THIS IS AN INDEX HA HA HA

For a rainy day

I originally wrote this for a Creative Writing class.*  The weather today and a recent conversation with my sister made it seem appropriate to post it here.

The sky soothes into quiet and Light commences a waltz with Shadow around the sála.  The bamboo chimes begin to move, at first a slow seductive twirl like a dancer’s hips but quickening till the chimes spin way out like a whirling dervish’s skirts.  In the beginning, the rain is all humility and meekness. It’s coming is heralded by small, not gaudy, changes – the patterns running down the window, the spattered mud leaping a few inches up the wall, the banana leaves casually bouncing like a woman’s foot when she crosses her legs.  And the sound!…echoing differently off each wall, as if trying to find the right pitch.  It’s accompanied by the wonderful cool breeze that blows through the windows, making the curtains drum their fingers in rhythm.  Everyone in the room seems to perceive its advent at exactly the same moment, and they hover around the window to watch the nativity progress.

The birth of the rain smells like dust.  I count each tiny bead of water as it falls to the ground with a hollow plop.  But then the plops increase to higher sounds, like marbles dropped in a sink.  The air now smells clean, all the dust being purified from it.  I can’t do anything but lie back on my bed and listen to the sound of the whole jungle surrounding me, drowning in soft pattering drips.  The angel chorus of birds still sing…bursting out in occasional solos, their sopranos balanced by the deep bass of thunder.  All of this to the beat of a million drops, each one hitting its own note and boggling my mind that I am hearing every one of them.

Soon, its still small voice beckons to me between the drops. I rise from my bed and follow it. I hug the wall and slither past my mother.  Then it’s all splashing in puddles and squeezing mud between my toes and getting gloriously, gloriously wet.  The rain trickles down into my eyes and plasters my hair to my head.  The moisture hangs heavy on my eyelashes and transforms the ordinary world into  trickling visions.  The weight of it forces my eyes closed and the vision slides down my cheeks like tears. I look behind me at my footprints in the mud.  I watch as the rain fills them and the shapes are distorted into puddles.  I again think of each individual drop it takes to fill the puddle. As each new drop lands, the puddle itself reaches up, as if begging for more.

I gaze across the valley and watch the approaching wall of grayness, knowing I have only a few moments before I am discovered and my mother calls me inside.  So I race the oncoming bulwark to my favorite tree.  Slipping and sliding all the way, I scramble up the slippery bark, onto my favorite branch, barely beating the barrage of wetness.  It hits me in the face like sopping sheets.  I reach out to stop them, only to discover they slip through my fingers like ghosts and smack me anyway.  The rain swaddles me in its self, making me breathe in its rhythm.  I cannot see past the shroud it has hung on the outermost branches, burying reality.  It is easy to wonder if all the rest was merely a dream.

Just as I get accustomed to this revelation, my house begins to materialize…cloudy at first, as if turned impressionist, but becoming clearer and sharper.  A sense of relieved disappointment fills my chest as the rain welled up in my footprints.  I must go back. The way back is longer and more laborious.  I am forced to pick my feet up high with each step out of the mud, like an ancient Hebrew slave making bricks.  The clothesline guards the border to reality and I watch the rain drops tiptoe to the middle of the line and hesitate until the next one pushes too hard and it slips off into the unknown.  At the back door my mother is already wielding the hose, trying to look condescending, but not quite able to banish the smile from her eyes.  Deep down I recognize her own longing.  I see her mouth form the words “filthy” and “clean up” but can’t hear it above the rain on the tin roof.  With a shake of her head, she commences the ceremonial cleansing which I must endure if I wish to enter the house -first my face, then my arms and legs, and finally my bare feet.  I surrender to her ministrations until the mud swirls down the drain.  Then I shloosh free.  My feet smack against the cool cement floor and I find I must walk carefully or risk slipping.

Once inside, I prefer not to shower, liking the natural feel on my skin.  I return to the cloud of people at the window and join the eager curiosity of witnessing the front yard fill up like a bathtub and guessing which step that afternoon’s rain will climb to….

That is the rain in the Philippines.  Everything else is just drizzle.

*While this is my writing, the original inspiration came from another missionary kid many years ago.  He published it on a MK message board.  If anyone knows who it was, I would love to give him credit.

