New Year's Mysteries

The Hornet's Nest installed in the living room; Deb Marshall photo

We had a small very pleasant New Year’s mystery this year, and now we’ve got a larger and much less pleasant one. Besides that, it’s snowing like crazy, and the cold weather has been quite terrible.  Those of us who have lived hereabouts since we were children pretty much expect that there will be 2 weeks of wicked cold weather either around Christmas, or sometime in late January – but the bitter bitter cold we’ve had for way too long now is kinda ridiculous. For the first time in several years I had to haul out of the deep closet the 30-year-old winter jackets we bought in Montreal one long-ago fall: they’re knee-length, have a zipper topped by a flap with snaps, a tall turn-up collar, with more snaps, that covers the entire neck to the chin, topped by a hood you can pull tight, that has its own flap with snaps, which covers the face up to the nose. All closed up, it’s warm and wind-proof, so only from knees down and cheeks-and-eyes freeze.

Since I wrote that first paragraph a week ago, we morphed from deep freeze to spring, and today back to windy, horrid and cold again. The wart deck is a gritty sheet of ice, and poor Abu went down the steps on his butt earlier today when his feet went out from under him on the ice. The birds are struggling to make their windy wobbly way towards the deck rail for the seeds – at least, for the seeds the wind hasn’t blown off yet – and I put down ice melt, but the wind blew most of it off onto the ground, which is also like a skating rink.  The top of the compost bin is well above the snow line again, but the weather gods are planning to fix that later this week, I hear. I’m all for it, if the snow adheres to the ice and makes safe movement possible again – until it does, no doggie walks are happening here, the poor Barkie Boy is on his own – he, at least, can skitter across the top of the snow if he can make it down the stairs, and a slip and fall is shorter for him than for we two-legged critters.

In Chinese theory, humans, because we stand on two feet, are the unique connection between heaven and earth – our feet planted on earth, our heads in the heavens – but on icy windy days, our uprightness isn't necessarily a given, and our fall from on high can be quite painful. It’s worth noting that Wind is said to blow evils into our bodies, and considering how many hurt backs/shoulders/knees/toes/wrists I’ve treated so far this month, not to mention a wide variety of upper respiratory gunk, I know it to be true.

The Furry People have pretty much given up and are semi-hibernating in various baskets placed not far from the woodstove, on their winter perches, or in a bundled fur pile they make of themselves. Biscuit does get up once each evening to make a patrol of the cellar to try to put a check on the mouse colony. The kitchen mouse has been invisible lately – either Biscuit finally dispatched it, or it wisely moved on to another spot, and it occurs to me I should hoe out the pantry sometime soon to see if it’s moved there.* Catman pokes his nose out the door every so often, then skitters back and gives me the angry glare of a frustrated Lord of the Universe whose human servant keeps forgetting to flip the warm weather switch on and the cold weather switch off.  Then he stomps back to his warm basket under the bay tree.

Furry People resting on their winter perches; Deb Marshall photo

The nasty New Year's mystery we had was the furnace dying in the middle of the coldest of the weather – which hasn’t happened in years, since – well, since the last horrid below-below-below zero freezing spell. Why does it only act up in the worst weather? We’re lucky, the woodstove provides most the heat for our house, but the furnace also heats our water, and in the really frigid weather, the woodstove needs some overnight and windy-day backup from the furnace. We can heat water on the woodstove and gas stove, but apart from heating enough to wash hands and faces and keep the dishes clean, no bathing or laundry will get done without furnace-heated water. Not only don’t we have time, but we aren’t set up to do it the old-fashioned way without a lot of jury-rigging. We had long visits from three different furnace repair guys during that awful weather, all trying to figure out what was ailing the 35-year-old furnace.  One of them arrived the morning of that windy snow blow day that has gone down in weather infamy (Nor'easter? Cyclone?) and, I’ve got to say, we’re impressed by and grateful to the guys who do that job, and the many others we usually don’t notice who keep our modern lives running smoothly. We still don’t know what was wrong with the furnace, but after some different kinds of fiddling, it seems to be running well again. Fingers crossed.

