I’m no sourpuss, but I am having a love affair with lemons. Ever since we vacationed in Sorrento, Italy I have been obsessed with lemons. I was in juicy heaven walking among the lemon groves and eating lemon zested bits of fish and homemade limoncello. I’ve been trying to recreate an amazingly simple vinaigrette we had at Alex’s restaurant in Piano di Sorrento that was drizzled over the most peppery arugula I have ever tasted. Raymond’s arugula grown on his little urban farm is the closest I’ve found to that green goodness Stateside. I wish I could have my very own grove of lemon trees, or at least one little fruit bearing tree. My kitchen is always full of lemons, and a bowl of lemons perched on my table brings me simple pleasure. Mac Daddy gave me a glittery glass lemon ornament that hangs over the kitchen sink. The soap and hand lotion in my kitchen are lemon scented (the real deal, not the phony stuff that smells like Pledge). I even have a lemon page on Pinterest called Pucker Up.

As you can imagine, this time of year when all the citrus rolls into the market makes me giddy. I have a particular fondness for Meyer Lemons. They are tart yet sweet with a certain honey quality, a culinary metaphor for a certain someone I know. Ahem.

Meyer You Lookin’ Fine

2 ounces vanilla vodka (I’m partial to Stoli Vanil.)
Juice of one meyer lemon
1/2 teaspoon of agave sweetener
2 ounces prosecco

Put some ice in a cocktail shaker. Add vanilla vodka, juice of meyer lemon, and agave sweetener. Shake it up. Pour into a martini glass. Top with prosecco. Garnish with a little wheel of fresh lemon.

When life gives you lemons, make cocktails!

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I’ve been touched by breast cancer. I don’t know a single person who hasn’t been.

I’ve raised a lot of money for breast cancer research. My feet have walked many miles racing for the cure. I stopped short of buying lots of pink crap because the pinkwashing is akin to consumer brainwashing, and I never understood how a pink box of macaroni with questionable ingredients that can be linked to cancer would support cancer research. I trusted Susan G. Komen, the motherlode of breast cancer research, prevention, and advocacy. I trusted that organization to be responsible stewards of women’s health. I didn’t realize it was a scam, a stealth operation to push a conservative agenda that perpetuates the denigration of women. My body, my personal rights, and my choices are not your political pawns. I don’t tell you what to do in church, and my body is my temple so grant me the same respect.

The well coiffed manicured ladies over at Susan G. Komen claim they can no longer grant Planned Parenthood any money for cancer screening and prevention because the organization is under a witch hunt federal investigation regarding the use of federal dollars to pay for abortions. This is bogus, yet another conservative right wing tactic to draw attention to issues that are not salient and completely misconstrued. Republicans are good at brainwashing and pinkwashing alike. Let me be clear, Planned Parenthood is not all about abortions. And while I’m at it, I’d like to point out that pro-choice advocates are not pro-abortion. There is a vital difference that is more than semantics. Furthermore, I believe that abortion should be a safe and legal CHOICE. If you don’t agree, don’t have one. 

I would be remiss to not share what I’ve learned over the past couple days.

Here’s a breakdown of how Planned Parenthood spends its budget (Source: Washington Post)

Susan G. Komen claims its move was not politically motivated, even though it’s politically charged. Yet Karen Handel, a senior VP at Komen retweeted, and subsequently deleted, this tweet:

A lapse in judgement for sure in the midst of a PR crisis that will be a graduate school case study for years to come.

And lastly, the leaders who want us to think of them as martyrs at Susan G. Komen stand by their claims that they will not grant funds to any organization under federal investigation. So how do they explain the $7.5 grant to Penn State Milton S. Hershey Medical Center? Penn State is the subject of a federal investigation, no?

I’ve taken off my rose colored glasses.

My friend Miss Lori shared five organizations that support breast cancer research, treatment, and prevention. I’m sure any of these fine groups would welcome your donation. We can’t let this demonstration of gross hypocrisy detract our energy away from what really matters. After all, that’s a masterful Republican tactic. We can rise above that.

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I’m over at The Stir today dishing dirt and making some noise about Newt Gingrich. Deal thinks his name sounds like “Grinch” or “Gettin’ rich.” He’s pretty savvy for a six-year old, eh?

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On Monday, Chinese New Year, I took Bird and Deal to the Asian market to get some barbecue pork buns, a family favorite, and some Chinese candies. We, rather I, am all about whooping it up for every holiday and silly reason, so of course we had to have Chinese fare for dinner. Deal even takes Chinese in school so he was filling us in on all of the Year of the Dragon deets (in English so our poor monolingual ears would understand).

