Obama wins Peace Prize -

On a plane, returning from The Netherlands shortly before the election, the Dutch gentleman next to me on the plane said, “It would be wonderful if Obama won. It would tell the world that United States is still a beacon of hope and that equality is possible, that change is possible.” I tried to be matter of fact, but to hear my country spoken of us a beacon, as a place to which people might look for hope and guidance struck deeply. This is what President Obama has done for the world. And he has used his position to champion a nuclear free world, peace in the middle east, economic development across the globe, a real fight against global warming - which at this moment is putting nations in the Pacific in crisis - and engagement with both allies and enemies. The peace prize for the fight against land mines was not given out when land mines were gone - we still deal with them, the peace prize to Aung Sang Suu Kyi was not given when she attained the presidency and the peace prize for fighting global warming was not given when that battle was won. These are given to help those waging the fight. Amnesty International, Medicin Sans Frontiers, and President Barack Obama. Once again, Americans need to open up and see things through another’s eyes. As the committee said “Very rarely has a person to the same extent as Obama captured the world’s attention and given its people hope for a better future.”
We are a beacon again, let’s celebrate and more importantly, get down to the hard work of keeping the light ablaze.

What does it mean to lose Michael Jackson?

I feel left out of the cultural moment. I am not shocked, or even much saddened by Michael Jackson's death. When I first got the text message my brain immediately weighed it against Mark Sandman's death, the tenth anniversary of which looms. Sandman's death was a shock. Still, it isn't the lack of surprise that keeps me from joining the keening, but the sense that the grieving is long done.

His story is tragic, I fear in the classic sense. The comparison in Salon.com to Presley's death seems apt not only because of their mutual belabored suicides, but the lives. In both one senses the lack of a core, of a person under the persona. There had to have been, once, yes? It feels as though somehow it was erased, or trampled. Seems, feels, all these qualifiers because I don't know. I never knew him, never met him, never saw him in concert. Quincy Jones said, "I've lost my little brother today and part of my soul has gone with him." He believed there was a person in there. I can't help it, though; I wonder when Jones lost him. We can love someone long after they have stopped being the person we came to love. Ask anyone with a family member suffering from Alzheimer's.

Not only didn't I know Michael Jackson, I was never a big fan. I was more moved when Joe Strummer died, not personally, but because I thought he still had much to offer popular music. I don't feel that way about Jackson. Was that why I wasn't with my generation, the way I was when Jim Henson died (he also shared the day of his death with a famous person, Sammy Davis, Jr. I wasn't meant to feel his loss deeply because he was my parents generation, but I loved Sammy Davis Jr., his Candy Man days.)

A new wave girl and then a part-time punk long before Belle and Sebastian thought of the term, Michael Jackson was inescapably my childhood through young adult years. He was not on my turntable, not in my mix tapes, is not on my ipod. But he was there.

I learned "ABC,” "Ben" and "I'll Be There" by singing along with my big sister. They were among the songs we could pick up on the candy colored transistor radios we brought to the beach, and out into our back yards in the summer. Lisa's long blonde hair loose on her back making me jealous. Her fringed bangs made her look like a TV star. I see her, see her shoulders getting pink from the sun when I so much as think of one those songs. Then there were the solo career songs “Thriller,” “Billie Jean” and “Don’t Stop 'Til You Get Enough,” the last of whose lyrics I never could understand. I didn’t try hard. I was busy trying to decipher Mick Jones’ accent and Elvis Costello's sense of humor.

The latter day Michael Jackson songs were played at our teenage drinking parties, then they disappeared from my world. My friends and I listened to REM, The The and U2, Industry and the Jesus and Mary Chain. For diversity’s sake we threw in some Beastie Boys, Grand Master Flash and Frank Sinatra. Then Jackson resurfaced, at work functions and weddings when the DJ was desperate to get people to dance, especially if the crowd looked that certain age. My age.