The pleasant mystery we had arrived close to New Year's Day. Late one afternoon – but before it was dark – the Husband and I were ensconced on the couch, him snoozing, me nursing my annual Christmas Vacation Cold and catching up on Portlandia episodes. Someone came in the kitchen door, and I expected either the Sailor or Eddie B would come down the hall momentarily. When no one did, and no one shouted “Hello!”, I hauled myself out of my tv spaciness and went to see who was there. By the time I got to the kitchen, no one was there, but a disposable diaper box holding a gorgeous many-colored knitted blanket was on the floor by the door. 

There was no note; I couldn’t see a car leaving our long driveway; I poked my head out the door and saw no footprints, only dog pawprints. Had Santa Paws dropped off a late gift? Or had someone mistaken our house for someone else’s house and delivered a gift to the wrong place? Usually the long driveway and the distinctive color of our house is a sure give-away that an uncertain traveler’s in the wrong place. And this delivery didn’t come by UPS or FedEx or mailman – the box was open, with no signs of torn wrapping or other identification.

I spread out the blanket and again checked the box for a hidden note or something identifying. The blanket was in the style of a patchwork quilt with many bright-colored triangles pieced into squares, and looked like it was complicated to knit. On one corner, there was a tiny, tiny little piece of cloth with “S. Barrss” written on it, sewed on by hand. There was a very faint odor of a light perfume, new wool smell, and an even fainter odor of fir or pine. No cat or dog hairs – that eliminated a few potential sources.

Huh. I don’t know any Barrss. So I called the two people I know who would have disposable diaper boxes – Niece, mother of a 16-month-old, and Brother, grandfather of same diaper-wearer – and they claimed to know nothing about it. Then I called my mother because one should always call one’s mother when uncertain what to do, and she knew nothing, either. I emailed the Sailor, and called E. Bear – still no solution. The Actress and the Tall Dude are away for the winter, so I couldn’t blame them. I called the next-door neighbor. “Are you missing a delivery that might have landed at my house?” No. I Googled S.Barrss – a few Barrss showed up in southern NH, but no S, and no further illumination. A couple of days later, the British Car Gal was visiting, and she had no idea, either, though she was aware that there are some Barrss who live down her way, but she doesn’t know any of them.

All we could do was wait and hope someone solved the mystery for us.

It reminded me of the time many years ago when, as a joke, I bought a very naughty cake made by a local baker who specialized in genitally-decorated pastry, and sent it to the Traveler, who was living in Seattle at the time, to arrive on Valentine’s Day. She called me when it arrived and we laughed and shrieked a bit about it, and then I forgot about it; but the Traveler froze it and pulled it out the next year and sent it back to us. When I didn’t call her and shriek and laugh again at her trick, she called me to find out why. Why was because it hadn’t arrived.

She called UPS on her end, I called on my end, and they swore they’d delivered it, and the driver even described the doorway he’d left it by. Of course, it wasn’t my doorway, and it wasn’t a doorway we recognized. I’ve always wondered which neighbor received that unexpected delivery, and assume that since they didn’t call us to say they’d received a package meant for us, they must have opened it. I’ve always wondered if it was a pleasant surprise for them, and did they eat it?

A week or so later, the New Year’s mystery was solved when our very sweet librarian asked the Husband how I’d liked the blanket. She’d come to the house earlier in the day to pick something up and I gave her a quick tour of the house. She enjoyed the many colors our house is painted in, and thought the blanket would go nicely. Which it does!

Thank you, Michelle, for the surprise gift and the New Year’s mystery. Both were greatly enjoyed!

Here are a couple of winter recipes that can help warm body and soul. These are my versions of classic recipes – alter them to fit your tastes. Both are Indian in origin; the spices used in Indian cooking all help warm the body without overheating it, and improve digestion.

Carrot and parsley root harvest; even the veggies are colorful! None of these in the following recipes. Deb Marshall photo

Chai  (chai means “tea”; spiced chai is a lovely winter drink. It can be made with or without black tea, and is usually served with heated milk or cream. Sweeten, or not, to taste. I make a quart or more of the basic brew and keep it in the frig, adding milk and reheating as needed.)

