Summer sadness...

It is eight in the morning on a corner, at this cafe. The world has stopped. It is completely still. Not one thing is moving. Not one leaf sways on a branch. Nothing flutters except my heart. The rich, creamy, ebony espresso which I shouldn't have always makes me jittery. The air is heavy with moisture in a sky still carrying rain. The morning fog oppresses the mountain and the sun hides behind billowy, blue dense cloud, but I know he's there. He scorches my skin and fills my nostrils with hot, still, heavy air. My cheeks are hot. My heart beats faster. My summer sadness. I need the wind. Things must move. I pray for downpour and the gray, soft beauty in the aftermath.

And tonight, I make bomba.

Time to dish.

Marissa's Bomba recipe

Here is what you need:

• Cherry bombs, aka hot cherry peppers, chopped. Leave in the seeds baby!
• A clove of garlic, smashed.
• Coriander, just a handful.
• Sea salt and good olive oil.

Here is what to do:

1. Get your lovely pot out and get everybody in there. Cook on a low heat for about half an hour. After which, pound it all in your mortar and pestle or buzz it in the processor adding oil as needed. Until dear friends, you have a rich, red, spicy bomb!

Should be enough to get things moving...

My intersection ...

Some days, all I can do is wait to feel normal. For the sharpness to pass, for the winds of change to die down. They always do, you know. It's something I keep reminding myself. On these days I sit on corners. I watch people intersecting while I wait for my selves to merge. They cycle and walk and run and glide. Trying to avoid one another. Trying to avoid collision. Trying to get across safely.

I watch one of the travelers run by and read her t-shirt.

Stay calm, and slay the dragon.

I sit and watch, and wait. I wait for the answers to appear, for the awkwardness of life to pass and for another moment.

My stormy desert. My intersection. My calm.

Today I breathe ...

For the first time in what seems like a very long time, today I was able to breathe. To open my door and walk outside in the brisk air and take a deep, full belly breath. To expand my greedy nostrils and inhale this new life air with gratitude and gusto. It rained like mad yesterday, the kind of rain that slightly scares you but when you are tucked away somewhere to watch, makes you kinda' giggle with glee (which is precisely what I did). If truth be told, in the morning, I even stood right under it in our yard and let the drops fall all over me. With that lovely bath, all the stifling heat that has been on our chests and hearts was whisked away by the torrents and the wind. I'm not pretty in the heat dear readers. I swell right up, like right up, like nasty up, like marshmallow man up...ahem ... I get cranky, slow, sticky, icky and I don't really want to do anything. Which kind of bites because it's not really conducive to working outside, which is what I do, naturally.

But today, today I breathe. And take a walk through a stormy desert.

Stormy, beautiful desert roads ...

Her beloved ...

Once upon a time, in a jar far away, lay Brassica Oleracea. For many years, she had been nursing a quiet and profound loneliness in the land of cabbage. Time had long gone on since she had first come over from her native home along the Mediterranean seacoast. She often sat in the stillness, and missed the rich soils and the salty sea air breezing through her leaves on a sunny day. She had had a good life, served her loved ones well, providing the most robust of offspring, blooming for them to enjoy every Summer and Fall and of course, the most delectable of fares. And even though she was often overlooked for her prettier friends, Capsicum, Citrus Sinensis and many other relatives, she offered her quiet, powerful life force to those who stopped to look. She had felt very fulfilled for many years. But there was something missing. And through all that time, through all her lives, the very deepest part of her, waited.

She knew one day, they would meet again. She had prepared for him many times before. She enjoyed her ritual of peeling off all her old leaves, cutting off the hardest middles, and visiting her friend Mandoline to have herself finely prepared. She would enlist the help Mandoline's grandfather, Hands, to place her in the jar, and there she would wait. But he never arrived. 

And so her seeds were sown once more, and she grew again, year after year waiting for him. Hands had long gone, and Mandoline missed him dearly. Brassica waited still. Days and years melting together like the butter she had so often been braised in. 

But today was different. She could feel it in her leaves. She could smell it in the air. It was a smell she recognized well. For a while now she had felt the difference, but she had dared not hope. Her seeds had felt different in the soil. But today, today she was certain. She was back home. Brassica was back home on her beloved seacoast, the salty sea air tousling her leaves and she knew with everything in her being, that today they would meet again.

There were new Hands and a new Mandoline to help her prepare and she began her beloved ritual one final time. Peeling off her old leaves, as she had done countless times before, she thought of him.  She thought of how much she had longed for him, of how perfect they were together, of the sounds they made and of how time would make them better and better. Every moment was a gift.