We walked around the market oohing and aahing at all the red lanterns and exotic goodies screaming out from the shelves. I suddenly felt the need to have 700 chopstick rests and soy sauce dishes in every novel shape and brightly glazed color. We walked through every single aisle ogling the array of food. A few things made their way to my basket, like fresh chilis in oil and a bag of fresh fortune cookies. I fondled many sauces and crinkly bags of noodles but left them for another time. The fish department is always a highlight of this market so we moseyed over there to see what was iced up in its scaly bug-eyed splendor. Deal was happy to find no live crabs dancing on the floor like the last time he was there. Bird was bummed about that because he likes to see his little brother squirm. The meat department was a lesson in anatomy, and I was pleased to not see any livestock male parts wrapped in plastic. I wasn’t prepared to answer questions about size.

The produce department was a safer bet, with most items ranking among things we had eaten, would eat, or recognized. We carefully chose some magazine perfect baby bok choy, chili peppers, cilantro, daikon radishes, apricots, and kumquats. None of us had tried a kumquat before so we decided to give it a go. When Bird and Deal saw the marble size bright orange orbs piled up they couldn’t resist reaching out to touch, and for once I didn’t stop them. A handful of kumquats is a tactile pleasure. Bird held a few in his hand and asked, “Can we get some, Mommy? I want to try these.” Deal chimed in too, repeated asking, “Can we? Can we? Can we?” as if it were a three-foot long pixie stick he was selling me on. This is the kind of thing that makes me swoon. I love that my sons are eager to try new things. They are great eaters and seek pleasure in the adventure. I love those boys.

So we bought the kumquats.

We looked up online how to eat those little orange orbs. Wash, massage, eat. No peeling. Eat those suckers whole like grapes and spit out the seed. The first one was bitter. But the next one was sweet, and they are juicy buggers for being so tiny. They suited our need for adventure, and we could say we tried a new thing. As soon as I tasted my first kumquat I knew it would be better in a cocktail than as a snack.

But somehow “kumquat” and “cocktail” in the same sentence sound frisky. I mean, really, kumquat sounds like a dirty word, right? Am I alone here?

Tactile Pleasure
4-5 fresh kumquats (plus 2 more for garnish)
1 teaspoon turbinado sugar
2 ounces vodka

In a cocktail shaker, muddle 4-5 kumquats with turbinado sugar. Add vodka and ice. Shake it up. Strain into a rocks glass filled with ice. Plop in a couple extra kumquats to make it look pretty.

Since it sounds dirty, it better look pretty.

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It’s easy to get mired in the negative. It’s hard to not collapse under the weight of the world sometimes. There is bad news all around us, and yet another heated political season doesn’t help. What I’ve learned is that Stupidity + Hatred = A Toxic, Terrifying Combination. There’s venomous vitriol all over the web, and just one look at troll comments on an article about trying to eradicate childhood hunger is enough to make me chase after Alice into the rabbit hole.

Sometimes it’s easier to hide.

Sadness lurks as we think about two little boys who will grow up without the arms of their mommy wrapped around them. Sadness still looms for two little girls who lost their daddy and will remember him through their mommy’s poignant words. Sadness is making my heart heavy and my sleep meager. Sadness’ veil has enshrouded me, and I am having a difficult time finding joy. Sadness is a weight that compromises my posture and wrecks my outlook, not to mention my complexion. Sadness is making me forget to choose happiness.

The reality is that I have an abundance of joy. I have health and happiness and a home. I feel guilty about it sometimes, which leads me swirling down that rabbit hole. I have much to value and welcome but jarring reminders that jolt me into realizing what I do indeed take for granted. It’s difficult to admit the small stuff turns me into Mommy Dearest. But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that. I yell and lose my patience and whine about crap. I get lost in the heated battle of parenting sometimes and forget to take note of what a treasure I have. I am trying really hard to be more mindful of that. I do need reminders, and I can’t beat myself up for getting lost in life’s tangles. Being a mother might equate to being a super hero, but I’m still human. I can’t be my own worst critic when I need to be my own champion. I can’t let sadness take away my joy.

I won’t.

Today, I leisurely walked my sweet Lark on a 70 degree day in late January. The fog gave way to sun, and the smell of spring was teasing my senses. Mother Nature has uncanny timing. Today I wove my sadness into a tight little tuft to tuck away and let simple joy filter into my soul. I walked a little straighter and felt present as the sun beamed onto my bare arms. I pet my pup, and he exhaled a contented sigh, looking up at me with those Hersheys Kiss eyes.

Today I found peace.

Today I found joy hiding in unexpected places.

Today I stopped to breathe.

Today I count my many blessings and hunger to hold them close.

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Etta James died today.