In a 3-qt saucepan, put 2 qts of water and the following spices (or any combination you prefer):

A knob of fresh ginger, smacked with the flat of a knife to mash it slightly

2-5 cinnamon sticks, depending on size of the stick

9 whole black peppercorns

1 tsp whole cloves

1 tsp whole allspice berries

2-4 tsp whole cardamom pods

a grating of nutmeg, a dash of mace

Cover, bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer and cook for about 20 minutes. After 20 minutes, turn off the heat and if you like, steep 2-3 black tea bags (or a well-filled tea ball or two) in the hot liquid for 5 minutes. Then strain the chai and add sweetener if desired (sugar, honey, or maple syrup) and store in frig. This will keep for several weeks. It’s usually combined half-and-half with hot milk (reheat the chai also!); if you prefer to drink it without the milk, you may find you want to water down the chai a little to taste. This is good cold in the summer, also, and isn’t too heating for hot weather.

Kicharee 

This dish takes only about 20 minutes to make once you’ve gathered your ingredients, keeps well in the frig, and freezes well. I make it quite thick, so it can be rolled into balls; or if you take a quantity of it and add broth or water, it can become soup. It’s said of kicharee that if one eats only it, 3 times/day for 10 days, it can cure most diseases. I don’t know about that, but it is a complete vegetarian protein (dried legume + grain), and it’s very good for the digestion: easy to digest, with spices that warm the stomach and improve digestion, very important in cold weather when our Qi goes deep into the body. 

Cooked vegetables may be added afterwards if you choose to make it into soup.

Carefully rinse 2+ cups of Masoor Dal (the pink/red lentils you’ll find in the International isle of the grocery store, the Co-op, or in an Asian market) and let them drain, removing any small stones or chaff that you find. Put them in a 3-quart saucepan. Traditionally, you would then add about 1 cup of white Basmati rice (white for easy digestion); Thai Jasmine also works well, and the dish can be made without rice but won’t be a complete vegetarian protein unless you add some other grain.

Cover the dal/rice mixture with cold water. Rest the tip of your index finger on top of the layer of dal/rice, and add cold water to cover, up to the closest finger joint (about an inch above the dal). Cover it and bring to a boil, then turn down to a low simmer, adding a little salt – about a tsp. Keep an eye on this mixture, it’ll cook faster than you expect! The dal will turn yellow. 

Check it in about 5 minutes, and try to turn it off before the water has completely boiled off – leave it covered while you prepare the spices, more water will be absorbed as it sits. If the water has absorbed too quickly and the dal/rice isn't yet soft, add a little hot water and cook longer.

While this is cooking, you’re going to prepare the spice mixture. For this, you’ll want:

Cinnamon, cloves, turmeric, cumin seed, cardamom, fenugreek, whole mustard seed – preferably brown, fennel seed, ginger, and asafoetida. You can use garlic powder in place of asafoetida if you  prefer.  The quantity of each that you’ll use depends largely on taste, but start with 1 tsp each of cinnamon, cumin seed, cardamom, ginger, fenugreek and fennel seed; 1 T of turmeric; ½ T of mustard seed. You’ll probably want 1 tsp or more of garlic if you’re using that, several tsps of asafoetida if you’re using that instead.

You’ll also need a stick of butter, or the equivalent amount of ghee (butter with the milk solids removed). Don’t try to replace this with margarine, it won’t taste right, besides that there really isn't any margarine that's healthy for us.

In your frying pan, melt the butter or ghee, then add the spices, except the asafoetida, and stir them around until they’re releasing their oils and smelling fragrant. If you’re using asafoetida, add this during the last few moments. Once all is fragrant and your dal is cooked, pour the contents of the fry pan into the the cooked dal and stir in well. At this point, taste it and adjust for salt; if you need more of the other spices, melt some more butter and cook spices in it until fragrant before adding to the dal. Some folks like to add yogurt, also.

To make this a soup rather than the thick paste this recipe will make, use several cups more of water when cooking the dal. 

I often roll the kicharee into bite-size balls for snacking on – it’s very good at room temperature – and if I want soup, put several balls to hot broth or hot water and stir to combine. Kicharee freezes well.

