Is There a Traditional Thanksgiving?

Presidential Pardons

With 2 months to go in his catastrope of a presidency, Dubya took a swat at one of his final acts in authority; presidential pardons. He granted clemency to 14, the most egregious of whom was Leslie Owen Collier found guilty of unlawfully killing three bald eagles, and using pesticide in hamburger meat to kill coyotes and other animals, including the bald eagle! This guy sounds like Sarah Palin's high school boyfriend. But disregard for the sanctity of animal life isn't the only thing Dubya advocates. (Warning if you click on this link as it depicts the aerial slaughter of wolves condoned by Alaskan Governor Sarah Palin). In addition to pardoning acts commited against wildlife, Bush also pardoned drug offenders, embezzlers and tax offenders.

The drug offenders were of particular interest. Or as Wonkette says: "Everybody else who got pardoned or released from prison was some kind of coke dealer who Bush knew “back in the day.”

And this from a Christian president. Riiiighht.

Shaking Your Fist at God

A former Theology professor used to expound the necessity for humans to engage with God in anger. Now, raging against divinity isn't advised, just ask the ashy remnants of Soddom and Gommorah. However, to the professor's point, reaching out to God - even in anger - constitutes the seminal core of Judeo-Christian dogma; relationship with the divine.

Taking this to heart I found myself shaking my fist to the cloudless heavens last night. Pray tell why you ask? For the substantial decrease in my retirement fund at the demise of Lehman Brothers. For health issues rendering me battered and despondent. For financial instability stemming from dwindling career options. For an upcoming landmark birthday that I would be spending in the Northeast and not on a tropical beach, roasting my toes whilst sipping a Margarita. For all these dirges I voiced my displeasure at the heavens. And shook my fist. I actually shook my fist, which must have looked completely silly to my neighbors. What IS that girl doing?

Remarkably I wasn't reduced to a pile of ashes from my rantings. Which befuddled me until my friend Lourdes shared her philosophy on this topic, as she shakes her fist at God on quite a frequent basis. (And no, she's never been singed into ash, so I'm guessing she hasn't pushed them too far yet). She conjectures the Gods need folks like us. Not to target practice their lightning bolts upon, but for a far more interesting purpose. She thinks, (and I devoutly endorse) that the universe needs us for pure amusement. Imagine their glee upon seeing flesh and blood mortals, asking for (or even worse) demanding our way. Isn't she cute? They must say in galatic-speak. Won't she hurt herself if she keeps yelling?

So next time you're driven to celestial ranting, remember the role you just might be playing; amusement for the Gods. And that, quite likely will elevate your mood. BUT, if you're struck down by lightning, take it up with the big guys. Don't blame me.

Now What?

So America finally, and successfully voted an Agent of Change, aka Barack Obama. Errr, now what? The man, for indeed that's all he is, inherits the US presidency when America herself has hit an all time low in terms of: financial stability, environmental fitness, foreign policy, public perception - domestic & global.

So what's a change agent to do, albeit a charismatic Leo who clings to the audacity of hope? One who shatters low expectations the previous presidency established concerning matters as mundane as literacy. One proactive forum charges the President Elect to FixThisBarack.com. The website offers policies for Obama to attack, refreshingly absent of Big Oil, National Security & Pharmaceuticals. Examples include: Repeal the Patriot Act, Legalize Gay Marriage, Recall Troops From Iraq, Fund Stem Cell Research. Make your own suggestions.

The Kitchen Nazis

My friend Lourdes gave me this oddly flattering moniker; the kitchen nazi. When she first used it I found myself appalled. The word kitchen conveys warm images of whislting tea kettles, heat emanating from oven & stove and best of all, companions, be they wee little doggies or wine-sipping friends who cluster about the coziness in the most important room of the house. Contrasted with the gut-searing connotations of the word nazi, there doesn't appear to be any connection. Regardless, I came to understand what she meant.

She means the kitchen is such an important location to me, I tend to exert my considerable power to maintain and sustain it. Take for example my recent kitchen renovation. I could have opted for a simple, inexpensive overhaul of the cabinets, new counters appliances and left it at that. But no. I needed, nay, demanded the demolition of a few non load-bearing walls. I demanded the removal of perfectly decent, albeit ugly, green subway tile popular to say, the late 1950s. And I had to have the walls painted the perfect warm yellow that I painted them not once, but twice.

