Teach the children. We don’t matter so much, but the children do. Show them daisies and the pale hepatica. Teach them the taste of sassafras and wintergreen. The lives of the blue sailors, mallow, sunbursts, the moccasin flowers. And the frisky ones – inkberry, lamb’s-quarters, blueberries. And the aromatic ones – rosemary, oregano. Give them peppermint to put in their pockets as they go to school. Give them the fields and the woods and the possibility of the world salvaged from the lords of profit. Stand them in the stream, head them upstream, rejoice as they learn to love this space they live in, its sticks and leaves and then the silent, beautiful blossoms.
I FINALLY remembered to take a picture – Michael, Mary, & Greg Jesus & Juniper under foot!
When Greg and I first moved to Portland (1998!), and Hawthorne only had a handful of restaurants where we would actually eat, Bread & Ink was among our favorite places, one of those we enjoyed on a leisurely walk. A saunter of about two miles each way, depending upon which view or which house or which garden I felt like seeing that day – Greg never really cared. Their food, up until we left in 2014, was very 90s and always good. Fun cocktails, excellent coffee, nice servers. My favorite had a tattoo of a sparrow on her forearm, after the bible verse, she said, and to this heathen, non bible reader, a bit of new information, and a lovely revelation (Psalm 84:3).
But the reason for my choosing to go was always the Cassata. I remember reading the description the first time: ricotta, candied orange, & chocolate filling, chocolate frosting, and thinking, hmmmm. Could be alright. It really, really was. And so it became my dessert there, one that was not always on the menu, which was always a major disappointment, of course.
I hadn’t had any since leaving Portland (almost six years now – GOSH), and it, like every memory, came bubbling to the surface, out of the blue, and I had to have it. We were hosting Michael and Mary, and I fashioned our menu around it. Problem was, I needed to find a recipe. Type cassata into ye ole search engine and a couple rise to the top, neither of which is the cake I want. Add chocolate, and bingo, at least closer. I ended up making a 1-2-3-4 yellow cake, read through some cannoli filling recipes and got a feel for what I wanted to accomplish, then candied orange peels and made a dark leaning fudgy frosting. It gave me so many problems, but after literally jumping up and down in rage and frustration, it finally adhered to the cake. It wasn’t much to look at before slicing but made up for it, in spades, once it hit the tongue.
I also made a tomato tart, two kinds of crackers, a cheese spread, apricot mostarda, and blueberry gooseberry (home grown!) preserves. Then, for dinner, because this was a marathon, grilled rosemary chicken, grilled asparagus, a salad entirely grown by farmer Greg (two varieties of lettuce, carrot, onion, radish!!).
Of course we put together a puzzle, as we always do, talked and talked, and talked some more, and walked the dogs. The best of times among the best of friends – twenty-six years strong.
Coyotes have the gift of seldom being seen; they keep to the edge of vision and beyond, loping in and out of cover on the plains and highlands. And at night, when the whole world belongs to them, they parley at the river with the dogs, their higher, sharper voices full of authority and rebuke. They are an old council of clowns, and they are listened to.
Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you, the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars and change the world.
Over the past months, watching the inequity of the COVID-19 response, the murder and protests of the death of George Floyd, and listening to fellow white people, strangers and friends alike, respond to it all, I have felt such discouragement at how few understand or are even willing to acknowledge their great privilege.
So, in honor of the passing of John Lewis, one of my heroes, and someone I could gladly listen to all the live-long day, I’ve prepared a brief white privilege primer in hopes of gently nudging those who may need it down the path of greater understanding.
Way back when I was getting my teaching certification (more than 20 years ago!!), I received a publication by Peggy McIntosh that opened my eyes to the wider world of racism and white privilege. I’m not including the entirety, but if you’d like to see it, click here.
These examples of white privilege cross the spectrum. I encourage you to read further and imagine yourself experiencing each one, perhaps on a daily basis or over a lifetime. The struggle is REAL and people are TIRED.
When I am told about our national heritage or about “civilization,” I am shown that people of my color made it what it is. Read about white men dominating the telling of history.
I can go into a hairdresser’s shop and find someone who can cut my hair. Read about discrimination based on hair.
Whether I use credit cards or cash, I can count on my skin color not to work against the appearance of financial reliability. Read about the racial wealth gap.
I can arrange to protect my children most of the time from people who might not like them. Read about lynching and the whitewashing of history.
I do not have to educate my children to be aware of systemic racism for their own daily physical protection. Read about The Talk.
I am never asked to speak for all the people of my racial group.
If a cop stops me, I can be sure I haven’t been singled out because of my race. Read about racial profiling.
I can arrange my activities so that I will never have to experience feelings of rejection owing to my race.
I can be sure that if I need legal or medical help, my race will not work against me. Read about discrimination in healthcare. How it relates to COVID-19.
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