The Divine Goodness: A Tree called Sacred (part 3)

image source

Just finishing the poem I started serializing awhile back. It has another ending somewhere in my notebooks and papers, but I can't find it so I wrote a new ending.

It is best to read parts 1 and 2, to make better sense of part 3. 

The Divine Goodness:   A Tree called Sacred

part 1

part 2

Lately, however, I have become bitter.

I stand in full sun in plantations, 
not clinging to the side of mountains, 

shaded by companions, tended by careful hands.  

Barefoot, my caretakers have left for the city, seeking survival.

My canopy gone, the birds no longer visit 
they can’t sing in the chemicals sprayed on my green lungs.

I struggle to keep the velvet brown bean alive within me.  

Good morning.

I am plantation coffee.

Even though I am dressed up in inciting names,

my history erased, I get thrown down the drain.

I sit cold in the bottom of your disposable cup,

stinking like stale coffee breath.

 

Canadians, we are deluding ourselves

Not only is this woman's designed-and-made-in-Canada bathing suit a thing of the past, so too is this Canadian woman's figure. This 1945 ad shows a Vancouver woman, Yvonne de Carlo, modelling a cutting-edge bathing suit with new fabric (prior, women's bathing suits were made of heavy water-absorbing wool). The bathing suit was designed by two other B.C. women, Rose Marie Reid (design), and Marianne McCrea McClain (textile).
This Canadian man enjoying the summer sun in Montreal is also not how most Canadian men look, either. As a just released poll on Canadians' perceptions of their health shows, Canadians think they are lean, fit, and healthy but in fact 2/3 of Canadians are overweight and 20% are obese. Just as Canadians have deluded themselves that our national identity is that of a peacemaker (in fact, we are profiteering from waging war in Afghanistan and training police and security forces in Haiti, the West Bank, and Afghanistan), so too have we deluded ourselves that we are in shape, healthy and active.
This photo is more reflective of the average Canadian bodies today, as we eat more than we move. While there are lots of social and economic reasons for rising weights, inactivity, poor eating, and unhealthiness, one of the contributing factors to our delusion of thinking we are in shape and physically active when in fact we are overweight and sedentary, is the lie of the images on tv and other visual media. The bodies of people on TV and movies do not mirror us back to ourselves. They show illusions, simulacra, as if all men and women and teenagers and children are thin and lean.

'The Biggest Burger in Canada'

The Adversary: 9 lb. Hamburger

Where to Slay It: Blondie's Restaurant -- Winnipeg, Manitoba

the stuff that Finnish women make

Earlier this month, I was invited to a Christmas party planned by my friend, Satu, for some of her Finnish-speaking female friends. With her daughter, Shanthi, Satu has recently opened a new dance and yoga studio, Academy Afrah and Shanthi Om Studio, and the party was held at their studio on a Saturday night before Christmas. Satu and Shanthi had thought up a beautiful table setting for the middle of the floor, with comfy yoga cushions for seats.
The rules of the evening were that guests could only speak Finnish the entire night. I loved this challenge! Also, we each had to bring some typical Finnish food to share for the potluck. It didn't take me too long to decide what to bring: I brought the bottle above filled with my home-made likööri made from my deep purple garden grapes, some sugar, and a bottle of Finlandia vodka. Everyone tried a tippa (drop), even those who normally don't drink alcohol. Who could pass up this organic, full of anti-oxidants delicious elixir? that every Finnish woman should know how to make? ...using her own berries, of course. I followed the directions my aunt Aulikki gave me. She made hers from tyyrni marjat (sea buckthorn berries). The northern concord grapes that grow in my garden are my special northern Ontario touch to this traditional Finnish liquid.
I also brought a tȁyte kakku, a whipped cream cake filled with strawberry cream and topped with fruit. Of course, neither kiwis and peaches are grown in Finland, but that's my multicultural touch to this traditional cake. Some of the other food included turnip casserole, beet and carrot salad, piirakka, meatballs, piparit (cookies) and Christmas tarts (joulu tortut).
Satu had set up a Finnish-style Christmas tree, which for us Finnish-Canadians means sparse branches and simple, natural decorations. It is the opposite of the traditional Canadian Christmas tree that is often colour-coded, laden with matching elaborate (and expensive) decorations, and often artificial. Later in the evening, some of the women hopped around the tree with their index fingers pointing to the sky, singing "tip tap tip tap tippi tippi tip tap tip tip taaap..."
One of the guests brought an old poster of a nostalgic Finnish Christmas that she pinned on the wall above the food. I'm sure many Finnish Christmases have been nothing at all like this idealized picture. I know I could tell quite a few stories about Christmas-time drama. But it's nice imagining such innocent perfection.
The mood of the night was fun-filled, festive, relaxing, joyful, and warm. I thank Satu and Shanthi for making this magic possible.
Now, one of the mirrors had its own way of reflecting back the world....or was that the koti likööri tonttu playing games with me?