Note: asafoetida, or hing, is used in many Indian dishes in place of garlic or onions, as those two vegetables are considered to be unclean, as they pull toxins out of the soil. Hing is a pungent flavor like onions and garlic, but has a distinctive flavor all its own that isn’t really describable.  It’s very strong smelling – when you buy it, it comes as a powder, usually in a sealed plastic bottle; once you’ve opened it, you’ll want to store the  bottle inside a larger glass bottle or your pantry will smell of asafoetida. 

Readers of Victorian novels may recognize the name – it was used in the West as an ingredient in medicines during that time, and is still currently used by some herbalists to treat lung issues and other ailments.

Happy New Year, everyone! May you all have excellent adventures and interesting mysteries this year!

*Overnight note: I roasted the remaining two pumpkins last night to make soup and freeze the leftover pulp, and saved a heaping bowl full of seeds to put out for the birds this morning. This morning, the bowl was empty except for 9 remaining seeds! Our kitchen mousie, wherever it's nesting, is going to be well-fed for the next few days!

I may need to sic the living room ghoul on the kitchen mousie, which appears to be clad in a cloak of invisibility. Deb Marshall photo

 

Sing Yule

Parking lot hearts, Charley Freiberg photo

Sing we the Yuletide-O

Sing the Yule heigh-ho;

Blows, he, the North Wind cold

Blows the Yule nigh-O.

Yule: an old word, co-opted by Christians to mean Christmas, but originally indicating the season of the solstice. In our time, Yule could be said to indicate the western world’s holiday season that begins at the Celtic New Year - Samhain or Hallowe’en, with the Mexican Day of the Dead two days later and then, in the US and Mexico, Thanksgiving Day (Canada’s Thanksgiving is earlier in October) – and usually encompasses Hannukah and a Muslim holiday or two, and continues through Festivus, Christmas, then Kwanzaa and New Year’s Day, or possibly Epiphany, which is the end of the old 12 days of Christmas. During this time of Yule, the holidays, which come from many traditions, share much: they gather together family and friends, touch us with thankfulness for blessings received, celebrate the coming of the light and the miracle of lights and the lengthening days of light, and the blessing of some special births.

It’s the dark time of year and our spirits need a celebration to look forward to, especially one that involves beauty or majesty or a promise or comfort in the cold and dark of the year – or even the simple thrill of an unknown something wrapped with sparkle and cheer, waiting to be opened. The sun retreats early, dusk falls near 4 pm, and only slowly builds back after the solstice. It’s a time when we long for light and warmth and home, and crave a reason to hope; when the giving and receiving of gifts mirrors the ebb and flow of the gifts the earth bestows. It’s the time of year when ritual and mystery lie around every corner, even in the profane world. 

It’s a time when the lighting of candles, the knock of a stranger at the door, the preparation and sharing of special foods that we make only during the Yuletide season all embody special meanings that reach beyond our daily life and reaffirm our connection with the shadows of those who came before us, those who follow in our footsteps, and all who walk the path of life.

Shines, he, the sun high-O

Shines the Yuletide o’er

Silver light, the moon hangs low

She lights Yule to our door.

Yule is the time for telling stories, for tasting the frisson of the dark world our ancestors lived in and which dances just beyond our daily consciousness. It’s the time for ritually recreating the warmth and comfort that keeps us safe and strong. Can you hear the Wild Hunt streaming by in the darkness? Shut the door, shut the door, poke the Yule log to burn brighter! Does the stranger at the door come bearing a gift? Good luck for the new year, let him in! Will we survive the darkest nights? Light the candles with reverence and hope. Welcome the spirits of the season, with their tales of what has been, what is now, what may be yet to come. Ring out the solstice bells of welcome, pile the bonfires high.

Once a year, we’re given an excuse to make time for friends and family who we otherwise may rarely see, to give bountifully to those in need, to engender cheer and kindness with all we meet, be they friend or foe or stranger. Once a year, we can bring our ancestors back into the living world for a few moments, by telling their stories, sharing our thoughts with them. Once a year, we can leave enmity and strife outdoors, and light our hearts and use our voices to fill the cold air with wishes of peace and joy to all men. Once a year, we can say “Happy holidays” to one and all, and know that men of goodwill will embrace the wish and feel a warm return of the sentiment. 

