Hot Stuff

I love hot, spicy food. I certainly didn't grow up with it, though. I've been wracking my brain trying to think of any highly-spiced dishes from childhood and the best I can come up with is my mother's pizza. Homemade, baked in a cookie sheet. Rectangular. It was only spicy compared to the usual meat and potatoes fare on our kitchen table. American cuisine in the 60's & 70's was pretty bland, at least in our neighborhood. Hot pickled okra did make regular appearances on Mom's nightly relish tray during supper, but that was still mild stuff.


After I moved away from home, I enjoyed dining out with friends, and it was unusual for me to cook at home. I believe the first time a hot pepper got the best of me was at a Chinese restaurant. I was in a training class for a new job where I worked, and the instructor spent 85% of our time in class discussing food, movies, food, books, and food. We learned a little about the upcoming job when there was a lull in the conversation. The instructor, Marci, was from New York City, and there were only two of us under her tutelage. So, there I was with two older black women who loved to eat, and we went to a nearby Chinese restaurant one day for lunch. I ordered Kung Pao Chicken, and decided on "hot" when given a choice. I wasn't a bit worried, because Marci asked for the same heat level plus a side dish of the shriveled, innocuous looking little peppers. After a couple of bites of my dish, I realized that I had stopped experiencing the taste of the food, and it felt like my mouth was full of red hot needles. Marci sat across from me, happily munching her side of peppers, and I gamely carried on.


Similar dining experiences increased my tolerance and enjoyment of red-hot spices, and I was always looking for the next incendiary dish. When a couple of friends warned me not to get the stuffed jalapeno appetizer at a new Mexican restaurant in the late 80's, I took their advice as a challenge. I should have known better, because Carol and Rae were adventerous eaters. I went with four women-friends and ordered the stuffed jalapenos right away. After all, I'd had these at other places, and they were never as hot as people pretended they were. These were whole peppers, stuffed with cheese, battered and deep-fried. Well, they said they were stuffed with cheese. They could have been stuffed with pocket lint or cat box droppings for all I could tell. My mouth had that hot pin-cushion sensation, and my scalp was sweating freely. The women with me wisely only took a bite each, but for some reason I had to prove myself as a man among lesbians, and I forged onward. The peppers were hot going in, but that was nothing compared to 2am when they wanted out. I sat on the toilet, and rocked and wept. Apparently, my digestive processes would have nothing to do with these jalapenos, and they came out very much the same as they went in. I know this isn't a pretty story, but it's a true one.


You'd think I would have learned something, but I can't say I did (although I never ordered those jalapenos at that restaurant again). The owner, Ram, at a favorite Indian restaurant told me that no other customer could tolerate hot spices like I could, and he served many patrons from India. Ram's wife was the cook, and she always made my selections extra-hot when she found out it was my order. The only other Indian restaurant I've found that served such hot food was in Nerja, Spain. Friends took me there, and warned me against ordering anything "phal," the restaurant's hottest spice level. I did, of course, and had to make several trips to the restroom, not to go, but to wipe my face and head with paper towels because of the heavy sweating the food induced.


One last restaurant story before you leave for more palatable fare. My friend Brenda and I were in New Orleans in the mid-90's, and we stopped for lunch at a restaurant near the Garden District. I ordered the Rabbit Etouffee, and our waitress (a willowy, attractive, Nordic-looking woman) warned me with a husky voice that the dish was extremely hot. "Oh, goody!" I thought, as I confirmed my selection. Sure enough, I ran back and forth to the men's room to towel off between bites. Our gracious waitress was right, and, as it turned out, a bit smoldering herself. When Brenda and I got our pictures developed from the trip, there was one we had taken with our waitress. It wasn't until then that we noticed her exceedingly large hands and prominent Adam's apple. I recalled the husky voice, and I added her to the list of reasons I loved my first trip to New Orleans. After all, who says drag queens should only come out at night?