Cranberry Carrot Muffins on a Winter's Day

Last night, it started snowing heavily. "Oh, my goodness!" I exclaimed late last night when I glanced out the window. When you live in a climate where the weather changes quickly causing your routine to change suddenly and dramatically, you comment on the weather. You even talk to yourself about the weather, saying corny things like, "Look how beautiful it is!"
Seeing through snow is zen. You don't need to go to any temple nor pay money for a yoga retreat nor listen to a motivational speaker telling you what you need; you just go outside and look around. The metaphor of snow blanketing the earth is not an accident of tongue -- snow does comfort you like a blanket. Snow brings a stillness to the air and to your being. Of course, I'm speaking like a Northerner. If you are from somewhere else, you might hate snow. But to me, snow is yoga. Union.
This morning, like last year about this time, I knew that snow was imminent. But as this November has been so mild, I kept pressing my luck. So, I didn't actually prepare for it, which meant that I had to go rummage in my basement for my boots. Well, it's not exactly true that I didn't prepare for it because last week I did make a scarf out of one of my favorite old wool sweaters. My sister had bought me the sweater 25 plus years ago when she went to Italy with Ritva, and I have never been able to throw out that purple and brown sweater even though it went hopelessly out of style.
I trudged through the heavy, wet snow to pick Tassu up to take her for a walk. By the time I returned, I was sweaty and winded from the extra effort of dragging my boots through clumpy snow. So, I made some comfort food -- cranberry carrot muffins with spelt flour and ground flax seeds -- even though I read yesterday that one way to avoid extra calories in winter is to be aware of "emotional eating," that is, comfort foods.

I wonder though: are the people who write those articles about avoiding "extra calories" Northerners?

dinner at Manuella

One late afternoon on our way back from a day in Beirut, we stopped to eat in Jounieh at Manuella Restaurant, a large, popular seaside restaurant with both indoor and outdoor options for seating. We sat by the Mediterranean sea, under the thatch roof in the open air. For your famished eyes, they first treat you to some fresh brilliant hues. You don't know whether to stare at it or eat it. We did both.

Shortly after filling our eyes with colour and popping some pumpkin seeds and peanuts into our mouths as my brother and sister-in-law planned what we will eat, the mezze was laid out before us. Among other plates, this included grape leaves, a large artichoke, hummus (chick pea dip), tabbouleh, (parsley salad), baba ghannoush (aka moutabbal, coal charred eggplant pureed), purslane salad, and shangleesh (dried yogurt balls in spices and oil). We also had a dish of raw kibbeh (lamb meat with soaked wheat--although it really looks just like a plate of raw pounded ground meat), which my brother- and sister-in-law have to eat at every restaurant. I usually just have one scoop in my pita bread wedge. My husband doesn't eat it. I always say with a twinkle in my eye, "What kind of Lebanese are you who doesn't even eat raw kibbeh?"