I feel something at his passing. I feel a sigh; not of relief, but simply that sigh that comes when you exhale a breath you forgot you were holding, holding under all those other breaths. What happened to him? I don't know. How much happiness did he have? I don't know. But I can breathe now. It hurt me to watch him mutilate himself. It hurt to think about him.

A friend was telling me about running into Quincy Jones at an airport in Europe. It was a cool story. She leading an educational tour in France. After her exchange the students, and worse, the teachers asked "who was that?"
Quincy Jones, she said, but they didn't recognize the name.
The famous music producer, she said.
Huh? They responded. What did he produce a teacher asked?
My friend was stunned and one other young woman came to her rescue with “Thriller.”
She told me this story this past Friday. I felt myself pull away at the mere word Thriller. It did not conjure for me the song, or the album or groundbreaking video. To mind came instead the awful, terrifying life of the man in these last decades.

I sigh. I don't have to look away. His death is sad, but it was a long, agonizing death and whatever goodbyes I had to say, I have already said.

Oatmeal Chocolate Chunk Protein Cookies (apres yoga?)

Full disclosure, this is not really a recipe. More full disclosure, I do not practice yoga. I prefer the martial arts, where I can kiai, since I'm not meant to yell at my children. Or hit them. And I don't. I hit the bag in the gym. Hi-ya! See? That feels good, right? Not to take you away from your breathing, which improves flexibility, energy and is generally restorative and centering. I know. I have tried it. But on leaving class I always wanted, very badly, to kick something, hard. It's true. I failed at yoga. Tell no one.

Back to baking.

Some Caveats. These cookies are, in fact, cookies, and therefore NOT good for you. Lots of fat, lots of sugar. (See below for agave substitution.) Some salt even. That said, I feel better about my boys eating them knowing I've hidden some protein in the treat. Additionally, these cookies are NOT vegan. They can be made vegan by using the substitutions included at the end.

Step One. Pull out your favorite oatmeal cookie recipe. I like the Cook's Illustrated one, I think it's in American Classics. This is not just because I used to share a sitter with Chris Kimball. Though that makes me feel special every time I'm in the kitchen. It's because the recipe is just that smidge better than the one on the Quaker Oats box. You know you love that recipe.

Step Two. BE SURE TO USE THE BEST INGREDIENTS YOU CAN STOMACH PAYING FOR. Maybe that should be step one. Regardless, use unsalted butter and unbleached wheat flour. If there is a wheat allergy you are dealing with - make pudding. Really, at some point the substitutions become ridiculous and it's like eating "vegan bacon." There is no such thing. There's smoked strips of dead pig and there's smoked tempeh, a soy bean product - see the difference? No one should ever eat one and pretend it is even remotely like the other. Acknowledge the integrity of your food and the wit of your senses. Fine. If you truly want to make wheat free cookies experiment with spelt and nut flours. Once you are done, please post your recipe. I promise to do the same. Currently I use white whole wheat, as it adds flavor, but not too much.

The CHOCOLATE. Welcome to church. Our sermon for today is on fair trade chocolate. Please, please, please, eat less chocolate if you have to but make it all fair trade chocolate. The chocolate industry is, indeed, an industry and it is rife, still, with the sins of colonialism. The attendant price is paid, as of old, by the people who actually grow and harvest the cacoa pods. A good reference on the costs of chocolate is Bitter Chocolate: The Dark Side of the World's Most Seductive Sweet by Carol Off. I know, you just want to have one simple pleasure. Could you try, then, to use more fair trade chocolate? Simple steps. If Candy Freak Steve Almond can make the effort I am sure we all can.
I like to use Grenada Chocolate 60% chocolate bars which I break into chunks. (http://www.grenadachocolate.com/)
My theory has long been that if I buy expensive chocolate I'll go broke before I get fat. In this case, the money goes to a co-op of organic farmers so more good goes around. Plus, it's excellent chocolate. I just wish it were more expensive.