Carolyn's Cast of Characters

Some of you have had fun perusing my mother's 1962 diary. It has been interesting for me to peer into a daily life I have few memories of (I was only two & a half). Reading through her diary has made me realize that some of my "memories" are faulty, and are the result of stories told and retold with subtle changes until they imprinted themselves as actual remembrances. In some ways, it is like trying to see things clearly while looking through a wavy glass brick.


Some of the things I've read make me appreciate the result rather than the journey. An example of this is my potty training. I'm glad someone took on the task, but I was getting weary of reading "Billy messed his pants today." I have been utilizing this training on a daily basis ever since, with very few mishaps. This morning a fellow at our breakfast table shared some wisdom about being a maturing male: Never pass up a bathroom, never take an erection for granted, and never trust a fart. That's all I'm going to say on that subject.


Ultimately, I am very grateful for my childhood, my parents, my neighbors, and the freedom that children could (mostly) safely enjoy in suburbia in the 1960's. I learned to wait for things, because most things took time. Popcorn made on the stovetop in a funny pan with a crank on the lid, photographs that had to be taken to the drug store and sent away to be developed, real chocolate pudding, shows like the Wizard of Oz and Cinderella which only came on television once a year. The only thing that came instantly was a spanking when I misbehaved.


This morning I'm going to share additional information about a few of the people my mother mentions frequently in her diary. Time factors will not allow me to talk about all of the important characters, but I may post a follow up on another day.


Ruby and Jim Humblett lived directly behind us. From the time that I was little until my parents moved in the mid-80's there was always an open space in the landscaping providing a pathway linking our homes. Ruby still lives in her house, and she bought my mom's car from me after Mom passed away. Ruby's husband Jim died in the mid-1960's, but I haven't read that far in Mom's diaries yet. Ruby & Jim had three children, and their youngest, Jimmy, was a favorite playmate of mine in 1962. They drove a Plymouth Fury station wagon. Ruby & Jim and my parents would play cards and Scrabble together some evenings, and Jimmy and I would play in my room.


Our next-door neighbors were Kitty & Elmo Newsome. They were older than my parents, and both grew up in Georgia (Jaw-juh). When my mother's relatives visited from Iowa, Mom would have to act as translator for the Southerners and the Yankees. Kitty & Elmo had lots of fruit trees and an enormous garden, and I loved to play in their yard. Elmo was a huge man, and he would pick me up and throw me WAY up in the air and catch me. I loved it when he did that. In the summer they would invite neighbors over for home-churned ice cream made from their peaches, and everyone took turns with the crank on the ice cream maker under their shade trees.


Gladys and George Baker were also neighbors, but they lived several blocks away in a brown-shingle rancher with a porch that had jalousie windows (remember those?). They had an older boy, Ronnie, who would grow up to become a chef and die with AIDS, and a daughter named Cindy who was a year younger than me. Their backyard had a large weeping willow, under which I talked Cindy into pulling down her panties to show me her private parts one day. George was a Navy diver on my dad's UDT team, and he gave me my first cat which I named after him.


Ray and Midge Warner lived one street over and a block down, they were both from West Virginia, and Ray was also in the Navy with my dad. They had a houseful of kids named Benny, Larry, Gary, Brenda, Barry, and Perry. They had a boisterous household, and I ate snowcream at their house for the first time when I was little. After Ray retired from the Navy, they bought a farm outside Dillwyn, Virginia, and Midge died with Scleroderma in the 1990's. Midge had my mother feel her face one time when my mom was visiting them, and my mom said her skin felt like porcelain.


Catherine and Fred Dowling were my unofficial in-town grandparents. Fred was my mother's former employer, and she lived with the Dowlings before she met my dad. My mother came to Norfolk from Iowa in the 1950's because of her second husband. He was in the Navy, and was an irresponsible husband-at-sea. My mother had no money, no food, and could not find employment because no one wanted to hire "Navy Wives" since they moved away with short notice. Fred hired my mom because she looked so pitiful, and because she told the truth when he asked her if she was a Navy Wife. He told her later that he could spot a military spouse as soon as they walked in his office, and she was the first one that didn't lie about it. She was the best secretary he ever employed. One day at work, my mom received flowers from her far-way husband; the next day she received divorce papers from him, which she signed immediately. My dad was friends with Fred, and eye-balled my mom when he came one day to visit Fred. That's how my parents met. After two losers, one abusive, one profligate, my mother found her handsome prince. Coincidence? You decide for yourself.