 We also had a dish of fattoush, a salad which is my favorite and that I have to eat at every restaurant in Lebanon. If made correctly (and it usually is) it is very lemony, with an extra tart kick from a smattering of sumac. It is a perfect summertime dish. If I recall correctly, the plate at the fore of the photo is moo-zhaddra (that's a phonetic spelling); it's a brown lentil and cracked wheat dish with fried onions on top. There was also a plate of delicious stir fried greens which I can no longer remember the name of but it's something that is special to the Lebanese. This summer I ate all sorts of green plants in Lebanon that I have no idea what they are.

And that was just the starter.

After filling our bellies, the waiter cleared the table and laid out various seafood dishes from shrimps, squids, octopus and inky squid. The inky squid looked....very inky.

Looking over all the food, I exclaimed, "Goodness gracious! Who's going to eat all this food?"

My brother-in-law said with solemnity, "Don't forget, we still have the fish to eat. I ordered fried fish for us."


I munched and munched and the more I munched the more I felt my stomach push against the waistband of my jeans. 

 "Keep eating!" my sister-in-law laughed when I slowed down.

Time for a break.

for the love of oranges

"I think it was a mother," said my husband as he looked down at the mousetrap. "Come and see."

"Oh my god, I don't want to see a dead mouse! Get it outside! Throw it out! Throw it in the back yard, in the snowbank. The crow will come and get it right away. Hurry up, while it's still fresh so the crow will grab it right away. Get rid of it!"

"Why do I have to always get rid of the mouse?" he muttered as he threw on a jacket, opened the back door, and went out into the cold, dead mouse in a small bag in hand.

We have a mouse highway in our house. Because it is 102 years old, our house has had plenty of time to be discovered by mice. Each fall, a new mother finds her way to the walls, pulled towards the warmth, the labyrinth of pathways hidden between walls, between ceilings and floors, a maze of mouse roadways running up and down from the basement to the third floor. Each fall or winter, I wake up in the dead of the night sure that I've heard the sound of small gnawing overhead. Or was it by the baseboard? Don't tell me it's in my closet! Of course, when you are as quiet as a mouse in the dead of night listening for a mouse, it knows that you are sitting upright in bed listening and it stops.

"I think we have a mouse," I tell my husband in the morning. "We have to get it."

And why wouldn't a mouse like to come to our house, too? Our cupboards are groaning with food. No lack of nourishment. All manners of goods and groceries.

I'm married to a Lebanese, afterall. His motto is "there is no such thing as having too many groceries!" I just scolded him as he came home today, carrying sacks of groceries. "We don't need more groceries! Our fridge is packed! We just went grocery shopping!"

"Don't worry," he said, "I restrained myself this time." Then, casting a look of incredulity at me, he said "Any Lebanese woman would be thrilled that her husband brings home the groceries and you complain that I'm going grocery shopping!" He busied himself emptying the grocery bags.

"Whose going to eat all these groceries! A person can only eat so much. I hate throwing things out," I retorted.

"Look," he said, holding up a gold and green box of sesame cookies laced with pistachios, "barazik from Syria. I hope they're fresh this time."

"You better not have bought any more oranges," I scolded. "We've already got so many oranges, way more than we can possibly eat. Who's going to eat all these oranges we have?" I asked.

I watched him pull out a large mesh bag of tangelos, then a large mesh bag of mandarins, and yet another large mesh bag of red-fleshed cara cara oranges.

"They were on sale," he said, "how could I resist? And look at how nice they look!" he grinned ear to ear, holding up the three bags of bright orange fruit.

The scent of citrus fills the air.