Once a year, we need not be embarrassed by sentimentality and kindnesses given and received. Once a year, we’re given permission to seek comfort and share joy, without excuses. Once a year – if we’re lucky – the world will turn, the oil will last, the spirits will warn us in time, our ancestors will look upon us benignly, the holy birth will bring us a chance of redemption, the Wild Hunt will pass us by, the Yule log will last long enough and leave a faggot remaining to light next year’s hearth, the first to cross our doorstep in the new year will be a dark-haired man bearing a gift, our families and friends will all be gathered and in peaceful communion with each other, the birth of Messiah and Prophet will bring rejoicing, and the sun will grow strong and steady again.

Once a year, for a night, or a few days, we’ll feel peace. And if we’re lucky, Twitter will be down, and we’ll actually have peace. And please, save me a latke, some corton, and a slice of French-Canadian tourtiere. 

Enter, Yule, upon our floor

And we be poor no more

Sing we the Yuletide –O

Sing the Yule heigh-ho.

Printed in the Concord Monitor, 24 December 2017, as “Light of the Yule.”

Oops! Wrong Member!

Conundrum: Charley Freiberg photo

I want to tell you about the time I grabbed a total stranger’s penis, and held it tight.

I’m a woman of a certain age, and I’ve worked in many professions. One of the first jobs I had, about a thousand years ago back in the Dark Ages, was in a bustling law office in the city. I was the test paralegal – it was a relatively new profession, they’d never had one before, I’d just graduated from college with a legal studies degree, and the partner who did the criminal work thought he could use a paralegal. Perfect! Exactly the job I’d longed for.

It was an interesting and busy office. There were a big handful of young women legal secretaries, all city girls who were tough as nails and awed me with their fashion sense, elaborate hairdos, and brash approach to the office and the lawyers, who I still held a little in awe. There were a couple of young lawyers who concentrated mostly on real estate law, and the two partners who were conservative-looking older men, and another lawyer, the office’s prosecutor, whose office was in the basement. He was also an older man, and to get to the copy machine one had to walk through his office to the supply closet on the far side. 

“He used to be a monk,” one of the city gals told me first day. “He likes to meditate before he has a court appearance. When you walk through his office, don’t look at him. He likes to meditate naked.”

It wasn’t an office secret – everyone in earshot heard these instructions, and it seemed to be an accepted part of weird office culture. One of the young lawyers rolled his eyes, and when I asked, another of the city gals said, “No, he never shuts his door. Just go through whenever you need to make copies.”

Okay! I never got an eyeful, but it certainly made trips to the supply closet an adventure, and whenever the light in his office was more candle than incandescent, I kept my eyes straight ahead and hustled along.

The other partner, I was told, had a box of “candy panties” in his desk. “Don’t worry about it,” my informer told me. “He’ll probably never ask, because he’s interested in one of the secretaries. But if he does, just say ‘No.’ He won’t give you any trouble.” 

I was an innocent. She had to explain to me what candy panties were. I was surprised no one else was disgusted – it was just the way things were, back then. When I reported back to my Dad about my new job, I watched a deep red color rise slowly up his neck to his ears, and I expected an explosion. He sputtered a bit, then said, “Don’t go into that partner’s office if there’s no one else in the office. You should just quit.” 

I didn’t stay long at that office, not because of the sexual tenor, but because they couldn’t figure out the best way to put me to work, and I was too inexperienced to train them. But let it be noted that whenever I had a discussion with that particular partner, half my mind was on his desk drawer and its’ contents, wondering what, exactly, I’d say and do if he opened it. And I stayed because, at the time, it was a sign of a woman’s character to be tough enough to figure out how to handle it; it being the presumption of men in positions of power who assumed it was fair, and not foul, to see what personal perqs they could get from the women around them. I was lucky – none of them ever tested me; but I saw it more than once. 

That wasn’t the time I grabbed a stranger’s penis.

Back in the dark ages, the pendulum was weighted heavily on the side of men in the dance of sex. If a woman was assaulted or raped, or even if she was just whistled at or subjected to leers, inappropriate stories or suggestions, “accidental” touching, and all the other things clever boys believe to be attractive to us or their right to take, it was always the woman’s fault. Somehow she’d encouraged it, or she just wasn’t tough enough to keep the man in hand or ignore the strangers in her face, and that was her problem, not the man’s. If she complained, she wasn’t going to be taken seriously, or if she was, she was going to end up reviled – not a hero.