These ordinary, wonderful people helped weave the fabric of my life, and I am so thankful that I have been allowed to spend more time with them through my mother's diary. If you would like to spend a few moments with them, there is a link provided in the column to the right. My mom's daily diaries are an unintended gift, reminding me that my words and my actions impact others in ways I may never imagine, and, for that, I am responsible.

God in a Box

Yep, that's me...all dressed up and ready for church. No, this isn't a recent picture, even though I am dressed like an old man with my fedora and Hush Puppies. I am slightly taller now.


My mom and I went to church when I was a boy, but as I grew older the trips became infrequent. Perhaps we picked the wrong church, or maybe my mom was worn out from a week of waxing the household appliances. Perhaps doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, and the mayor of Virginia Beach crowded us out of the pews. Our church had grown from a small congregation in an unassuming building to a bigger, better, more affluent house of worship. Nevertheless, I did have a foundation of Sunday school, church services, and vacation bible school when I was growing up.


One thing I recall was my amazement at how slowly time passed when I was trapped in a pew listening to the preacher drone on and on, when I really just wanted to be home riding my bicycle and playing with my dog. I wonder now if God didn't feel the same way some days depending on the sermon. The church I attended believed in predestination, and when that belief was explained to me I guess I missed the bigger picture. I thought "What's the point of anything if every thing's carved in stone and there's no way to change it? What's the point in being good or trying to do my best? God's not paying attention to it anyway."


As I grew older, I became aware of other denominations and religions. I learned that people believed in widely varying things. It was a bit confusing, but very interesting. Some churches had statues of Jesus's mom and his friends tucked away in nooks and crannies. One of my friends' family drove a car with a little plastic saint glued to the dashboard to keep them safe in traffic. Some people didn't even believe in Jesus! People across the ocean worshipped a guy with his big, fat belly hanging out. I had cousins who traveled halfway around the world to teach ignorant people the right thing to believe, and they were very proud of themselves for doing that.


When I was a teenager, my mother told me about an old lady who was deaf as a post. She couldn't drive any longer, but she would crank up the volume on her television to watch the religious programs on Sunday. Her son and his wife, new to their belief in Christ, would visit her after church. One day this man told his mother that she was going to Hell because she did not go to his church. The old woman was quite hurt, but when she tried to explain to him that if she went to his church she wouldn't be able to hear any of the sermon, her son said that didn't matter - she just needed to go and sit there. I didn't understand how anyone could tell their mother that she was going to Hell.


As a young man, I had my doubts about God and religion. Some of the adults I had admired growing up who I thought were good, honest people and went to church all the time seemed like hypocrites when I found out they had human faults like adultery, greed, dishonesty, and just plain meanness. I thought going to church meant religion, and, by extension, I thought religion equalled spirituality. I wanted to live a spiritual life, but most religions wanted to exclude me; those that didn't wanted to exclude everyone else.


It seemed like most organized religions existed in little boxes. Beliefs and customs were put in the box, along with people who fit in with those items. Somehow they managed to stuff God in the box, too. Everyone else was refused admittance because there was no room left inside the box. Some of the rejected found other boxes to climb into; others, like me, wandered around on our own.


Eventually, I learned that religion and spirituality are different, and that my doubts about faith were based on humans, not God. I've come to believe that God prefers being outside the box. He created an unimaginably big world, and I think he likes all of it. I believe He loves people whether they are inside a little box, or roaming around in the fields. I think his love is limitless, even though mine is not. I do try, though, because I think that is what God wants. I am stunned each time I see someone waving a sign saying that God hates someone. The God I have come to know loves inclusion, and I believe He'd be quite tickled if we unfolded all these separate religions just like cake boxes. I think God would clap his hands and laugh with us if we'd look around, wave to each other and hug.


I believe God loves to laugh. Otherwise, why would He have created the Platypus, the Giraffe, and the Human?

