Cardinal is His Color

"Cardinal is her color,
Jewell is her name.
High upon a hill she stands
And we will fight to keep her fame.
Loyalty, allegiance
Alma mater true.
We will love thee, serve thee forever.
William Jewell."
-William Jewell College anthem

My dad and I shared a common alma mater, unlike the 5 other members of our family, who graduated from Ouachita Baptist University (then college). Four of my siblings are alums of OBU and my mom went back to school after the last of us started kindergarten and got both her BA and MA from there. Home for the holidays during my college years, we would "honor" the rest of the family with a duet of the above song. Back then, I even had a decent singing voice.

The cardinal was the school mascot as it was the St. Louis MLB team, where Daddy grew up and where I graduated from  high school. I have always loved the Cardinals, the WJC Cardinals and the bird. While the male is a vibrant red (and I think that's where the Catholic cardinals got their name, with their brilliant red robes) while the female cardinal is a beautiful tawny browny/light green with orange accents. She too is beautiful...while not as flashy as her hubby, she has an understated elegance.

Daddy was just a little guy when he started going to St. Louis Card games in the 1920's. He and his friends, not having much in the way of pocket money, used to travel by trolley car to the stadium and hang out outside the tall wooden fence, watching the game through the knotholes in the planks.

Sooner or later, the Cardinal marketing folks got the clever idea of starting a club called "the Knothole Gang". For a fraction of the price of regular seats (and presumably wherever there were empty seats going begging), St. Louis youngsters would be admitted to the stadium and see the whole game, not just a 2-inch view. Thus, Daddy became a founding member of the "Knothole Gang" with all the rights and privileges thereto.

Years later, somehow, the St. Louis organization tracked him down in Arkansas and honored him as a founding member, and as they were moving stadiums, with an etched brick in the concourse around the stadium. He got a plaque and everything.

So for his entire life, Daddy was the ultimate Cardinal fan, both for his hometeam and for his college team.

The St. Louis Cardinals made the playoffs while I was a student in high school there and played the Detroit Tigers in the World Series. The PA system was sync'd with the radio commentary and we would mightily strive to concentrate on Honors English or World Civ as we listened with one ear to the game. If you took your ticket stubs to the office, you could even get an excused absence, which was a BIG DEAL. Unfortunately, the Tigers were ultimately victorious, although I have always claimed that it was rigged...we were robbed, robbed I tell you.

For years, Daddy had a statue of a cardinal in his garden and I inherited it, along with a graceful mourning dove. To this day, the cardinal watches over my shade garden. So it was with a great deal of pleasure that I had cardinal gangs all winter and they hung around through the spring. Cardinals are very territorial during mating season, but during the winter, they 'gang' together for protection and warmth.

I once got a cardinal stuck in my house. He flew frantically around, banging against the skylights in my great room, seeing sky and not able to get through to it. I have a little device designed for birders which has birdcalls on it. I opened all the windows and doors, stood outside and hit the button for "cardinal call". He came out in a hurry, sure that an interloper had come to scavage his territory.

When I'm gardening, I sometimes talk to Daddy. He was a fabulous gardener and until his later years when he wasn't able to garden anymore, his garden was the talk of the town. There were people at his funeral who said, "I used to drive out of my way to drive by Carl's garden." So today, as I was sitting on my deck and missing my Daddy, I whispered to the male cardinal who lit a mere 10 feet from me, "Are you my Daddy?" His reply was to hop another 2 feet towards me.

I am blessed.

Blood is Thicker Than Water, Part B

I'm continually amazed, being the cynical-yet-naive optimist that I am, when I hear references to Barack Obama's race.

The man, unlike many African-Americans, is truly one half African and one half "white". (I used to wonder about this designation when I was a kid because I'm not "white", I'm pinky-tanny-freckledy. Most "black" people I know are not "black", they are toasty brown.) Anyway, so what if Obama is one half "black"...he's also one half "white". Rejected by his African father, he was raised by a white mother and white grandparents. I think they did pretty well by him, raising-wise.

Which is to say, those same white people who hate him for being black, must hate themselves in equal parts. We all came from the same woman, found buried in sub-Saharan Africa. Anthropologists call her "Eve" because she is literally the mother of us all. Undoubtedly, she must be somewhat black, since the sun in that part of the world caused that evolutionary adaptation.

Blood should mean nothing to any of us. Half my nieces and nephews are adopted and they are every shade of the rainbow except "yellow", that skin-tone representated by Asians. Sadly, we have no Asians in my family. But our family is enriched by the niece who is half Hispanic/half white who has two children who are half Black/one quarter Hispanic/one quarter white.  And the half black/half white nephew. And the three-quarter Native American/one quarter white niece. And the "who knows what" niece, who is the most loving, funniest, prettiest niece you'd ever want to have.

And yet, they are my Blood.

I'm reminded of the climax on the musical "Showboat"...a "mulatto" lady who is one 16th black is accused of being married to a white guy. (Inter-racial marriage being a big no-no in that time and place.) In the presence of several witnesses, the husband pricks her finger, sucks the blood and later, when the sheriff comes to call, he swears, along with witnesses, that he has "Negro" blood in him as well.

Blood is blood is blood. Black people's bodies don't reject donor's blood from someome white. Red blood cells, plasma, white blood cells, all are the same regardless of the race. White people who need kidney transplants (I hope) don't refuse a kidney donation simply because it comes from a Hispanic.

I think, in another several generations, we'll all be a nice tanny/toasty brown. And won't it be grand!

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!