIC, school lunch programs, birth control, etc. they are doing so on the backs of women. Evidently, they are more interested in the fetus not being aborted than they are of actually feeding it in utero and being born healthy.

(Did you know that, when birth control restrictions were placed in the Health Care Affordability Act, they were written by a group of Catholic bishops, not our legislators?) Let's never forget that when women demand access to birth control, they are called sluts and worse.

So, yeah, I've got a target on my back.

Going Home

(Several years ago, I wrote the following as a favor to a friend to be used in a hospice service. I just recently read it and realized how much it describes my mom.)

I’m headed for Home.
I may not have thought I’d be going Home at this point in my life, but I’m on my way.
The word “Home” can mean so many things to different people.
Earthly home can be warm and welcoming, tense and chilly, cold and formal
Laughing and sharing, terrorizing and brutal, sad and dismal.
I’m going Home now and soon, I’ll know what it's like.
Robert Frost once said, “Home is where, when you have to go, they have to take you in.”
I hope that’s true of God.
I hope God has to take me in, despite my foibles and unkindnesses,
Despite my lack of faith at times.
Despite my sins of pride and sloth, lust and gluttony,
Wrath, envy and greed.
I’ve known them all but I tried to live kindly.
I hope God knows that I tried very hard to be loving
Going Home is fraught with uncertainty.
Will they still like me…will they take me in?
Will I shock them? Or maybe they’ll remember my jokes and laughter?
Will I trip going up the stairs and everyone will laugh and say “that’s just like you”?
Will I get into philosophical debates or discussions of current events?
Will it be like the Garden before the Fall?
They say that we won’t recognize our fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters there.
I hope that’s not true.
I hope my family will be there, taking me in, welcoming me Home.
I can’t imagine streets paved with gold.
I think someone made that up…God wouldn’t waste his time on gold streets.
Or making us all play harps…I’d hate that.
I hope I get a job as a guardian, watching over someone still out there
Still far away from Home.
I hope Home will be a garden for gardeners, lush and green and not a bug in sight.
I hope it’ll be a library for book-lovers and a museum for art lovers.
I hope it’ll be a golf course for golfers, with no traps.
Or a mountain for those who thrill to climb, ever higher and higher.
A roller coaster for those who like speed
The wind in hair, the sudden drops and terror
Only to come safely back to Home, breathless and loving life.
I’m going Home now.
God, please have to take me in.

The Great Green Stamp Caper

In the early '60's, a couple from Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) applied and were accepted to Ouachita Baptist University. Mary Makosholo was a school teacher and Mike was a minister. Both were in their 40's and had 5 children, making them "non-traditional" students in every category I can imagine.

Anyway, they came to Arkadelphia, moving into married student housing. The first Sunday, being good Baptists, they attended church. First Baptist Church was within walking distance of campus and most students didn't have cars, so the vast majority attended there, including the Makosholos.

Now, you have to understand, we had had foreign students there many times before. They were certainly welcome. As guests.

The Makosholos had, however, the audacity to request to become members. In our lily-white church, this was a first. Certainly the Blacks who lived in the "negro" section of town wouldn't have dreamed of attending, let alone becoming members of First Baptist.

Many heated meetings of the deacons and Sunday School classes ensued. In the Baptist Church, one is voted in by the membership. Usually, this is an automatic and somewhat routine voice vote as Yea or Nay at the end of the service. Not, sadly, in the Makosholos' case.

After a great deal of angst, it was decided to have a secret ballot. First and only time in any church I've ever heard of a secret ballot. Perhaps the congregants didn't have the intestinal fortitude to show publicly their racism. Perhaps the church elders felt that people could more comfortably vote in their favor if they didn't have to vote so publicly. Whatever.

The upshot was that First Baptist Church of Arkadelphia admitted Black people for the first time in its history. The first Sunday the Makosholos attended church as members, my mother invited them home to Sunday dinner. That wasn't the last time the Makosholos graced our table. Foreign students were always showing up, invited or uninvited, to share our fried chicken, our roast beef and gravy. We almost always had foreign students at Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, since they couldn't go home and the college cafeteria closed, leaving them to celebrate Christmas by cooking Campbell's soup on a hot plate.

Visiting over a pot roast, Mom found out that the Makosholos had left their five children at home in Rhodesia with Grandma and that they were resigned to living in the US for four years, never seeing their children. Airfare was just too dear for them to jet back and forth to home. I can almost see Mom's indignation at the thought. She had five children and she couldn't wrap her mind around not seeing us for four years.

In that day and time, gas stations and especially grocery stores gave out stamps, S & H Green Stamps being the most common. For every $x you spent at their store, you were given x stamps. When you'd collected enough stamps, there were catalogs and redemption centers where you could "buy", with books of stamps, tray tables and pots and pans and bathroom accessories and sporting equipment.

So the good ladies of First Baptist decided they were going to save enough green stamps to redeem for cash the amount of money it would take to buy a round-trip ticket for Mike and Mary to go home for the summer.

Many Arkadelphia families were involved in this project, not just church members. When Mom asked the manager of the Piggly Wiggly for some extra stamps to help their effort, he leaned on the dispensing button, emptying his stamp machines into a grocery bag.

But the stamps were required to be in books, both to redeem and to count. So Mom threw a stamp party, providing food and refreshment for a whole day to anyone who could come for a few hours and lick stamps and put them in books. (We discovered very early on that tongues can provide only so much moisture and soon resorted to wet dishcloths and sponges on small plates. Our fingers and tongues were green by mid-morning.)

At last, the collecting and mounting gave way to counting. Our dining room overflowed with sacks and stacks and boxes of books of S & H Green Stamps. Success! We had enough to send the Makosholos on their journey home and then return to their schooling.

Now I can't imagine that Mom was in any way threatening when she talked to merchants about donations. She probably didn't say she would remove her custom from the Piggly Wiggly should the manager not pony up. No, Mom's style was more "I'll be a faithful customer and my whole Sunday School class would be forever grateful." No threat, right?

This story is about race relations in the South, loving thy neighbor (even if the neighbor lives half a world away), the power of community to come together, the inventiveness of using whatever you had to accomplish a major goal. It isn't a story of good vs. evil...it is a story of merely good. Of doing the right thing. Of Christ's admonition that whatever you do for your fellow man, "you do it unto Me."

But I write it because it is quintessentially Mom. .