Ditalini Press

dP

Home Life HOMEBuzz

Welcome Dear Readers! We were overwhelmed with responses to our October Buzz Reader Challenge: Yester-Shui in 1000 words or less. Our winner embodies the theme of Timeless Treasure and even introduces a Shui Today challenge of her own! Here then . . .

Ripples in Time by Lucy Switzer

It’s been said that the most loving thing you can do for someone is to cover them. To cover them with a gift of a handmade blanket then is so much the better. Mom received such a gift almost fifty years ago. Our family moved from Buffalo to the Chicago suburb of Mount Prospect when I was just a babe-in-arms. Not knowing anyone in the area, Mom’s anxiety eased when greeted after church one Sunday. “Hi, I’m Jo.” Those three words launched a lifelong family friendship. Jo was a good bit older than Mom; her youngest child was the same age as Mom’s oldest, my only brother.

My earliest, most vivid impression of Jo was when she visited one autumn afternoon. As I played on the backyard glider, she approached the garden gate. Noticing from afar the radiant white hair and navy dress, she looked for all-the-world like Grandma Switzer. “Gamma! Gamma!” I called, running on pudge-legs, knowing she would pick me up and hold me for awhile. That was the day she gave Mom the gift, the first time I ever saw the hand-crocheted green rippled afghan. I loved it on sight. All five of us kids loved it.

At first, it was when I wasn’t feeling well that the afghan comforted me most, as Mom covered me. I was allowed to rest in the living room, but had to stay still for hours or even days at a time. I used to count the rows of rich color, ranging from Deep Forest to Chartreuse. I traced the peaks and valleys, now so obvious a metaphor for life itself. How could these zigzags be formed with just ball of yarn and hook? It posed a puzzle-wonderment to my young mind as I examined the soft stitches. I knew then, even at that early age, that I could no more make a life out of anything hard or heavy than I could spend but a moment with one who chooses hard harsh words. Nursing would eventually become my career, replicating the caring comfort Mom gave to me, multiplied.

As I grew older, I’d reach for the afghan, chilled from eating mint chocolate chip ice cream while watching TV with Dad; Fractured Fairy Tales were a guarantee of his laughter’s tears. Later still, I’d sit as close as I could to the stereo listening to the latest album my brother brought home on college break, memorizing the lyrics . . . The Magical Mystery Tour is waiting to take you away . . . Or, during our legendary winters, there I’d be, ignoring my pile of homework, preferring my stack of library finds, literally ‘curled up with a good book’.

Whenever we asked Jo why such a generous gift from the heart, this labor of love, she simply twinkled, “Sometimes no reason is the best reason of all!” Did she have any inkling of how much her gift meant to us, that it would seem to take on a life of its own, creating far-reaching waves? We simply called it ‘The Green Blanket’ as if it was the only green blanket in the house. Just short of becoming Real, it taught us the art of sharing, the stirrings of compassion. Always near-to-hand, it seemed to show up in the background of so many candid photos and Christmas home movies.

A dozen grandkids came along, three of them my own children. They used the well-worn afghan for play, covering each other as they snuggled in laundry basket beds, keeping each other “cozy-warm”. All-so-soon, great-grandchildren are arriving. Now nearing ninety, as Mom and Dad sit for multi-generational photos, ‘The Green Blanket’ is featured a-purpose, the ultimate symbol of family continuity.

I took early retirement last month when our village craft shoppe came up for sale. Yarrow’s Yarn & Yardage is my favorite get-away spot, my place to be where daily dilemmas fade, allowing dreams to focus. Here, infinite possibilities exist. Here, most Wednesday evenings, Jo had volunteered to teach me and a close community all variety of needle arts. For some reason I never attempted a ripple throw. But now I’m sure it’s time.