I’m no music aficionado, and most people would say my taste in music sucks. I am admittedly stuck in the 80s and still like to get my groove on to cheesy 70s tunes. Andy Kim, anyone? However, I was one of those music club suckers back in the day. I filled out the forms in the back of Parade in the Sunday paper to get 12 free CDs from Columbia House and BMG. I was recently divorced (oh, another story for another day, folks) and living in my very own apartment near downtown Minneapolis. I was living alone for the first time in my life and I had some adjustments to make. I had splurged on a little Aiwa bookshelf mini stereo with two cassette decks and a CD player so I could easily make mix tapes (a staple for our road trippin’ back then). I was under the tutelage of my musicologist friend Tony while building my CD collection. I had an ample stack of what he coined “bad” music and was trying to diversify my tunes. I figured I was in need of some grown up music, the sort of thing I’d have playing while reading the Sunday paper with my two cats curled up at my toes. And so began my search for Sunday music.

I opted for some classical music, thinking it might make me feel seem erudite. I bought some jazz and actually remembered some artists from the history of jazz class I took in college where I spent most of my time doing the daily crossword puzzle in the Cavalier Daily. Something struck me to try some Etta James. I needed some female representation in my growing collection (Bananarama wasn’t buying me any street cred as a newly independent single woman living the life of Mary Tyler Moore). I listened to Etta James’ passionate trills on days I was learning to be by myself. She conjured up emotions I wasn’t comfortable confronting and she made me feel like I should sit up straighter and hold my shoulders back to make myself a force.

Etta James crooned to me Don’t Cry Baby and made me stand up for myself and not be a Pushover. I listened to Etta sing in my little apartment and curled my slippered feet underneath me while I sat on my preppy blue plaid couch with candles lit all around, cup of mint tea in hand. I scribbled in my journal and flipped through Southern Living magazine, missing home. I discovered a sense of quiet calm and learned that there are worse things to swallow than pride.

Thanks for shaping me into a stronger, more confidant woman, Etta James, especially when my skies were bursting with Stormy Weather.

Dark n’ Stormy

1 1/2 – 2 ounces Goslings Black Seal Rum
8 ounces ginger beer
Squeeze of fresh lime

Pour rum over ice in a tall glass. Top with ginger beer and squeeze in lime. Stir. Sip. Sit up straight.

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Let me begin by laying the foundation here. I am no hater. I love the internet.

While I don’t support SOPA/PIPA, I didn’t jump on that internet bandwagon yesterday. I wrote to my senators, linked to their contact information on Facebook and Twitter, and sat back bewildered. People in my circles and streams were waxing about putting an end to SOPA. People of all stripes raged with passion and action and used their voices. I respect that and I admittedly get a rush when I exercise my civic duty. I love the internet the way it is and I don’t support the government tinkering with it. I want the government to stay out of my computer and out of my body. But that’s a different topic…

I was floored by all the SOPA protests and blacking out of avatars and websites. I don’t disagree, mind you. I was simply stunned because it was the only time I can recall people of all political, religious, social leanings banding together with a unified voice that spoke to the greater whole. So often people grease their vocal chords to preach about something that is of interest to themselves or a select group rather than society or a community. Most of the time people make themselves at home on a soapbox it’s about an issue that helps an individual. People by and large vote the same way, for individual gain or to protect infdividual rights. Our local school system is a clusterf*&# right now because too many people sat back thinking they were insulated from change and/or didn’t see reason to advocate against change that would harm others. It’s easier to protest and block passage of change than it is to reverse a ruling, so many of the people who didn’t act over the last two years just might be screwed. The small, devoted few cannot move mountains, and enough people didn’t engage when the battle was at its bloodiest. 

My point is this: Yesterday’s SOPA protest banded people together on common ground for common good. There was outrage, drive, energy, and verve unlike anything I’ve seen. My social media streams were teeming with SOPA messages and fighting words. My mind was saturated with SOPA/PIPA.

And it all made me really quite sad.

What if we all used our voices in outrage to put an end to poverty and support education? What if we shed our political colors in favor of purple, a blend of red and blue, so we could work together for common good? What does it say about a society that is outraged about the internet but not outraged about hungry children?

Consider this:

• 16.4 million children in the United States, 22.0 percent of all children, lived in poverty in 2010.
• More than six million of these children were under six years old. I happen to know one.
• Of the 16.4 million poor children, nearly half, 7.4 million, lived in extreme poverty (family income of less than around $11,000 annually)
• North Carolina annual expenditure per prisoner: $28,871
• North Carolina annual expenditure per public school pupil: $ 7,396

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Susan’s story inspired me to participate in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. I had just started blogging and serendipitously discovered Susan’s blog, Toddler Planet. Our boys are about the same age so her stories resonated with me. I immediately loved her voice and candor. Susan’s writing inspired me, and when I finally got to meet her, her smile warmed me. She has a cheeky grin that peeks through her otherwise convivial smile. Did I mention she’s also a rocket scientist? Susan has the rare gift of being both mathy and wordy (not to be confused with verbose).

I walked the Race for the Cure every year since with Susan’s name attached to my race shirt. Through the years I sadly added more names too. I channeled Susan and my friend Jen when I joined my girlfriends for the 39.3 mile Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.

And now Susan needs some prayers. If you’re the praying sort, please think of Susan.

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