Treat the other man's faith gently; it is all he has to believe with. His mind was created for his own thoughts, not yours or mine. - Henry S. Haskins

Hey, Ewe! Look around!

Folks who live in Richmond, Virginia, will frequently tell visitors "If you don't like the weather, wait a few minutes." It is true that the weather can change dramatically here, but this seems to have been the experience of most of the country over the past year. Overall, our temperatures are fairly moderate if viewed over the span of a year. Summers are usually hot and humid, but the thermometer doesn't climb above 100 degrees for too many days in a row, and winter temperatures are normally above the teens. There are exceptions, of course, and that's what tends to stick in people's minds.


The weather can fluctuate wildly over a couple of days, however, and sometimes we have startling changes in temperature within the span of a few hours. My sinuses react accordingly. This is why, after cold weather last week, my buddy Sheldon and I decided to take advantage of a warm, sunny day yesterday for a walk in a nearby park. We went to a place near my home that is actually three parks that conjoin: Crump Park, RF&P Park, and the Meadow Farm.


Meadow Farm is a 19th century working farm with a handsome restored home from the early 1800's. Workers in period dress tend to the house, fields, and farm animals. The livestock are an assortment authentic to the period, and include work horses, cows, pigs, turkeys, chickens, and sheep. Sheldon and I strolled around in t-shirts and shorts, enjoying the sun, saying "hello" to the various farm critters.


Sheldon noticed a flock of sheep, and pointed out several lambs amongst the ewes. They were quite young; we guessed probably a couple of weeks old. All big ears and knobby knees, they were cute as they could be. I wished I had a camera (or a cleaver). Oh, shut up! I'm just kidding! Sheesh! Put down the phone and stop dialing PETA.


I'm guilty of traveling all over the place, but ignoring the many interesting places right here where I live. I'm going to change that. With gas prices escalating like mad, why spend the time and money going to far flung places when there's so much I haven't explored in my own backyard?


This afternoon, I took my friend John to visit Maymont. I've lived in this area for thirty years and never toured this gilded-age mansion. Built as a country estate, its one-hundred acres are now surrounded by a post-WWII neighborhood and Byrd Park, but once you are on the property it's easy to forget the encroaching city. The house and grounds perch on bluffs overlooking the James River, and offer an upstairs/downstairs view of life in the early 1900's.


A renovation a few years ago included the kitchen, laundry, service areas, and servants' rooms in the basement. Through research, the nearly-forgotten biographies of the African-Americans who worked for the mansion's owners are now included in the house tour. The owners had no children and left the property to the City of Richmond, so there were very few alterations made to the home since the time it was built. It's like a time capsule.


We immersed ourselves in the past inside the mansion, and then invigorated ourselves exploring the rose gardens, the Japanese gardens (big, hungry koi in the pond), and the collection of antique carriages. We were weary but happy when we got back to the car.


I'll bet there are similar things you can do near your home that you've never experienced as well. Have fun locally, and save a few trips to the gas pump. Let me know if you see anything interesting.

Cold Duck Memories & Coconut-Cranberry Cake

I made a visit to my friend Suzanne's blog, and enjoyed some pictures of her New Year's Eve festivities in Amsterdam. I was surprised that, although they live in an urban setting, they are allowed to purchase fireworks for home use. In my county in Virginia, if I lit anything more incendiary than a sparkler I'd have Homeland Security hammering on my door. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if even sparklers are illegal where I live. I played with a lot of sparklers when I was a kid. The last time I held one was when my friend Brenda rented a beach cottage on the Outer Banks, and her young daughter Emily, our friend Jean, and I ran around the pool with sparklers one night.


My New Year's Eve was spent in my usual style. I was curled up in the arms of Morpheus when 2008 arrived. I'd probably been asleep long enough to be in the REM phase of slumber, because I didn't hear a thing, and I'm sure someone around here set off some firecrackers. Staying up late just doesn't hold the appeal it did when I was little.