REQUIRED substitutions. This is why I get to call them protein cookies. I cheat here, too. I use the Cornell Triple Rich formula. I'm not sure where I first read about this, it may have been in Vicki Lansky's book Feed Me! I'm Yours. It was developed at Cornell, thus the name.

THE FORMULA. For each cup of flour called for in the recipe place 1 Tbsp each milk powder, wheat germ and soy protein powder in the bottom of your measuring cup. Now fill it the rest of the way with your flour.

The Soy Powder. At the grocery store you are often limited to chocolate or vanilla protein powder. You can use the vanilla, it's not a problem; but, if you prefer to use unflavored soy powder, health food stores usually have it. Vege Fuel works.

Spices. If you are using a raisin oatmeal cookie recipe it likely calls for cinnamon. You may skip the cinnamon, however it is very good for you. It is a great antioxidant. And it stimulates your metabolism, or so some studies indicate. http://www.pubmedcentral.nih.gov/articlerender.fcgi?artid=2602825#B11

Plus, cinnamon and chocolate are a wonderful combination. Ground clove works as well, also very good for you. (but NOT if you smoke the clove. Try to avoid sucking smoke into your lungs.) Cinnamon and clove are better for you in a bowl of oatmeal, but if you are going to have a cookie anyway . . .

Were we baking?

Add your other ingredients and mix together. If you are using the vegan substitutions blend your dry ingredients and wet ingredients separately and then add your dry to your wet.

Now, stir in the oatmeal, chocolate chunks and walnuts. The more walnuts the more protein and more omega 3. Chopped small you can get a cup in. My boys will NOT eat cookies with nuts on principle. They eat nuts plenty, just not in their cookies - or so they think. I grind the nuts in my mini-prep until they are paste like and add THAT to the mix along with the flax seed and tofu or eggs if going omnivore.

That's it, really, and you can use the Cornell Triple Rich on any baking recipe that calls for flour.

VEGAN SUBSTITUTIONS:
For butter, substitute 75% oil or coconut oil. (1 cup of butter – ¾ c. oil)
1 egg = 1/4 c. firm silken tofu = 1 T ground flax seed + 3 T water whisked together. I have only done up to 3 eggs.
From: http://eggbeater.typepad.com/shuna/2009/02/vegan-baking-substitutions-solutions-advice-for-flavourful-alternative-baked-goods.html
This is a GREAT reference. If you are using the substitutions you really should read the whole article.
Sugar substitution: You can use 2/3 cup agave nectar or 2/3 cup maple syrup instead of the sugars. (I mix, half and half when I do this.) You will need to make up for the extra moisture. Generally you can cut down on the liquid by 1/4, but I find that tricky with all my other changes so I just grind up the oatmeal into a flour and add about half a cup until I get my cookie dough consistency. Why do I bother? I have vegan friends who do not believe that any sugar is vegan. They are wrong. It may be true that all sugar is a drug, or that sugar is not fairly traded and many other things but there are major sugar producers, as well as smaller ones, that do not use bone char when processing their sugar. Domino is one of them. Still, to make them happy, I substitute.

What you learned: For each cup of flour add one tablespoon each wheat germ, milk powder and soy powder to cup, then fill cup with flour. Now, pretend it's health food and take the cookies along instead of gorp on your next hike

NB: When making brownies you can also substitute cocoa powder for some of the flour called for in the recipes. Obviously, not too much. Make certain you have enough gluten and that the batter is the right consistency. My kids like me to make them brownie sundaes so it's a good bribe for a week of getting their homework done and all their practicing in. For them the best treat is when I put minty fudge sauce over it. They love it, and their father won't try to steal any. He hates the mint-chocolate combo.

Next chocolate installment: making your own chocolates. Next issue: Why can't a woman be more like a man?

Easter - as in estrogen, a time to make like a rabbit?