Still I thought kitchen nazi was a bit of an overkill. Until my parents came to visit. I might be known to my friends as a woman who loves to cook. But I happen to know for a fact that my mother spends 95% of her time in the freaking kitchen. Not sipping wine or chatting on the phone while relaxing on a plush chair. She spends every moment of her kitchen time COOKING. So when she and Dad arrived for a visit her first activity was to unload their Cambry of the 3, count em, 3 coolers of food she made for her visit.

Now I'm not only NOT a bad cook, Dad actually prefers some of my cooking to Mom's. So they both know I'm perfectly capable of their care and feeding. However, Mom felt compelled to cook 2 weeks' worth of food in preparation for their visit to me. While she unloaded her basket of goodies she managed to shattered a personal record of hers. She broke a major kitchen component within 30 minutes of arriving to my brand new renovated kitchen. 30 minutes is all it took to dismember my fat, adorable soap dispenser. Did I mention it was part of an expensive faucet set that can't be replaced without uprooting the entire undermounted faucet set?

But that was just the beginning. My Le Creuset pot in a fabulous sunset orange has been used only 3 times since I bought it last year. Mostly because it weighs a freaking ton and can not be easily lifted or cleaned without the use of a backhoe. But Mom found a way to lug the darn thing and cook all sorts of goodies in the stew pot. Instead of appreciating her appreciation of my cookware I grew sullen and jealous. This is MY cookware and I should be enjoying it.

That's when I began to understand the notion of kitchen nazi at a deeper level. I want to control all aspects of my kitchen. Some might say, even of my home. I recall the incident in which I was given the nickname Kitchen Nazi. My friends were sharing a brunch and everyone brought some item. I brought vegetable lasagne in a bechamel source and happily it popped it in the oven to heat. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a vase filled with flowers. They were lovely but had been taken directly out of the plastic sheeting and into the vase. The stems needed shearing, stray fronds needed to be clipped, and the flowers needed to be arranged in a complementary color scheme. Do I did this. To the laughter of the entire group. They didn't even attempt to arrange the flowers they informed me since they knew I would do so anyway.

Hence the emergence of the Kitchen Nazi. But control is one of the characteristics that is not tolerated well by the universe. So I found out during my parents' latest visit. My kitchen soon began to smell like my Mom's; which means the scent of curry permeated every nook of the kitchen. My spa bathroom, chic and comfortable smelled like combination of sandalwood & Avon Skin So Soft bathoil. Finally, my bedroom, fitted with sexy bedding & lush pillows began to reek of Ben Gay.

Good thing I'm not a bedroom Nazi.

My New Crush

I've got a new crush. And it's not on a silly boy band member or a member of the Heroes cast.

This guy is crush-worthy in the same way MacGyver was. He might not build a bomb with tube socks and a squirt of toothpaste, but he does save the day. William McDonough is an architect, designer and professor practicing ecologically, socially, and economically intelligent architecture and planning in the U.S. and abroad. What does that mean? What does he do? His book Cradle to Cradle, Remaking the Way We Make Things, is a "manifesto calling for the transformation of human industry through ecologically intelligent design". Experience for yourself the elegance of his ecological vision.

"Though human industry in the past 150 years has resorted to brute force rather than elegant design, the making and trading of goods can still be a wellspring of creativity, productivity, and pleasure. Think of the thriving marketplaces that have enlivened the world's great cities, the cherished objects and materials that transform shelter into soulful dwelling. These need not be sacrificed to protect our forests, rivers, soil and air.

"Indeed, human industry and habitations can be designed to celebrate interdependence with other living systems, transforming the making and consumption of things into a regenerative force. Design can perform and preserve the extravagant gesture -- in the marketplace, in the human community, and in the natural world."

- William McDonough and Michael Braungart, *Cradle to Cradle: Remaking the Way We Make Things*

You can offer your thoughts in the Cradle to Cradle forum.

My hero. Sigh. Excuse me while I swoon in eco-utopian-anti-industrial-save-my-planet geek love.

Masters of the Universe

I used to date a Bond trader who called New York the 'center of the universe'. And it felt like it - 10, 5 even 2 years ago. However that universe collapsed upon itself this weekend, on the eve of the wine full moon. The giants of Wall Street - Bear Stearns, Merrill Lynch, Lehman Brothers toppled in dizzying succession. In the past 2 weeks the government took over Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. Tuesday past, the Federal Reserve announced it would loan $85 billion to my employer (so far) AIG, giving the government a 79% governing share in the stock.