She was ready then. Mandoline and Hands had done their job and she was in the jar. Curvy and colorful, the rich soil had given her an extra boost in her red, and she waited for her beloved. She could hear him coming. The unmistakable sound of Mortar crushing him before the final step. And so, after all these years she had spent waiting, all these lives and soils gone, here he was before her. Grey and distinguished as she had remembered him, she could smell his mineral scent as Mortar approached the jar. Her breath caught. There he was. Sodium Chloride. Or as she affectionately called him, Salt. Her beloved. And in one moment, he was cascading onto her from above, his grains slightly bruising her and releasing her juices as he tumbled in. Just like that, in that one moment, Brassica Oleracea and Sodium Chloride were complete again, and the dance began ...

The End

Time to dish.

Lacto-Fermented Red Cabbage Sauerkraut

Please read about the i.n.c.r.e.d.i.b.l.e. benefits of lacto-fermented cabbage, and then make this.

I took a workshop here with Haley and it was so awesome I am sharing a recipe with you. It was the best Sauerkraut I ever had. And not just because I made it.

Here is what you need:

• Mason Jars
• 1 Organic Red Brassica Oleracea (aka Cabbage) Medium sized (about 1kg)
• Sodium Chloride (aka sea salt) about half a cup
• 1 tablespoon of caraway seeds

Here is what to do:

1. So simple guys. Slice Cabbage as thinly as you like with a knife or dear Mandoline. Then put it in a giant bowl. Now, pour Salt over Cabbage and here comes the fun part, knead it all together until juice starts to flow. This part must be done well. Salt will bruise Cabbage and release her juices. Takes about 10 minutes or so. 
2. In your impeccably clean Mason Jar, add your caraway seeds, and then Cabbage until the jar is almost full and then press down really hard. You want Cabbage squashed as much as possible. Pour the liquid from the bowl in to cover Cabbage in jar (leave about an inch for bubbles and expansion), seal and voila. They will dance together in the jar for a few weeks, ideally 3-4, making sounds of love, the jar usually pops, and once done, they and you will be in heaven.

**Use your nose** with all fermenting, if it smells funky, like more funky than usual, you have to start over. You can taste it if you want but it might not be that ...shall we say ...delectable ...

Caja Chada ...

In about one hour, fifty seven minutes and thirty three seconds from this very moment, we will be heading over to lovely Kahnawake to do something very special dear readers. We, are going to build La Caja China pig roast box. That's right. We are going to build it. With our own, hopefully capable, bare hands. And once done, instead of a pig, we will roast a lamb in it. Now, you remember Chad don't you? Well, we are at it again and he is in the driver's seat. He's done all the research, sketched the building plans and so on. And so forth. He's awesome and I can't wait. But before we go, I want to share a little of our most recent communication on the matter (to which he graciously agreed) I think you will enjoy. I almost peed my pants. So without further ado, I give you:

"Howdy Oana, Axel,

We were quite busy the past few weekends, painting the deck, fence, house, planting our herb garden, fixing up our deck, etc etc.

But, I did not forget about the Caja China (or fishing either). While buying deck stain a couple of weeks ago, I picked up a roll of aluminum sheeting (flashing) to line the caja china.

Just yesterday on the way to work, I spied a red pickup with a pile of junk in the back. There was something on the top of the pile with wheels and I thought of the caja, so I followed the truck. It headed down the Malone road in the general direction of our "transfer depot", which is kind of a dump where residents can throw unwanted material into container bins. There are separate bins for construction material, household garbage, non-garbage refuse, etc etc.

The truck took a left onto the river road, almost clinching the theory that they were destined for the depot (sometimes called the "dump").

However, I did not want to look like a scavenger: following the truck right to the depot, wait for them to discard the wheeled thingy, then swoop in and pick it up. So instead, I surreptitously went around by route 132 and approached the depot from the opposite direction. There was a slight rise in the road as I approached the depot, but sure enough, I saw the red roof of the pickup drive into the depot area - BINGO. About 200 meters before the dump, I backed up off the road into some weeds and started surveillance. About 8 minutes later, the truck drove out of the depot and headed back from whence they came. As the truck's dust trail dissappeared around some trees, I started up my truck, and grinning, drove to the depot. Sure enough, there in a container bin was a 3-wheeled stroller. I grabbed it, noticing it was a Schwinn, something like this

http://lib.store.yahoo.net/lib/comfortstore/insteprunaround.jpg

but not so sexy. Instead, it was dirty, weathered, and slightly beat-up (looks like it wintered on somebody's porch...), but hey, the wheels looked good.

When throwing it into my truck, I realized the tires were flat. I'm hoping they only need air, 'cause otherwise, they look good (they have an air valve, just like a bicycle tire).

Soooo,

I have aluminum sheeting and wheels (hopefully they're good...I'll fill 'em with air this weekend). Just need wood, some hardware, and some time to put it all together.