A Synthesis of the Tales of Oestre/Eastre/Ostara and her bird

The goddess of the dawn, Eastre, brought not merely a new day but new life. She was the goddess of fertility and every year her arrival was eagerly awaited to bring about the end of winter. As we know, gods and goddesses are not perfect, they are much like humans, only more so. Thus, one winter went longer than it should have as Eastre dallied at what we shall not mention here and brought but a late thaw. When she arrived in the land she found a bird whose wings were frozen in the snow. The bird had returned on time, but the land was not ready for her. Eastre felt pity for the creature- certainly not guilt, goddesses are not about guilt. She freed the bird's frozen wings, but the bird had broken them in its thrashing about to be free. Eastre picked up the creature and tried to warm it at her breast. She stroked it and kept it with her through the day, but it could not be healed by her touch. Left alone, unable to fly, the bird would not live long. Once again the goddess took pity on the bird and changed her into a hare, a fertility goddesses favorite animal, and gave the hare great speed so it would not be hunted. The hare, relieved to be free and smart enough not to hang around a deity, all of them famous for their mercurial natures, hopped away. Come the next equinox the hare was stunned to learn, as might you be, that she could lay eggs. Not just any eggs, but ones of brilliant color. As a gift to the goddess for saving her life the hare placed the eggs amongst the ever green plants and the early blooming flowers. And here they were found by worshipers of Eastre who came to these places to give her their thanks for bringing back the sun and life. Mind you, the eggs were not hidden, but protected from animals that might make off with warm fresh magic hare eggs.


But why are they chocolate eggs? I believe Hershey's, Nestle and Cadbury have that bit of the tale.

An interesting note is that modern scholars refer to the bird/hare as a male. Why a male would lay eggs is beyond me, but it may come from the fact that some interpretations of the text have Eastre taking Lepus as a lover. Whether this was intended in the original tale or not, it is clear that the bird was female. In addition, the translation of the tale to Latin had the hare taking the name Lepus, which is also a hare in roman mythology, in that case a male. My understanding does not have the goddess taking the bird/hare as a lover, but tending to the bird- loving it.

Loving them enough to keep breathing

I was thinking about this the other day. Suicide. Not committing it but how the option had gone away. In my worst periods I never let it get so bad that I could do this. And, typical of me, it is not for me that I protect myself.

The first time I went on meds it was for me. I was in love and in law school and when the depression came roaring back, triggered by stress and who knows what else, I realized I could lose both my lover and my place at the law school. I knew about the drugs because I had kept up since first being diagnosed after graduating from college (barely.) Mind you, I'd suffered repeated and lengthening bouts of depression since puberty, but no one seemed to think it was more than my being dramatic, or willful or downright evil. Yes, my mother told me that.

As a mother now I cannot imagine but that she herself was depressed when she said it. I never harmed a creature, never stole, wasn't even self-medicating. I was making her life hard by not actually living mine and perhaps that seemed, to her bereaved mind, like an assault. I say bereaved because it feels that way often. Or perhaps bereavement is depression. You do lose the world in depression; it floats away from you and there is grief in that, for me, and rage. Numbness is not something I have ever associated with depression. I am not numb when depressed; I lack the vitality to express my grief and confusion.

But I am a mother now and so dying by suicide, or even selfish risk taking seems to be be a letter to my sons: I didn't love you enough to stay alive.

Please, do not think I look at other mothers or fathers and condemn them if they kill themselves. Usually, I don't. Murder suicide is another matter. As is dying stupidly. I remember when I was first told that Princess Diana was dead. I was on an island in Swedish archipelago, my infant son in my baby bjorn. The staff were quite upset about something, "Princess Dee- ahna is dead," they said. I thought maybe Swedish royalty. Then I realize, Dee fo Di. Ah. I didn't know how I was supposed to feel about this. I was never much for royals watching. I memorized the Declaration of Independence as a child because all the news could do was talk about "The Royal Wedding." But a death is a death and she was young for it. "How did she die?" I asked. When told the first thing I thought, but did not say was "there are worse things than having your picture taken. Like leaving your sons without a mother." Perhaps because I had already suffered a particularly frightening bout of postpartum depression, but standing at the dock waiting to go back to the mainland with my baby drooling on my hands all I could think was how selfish and immature she had been to die like that. So I do judge others. I shouldn't, but I do. But not the terminally ill. That's what that black sickness is, a terminal disease. And it is genetic, it can be contagious, particularly to teen-agers. It is brutal because it lies to you, it tells you medicine cannot help, your family cannot help, nothing will help. Oddly, it is not only easier to listen, to embrace hopelessness, than it is to walk away, it seems more comforting, like the sirens calling you, or Beezlebub, perhaps. Is that where those stories come from? The smooth talking darkness pulling you away from the light.