This morning saw my first customer come in offering an overstuffed box of fabric remnants, yarns, vintage patterns and books; a veritable craftwork cache. “I saw your Grand Opening sign,” she said by way of explanation. From St. Clara’s Eldercare, where Jo had chosen to spend her last year over a decade ago, the box had been found while clearing a storage room. Peering into that box was like peering into the soul of my youth, for there on top was a title I had received when I turned thirteen, Ripples Step-by-Step. Sense-waves tingling, breathing deeply, I opened it daring to find an inscription. I wasn’t disappointed: For Lucy, Always Remember, Today’s Creations = Tomorrow’s Connections! Love, Jo. So, on my momentous day, I heart-clutch a gift I thought long lost, feeling as though Jo had just picked me up and would be holding me awhile. Dear Jo, I'll "always remember . . . "

In honor of artists gone before us, this is our challenge then - let’s make or purchase a handcrafted blanket – a fabric quilt or appliqué, knit or crochet afghan or perhaps, polar fleece tied-fringe throw. Then consider donating it to one of the following more-than-worthy recipients. Let’s create ripples of love – waves of memory!

www.projectlinus.org

www.binkypatrol.com

Post Script: Last year at our annual family Christmas gift exchange, I received a soft blanket. I love it so - who wouldn’t love a blanket?! I am convinced that by no mere chance is it green, although a shade not found in the afghan of yesteryear. Soothing sage, it speaks to me of wisdom, the wisdom of the spirit of love in which it was given. It is not rippled, but I know that gift carries and covers me with unseen ripples of love.

We are please to announce that based on Lucy’s entry, Home Life’s publisher, Ditalini Press, will be releasing Ripples in Time – Little Yarns of Care • Comfort • Co-incidence, 365 Ripples – A•Wave•a•Day Calendar and Mini-Ripples – Baby’s First Year Keepsake. We are calling for quotes and short stories of care, comfort, and co-incidence for possible inclusion.

November Buzz Reader Challenge: The Non-Ego Altar – A Photo Essay in Ten Snaps or less. Theme: Worship ♥ Service

'Til next month, SEE US BE BUSY? YES!

Susy Bee, Reader Liaison Home Life

Culinary Q&A with Geir Ragnar

Greetings, my dear friends. Welcome to my new column for Home Life magazine. I am eager to share my thoughts and views with you and I am delighted to be part of the Home Life community. The initial response to my new column was overwhelming. I received so many e-mails, it was hard to choose the ones to respond to. If your question is not addressed in this issue, fear not; it may be addressed in the months to come. So without further adue, let’s get started with your questions.

The first question I would like to address came from a young lady named Eva. I received her question not from an e-mail, but from a chance encounter at a local park. She asked me if she could ask me her question in person or if she had to send an email. I had her ask me at that time and her question was this:
Q: Geir, when I use butter to cook my eggs, they do not stick to the pan; yet, if I use olive oil, they stick. Why?

A: Eva, as you know, I was initially stumped since I always use butter in my pans to cook eggs. I went home and tried the olive oil to see if I would have the same problems you encountered. I did not. The eggs did not stick to my pan using olive oil. So, the oil is not the problem. What is the issue then? I don’t know. It could be the way you prepare your eggs. I made an omlett, if I would have scambled eggs, I could have had a different result. Also, with oil, you may need to get it hotter, since it has a higher smoke point. Unfortunately, Eva, I do not have a definative answer. All I can say is to try it with the oil hotter or try making an omlett with the olive oil. Perhaps we will meet again in the park someday, and you can let me know your results.

Q: Geir, Slátur, or blood pudding, is my husband’s favorite meal, yet I can not seem to get it as “smooth” as his mother made it. Do you have any suggestions? - Dadda from Hella, Iceland.

A: First of all Dadda, let me say that I am glad that you are making your own Slátur and not buying it from the supermarket. It is becoming a lost art, and frankly, the supermarket varieties just aren't very good. There are a couple of suggestions I can give you that may help. First, if you want your Slátur to have a smoother texture, try chopping the fat fine, so that you can not see the fat when eaten. Also, I believe that it is extremely important to never mix your Slátur with anything other than your hands. The hands are the best tools that you have in the kitchen.

Q: Geir, since you are from Iceland, I just wanted to know your own personal thoughts on Hákarl. - James from Syracuse, NY.