Aimless Love by Billy Collins

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

- Billy Collins

Muikut

Stopping to buy some muikku on the boardwalk in Jyvaskyla. My friends, Saara and Minna, imbibe. My sister and I stayed at Saara's place, and Minna, a Finn who lives in Germany, had, like my sister and me, come to Jyvaskyla to present a paper at the FinnForum 2001 conference. Next FinnForum is in Thunder Bay this May. See you there....with smelts this time?

muikku

This little fish is beloved in Finland. Muikku. Sano muikku translates to 'say cheese', even though muikku is fish and cheese is cheese. It's an expession used to get someone to smile when taking his or her photo. I found this wooden wall hanging in an artisan's market somewhere on the road from Jyvaskyla to Juonikyla some years back. Now it hangs cheerily on my kitchen wall, reminding me to smile.


We don't have muikku in Canada, or at least I am not aware if there are any. We have rainbow smelts. Every spring someone gives me a bag of smelts. I went smelting many years ago to the mouth of the Current River as it empties into Lake Superior, but you have to do that in the dark and when I saw the water rat run past my shoe, I wanted to go home. But still, that water rat did not compare with the tarantula that came to check out my shoe in Lebanon.
But smelts are not muikku. Smelts are small, too, but longer than muikku; muikku has bigger eyes. In Jyvaskyla, on the boardwalk by the lake, I saw large frying vats where these tiny fish were fried up by the basketful for drooling Finlanders. Saara, our host, laughed deliriously and shouted, You must taste muikku! They are delicious! The muikku's were scooped up and stuffed into paper french fry cups and then smothered in mustard, ketchup or other condiments. Everyone was smacking their lips on these fish fries.

No wonder the Finns say, "sano muikku". Brings a smile to your lips.

goat kibbe at Le Mortier

When you go to Ehden, the first visit is to Le Mortier, a restaurant that serves the giant goat kibbe footballs I told you about last post. The first time we went to Le Mortier the roses were in bloom
the lavendar that fills the boulevard in front of the restaurant was just beginning its purple outburstroof tops are ideal places to dry your laundry as the sun is hot on the roof. The line of white towels from the restaurant are being bleached and sanitized by the sun. when you sit down at the outdoor patio, a holy sight greets you: the Qadisha Valley. The valley is the beginning of the journey to Baalbek and runs up to the goats in the last post. The valley is spelled many ways and it is also known, as my brother- and sister-in-law call it, the Qannoubine Valley (spelled also Qannuben or Kanubin).
these are the famous giant kibbe balls. They have a specific name, but I can't remember it. Inside they are hollow and have a big blob of animal fat (sheep, I think) that melts when they are cooked. This way of serving kibbe (there are hundreds) is one of the favorites of my brother- and sister-in-law whose summer home in Ehden we were guests at. You cut it up and share it.

And, of course, Arab hospitality being so overwhelmingly spectacular--indeed, I believe the word/concept 'hospitality' must have Arabic roots--before all else, you are taken --and treated--to the various specialities that different restaurants are known for. So, every visit is an adventure on the gastronomy route, where one collects knowledge about the culture, the land, and the people through food and the heavenly practices associated with it.
Mezze begins the experience of social eating. I have a story about shanglieshi (the bowl on the upper left with a yogurt herbed ball circled with tomato and onion), which is one of my favorites, but that story belongs to my visit to the Khennak Hmaroo, or industrial working class part of the city of Tripoli.

an orange cake for a winter day

Today, I am making my version of sfouf, or semolina cake to take to my friend, Debbie's. It's baking in the oven; I hope I don't forget about it. There are as many versions of sfouf as there are orange cakes. The other day, I made an orange cake, a Moroccan style orange cake, as we had too many clementines. The clementines we get here in Thunder Bay have small black diamond stickers stamped "Muroc."

