Kombucha is not Wine

My body is pulsing with billions of organisms,
Probiotic friends flushing my system,
Tingling my tongue and tummy,
While all I wish for a drink with Hemmingway,
To numb away the day,
And hope the words come out to play.
I always find a creative flow so fine,
After a glass or three of wine.

Fading Words

In my dreams,
I feed my muse,
But wake with words fading,
Like hearts we traced in sand with our toes,
Lapped away in cresting foam.

I have been having the most vivid dreams lately. Some filled with zombies and adventures. Others highly provacative and bodily. Many mundane. I really should start a dream journal - or start doing my 750words when I first rise, as opposed to later in the day when I tend to fit it in. (When I even do it.)

I recently had a dream willed with writing prompts. Clear, inspired writing prompts. This thought that I should run to put pen on paper (or fingers on my keyboard) to start writing all about these beautiful, wondorous things.

But, of course, then I wake up and can't even begin to imagine what those inspired words were.

I think it's just as valid to ponder the fleeting nature of inspiration.

I sat in a yoga and meditation class a couple weeks ago with the theme of comittment. The teaching seemed obvious, but aren't most? By comitting to our path of happiness, we will find true contentment. I often see my comittment to healthy choices as the most obvious example of this in my life. My comittment to love and friendship is less concrete, but potent.

You know how you might comission an artist to paint something for you? How about greater life comissions? And obvious word plays with the word omission.

Something is brewing there, but I can say what.

Movies, hot cocoa, and kimchi.

Sometimes I think about resurrecting this blog. I have thoughts that need to get out of this head and into this wide world. If that's the case, the question is: what to write? I have a variety of interests and hobbies. Is it about a slice into my life? (And the constant fear of Narcisism.) Or is there a greater service I can provide? An observation from my perspective that others may share?

Oh aren't I the Gen-x/y idealist.

I had a girlfriend by last night after watching the movie, Brooklyn Brothers Beat the Best. The film is currently playing at Uptown SIFF. I had some groupons I bought just shy of a year ago thinking, "I love SIFF. We can walk there. It'll be no problem using three of these up." Lo and behold, 11 months later I realized I hadn't used them yet. So I emailed a handful of girlfriends and started scheduling movie dates.

Brooklyn Brothers was a sweet film. It has a fairly typical indie vibe, with under-production and quirky characters. It was far from a perfect film. There were cliche montages and the romantic interest was entirely predictable. But it was just off-beat enough to tickle my fancy. And as the girlfriend of a musician in two bands, I could relate quite a bit to watching the struggle between making it and just the need to perform and make music.

I digress. When my girlfriend came over last night, I offered her a hard-boiled egg. We chatted a bit about the best ways to make hard-boiled eggs. If I haven't made them in awhile, I often do a google search and find a reference or two on the tricks to easy peeling. After sharing tips and tricks, I offered to make her my "special" hot cocoa.

I eat some dairy, but I've tried to limit my dairy consumption, specifically milk - and it's been a good one. The obvious alternative in our culture is soy milk, but there are a lot of reasons to avoid any form of soy that isn't fermented. So I've become a huge fan of nut milks - almond milk and coconut milk are my favorited.

The other night I was craving something warm and soothing, so I put some almond milk on the stove and heated it. Then I put it in my vitamix with one date, a scoop of cocoa powder, and a bit of vanilla bean. The vitamix, in it's crazy powerful ways, totally mixes the date and vanilla bean into the mixture. And it ends up frothing it up quite a bit too. Dates are high in sugar, but you get added nutritional benefits, and it's still a much less-processed form of sweetener.

It's not super sweet, and you can adjust each ingredient to taste. She liked it and at some point in my explanations of both the egg peeling and the hot cocoa, she said I should blog about it. Of course, I have a couple blogs I don't actively post on. So why not start with what I already have?

On another note, I'm making kimchi for the first time. I received a HUGE head of green cabbage in my last produce box from Full Circle. After making a big batch of steamed cabbage (3-4 servings) I still had about half of it leftover. So I decided to make a super simple version of kimchi, just to experiment. I added some sriracha sauce, about 6 cloves of garlic, some rice vinegar and fish sauce to my vitamix. And I mixed. I brined my cabbage in salt water. I drianed it and mixed it all together. It's in a glass jar now.

You'll notice I don't give measurements. I'm of a philosophy of that's a blend between being inspired by recipes online, and adding my own twists to things.