We're busy this weekend, so I'm wondering about next Saturday, June 02. You guys want to come over and try our hand at putting it together?

Let me know. We can then plan out another date for fishing and a rough schedule for the backporch lambajamba at your place. 

Oh yeah, I attached "Caja Schwinna.pdf" which shows a map of my little adventure getting the wheels, the stroller itself, and a preliminary sketch of the Caja China (which we may christen "Caja Chada". By the way, my buddy gave me a coca-cola bottle opener that attaches to the wall, like this http://www.coca-colastore.com/imagesEdp/p96096b.jpg I said "thats going to be installed on my soon-to-be-built caja china"  -  it should make for an interesting conversation piece when the carcass is cooking in the box!)

One other thing....I was in and out at work yesterday as I'm supervising the installation of the drainage system on the bridge. I was in the office parking lot and the safety officer pulls up. We discussed a few matters then he asks if I was going golfing (which he finds peculiar since I never golf...)

"Ahh no, I'm not going golfing...why?" it seemed like an out-of-the-blue question.

" 'Cause you have a golf cart in the back of your truck..."

So I follow his gaze to my truck. Sure enough, the Schwinn looks kinda like a hand-pulled golf cart on its side. I laugh.

"No, no golf - thats just a stroller I picked up on the side of the road for the wheels."

So, just let us know.

Gumshoe Chazz"

The priceless end.

Oh no, wait, the map...

The man with the bag of eggs ...

It was muggy on the hill that day. The sun ablaze after an afternoon of river swelling rain. The rolling hills bursting with life. We were heading home from a jeep safari deep in the heart of Matanzas when I saw him. He was small, wrinkled and hunched over. A makeshift cane held up his scraggly, bent body. His eyes were filled with cataracts, his mouth held a few remaining teeth and in his old, tireless hands, he held a bag of eggs. There were about five of them in there. In that plastic bag. He must have gotten them from one of the countless chickens that roam the land. In front of him there was a young man on a bicycle. It was a split second in time. It was as we were driving up and past them that I saw him. I'm not sure why it was him, but it was. This old man with a bag of eggs filled me with such peace, such contentment such a sense of right in the universe. That one little moment in time epitomized one of my deepest human desires. To let go. To be able to practice the fundamental truth that it is out of our hands. To be able to walk up that hill and not give it a second thought. When it is our time, it is our time and we must try to find a way to live in peace until then. There is no struggle. We have no control. 

I was filled with peace that day. A peace that I had not felt in a long time. My core was hollow. My muscles loose. My lungs, open. I wasn't expecting that. 

This old man, I know his life is hard. I know he aches. I know he can't see. 

But he goes on. He doesn't question why. His mind does not plague him. He knows what needs to be done. There is no other way. His neighbors care about him. He knows he can count on someone. With what his worn out eyes allow, he sees life and death all around him, every day. And at the end, he knows it is out of his hands.  He is a part of everything else around him. The vast land, the deep waters of ocean, the palm trees, the mangoes, the cows, chickens, lambs and all the other animals, the rivers that flow around him. At the end, he gets those eggs and he walks up that hill free of fear, free of choice.

Time to dish.

Apple Banana Smoothie, here's to you ...

Here is what you need:

1. Two or three apple bananas (careful here: not apples & bananas, apple bananas, it's an amazing variety. you can use other mini bananas to substitute if you cannot find them)
2. Three cups whole (farm if you can find it) milk (you can use nut milk if you prefer)
3. Freshly ground cinnamon, about a teaspoon
4. Sugar cane, to taste

Here is what to do:

1. Fresh sugar cane is amazing. It is absolutely worth seeking out. When you do, get a bunch and crush it in a mortar and pestle until its nice and juicy and then put it in your hands and squeeeeeeze out the sweet nectar. In a blender, mix milk, cinnamon and peeled bananas and whir away. Add sugar cane to taste and drink up. This dear readers, makes an amazing breakfast.

Cheers old man. 

Old beginnings ...

I am sitting in the stinkiest room I have ever been in. I have a deadline of 16 minutes. Each link takes about two minutes to upload. I've found this stinky (it's so bad) "internet cafe" because I wanted to check in with you. Axel's just been out to bring me a virgin pina colada and his wretch upon re-entry reminds me of the stink I have now become used to. Anyhow, time is a tickin' ...

May has been a month of beginnings for me. New beginnings. Old beginnings. Beginnings that I had forgotten about. I've started again at the Jean-Talon market and have been having some difficulties with scheduling this beautiful craft that I love so much. The days are very long but incredibly rewarding. There are no phones or internet access. I have so much to share with you. When I get back, I am all over the scheduling of said loved craft into my new routine.

I have so many stories for you dear readers. I can't wait to share.

In the meantime, I am so out of here. 8 minutes on the clock.Gag.