I come to all of this because Nicholas Hughes, who published his academic work as Nick Hughes, died on Monday, the 16th. He hung himself in his home.

Two weeks ago or so a writer friend asked me if it had shattered me when David Foster Wallace died. I was only partly listening, worrying, as he went through my books, what he'd find and condemn me for, or worse, question me about. Yes, I said, then retracted. It was sad, I said, but I wasn't shattered, I didn't know him. My friend said nothing. I wondered if he'd met him, edited him, smoked with him while looking toward a starless sky deep in the Mississippi woods. I didn't ask. I didn't want to have to cope with it right then. Anyway, my friend, like me, fights depression back with a soggy broom and prayer every day, though, like me, he is, as I like to say, god free. When others fighting the battle you are fighting lose it can rock you pretty hard. But this one didn't rock me. Oddly, it hit me harder when John Updike died. I had met him and this literary beast and fellow Red Sox fan had been kind to me, speaking to me as though for those moments he did not have thirteen better options for his time. It hurt that he was gone. So, if it is the meeting or the not meeting than why am I so thrown, so hollowed out by Nick Hughes death? I think it is because I am a mother.

I really was, just the other day, thinking this, that children of parent's who commit suicide are much more likely, statistically, to die in this manner. So to kill myself would not only rob my children of their mother, not only burden them with questions no one will ever answer, but will likely shorten their own lives. It ignores the extent to which the link is genetic - given the science that is a dangerous piece of information to overlook, unless you are trying not to kill yourself.

In labor with my second child I began to vomit - I was panicking. I was, I thought, in transition. I had been in labor off and recently on for 34 hours. The so called midwife refused to check my cervix for fear of infection. I was on three antibiotics by this time having developed a raging fever earlier in the proceedings. If I was evil, that woman would be no more. It was the not knowing that drove me to panic and to vomit. I was talking myself through it, how long it would last, what I would do, how I would manage, but I knew to restart the labor they had given me pitocin and I knew with pitocin "transition" could be hours of labor. I needed to know where I was, I needed to be able to plot my course through it, and I didn't know and no one would tell me. I panicked. This is what I think of when I think of not having a model. Of not knowing where you are, of not being able to plot a course out, of getting so lost that you believe there isn't one. And the dark, it is so calm. So reassuring.

I am sure now, this is where the stories of the devil come from. Not the serpent in the garden, the serpent is a cautionary tale against science in favor of faith. Do not try and find out, believe. Asking for knowledge, like looking behind the curtain, is treading on toes. God's toes, the wizard's, it's all the same. Yet if we insisted on not knowing we have no medicine for depression, or cancer, or infections. And there would be no democracy.

I saw a Kraken, pieces of a giant squid, at the Museum of Science. The pieces were no more real than a Kraken. But it cheered me. These are stories people told to find their way. What I thought of when I saw it was that David Foster Wallace may himself have been looking for the Kraken, that great beast whose discovery will change the world, give meaning to life, let him gulp down a sense of calm at last. But that doesn't explain his death. I don't know why he was so sick, any more than I know why my uncle had to get cancer. I only know that Nick Hughes, whatever tools he had at his disposal to fight his way out were not enough and I am terrified of leaving that inheritance to my children. It scares me more than death, more than living though the worst of my days.