I usually find myself in a situation, like, "Damn, that's a lot of cabbage!"

Then I get an idea like, "I should make kimchi!"

I read a bunch of recipes about gourmet kimchi and all of the ingredients I need, but don't have, "Daikon radishes and green onions, eh? But I'm in my pajamas and don't want to go to the store."

So I figure out what I have and make do. "A pinch of that, a squirt of this, as many cloves of garlic as I feel like peeling, cover the cabbage..."

I do not know yet what my kimchi will look like, but it's a fun little project. Worst case scenario is it fails and I waste a half a head of cabbage. That I would have wasted anyway, if I hadn't cooked it.

So yeah. Almond milk hot cocoa, sweetend with date. Movies. And kimchi.

If I decide to keep writing these types of things, I'll be sure to get back into adding photos. I didn't feel like photographing a big pile of cabbage on my cutting board, but I can. You know it.

Sweet atmospheric shifts

On Saturday night, as B and I were eating dinner in Belltown al fresco - a highly anticipated seasonal treat in Seattle, we noticed the shift.  The changing winds.  The chill.  What was a nearly balmy evening quickly turned frigid. I had to borrow his jacket and walk closer to him on the way home.

It's not every day you witness that moment when the atmosphere shifts.  I remember once feeling it at a Summer the concerts on the pier.  Everyone's basking in the sun and then, just like that, they fall into a hush as layers are unshed.

It reminded me of being in Italy for the jubilee at midnight mass.  One raindrop and suddenly thousands and thousands of nuns and pilgrims opened their umbrellas.

Like a flock of birds startled into flight - wings spread in unison.

I digress.

Sunday morning we woke to dripping, dropping, droopy sky.  A blanket of gray.  The urban landscape swelling with oil and pollen - draining our first hint of summer into the sewers.  Tires skidding. Watch your step.

I walked to go see B perform at the U District Street Fair.  My music accompanying me.  I was dressed for festivals with sandals and my hip pocket belt.  No one else seemed to venture out but those training for big races.  Sporting their high tech running clothes. 

Those who venture out into the rain are richly rewarded.  The city smelled like the forrest.  The rain muffled most sounds, and even the sound of tires spinning in the rain provided peaceful white noise.

Damp clothing and numb toes lingered.  We curled up under blankets, popping clothes in the dryer and cuddling to warm up again. And then, the magic of putting on my wool comfy pants - fresh out the dryer.  Ah....  life's little pleasures.

My Mom

In the last few years, my Mom has no longer been just a mother to me, but a role model for love and how to love. I've been able to witness, as an adult, the sacrifices she would have made for my brother and I 30 some years ago, when she had two children in diapers, with her own mother with Alzheimer's often living with us.

It's a profound example of love to see her give up so much of her routine and life's pleasures, for the constant care of my ailing father. They've created, in many ways, their own language of love and routine of sustenance in these fading years. Her true delights of gardening and socializing on the back burner as she cares for the love of her life. The vulnerable call of, "Hon," coming from the Game Room, beckoning for water, or a cup of fruit, or letting her know about his last bowel movement.

I've thought a lot in the last few years about the similarities between motherhood and being a caretaker in one's final years. There's a lot of conversations about poop. And food schedules. And sleep schedules. No longer the complexities of every hobby and adventure. Now, the adventure is a shuffle on a walker from one end of the house to the other and back.

It's been a beautiful thing, the last few months, to welcome Audrey Louise into our lives. To see my Mom have a new life and set of adventures to focus her thoughts on, outside of caretaking. It delights me to call her up and not only hear about which doctor came to visit today - but also that Carter and Lisanna brought Audrey over. And my Dad's emotional reaction. (And his determined mindset that they are going to have another, soon, and it will be a boy.)

It's the cycle of life. To welcome a new generation and my Mom's first biological grandchild, while my Dad lives out his last days, weeks and months. A beautiful blessing to witness and participate in.

My Jog

(Composed in my head while jogging and walking around Lake Union last night.)

My buds blow bass in my ear,
Tickling my drums,
Tinny tunes help my body,
Find the rhythm.

They say women don’t sweat,
We glow,

We have glands,
Producing salty beads,
Cooling our strong curves.
Soaking each layer of wicking-wear.

Cleansing us.

Feet hit pavement.
Shocks find their way through joints,
We push forward.

Dancing in inertia.