Happy Tabs

The other day, checking my email, it occurred to me the tabs open in my browser were almost all downright gloomy.  Every tab had either to do with insurance claims, bills of some kind, was work related, or was a link someone else cared about, not me.  It suddenly occurred, I'd created the "tabs of doom".  It was no longer fun coming to the computer.  This should not be.  Computer time at home, away from the office, should be just for fun.  Time for an overhaul.  Only fun tabs I told myself.  And what would those be? That was the question.  Time to close, close, close, and start all over again.

Well, blogging is pure fun, so first thing, this blog tab got moved to its rightful place all the way over on the left.  Facebook is fun.  Now we're cookin', much better already.  Netflix, forgot about that one.  Movies are always fun.  Now, what else? YouTube!  How about a little online shopping?  Even window shopping is good for the spirits, and you never know when an extra dollar or two will come along, it's good to be prepared.  Now for a confession.  Nerd fun.  Weight Watchers online.  That one's slightly embarrassing, but it is fun to me and that is all that counts.  A couple of favorite blogs, and suddenly we've gone from the "tabs of doom" to, "Oh boy, can't wait to get to the computer."

That's plenty.  Don't want to suffer from "tab overload", another affliction that creeps up if you're not careful.  Well, that's about all for this week.  The weather has been glorious, and being outside, the time just flies this time of year, not much left for blogging.  That's a good thing.  This is the third summer in the islands for Fergie and me.  Winter will come around soon enough up here in the hinterland.  A nice contrast to the long days of summer.  Something I'm learning to appreciate.  Contrast and compare.  Summer, short blogs, winter, long blogs.  And no more "tabs of doom".  Until next week...

On the Weigh to Love

A while back, my boyfriend said to me, "I've gained seven pounds since we met." Hmmm.....  Inside my brain all kinds of synapses immediately fired off.  Is he saying I'm making him fat?  Should I tell him I've gained four pounds since we met?  Is it safe to discuss food, body image, the hundred diets I've been on in my life?  Should I tell him I now adhere to the Roseanne Barr weight management program which is simply to "move more, eat less"?  Don't most people think Roseanne Barr is still fat?  Is it safe to admit I enjoyed watching Joy Behar interview Roseanne a few weeks ago?  How about the interview with Michael Moore I watched on Piers Morgan?  Is it safe to admit Roseanne Barr and Michael Moore are two of my favorite people right now, the people I find the most sane in the world?  Both of them fat and thought to be insane by many, many people?  Then I realized something, my mind is in serious need of a leash.  

Here's my real question.  Is love fattening?  Love for the most part makes me happy, and being happy makes me want to eat (and drink).  Love also makes me anxious, and being anxious makes me want to eat (and drink).  Love brings me into contact with lots of opportunities to imbibe in all my favorite foods (and drink), and makes me want to lie around all day and... read sonnets to one another.  And that always makes me very hungry.  For me the road to love does seem to be leading me down the dangerous road toward the land of "eat, drink, and be merry".  Perhaps what I need are a few road signs on the road to love.  You know, signs like, "Curves Ahead".  Or "Danger, Chocolate Crossing!"  Or "Slow Down! Your Speed is 2 Pizzas a Week."  Or perhaps more appropriately, a simple "STOP!"  For me anyway, love does appear to be, in fact, fattening.  

Is all this emotional and opportunistic eating nature or nurture, one might ask.  In my family, one grandmother was quite plump, the other quite small.  My dad loved to eat and enjoyed life, except perhaps for the times my mom put him on a diet, which happened every ten years or so.  My mother was trim most of her life, just like her own mother, but she had to work at it all the time.  I remember her being in her sixties and saying, "I can only eat 1000 calories a day or I gain weight."  Ee gods.  For being a woman who claimed to despise all things shallow, my own mother was quite vain, especially about her weight.  And the weights of her daughters, too.  After all, she wanted us to be happy, and isn't part of being happy weighing less?  For my mom, it was, although I can't say as a person she was all that happy.  (In her defense, she had her moments.  But that's another story.)  Having a mother who says things like "you're too heavy to wear a skirt that short" as you're exiting the car, already at some family destination that wasn't your first choice anyway, does not contribute to a healthy, happy outlook on one's appearance and one's relationship to food.  So anyway, it is all my mother's fault.  Well not all her fault, I also blame society.  

It's impossible for me to think about society, food, weight, and love without also thinking of Kate Middleton and how rail thin she was in that Alexander McQueen dress on her wedding day at the end of April.  Watching hour after hour of coverage of the fairy tale wedding, I kept thinking, "I wonder which diet she went on, no one is naturally that thin".  Kate beamed through the whole thing, mouthing to William as they sat in the carriage after the ceremony, "I'm so happy".  Let's hope it was that she's so happy to be married to such a wonderful guy, or perhaps she's so happy about the part where he said, "share all my worldly possessions", but I'm pretty sure, and I could be wrong here, but I'm pretty sure at least a little bit of that "I'm so happy" was, "thank God, now I can finally eat".  