Why I Cook

Michael Rulman, a journalist chef, recently listed the reasons he cooks on his blog. He then asked the question that launched a thousand comments- why do you cook? The responses, though many, seemed to play variations on two themes- health and enjoyment. People cook because it is easier to have control over both ingredient selection and proper preparation. They also cook because they’d rather unwind in front of the stove than the TV; it’s enjoyable.

I think this is an important question to for everyone to answer, even if your answer is the same as everyone else’s. In the middle of your third stack of dishes, with five more stacks to go, it helps to remember why you do this thing called cooking.

I cook because . . .

Continue Reading…

Lemony Shrimp Soup

I felt like Snow White while making this soup. While I hummed about the kitchen, ingredients seemed to wing out of the fridge and into the soup as if little adorable doe eyed woodland creatures were helping them along. Before I knew it, I had a beautiful soup that seemed to have created itself.

I love those days.

Continue Reading…

Stalking Wonder- Germinating

Somewhere in the middle of a normal day, amidst dirty dishes and laundry on the line, this happened. I don’t know when. Since planting these seeds almost three weeks ago, I’ve checked them compulsively. Nothing ever happened. Like a character in a parable, my faith wavered. And then, in the middle of wiping off the table, I happened to glance at the terra cotta pot supposedly cradling my seeds… and there it was. Someone less familiar with the terrain of that pot would not have noticed it.  All bent double, the bend barely visible above the dirt. But to me, who had studied this pot for days for any sign to bolster my flat faith, the effervescent green was as arresting as a soda can exploding in my hand.

I watched throughout the day as the fetal sprout slowly stretched and straightened. I also began to notice others bending through the surface. There are four now altogether. Such abundance to someone who despaired of having any seedlings just hours ago. Continue Reading…

Olive Oil Gelato

Olive oil and Gelato won’t make it. That’s what you’re thinking, right? They’re one of those couples that would rather bicker and roll their eyes at each other than anything else. They’re just too incompatible. One prefers to savor life, especially long leisurely meals full of good wine and even better conversation. The other, while sweet, prefers life on the go, rarely loitering around for anyone no matter how interesting.  How could such a couple ever resolve their differences?

With some quality time in the freezer I say. Continue Reading…

On Beating Egg Whites by Hand

Whirl. Chink. Whirl. Hand cramps.
I must stay here, keep turning-
Thin clear turns thick white.

Potato and Leek Salad

When I was making my menu a few days ago, it was cold and blustery outside. I also had some potatoes that needed to be used. Destiny seemed to be handing me a steaming bowl of Potato and Leek Soup.

But wait, this is Southern Destiny. And what’s that she’s wearing? Short sleeves and sandals? By the time Potato and Leek Soup night rolled around, it was a balmy 70°. I took the potatoes and leeks from Destiny’s hands, but left the soup for another day. Continue Reading…

Stalking Wonder- A Path Taken

Stalking Wonder*.
Doesn’t that sound like a noble pursuit?  It has the tinge of both the hunter and the poet about it. Of all the things that we stalk- a happy marriage, good books, comfortable shoes, the perfect tomato, a good cup of coffee, a rewarding career- I think wonder is among the most neglected.  Perhaps because it is wonderfully non-essential to life. A person could go along perfectly well, happy even, without it. There is no physical need to pause in a chunk of warm sunlight before passing on. But there is little doubt that life becomes more pleasurable with such moments. Continue Reading…

Holiday Dressing

This started out as my grandmother’s recipe. But, in the several times I’ve made it, it has become my own. While I keep it traditional for Thanksgiving, I play around with it at other times.  It’s a great way to use up stale bread of any kind. It is another recipe that is very adaptable to whatever you can imagine. Play with it.  I’ve made a Greek dressing using extra garlic and oregano.  Next time I make it, I want to try a Ruben-esque theme- rye bread, caraway seeds, and corned beef. Continue Reading…

Cranberry Sauce

This is the classic cranberry sauce.  Start here if your previous cranberry sauce experience involves a can opener. Once you’ve got the basic method down, feel free to experiment with additions.  Most whole spices go well with this sauce. In fact, I can’t think of many that would not pair well with it. I’ve had it with extra cinnamon, cloves, allspice, star anise, cardamom, and even cracked black pepper. Use your taste buds’ imagination. The only thing I’d caution against is using so many spices that you drown the cranberry flavor. Continue Reading…