What the hell's going on? Says Daniel Altman of the Herald Tribune:

These are big, significant changes. Though they may be signs of trouble in the short term, they have to be healthy in the long term. The financial industry, as we have learned in the past year or so, had some very deeply ingrained bad habits. A cleansing was in order.

Interestingly enough, many finance pundits while staggered by the events of a cataclysmic September predict the same future: It's time for change. Roger Cohen, professor and financial expert offered this insight in his article The King is Dead.

So that's what "financial killing" really means. No better illustration exists of a culture where private gain has eclipsed the public good, public service, even public decency, and where the cult of the individual has caused the commonwealth to wither. That's the culture we've lived with. It's over now. Some new American beginning is needed.

The spiritual community has it's own take on the economic events. Andrew Harvey, founder of Sacred Activism (loosely defined as grounded spiritual vision is married to a practical and pragmatic drive), offered this in an interview with Grace Cathedral, an Episcopalian Church in San Francisco:

Given the current economy and state of world affairs, many people feel they're undergoing some sort of dark night.

See, the power that is doing this to us is coming towards us simultaneously with terrifying destruction and extreme grace and prosperity. The destruction is, in fact, a form of that extreme grace. It's quite clear that humanity is now terminally ill, and can only be transfigured by a totally shocking revelation of its shadow side. And this is what we're living through, these shadow sides exploding in every direction because we have done nothing but betray the sacred in us.

We have lacerated the sacred in others. We have betrayed the sacred in an orgy of fundamentalism. We have brutalized the sacred in nature. We are now terminally destructive.

So only an almost terminal destruction that reveals to us the full extent of our responsibility in this destruction can wake us up. And that is what is happening, and it will get worse. It's bound to get worse. But it is only being done to us for our own redemption.

I'll try to remember that as I review my Lehman Brothers and AIG stock shares and contemplate a postponed retirement. Or recalculate my financial investments as Jon Stewart so adroitly recommends:

For anybody out there who’s been living in a cave: congratulations. You’ve apparently made the soundest real estate investment possible. (9/23/08)

Throwaway Summer

August was a throw away month. My house existed in a constant state of chaos: a kitchen renovation estimated to take 2 months dragged on for 4. My house was never devoid of visitors, ergo never bereft of slamming doors, smoked cigarettes tossed in planters or the withering and unmown lawn, the blare of video games, deliveries of kitchen appliances, chairs, sofas, or just plain yapping gums in the already mentioned unfinished kitchen. I confirmed a universally held belief with painful lucidity this summer: the kitchen is the heart of a home.

One day when all my guests had left I sat in my newly renovated kitchen. It looked exactly as I envisioned it. Spacious, rustic yet dramatic, gorgeously lit in sunlight and in candlelight. Equipped with stainless steel appliances that somehow maintain a homespun ambiance. And most importantly, pretty. And yet, yet it felt oddly cold. The melted butter-hued walls captured the exact mood I desired: the sun setting on a Tuscan kitchen. The paintings and mahogany framed mirrors hung to my specifications, rooster-themed trivets and jugs propped strategically for maximum color and textural impact.

Still my kitchen felt oddly alien. Matter of fact my entire house felt foreign and intrusive, like a man I was sleeping with and suddenly didn't know. I walked listlessly through the house, dreading for the first time much sought after silence. I took solace playing music that fit my mood: Sarah Maclachlan, Alison Krauss, anything by the Judds. I found particular comfort in A Home by the Dixie Chicks.

The state of self perceived alienation continued for a long week, lonely despite visitations from dependable and supportive friends. Unable to bear the distressed expression on my dog's face I took remedial measures. No I didn't burn candles or smudge my house with a burning sage stick while playing Basia. (Ok, ok, I might have some a bit of this...) I went for a more direct and pragmatic approach, which in itself is a remarkable accomplishment for a woman with Pisces rising AND Pisces moon. I spent one entire weekend assessing the state of the why-does-this-feel-like-a-house-not-a-home residence. As usual, logic could not be confounded. Matter of fact, it won out in aces.

Case in point, I own a gorgeous, comfy, energetically sympatico house. So the lawn might be shaggy from lack of mowing. And yes, the rose bushes need trimming, as do the Lilac and Rose of Sharon shrubs. The bedroom needs to be repainted and the tile laid around the jacuzzi.