Moroccan Orange Cake doesn't use flour, only ground almonds. I ground the almonds in my coffee mill as it makes a nice fine and fluffy powder. I added a small amount of semolina, too. I also added orange blossom water for flavoring. Although I was supposed to use the rind of whole oranges, I wasn't sure if the thin clementine skin would boil and soften in the same way, so I peeled them before I threw them in the saucepan. Despite the changes I made, the cake was still delicious. Rasha confessed to eating half of it. I thought to save a piece or two for my friend, Amal, who, being of Tunisian descent, would've loved to bite into an orange cake (although the Tunisian Orange Cake is different). However, the cake didn't last. Next time. Mind you, she probably would've told me how I might have improved it... But then again there are as many versions of orange cake as there are sfouf as there are bakers baking and adjusting according to their own desire.

By chance, I was sent this Moroccan music video that I've posted above. The song is hauntingly beautiful. So, too, the photos. Beautiful black and white photos of arches, alleyways, doorways, walkways, and filtered light. It struck me that I don't think there is an orange tree or any other plant to be seen, although the shadows of tall date palms appear in one of the first images.

Last post, I told you about the destruction of beautiful old arches and stone walls in Jerusalem as the Israeli government bulldozes Palestinian homes and dispossesses Palestinian residents to build illegal Israeli settlements, utilitarian style. I guess the Israelis don't find old stone arches and alleyways worth preserving.

Personally, my eye finds arches beautiful. Some of the small old houses built in the 30s and 40s in our city had arched doorways, but that has fallen by the wayside. Maybe it has to do with sheetrock replacing plaster. Or maybe those old houses were built by Italian immigrants who brought and adapted their Mediterranean styling to the north shore of Lake Superior.

To me, arches are portals that evoke other passageways and places and spaces beyond. Their circular sweep compels us to enter, draws us towards that which we know not, into a maze, a spiral. I read recently that Islamic architecture inspired the Gothic architecture of Europe, as well as medieval architecture. I wonder if the lucky horseshoe symbol came from the East, too?


Islamic horseshoe arch

I wonder if the keyholes of old Victorian doors were inspired by the Islamic horseshoe arch? The keyhole of the front door of my old Victorian style house mirrors this image of an Islamic arch.

a sage green cast iron casserole

I walked back from the Complex tonight because I didn't have a car. When I left just shortly after 6 pm, it was pitch dark and cold. I had my hat. gloves, scarf and pulled on some tights under my pants before I left. Many houses have their Christmas lights glittering, and I noticed more folks are decorating their yards with giant blow-up Santas, snowmen families, penguins and polar bears. I even saw one house on High Street with a mini carousel or merry-go-round of horses going round 'n round. I wondered how much electricity it took to run. The entire front yard was decorated with lights, snowmen and other Christmas kitch. I know, call me Scrooge, but I always think about things like that.

It's not that I'm against colorful lights in the dark night in winter. I love winter lights. I have one small blue and red string of lights suspended on the ornamental cherry tree in my yard.

When I got home, I was hungry but supper wasn't made. No one was home to make it. I split open a pomegranate and ate that while I thought about the chicken. Before I left, I'd started supper, putting a plain potato casserole in the oven, steaming some broccoli, and taking out some chicken to make....what? that was the question. So, when I got back, I put on my sister, Della's cd, Whisper Her Name, and surfed the net to find a recipe for chicken, one where I could use the new sage green cast iron casserole with a lid that I bought at Kmart in International Falls that night I got taken in by the US border guards to be questioned and my car searched.

That night that pissed me off, I have to admit there was one saving grace. I found that beautiful sage green cast iron casserole on the bargain shelf at Kmart for $11.40!! The finding of this cast iron casserole was such a lucky chance as my son had just told me the day before, "Mom, we need to buy a cast iron casserole with a lid." I replied, "that's going to be expensive. And I don't think itll be easy to find. It's not like it's the style these days to cook with a cast iron casserole in the oven." "Yes, Mom, but we need one."

So can you imagine my surprise when I happened to stumble upon the sale shelves in the back of KMart that night and whoa! on the bottom shelf a cast iron casserole!

