Labels

My dad told me, once, that if you believe what the Nazarene taught, you are a Xian. Church doctrine isn’t what determines that.

I found some comfort in that, at the time, because peeling that label off was hard. I grew up believing that God loved me and that Jesus did, too. It was hard coming to grips with the belief that the loving god I was taught about had to be as much a myth as Zeus and Odin. All those stories are interesting, culturally, and are useful to see how people have tried to explain a confusing world. But, none of them have any more significance than that for me.

I don’t like to use the labels “agnostic” or “atheist,” though. They come with their own baggage that I don’t care to wear, either.

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Along the Carroll Park Canal

There is a Linear Park in Frederick, Maryland with a canal running through it.   There is a bridge over it that has been completely transformed by trompe l’oeil  stones, insets and a duck.

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She was looking for koi and didn’t see the duck until we pointed it out to her because it is flat.  She was as charmed to notice it as we were.

December Club Wine

We are members of a wine club.  The wine bar we frequent has weekly wine tastings that cost $5/person for 4 tastes and a bite of cheese. Club members (and their significant other) don’t pay for the tastings. And the tasting the first week of the month is “club wines;”  you choose 2 bottles to take home.  Those tend to be in the mid- to upper teen$.   It saves us money by not paying for 8 tastings a month plus 2 bottles of wine.  It costs us for the additional glass of wine and snack we usually have when we go to a tasting.  I think everybody wins.

I am bad about remembering where we have gotten various wines.  So, I’m planning to try to remember to at least post our club wine selections here. I may run out of steam.  We’ll see.

This month we brought home 2 bottles of Shebang! Red from Sonoma, California.  It is “Mostly Zinfandel blended with Carignane, Petite Sirah, Mourvedre, Alicante Bouchet, Grenache, Syrah, Alicante Bouchet, Grenache, Syrah, Barbera and a touch of whites for aromatics.” Thus, the Whole Shebang.  Cost at Cork and Cow is $16/ bottle, $7/glass.

Distilleries

Distilleries I have visited in 2017:

Fainting Goat Spirits in Greensboro, North Carolina (Lovely herbal gin and very smooth vodka)

Broad Branch Distillery in Winston Salem, North Carolina (The blueberry flavor of the Smashing Violet whiskey isn’t nearly as strong at the color suggests)

10th Ward Distilling Company in Frederick, Maryland (We brought home lovely applejack)

McClintock Distilling in Frederick , Maryland (We went to a party they hosted. The cocktails were lovely. We didn’t, however, bring any home.)

Dark Corner Distillery in Greenville, South Carolina (Tasting room, not the actual distillery. We brought home Mountain Peak Espresso flavored rum.)

Copperhead Mountain Distillery in Traveler’s Rest, South Carolina (Brought home their “Scotch” which tastes more like Irish because there is no peat.)

Dragon Moonshine in Charlotte, North Carolina (I brought Apple Pie and Amaretto rums home.)

My liver may be in danger.

Time to eat!

The other day, I got to pondering the words we use for meals.  I was on my way to my favorite wine bar where I intended to have an early supper/late lunch and the fact that American’s don’t have a word for that meal got my brain spinning around the ways we talk about dining.

Breakfast, break fast, is just the first food of the day.   A light breakfast is light in weight and doesn’t usually last very long.  Toast, maybe an egg.  Granola.  Hot cereal like oatmeal that you can eat standing up.  A big breakfast has a load of protein and is meant to stick with you.  Frequently there are vegetables, too.  Potatoes in the form of hash browns. Sliced tomatoes in the summer. Onions, peppers and mushrooms in the omelette.  Fruit on egg bread, waffles and pancakes.  A big breakfast isn’t a meal that you grab as you run out the door.

Brunch is a word that means garnish and, frequently, alcohol in your fruit juice.  Brunch is languorous.  It also means I’m not doing anything that takes effort before noon.

Lunch is the middle of the day meal.  Big lunch means you will wish for a nap, later.  Lunch happens anywhere from 11 AM to 3 PM.

Supper is the evening meal.  Dinner is the biggest meal that is not breakfast.  So, lunch or supper could be dinner.   Sunday dinner is almost always lunch.  But, a work day dinner is usually supper.

So, the question that came to my mind was “what is the afternoon equivalent of brunch?”  Turns out, it’s afternoon tea.  My Canadian friends tell me that tea is served around 3:30 or 4:00, there is tea to drink and something light to eat.    We chuckled over a young acquaintance who had fussed at her sister to “eat your tea.”  But, I think I want to adopt that usage.  It’s a handy definition. And while a cream tea is one that includes jam and clotted cream in the snacks, I think a wine tea may become my occasional earlier-than-supper afternoon meal.

And, according to my English friend, high tea is a heavy meal served as workers come in from their labors ready for serious eats.  I expect it comes from afternoon tea that waited a little too long and needed to be more filling since you were ravenous by the time you finally got have food.

Another word I am going to adopt is “fika.” It is a Swedish word and it means to have coffee and a bite and a chat with friends.  It is a thing I love and now have a word for.  It is not time specific.  It is activity specific and it an activity I enjoy immensely.


Addendum:

I learned another meal word from my Spanish friend.   “In Spain, there is an actual meal between lunch (which for them is always the largest meal of the day), and dinner, which is a lunch-sized portion late in the day, like 8 or 9 pm. I was always offered this meal, each day, even in the hospital! “Merienda”. It corresponds to the “tea” idea, but without mentioning tea. Coffee or tea might be offered, or beer or wine, and deli slices, bread, cookies, fruit. Oh, it happened around 5 pm. Very confusing.”