Now any sane woman, or insane for that matter, knows exactly what I'm talking about. The topics of women and food and weight and body image and especially love are on display everywhere in our society, particularly on TV, and unless you never watch TV, it's bound to be in your face a good part of the time.  Last month, Oprah Winfrey finally got what she's always wanted, a whole hour of just her talking.  Seriously, this was the final Oprah show, a whole hour of Oprah talking, I mean nobody else, not even one word.  And yes, I watched the whole thing.  I've been with Oprah from the time she started her show twenty five years ago, with a lot of time off, it's true, but it just seemed right to watch the final show.  One thing I have to say though is, during that very long hour there was a lot of mind wandering happening on my part, and with all the images flashing across the screen behind the talking Oprah, and occasional cuts to Stedman sitting smiling at her from the audience, one couldn't help but think at least a little about Oprah and food and weight and body image and yes, love.  Oprah seems pretty happy these days, her relationship solid as ever, as is she.  It was a lot like watching Kirstie Alley on Dancing with the stars, who also seems to be doing very well, despite the extra poundage.  More power to them!

So what am I really afraid of?  A few extra pounds on our aging bodies?  I think the real operative word here is "aging" not pounds.  Not being loved for who I am?  Well, too late for that, I already am loved for who I am.  Not being as attractive to the opposite sex?  Also too late.  I'm taken.  What then?  Perhaps that old message from my mom that happiness requires  a certain number on the scale?  Also proven wrong by too many people I know to count as a serious question.  Maybe the real thing I am afraid of is love itself, not the pounds it brings with it.  Perhaps the pounds are a diversion from all the other scary questions that go along with newfound love.  Will it last?  How can I do it better this time than I've done it before?  Will we be happy together?  How will we navigate our way down this road, now we qualify for the HOV lane?  What I'm looking for is the sign that tells me how many miles it is to "Happily Ever After".  Well, there is no sign, not yet anyway.  But as long as we don't drive one another crazy, I think there's a very good chance we'll get there.


© M.E. Rollins

The Writer's Cookbook

Coming back to the writer's cook stove after nine months off writing a weekly column, it seemed a good idea to go back and read some of my old columns, dust off the cookbooks so to speak, review the old recipes, look for the ones marked "good", remember what I didn't like about the ones marked "yucky".  It's time to restock the cupboard with staples, get out the favorite sauce pans, experiment with savory and sweet, roll up my sleeves and put on my apron in preparation for cooking up some new food for thought.

As soon as I started reading the old columns, I was reminded of something I heard years ago at the Write On the River writers' conference held in Wenatchee. John Daniel was the keynote speaker that year.  He is a gifted descriptive writer, the author of a book which is currently one of my favorites, Rogue River Journal.  His talk that day was an extended metaphor called "Write Like a River."  I enjoyed listening to the ebb and flow of the words as he spoke, but one particular idea he mentioned has stuck in my head ever since.  The simple suggestion to revisit and rewrite pieces already published.

What brought Daniel's suggestion to mind was this.  When I go back and read the old pieces, it really is a little like thumbing through my old cookbooks.  I'd read a piece, and as I was reading, I couldn't help thinking, "this piece would have been good with a little cilantro", knowing full well I hadn't cooked with cilantro yet then, so I didn't know that was the flavor that was missing.  Or even, "eeuuww, that doesn't taste good".  Why did I ever cook that one up?

On my cookbook shelf I have a three ring binder, recipes I've been collecting for over thirty years.  In there are the classic recipes, like the one for English fruitcake, perfected by others over centuries.  Then there are also recipes, the ones featuring ingredients that have not stood the test of time.  For instance, Monterey Bread.  It consists of french bread split down the middle, slathered with butter, mayonnaise, onion, and cheese, sprinkled with paprika, then put under the broiler.  Delicious yes.  Something I'd serve to people I love in good conscience, now that I know better?  Probably not.

I find that revisiting my own writing is a little like reading those recipes in my "recipes from the past" binder. Some stand the test of time, others do not.  And I think this is what John Daniel was saying.  It is never too late to adjust the recipe.  Reduce the butter of maudlin reflection, use more of the light mayonaise of humor, leave in the good parts, like the flavorful onion of universal human experiences, and sprinkle the whole thing with the seasoning of life's latest lessons.

In his address to a rapt audience, Daniel cited famous authors who have rewritten published, even hugely successful, works.  I was surprised to hear this.  But I shouldn't be. What makes good writers is writing, improvement is a natural byproduct, just like what makes good cooks is cooking.