A: Ahh, James, I was wondering if someone would email me about Hákarl. For those of you who do not know, Hákarl (meaning ‘shark’ in Icelandic) is rotten shark meat. It is known for its pungent taste and smell of ammonia. The reason the shark is basically allowed to rot is simple; the shark meat is poisonous before the curing process begins. In Iceland, the predominant sharks are Greenland sharks. Greenland sharks do not have urinary tracts and; therefore, must secrete their urine from their skin. As a result, high amounts of uric acid become so concentrated in the shark that eating even some of it can potentially cause people to vomit blood. By allowing the shark to fully decay and be cured, the acid is removed from the flesh; making it easier to digest.
Now that you know what the dish is, let me say that I have tremendous respect for the tradition of Hákarl and I do eat it. Hákarl looks somewhat normal, like any other fish, but there's something about un-refrigerated meat hanging on hooks, unprotected from the elements that makes some a little nervous. I would not say that it is the single worst, most disgusting and terrible tasting thing I have ever eaten. It is, though, an aquired taste.

Home Life

Tribal Cosmopolitan that is.
Gene pools, movies stars.
Have a heaping helping of our hospitality
in this etheric frameup of time/space non-locality.

Don't I know how to manage my domestic affair!
I can now Google my daydreams and random thoughts that
enter my mental gateway.

I have set work hours during the weekdays.
Limited range of work with in 3 parsecs of homonid planetary base.
I find work disagreeable and agreeable on a binary switch that flip-flops in
a range of femto seconds. Governed by an internal non-reality clock that mimics
the external sensory field in close proximity.

Strange Games. Homelife is a submarine who's hatches are painted and open for FedX
and UPS. These are the prime movers. Mostly, I bellow within the bowels of my sturdy
ship, knowing at best she can withstand a sudden 3 psi overpressure.
Still, I fret and stew about Japanese dive bombers coming in. Although not involved personally
with any of the world wars, the very crust of this Earth hide is magnetically imprinted with
the hostile aggressions carried forth in yon younger day.

My conscious perceptions of my surroundings likened to a thermodynamic inversion.
Whereby I am intricately interwoven into the immediate circumstances.
There remains some small part of me that has merged with Timbuk3 somehow back
in the 1980's.

I struggle to extract my essence from most of the unwarranted ingress of my early
deluvian existence. I have tried cloistering myself in a small room that was packed densely
with fresh hops blossoms as I listened to chanting monks on an Ipod for 16 hours.
I found no resolve, albeit a raw ravenous hunger abetted by depravity turned upon my own soul. Running naked down abandon railroad tracks, I fled my home.

Again, why is natural carbonation non detrimental?
Why is carbonated commercial beverages damaging to the cells?
There is no love in the giant cold CO2 tanks that traverse long asphalt highways.
Dock into mass bottling plants and recharge depleted vessels with carbon dioxide.

My 'honey-do' list reads:

You will be father to all the children
Get everything that you don't want.
Paint and touch up large tribe of unknown Africans
Replace brain filters

I don't quit or stop along the wayside to chit-chat.
My dustpan is always full and my lower back is a hinge for an enormous door.
I am a dutiful creature. I revel in my insipid universe of stadium capacity loneliness.
Have you ever seen a picture of the Sombrero Galaxy?
The whole thing has reached enlightenment, no dark spiral arms.
It demonstrates the static harmonic wave resonance within the universe.
The idea of a linear event, 'big bang' is a mental trap for the wage slaves who
dwell as denizens on dim orbiting globs in makeshift habitats throughout creation.

My heart, a field of battle where all have been hurt and killed ad infinitum.
Looking for a wave of fresh love from the great heart of God while the dead and dying
transform their shape and compositions.
I feel as if I must design an interface device whereby I may communicate with the
ocean stingray. These alien creatures must be keeping tabs on quite a few events
of this planetary saga.

There is no home life. This deception is a medicated travesty of senile banking interests
and shareholding pressure cookers.
Managed compliance optimized by hopeless reflex response of the working class generations.
Moreover, it's become a life behind a dashboard. The construct is based in a distorted mythos
and dependence of members to become compliant or face ridicule and scorn.
There can be no home here if a fellow man is expending milliwatts of his cellular
engine on toil and anguish. The draw of misery quickens all men unto a demise unimagined
across all oceans and space.

Otherwise, I open my home to spiders. Some of which may have shrunken due to lack of
nourishment. I adore a nice tight juicy spider butt. They are wise and creative.
Know who, when and how to bite, if the need arises.
My home, it's a crawl space with eight foot ceilings.