Charlottesville

It’s been a strange time at our house. I’m training for my new position and working 8-4:30 M-F. Being off work on the weekends is really weird for me. Last weekend, we went to Kerr Lake with a couple of friends who have a house there. When we came back, we found out about the Charlottesville debacle.

There were posts on FB about vigils in support of the protesters and I went to the one in our county seat. Our state senator and representative were there. There were half a dozen speakers who talked about supporting each other and caring for everyone in our community for an hour. And they had us introduce ourselves to the people around us, with the intention that we would discuss what we intend to do going forward.

When we were dispersing, someone announced that they hoped we would show up at the Orange County School Board meeting on Monday where the Board was expected to make a decision about Confederate flags on campus grounds. I didn’t go back to check the time because I expected that I would be able to find it online. I was wrong. So, we just went out for dinner and I didn’t have to try to get my fumbling thoughts arranged into something coherent.

I found out on Tuesday that they have banned Nazi, Confederate and KKK symbols on school property. Hallelujah. Why did this even need to be discussed?

I despise Donald Trump and I am enraged that our political system allowed that buffoon to be elected to the highest office in our country. I kept waiting for someone to put a stop to this farce and they haven’t yet. Instead, things get worse and worse. How far down do we have to go before people say “Enough! Too much! This has to stop!” loudly enough, with enough conviction, to be heard?

I keep thinking of Maya Angelou Tweeting “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” These people are saying “I hate you and I am dangerous.”

The calla lilies are in bloom, again.

Several years ago, I found a pot of miniature pink calla lilies in the florist area of a grocery store. They were lovely and only $5. So, I got them. When they finished blooming, I planted them in my flower bed. And forgot about them.

The next year, I noticed something coming up in a patch that looked intentional, even though I didn’t remember what it was.

Oh! Wait! It’s a pink calla lily! Except….

I remembered the blooms in the pot being smaller. And, when they came back the next year, they were the size of regular callas. When I moved to this house, I transplanted them. And they faded. They started coming up white with a little edge of pink.

Over time, I found a miniature purple calla at the grocery and a friend asked me to plant a lavender miniature calla that came in a flower basket that had been sent to her when she was recovering from surgery. Two years ago, I found a dark red one that absolutely delighted me. And last year, I transplanted everything to the front flower bed. (The callas in the back were getting crowded by overgrowth of hydrangea and fig bushes.)

Remember how I said the pink one had faded over time to mostly white? Can you tell which of theses is supposed to be the colors I planted? I can’t. Except I know where I planted the red one.

thoughts about feminism

http://sites.middlebury.edu/middmag/2012/03/15/gender-violence/

“‘[Gender violence issues] affect women at every level, but I am here to say that the very fact of just calling these issues ‘women’s issues’ is in itself part of the problem.'”

I have been unhappy with the word “feminism” for as long as I have known there was a gender-caused imbalance in the world. In my mind it makes issues related to gender only the problem of women. And men are as constrained by gender stereotypes as women. It usually (often? sometimes?) expressed differently, though.

It is expected that women will be raped and the victims of domestic violence. Men who are raped or beaten by a domestic partner become feminized by the very fact of having the act perpetrated on them. And “feminized” means weakened. Particularly in this context. So, they may be less likely to do something about it. You know, something like report it and get it prosecuted.

Parents doing childcare is a whole other bag of worms. Women are asked if they intend to come back to work after giving birth. Staying home to tend to children is a valid option for us (as a group, not necessarily individually.) Men who choose to be the one giving up a paycheck to do the homefront heavy lifting are often (usually?) required to justify it. Men who actually participate in parenting are praised, as though that isn’t something that should be expected. Who would say to a woman “Aren’t you a good mom bringing the kids to the playground?” Or to a man “Does your wife help with the kids?”

That’s not fair to anybody. Everyone should be allowed to care for their family, Everyone should be allowed to feel safe and to speak up if they aren’t. And language matters.

Racist, homophobic and sexist language is hurtful. Reducing someone to a body part is hurtful. Words like Nigger and Bitch and Dick are slap-in-the-face verbal violence. They all say very clearly “You are less than human. You are a lesser creature than me.” Those are obvious and easy to call out. There are more subtle microaggressions in our language that need consideration and adjustment, too.

I am a gender communist. From each according to their abilities to each accord to their needs. This, until a better word is devised, is what a feminist looks like.

Shifting the Sun by Diana Der-Hovanessian

When your father dies, say the Irish,
you lose your umbrella against bad weather.
May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Welsh,
you sink a foot deeper into the earth.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Canadians,
you run out of excuses.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the French,
you become your own father.
May you stand up in his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Indians,
he comes back as the thunder.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Russians,
he takes your childhood with him.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the English,
you join his club you vowed you wouldn’t.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Armenians,
your sun shifts forever.
And you walk in his light.

“Shifting the Sun” by Diana Der-Hovanessian, from Selected Poems. © Sheep Meadow Press, 1994.

I have been looking for this for 2 months. Finally found it today. A friend sent it to me via FB messenger right after my dad died. I thought I had stashed it somewhere easy to find. That as pretty silly of me.

It will probably make you cry a little. It made me tear up, again. But, it helps my heart, too.

Tomorrow is my parents 56th wedding anniversary.

_____________________

Ded said “Garrison Keillor read that on The Writer’s Almanac the day before my dad died. I was alone in the office in the very early morning, which was a good thing, because I knew my dad was dying, and I ended up sobbing. I also knew it was a gift, and I worked to find a copy of it (this was 1996, before you could find anything on the interwebs) to be read at his funeral. On the first anniversary of my dad’s death, Garrison Keillor read it on The Writer’s Almanac again. Since then I have always shared it with friends when their dad’s pass, and it was read at the funeral of my children’s father. It means a great deal to me; I’m glad it means a great deal to you too.”

dna