As I prepare to write again, I feel like a cook firing up the cookstove after a brief hiatus. The ingredients I'm choosing today are different than the ones used a decade ago, or even a year ago.  Publishing is a bit like baking a cake.  In one way, you can not go back and bake that particular cake.  But there is always another cake to be made, based on the experience of all the cakes that came before.  And in another way, for writers, we can go back and rebake our cakes if we want.  Having our cake and eating it too in a way.

Bon Appetit!

© M.E. Rollins

Healing

It's been a long time since I was this sick. Fever, a wretched sore throat, body aches, no energy, and the feeling it is never going to be over. Yeah, that's pretty sick alright. A real exercise in patience. And humility. There's a bad flu bug circulating in these here islands, and it's a real bugger. The little Pollyanna in me thinks there's a lesson in everything, and this is no exception. Being someone who too often likes to think I can function without people thank you very much, being sick is a reminder that having other people to lean on once in a while is a good thing. Like the boyfriend who brings me a grocery bag of juice, over the counter drugs, herbal tea bags, and sweet navel oranges, and gets me laughing before he leaves. The friend who emails with me about her experience with the same virus. The manager who insists I stay home and rest until the fever is down. I'd heard from others that San Juan Island is a caring place, and I've found that to be true. But it's not just the place. Being sick makes me realize it's also an adjustment in how I am living my life.


The kind of TLC mentioned above is especially meaningful to me since I had a mother who, although very smart, creative, funny, and self sacrificing, did not have much of the warm and fuzzy gene when it came to sick kids. Earlier this year, that same mother, whom I loved very much in spite of her shortcomings, made her leave of this earthly dwelling place. Or as that same very English mother would have put it, she "popped off". According to synonyms.net, synonyms for "pop off" are:  go, perish, conk, croak, pass away, cash in one's chips, kick the bucket, give-up the ghost, drop dead, exit, buy the farm, die, choke, pass, expire, snuff it, decease. But I like "popped off" the best. No nonsense and English, that was my mom. She's on my mind a lot these days, and being sick brings back memories of her, not all pleasant.


When I asked my sweetie what he remembers about being sick as a child, he told me of a concoction made for him by his mother called "milk toast". I never had that as a child, and although my mom was pretty bad at taking care of sick children, she did feed us, and I think we would have had it if that had been an English comfort food. I think it might be uniquely American, or handed down from some other country. The idea is very simple. Toast, buttered, then drowned in warm milk and sprinkled with sugar. Mmmmmm. Really? Sounds pretty awful to me, but I think it is the feeling of being cared for that makes this dish a fond memory, not the actual dish itself. The other thing my honey remembered about childhood sick days was that his mother drew the curtains so the room was darkened. But there was always a sliver of light that made it's way across the room as the day progressed. I could almost feel the quiet, peaceful, if somewhat boring, ambiance in that childhood sick room brought from the recesses of his memory. And I borrow for a moment the feelings that went along with it. The feeling of being properly nurtured. And let go of the feeling I've always associated with being sick, the feeling that I've done something terribly wrong.


Now before you say, "Talking about your childhood again? Get over it already", let me say I've heard that more than once from well meaning people. And for the most part I agree with them. At some point we all have to move on. But certain experiences are evocative of past times and the feelings that went along with those times. I view those experiences, as opportunities for healing. I agree with whoever said, "It's never too late to have a happy childhood." So this week, I've gone all out. Lots of liquids, staying in bed, moving to the couch to watch a movie, followed by more time in bed. The hardest day was day two, the day my fever was the highest. The body aches, restlessness, and inability to focus on anything more than bad daytime TV, that was really miserable. Having my dear one come by with medicine and things to eat and drink on that day was especially helpful.


Here's what I've learned. I can't go back and make my mother any more sympathetic than she was when I was a child, but I can do things in the here and now that may be outside my comfort zone, but if I'm willing to do them, I can take care of me now. Like taking someone up on the offer of assistance. Like reaching out and letting others know I am sick. Like letting go of those old messages that if I'm sick I must have done something terribly wrong. It may sound odd, but now my mom has passed over, I'm finding it easier to forgive and forget all those long ago infractions on my mother's part. She was human just as I am human. A mixture of traits, some useful, some not so useful. These days I have pictures on my bookshelves of my mother as a young woman . When I see her at her brightest and best, it's easier to let go of her less than stellar moments and remember her good traits. And take care of myself the way she would have had she had it in her.


Reflections on my own childhood would be incomplete and not quite honest if I did not think at least a little about my own performance as a parent. In lots of ways I was a pretty bad parent. I can say this now because I have a good relationship with my child, who is a wonderful person, and because I know that I, just like my own mother, did the best I could at the time. And my reactions to the sickness of my own child were pretty dysfunctional. A lot of out of perspective fear drove me in those days of raising my child and that included managing the myriad illnesses that populate a normal childhood. In the coming weeks, I'll tell you more about how out of perspective fear has impacted my life and what I am finally doing about it. Thank you for reading and have a wonderful week.


© M.E. Rollins