My son has used that green cast iron casserole to make quite a few things. Last night he made pulla in it and it was delicious! Tonight, in my search for a chicken recipe for the green cast iron casserole, I stumbled upon The Cast-iron Darling who has a delicious looking pretzel recipe and then The Crepes of Wrath recipe blogger diverted me with a delicious recipe of Olive oil chocolate chip cookies and Honey Peanut Butter Cookies. Of course, none of these recipes have anything to do with a cast iron casserole or a chicken.

The chicken is still in the fridge.

The photo above is the design that transfered onto the parchment paper that lined the sage green cast iron casserole when the pulla was baking.

ka'ak sellers in the old souk (market) of Tripoli

ka'ak...one of the reasons I went walking around Boulevard Lake this morning with my friend, Amina, even though the skies were threatening rain. And it did rain hard, but we took shelter under some trees along the way. I ate too many ka'ak and sweet goods of all sorts while I was in Lebanon, which means now it is time to pay the piper by burning more calories than eating them.

a morning walk in Bishmezzine

I have only been in Lebanon for 4 days, but I can whole-heartedly say that everyone should come to this wonderful country! Of course, I am staying in one of the most interesting places filled with the most interesting, hospitable, and genuinely friendly people, and, of course, excellent food. My days are full with so much to write down but too busy doing interesting things to find the time.

View from the balcony outside my bedroom. It is night now as I write this. The sound of hundreds of croaking frogs are broken by the crying howls of hyenas coming from somewhere under these tall old pines. Behind the pines are the mountains.

On Saturday morning, I went for an early morning walk with my husband. These yellow sun-button flowers graced the ground beneath a grove of old olive trees. Geckos slithered quickly out of our footfall. The occasional lizard popped its head over a stone wall.

The sun is hot first thing in the morning and in a different place in the sky than I am used to (as a northerner), so it is disorienting. I thought it was 11 am when I looked up in the sky and I asked my husband, How long have we been walking? We'd better get back. We promised your brother and his wife to go with them to a luncheon. My husband looked at his watch and said, it's only 9 am. We've got lot's of time. The dappled shade under the olive trees is inviting.

Many of the olive trees are hundreds of years old. Now is not the time to watch salt intake when delicious olives abound! I've eaten the best olives...

...and the best oranges. Fresh oranges right off the tree for breakfast or a snack. The fields around me are full of orange trees, olive trees, grapevines, pear trees, mulberry trees, fig trees, peach trees, walnut trees, almond trees, and trees bearing small juicy apricot-colored fruit with 3 large brown stone pits that I have no name for in English. The mulberries stain your fingers a deep purple. My mother-in-law makes a cooling drink from the mulberry juice. My sister-in-law makes a cooling refreshing drink from sour orange-like fruit. My husband's cousin gave me a glass of refreshing drink made from orange blossoms when my brother-in-law brought me there on his moped for introductions on the way to his house to met his wife's sisters.

The pomegranates are beginning their bloom and will be ready late in summer. My brother-in-law told me it is a very messy process to make pomegranate syrup, very sticky and gooey so he's always looking for someone to help with this. I said, I won't be here then, so I can't help.

Old widower uncle who lives alone dries fava beans on the floor of his patio. I'll tell you more about his 150 year old house later.

There are roses everywhere. Old uncle widower, my sister-in-law, and many other inhabitants of Bishmezzine are collecting rose petals now to make rose water soon. I will post a post on roses and making rose water later.

On our walk, my husband and I passed this old sanctuary on the way back home. It is just up the road from where the Turkish artist, Atta, lives.

He's been here since the 70s. He invited us in to his studio home on the corner after shouting out to my husband, "Are you Omar's brother?" (in Arabic) as we walked past his place. After showing us his portfolio, he wanted to make us some tea but we said as we had a lunch invitation in Tripoli, we had to hurry back.

A rusty sign hidden behind gardenia and jasmine bushes tells travelers where the sanctuary is.