I remember being allowed to stay up late to welcome the New Year when I was a kid, and it seemed magical to be awake at midnight. Midnight was the hour never seen by children, the Mystery Hour when anything could happen! My parents weren't party-people, so we'd be at home with some neighbors, and as the moment grew close we'd all chant the countdown together. They probably had champagne on some of those nights, but what I remember is the grown-ups toasting the New Year with glasses of Cold Duck. It seemed so exotic, and no one could explain why it had such a weird name. Jimmy, the neighbors' boy, and I would be allowed a sip of the sweet, bubbly stuff, but I had to be promised that there were no real ducks in the concoction before I'd touch it.


As I've grown older, New Year's Eve doesn't excite me much, because I believe a new year starts every morning when I awaken. Sleeping through the Big Event has become a tradition in a way. One time about twenty years ago, my mom had traveled to my place for a post-Christmas visit. At the time I lived in a three-story apartment (just one bedroom, but three floors). It was a cozy New Year's Eve...just me, my mom, and my partner Michael who lived in town but came out to stay the night. We were in my den on the ground floor, and about nine o'clock I said I'd better grab a short nap if I wanted to be alert when the new year chimed in. Exit me.


Sometime after I went up to my bedroom on the third floor, Michael said a nap sounded like a good idea, so he stretched out on the sofa in the living room (second floor), and mom snoozed on the futon in the den. The next morning we all met up in the kitchen. We had slept through the new year's arrival, each on a separate floor. That's just the kind of exciting life I lead.


This morning marked the start of a new AA meeting that my morning group has started. We meet Monday through Friday at 6:45, and decided to start Saturday meetings as well. Because most folks don't have to go to work, we chose 8:45 for our weekend meetings. We had a wonderful time this morning, and last night I decided to bake a cake for the inaugural meeting. I'm going to share the recipe, which is one I made up using another recipe for inspiration; folks seemed to like it a lot. Then again, I had a captive audience since the only other thing available was coffee.


Coconut-Cranberry Cake

2 cups granulated sugar
3/4 cup butter
1/4 cup shortening
4 eggs
2 teaspoons coconut extract
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup buttermilk
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt (scant)
1-1/4 cups flaked coconut
3/4 cup whole fresh cranberries, chopped

Grease & flour a 10" bundt pan. Preheat oven to 350.
Cream butter, shortening, and sugar. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well. Add extracts.
Sift together flour, baking powder, and salt in a separate bowl.
Add dry ingredients to butter/sugar mixture alternately with buttermilk, beginning and ending with dry ingredients. Do not over-mix, or cake will be tough!
Fold in coconut and cranberries.
Bake 60 - 70 minutes or until cake tests done. Let cool on rack in pan 15 minutes before removing to serving platter or cake saver.

I pulsed the coconut and then the cranberries in a mini-processor before adding them to the batter. This worked well, allowed for cleaner cutting, and gave the cake nice tiny flecks of pink and red. Frankly, I had cranberries left over from holiday baking, and decided to throw them in at the last minute, and the tart berries balanced the sweet coconut nicely. Obviously, the baking time will depend on your oven and the pan you use. I'm still getting used to a heavy Nordic Ware bundt pan, so I always test the cake with thin appetizer skewers before I turn off the oven. You can, of course, play with the ingredients. Using all butter would be great, but I've been baking so much over the holidays that I started substituting a little shortening in some recipes because butter is so darned expensive these days.


Even though I put some cranberries out for the wildlife, I still had some left, so I just pulled an apple-cranberry-cocoa cake out of the oven. If it turns out, you may see that recipe soon.


There are beliefs interwoven in the concept of New Year's Day that I embrace whole-heartedly. One of these beliefs is that each one of us can make a new start. Others are the thoughts of freshness, growth, and new possibilities. Words like sunrise, horizon, discovery, exploration and frontier burst in my mind. The world outside my windows looks dormant, but I know that inside those trees and beneath the frozen ground new life is gathering strength and preparing to push forth, unnoticed at first, but before too many months have passed, in the glory of full bloom.


I hope everyone is off to a good start in 2008! If you make resolutions each year and have already slipped, don't be discouraged. You have a new year starting tomorrow morning.