Flash forward a couple thousand years. The pendulum, as it always does, is swinging in the other direction.  Some men who acted very badly are finally receiving the consequences of their bad acts. Some men, who didn’t actually act very badly, are going to be swept up in a too big consequence. It always happens when the pendulum swings, because Qi, or Karma, or Justice, or whatever you want to call it, will take too much at the far extremes until it finally settles into a balanced place in the middle. So while we can and should worry about and feel sorry for the men who maybe shouldn’t be getting picked off, but should maybe only have their hands slapped hard, we should also be remembering the many, many women who were also picked off even if they weren’t actually assaulted – they had to live with the nastiness of the environment, the uncertainty and the fear, that the bad boys engendered and the good boys didn’t step up and stop. It would help if all men realized that almost all women lock their doors when they’re home alone – and they never, ever can get that out of the back of their minds.

We all need to do some crying together, and then we need to agree that everyone – everyone! – keep their paws off other people and their dirty minds locked inside their own heads and not spewing aloud in public. We need to decide and believe that when we’re in business or politics or otherwise engaged with each other not in a romantic relationship, that we’re all just neuter – not male, not female, and those projecting things some of the neuters happen to have aren’t there for staring at or touching, nor are they an invitation to act badly. 

Nowadays I’m an acupuncturist – basically, a cranky, aging woman with a lot of sharp needles who enjoys stabbing strangers with them. Most the strangers I stab are grateful, because they feel so much better afterwards. I hear a lot about their lives, their fears, their joys, their struggles. There develops a special connection after a few appointments.

All the women patients who want one will ask if they can have a hug, at the end of the appointment. I’ll ask them if I can give a hug when I sense they need that affirming touch. Some of my male patients also ask if they can hug, and I’m always glad to comply, and they are always completely respectful when we do. A hug is a hug, and it can be comforting and close, or close and creepy, and the difference is in the asking and receiving permission, the appropriateness of the circumstances, and the desire of both to hug and not stray into something else. This is the model for closeness outside the realm of the very personal. 

Touch like you’re touching your mother, boys, even if your little mind wants to believe she’s waving a “free gifts here” flag. No one ever got burned having a calm, informational conversation and thinking through the consequences first. Ladies – same to you, if you’re one of the aggressors.

We can choose to forgive. There are some indiscretions that shouldn’t be forgotten or forgiven or in any way rewarded, but we shouldn’t refuse to consider and decide each individually. Not all need to lose their jobs; not all need to be publicly shamed. Quantity and degree of vileness really do matter. Men, we need you to stand up and say, this won’t be tolerated again. We need you to mean it.

When I was still a young pup back in the dark ages, my boyfriend was from Southie. I’d go with him back to the city, but the subway system flummoxed me and the crowds – yow, for a country girl used to empty spaces, it made me very nervous to be on a crowded subway during rush hour, and I’d stay as close to the boyfriend as possible so I wouldn’t get lost. 

One day we were mashed into a train that was literally wall-to-wall bodies. The boyfriend had me stand on the edge facing the door, told me what sign to look for to get off, then stood behind me to try to protect me from bumps and pushes from other passengers. 

Nervous and slightly off-balance as the train bounced along, I reached back to grab my boyfriend’s hand. Imagine my surprise – and that of the stranger who was standing directly behind me – when I grabbed a handful of pants-with-penis, and then held on tight as the train swayed around a sharp corner. 

Oops! Wrong Handful!  Deb Marshall artwork

I realized my mistake when I heard my boyfriend just to the side of me break into a guffaw, and the handful of flesh I’d grabbed seemed to shoot about 3 feet into the air. I let go quick, then froze, and fortunately our stop was reached in a minute. We fell off the train, gasping with laughter, and I can only imagine what the guy I’d assaulted thought.

Sometimes, it really is a mistake.

Originally published 10 December 2017 in the Concord Monitor as "A confession, and a bunch of observations."