Life. Death. Rebirth. Reconnect. Rinse. Repeat.

Despite the spitting rain, yesterday was a fine day, indeed. Through the magic of social media, I reconnected with one of my close friends from grad school. Over tacos, we spent about ten minutes discussing where we had been and what we’d been doing since the last time we’d seen each other, about 20 years ago. And then we just picked up where we’d left off as if no time had elapsed, discussing more contemporary subjects such as Oakley, her cats, the next generation of relatives, current events and so on. We will do lunch again very soon.

Counter to that, also through the auspices of social media, I was able to get back in touch with another friend of ours from grad school. A few PMs on FaceBook brought us up to speed with one another a few months ago. The bad news is that tomorrow she lays her wife of five years to rest. I never had the privilege of meeting my friend’s wife, but she leaves a legacy of love,  service to children, and a deep commitment to social justice. The card that inadequately expresses my thoughts goes out this afternoon. Somehow, writing F*** CANCER in red ink next to “thinking of you–wishing you peace and strength now and in the days to come ” seems a bit jarring. But were I to share with her with the level of honesty that we shared in the heady days fueled by idealism and bad coffee from the  student center, that’s what I would write.

With age come a few nods to social convention, so I will err on the side of refinement.

Good manners aside, in this season of preparation for winter repose when everything turns brown and the greens that cling to plants seem dull, there’s some sense of rebirth. At least I’m sensing it. The political wreckage of the last year revealed that some 60% (depending on the poll you believe) thinks the White House freak show needs to come to an end yesterday. I take heart from the stories about marches, people using their voices, and small acts of kindness and beauty.

I’ve found myself getting back into the groove of calling officials and choosing to work to get the current congress critter out–he has done less than nothing for anyone who is not a contributor to his campaign. I will do the same for next year’s gubernatorial election. Some feel that we need to ride out this cycle and not let our hearts be too troubled by it. It troubles my heart to sit and do nothing. If a few phone calls and reposts can speed up the cycle, it’s not a bad thing.

The trick is to see dormancy as a phase, but not to stay there.

 

 

Soup Weather

 

 

Image courtesy Old Design Shop

 

We had the first snow this past Sunday. Huge half-formed flakes escorted by grey rain fell from the sky the better part of the morning.

Most Sundays or Saturdays, Oakley and I walk with a friend, but the cold damp weather vetoed it. I did a short yoga practice and made a pot of refrigerator soup.

No need to immerse appliances in boiling water to make stock. There is no real recipe for it. If you want to be fancy, call it soupe bonne femme, the good wife’s soup. Go through your fridge. The half serving of peas, celery that’s gone limp, half an onion from a salad made a few days ago can go in the pot. You found a couple of carrots that have seen better days? Peel, trim, chop, and introduce them to their colleagues in the pot. Cabbage? Chop it finally and add that. Of course you can add potatoes, pasta, rice, whatever suits your fancy.

For stock, I used a generous tablespoon of bouillon paste and water to cover. I also poured in a can of crushed tomatoes. Salt. Pepper. Garlic, either fresh or powdered.  If you want to make it a whole meal, canned white beans or chickpeas will round it out as will leftover bits of roast meat or chicken if you need to use those up.

Simmer until everything is done. The longer, the better in order to blend the flavors. Serve with some good bread or crackers, perhaps some cheese, and enjoy at a table with an outside view. Accompany with gratitude for being inside and having a full belly, and follow up with fruit for dessert.

Dragon Tastes Like Chicken

 

Image courtesy The Graphics Fairy

 

The good news: Hubby aced his midterms. His hard work paid off in aces and spades.

The bad: After the last month (as you may recall, we have two relatives in ongoing life-altering situations that have to play out on their terms), we needed to climb up into our happy place. Bristol Ren Faire closed for the season Labor Day weekend. We missed out on Stronghold Olde English Faire. We also missed Quad Cities Ren Faire. Of course they both fell the weekend just before midterms week.

The constant playing of appropriate music and burning rose and sandalwood incense by the package provided some respite, but we needed something more. So we went to Medieval Times .

And did we have a blast. OK, except for the part where we blew past the entrance and drove a few miles north when we exited the tollway. (If you’re in the Chicago area, the castle’s address is on Roselle Road in Schaumburg, and that’s the exit you’ll take off of I-90. It’s actually on Central. You’ll have to turn east into the office park just north of the tollway.  The combination of fog and the high berm between the tollway and the property made the building fade out. Very Halloween-esque.)

Digression over. On to the show.

We lined up, had our tickets checked, and collected our color coded seating assignments. On the way in, we met one of the stars of the show, Liberty the falcon, as she calmly perched on her trainer’s gloved hand. Once in the lobby and past stands with mementos and adult beverages, murals and maps illustrating Spain’s reach at that time gave guests a very brief history lesson, just enough to entice into maybe reading up on it a little more.

Finally, one of the lords of the realm called to the crowd to start the seating section by section. Easily done, since paintings of the knights’ coats of arms decorated the areas just above the doors. The sections encircle the arena where the jousting and combat take place. I don’t think there’s a bad seat in the house.

Once seated, the servers (either a serf or a wench) began bringing food and drink. Water or pop? Water, please. Dragons’ blood soup? Yes. It resembled tomato basil, but I won’t tell if you won’t.

And then it grew dark. The spotlight came up by the arena’s entrance where mist floated up from the floor as the show’s narrator spoke to the relationship between humans and horses throughout time, the mist parted. There stood an Andalusian, bold and big, gleaming silver.

If we’d had to leave then, I would have been fine with it.

Obviously, we didn’t.

As the story unfolded (a joust arranged by the king for our entertainment interrupted by a representative of a foreign power attempting to trade a horse for the princess of the realm), the servers made their way as unobtrusively as possible with the pans of roasted young dragon (tasted and looked a lot like chicken), dragon eggs (resembled spiced potatoes), and corn (that looked and tasted like, well, corn). Add in the coffee and the lemon poundcake and we were both very satisfied.

Most importantly, for the first time since the last Ren Faire, we had fun. I came away inspired to learn more about horses, and more about Spain–as with many Ren fans, I’ve been slanted towards the British/Celtic side, but there’s so much more out there to read.

Between that and the “Tudors” DVDs, we should be occupied until the first weekend after July 4 when the call “Open wide the gates!” rings through the air at Bristol again.