But the house is still MY house as much, if not more than it's ever been. Difference being the absence of a human body. But given my extensive family and prelidiction for throwing dinner parties it will not be a party of two for any period of time. It will certainly be filled with new energy, new memories and yes, men.

Ah, the men.

Seasons of Upper Greenwood Lake

Wrote this piece a while ago but never posted. If you can think of pubs interested in this type of nature commentary, let me know.

Summer on Upper Greenwood Lake and my beloved takes me to his parents’ summer home in Northern New Jersey. Night cloaks the pink and warm blue air. BBQ for breakfast. We dock the power boat and take wild rides on the jet ski. The dog hunts chipmunks and dresses himself in the stench of anything dead and decaying. Finger sized bats dark through the lowest tier of tree branches guided by the murmur of late bees and mosquitoes fat from a days suckling. The lake warms to a temperature that ducks, dogs and women find enjoyable. All find reason to dawdle in the late day water, unmarred by the chop and whirl and whine of electric motors. At night fireworks ascend the sky in bursts of white, red and blue for no other reason than to give the stars a break from illuminating the sky.

It’s Fall - herons, gulls, geese gorge on the seaweed and algae in preparation for their long migrations. The sky is so blue it hurts your eyes. The water of the lake becomes so deep and still you can see fish surfacing, causing softly undulating waves. Solitary ducks float languidly by the dock, honking hello to kayakers and fisherman in silent hydrafoil cruisers. I help plant fruit trees - one cherry, one sugar pear. We scavenge local nurseries for late perennial bargains of clematis, creepers and spring bulbs. We pick wild purple salvia from the sides of the road.

Winter and the lake freezes in time for Christmas. Stumps of old trees breech the surface giving the appearance of an antler graveyard. Shorn of protective foliage the trees expose homes that huddle on small hills, trying to shield themselves from the wail of wind and bluster of cold. Fishermen trek on the ice, drilling 7 inch holes wide enough to pull out striped bass and trout. Smoke escapes chimneys. We gather by the fireplace to grill nuts and roast toes. The pine cones hiss and crackle as gas pockets escape from the tiny dried pyramids. We pore over seed catalogs - planning floral spectacles for the next year. The neighbor builds a magnificent snowman 3 balls high and 5 feel tall. To accompany the snowdude he fashions a snow dog after his Shi Tsu - Petey. The snow dogs looks so lifelike my dog trots over for a sniff and adds a shot of yellow to the snow dog's leg. The wood ducks wear black oily coats from lack of sun and water.

Spring - crusty ice begins to melt. Daffodils spring between alpine creepers like Mountain Laurel and Dew Drops. Early ducks scout prime real estate – a large boulder, a swath of raspy grasses, an alcove within easy reach of the lapping waves - staking claims that will last the year. The surface of the lake, devoid of human and animal life begins to show signs of rebirth. Fisherman edge carefully over the thinning ice, reluctant to succumb their sport to frozen water. Streams of melted ice trickle from the highland cliffs, carrying earth and spore that will nourish the petite lake ecosystem. Forsythias poke golden flames of petal, despite the wind and chill. Bears forage at night to feed their resuscitated bellies and offspring. Eagles soar high in the sky, keen to any movement. They mistake your little dog for a rabbit and you have to drag the little guy indoors before piercing talons attempt to hoist him skyward as an avian meal. You leave the lake reluctantly, deriving solace only in the knowledge that you will return soon.

© April 2005

This is the summer I've endured so far

The demolition of my kitchen.
Dining al fresco everyday, morning, noon and night.
Dog sitters unaccustomed to my tough Irish kid.
Hiring a landscaper since I haven't been able to garden for the first time in my life.
Delightful Polish visitors.
Not cooking for 60 consecutive days.
A flooded kitchen not once, but twice in the same weekend. On brand new hardwood floor.
The anguished face of your dog as you entertain a man that is not his father.
Adorable visiting lesbians from Australia.
Not one but two eclipses in Leo.
Plant sitting for friends as they depart for a month's stay in Italy.
A white old refrigerator sitting in my living room for 3 months.
Power tools strewn about my house; on the makeshift tables, in buckets piled high with assorted construction gadgets, on the dogs sofa (and yes he has one!)
Learning what meine Liebe means.