Marc

The Mirabelle Tree

He called me and in between snorting air from his nose like a Taurus, he told me he planted a walnut tree.
Of course I was delighted. I loved nuts maybe even more than fruit because nuts never made my teeth hurt.
I asked him where he planted it and he said he planted it behind the cypress, where the mirabelle tree used to be.
I couldn't understand what he said because this mirabelle tree was standing the day I left.
"Well, where is the mirabelle tree?" my voice contorted with fear.
"I cut it down."
"You mean you cut down some branches?"
I couldn't believe that this sixty year old, dark-barked, corkscrew branched, privacy giving tree could possibly be the victim of such an act and by a man I was supposed to love. And I speak nothing of its gifts of golden, soft mirabelles so sweet, always with one side blushed dusty pink.
"No, I cut it down. It barely gave any fruit last year and besides, it had a fungal attack."
He couldn't have known that it was I who tiptoed downstairs, unlocking the door in the early morning hours to pick as many mirabelles as I could before his mom would wake up. I secretly popped the warm orbs into my mouth one by one, spitting the pits out all over the yard. Should I tell him it provided me with many secret summer breakfasts?
The tears welled up and I cried, the tears running into the receiver. I hung up.
The next day he called back. He said what was done was done, that the walnut tree was doing well and that he was sorry and that he collected mirabelle pits from the lawn and planted them in a pot.
I wasn't consoled at that moment. But the distance made me hurt for him again, so I went back.
I saw that auburn splintered stump next to the walnut tree. I tried to ignore it as we worked the vegetable patch those bright spring days.
I was away again when I got his call.
"The mirabelle tree has sprouted a limb."
I thought he meant the pits he had planted long ago had finally germinated. But he meant the stump, the roots, of the original tree were still alive and that they had sent up a spindly branch to the sun.
And a little place inside me I had bolted shut opened up a crack, this young tendril coiling its way inside, opening me a little more. It whispered, "life."

the future empty swing - a homelife poem

Grasping your hand
And the whoop of your dress
Morning sunshine
Glazing the orchid sky

Posturing the stair upward
So you climb
And slide down

Misty words behind and all around

The grateful grass wets our feet
The finish of the woods
Like a hollow planet filled with wild things

You laugh and stick out your tongue
Snow falls in another world

Here we dance and cover our heads
A warrior and wizard
Together and walking this beautiful yard

Who joins us in the evening
Is anyone’s guess

Our land is open to any
And all guests

There are chairs edging the drive
Ten years down the line
Folded and wrapped with rust

But for now we fly our bodies ‘round
This future empty swing

A Special Message from Home Life

Home Life Presents: Culinary Q&A with Geir Ragnar

Home Life is pleased to announce Culinary Q&A with Geir Ragnar. In this new column, award winning chef and culinary mastermind, Geir Ragnar, will be answering questions from you, the reader.

Geir was born and raised in the seaport town of Akranes, Iceland. At the age of ten, Geir’s father was killed in an accident at the aluminum smelting plant where he was employed. Geir’s mother assumed the role of the primary breadwinner for the family, and worked night and day in order to give her five children a good life. Geir, seeing his mother exhausted after a long day at work, began cooking and preparing all the meals for his family.

After learning traditional Icelandic recipes and experimenting with new ingredients and flavors, Geir knew he wanted to become a chef. Geir attended Le Cordon Blue in Paris, France and completed his culinary education at the top of his class. After graduating from Le Cordon Blue, Geir returned to Iceland and was inspired to open his own restaurant; the world renowned Restaurant Lækjarbrekka.

Now, as a modern Icelandic chef, Geir is known for placing an emphasis on the quality of the available ingredients rather than age-old cooking traditions and methods. As a three-time winner of the annual Food and Fun chef’s competition, Geir Ragnar has established himself as one of Iceland’s most innovative chef’s.

Home Life is delighted to give you the chance to get advice and opinions from one of the most influential Icelandic chef’s of our generation. If you have a culinary question or would like to know Geir’s thoughts on ingredients, techniques, tools, or traditions, please submit your questions to homelife.geirragnar@gmail.com; and be sure to check our next issue to see if Geir responds to your question.

NEW ASSIGNMENT

What a pleasure to read all of our entries from the last topic! Wow!
The new assignment is to write an article for a "magazine" called Home Life.
Let go, be careless and reckless and generate an article based on any aspect of life in the home.
assignment due 26th of august!