Bahhhh Hahhhhhbahhhh

Fine, I'll admit it.  I"m a sucker for a New England accent.  I secretly practice it under my breath. I love how New Englanders are so in charge, so secure in who they are, they feel no shame in changing the pronunciation of our language.  They drop "R"'s like a bad habit.  They find "O"'s to be dull, so they add an "AU" instead.  I love the harsh, slightly snooty Bostonian, the gentle rounding of New Hampshire's vowels, Vermont's coaxing of consonants and Maine's sharp stops and starts.  Each true to their state, but with a undercurrent of unity only found in those regions far reaching into our country's northeast.

New England accents made me do crazy things.  Like day-dream of blueberry cobbler for breakfast- with the berries picked along the shoreline during an early morning walk.  Buy only pine-scented candles in a vain attempt to capture the green mountains' scent and infuse it into my New Jersey house- resulting in a sickening smell of a dying Christmas tree sprayed with Pinesol.  Try to imagine how we can add an addition onto the back of the house that looks like a log cabin. Oh, and of course, eat "laubsta" for "dinna" every night.

Perhaps it's because every New Englander I've ever met laughs and talks a lot.  And drinks a lot. And eats a lot.  With a lot of friends and family. A lot. And repeats the process each and every day and I can't really imagine how life could get any "betta" than that.

Bah Hahbah, here I come.

Stop What You're Doing

You're tired.  I know.  That last cup of coffee at 10:30 before your morning meeting brought back disturbing memories of when that kid in the third grade dared you to lick his bicycle tires for a dollar.  It's so unfair that unruly kids are playing loudly in the streets, teachers are basking in the summer sun and you're stuck in a sub-zero office.  In a suit.  In August.  I'm telling you right now that it's not too late to reclaim a bit of teenage spunk, to tell your secretary something came up and to field all of your afternoon calls, get on your vespa and drive directly to the nearest farmer's market to make yourself some of this summer sunshine on a plate.  Doesn't that sound better than drooling on your keyboard?

Those of you who know me are aware that though I love to read recipes, I can't write them.  I never remember what I added or took away, how long things take, etc. It's always a mystery! Sounds much more romantic that way when I think about it.  Needless to say, this is the best I could do but feel free to rearrange some things to suit your taste.



Roasted Tomato and Pepper Pesto
10 San Marzano Tomatoes, 2 Red Peppers- slow roast on a cookie sheet for 2-3 hours at 200'
Handful of Fresh Basil
Smaller Handful of fresh Parsley
2 Springs fresh Oregano
4 Cloves of Roasted Garlic
Grated Pecorino- as much as your heart desires
1 TBS freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/4 cup toasted pine nuts

5-6 HUGE glugs of EVOO

Salt and Pepper

Stick it all in a food processor, whirl it away, and put it on EVERYTHING.  ( i.e. for those of you less creative-you are in a suit, after all- it's great over pasta, on pizza, on a toasted baguette with melty mozz, or if your home is just as frigid as your office, process it until smooth, still it in a pot with some chicken broth and a drop or two of heavy cream and celebrate your winter in August with some Roasted Tomato Soup.)

Moving

It’s me

In the same jeans

Walking the same street

Dragging my feet

Humming a tune

Making eyes at the moon

Soon

I’ll walk a different street

One that smells less like Ramen and mussel shells

And more like coffee

Finely ground

Pressed- French

Upper-class stench, comparatively

But I’ll miss

The hip-hop in the street

Dancing to the beat slowly in circles in my minuscule kitchen

The hum of a drum from the neighbor boy’s band

Hand in hand walking, talking with dogs on leashes made of electrical tape

The Great Escape

Made by Buster daily as he chases the men in black suits walking home from the train

In the rain when the walls cry because they cannot hold the weight of water

Coming at it from both sides

Wailing

A wife

A daughter

In torrents

In streams

In dreams laced with broken fingers, I linger

In summer beneath Gertie’s window

Where gospel music stirs the pot of curried goat

In winter where the burning sage will cling to coats

And the patio that’s always good for a smoke-

A joke between friends and bagels on Saturday mornings

The drop-by’s without warning

When everyone is hungry and shows up just in time for dinner.

The five minute walk to

Italy

Ethiopia

India

Thailand

China

Mexico

Cuba

France

Banking on the chance that perhaps you need no reservation on a Tuesday

Bringing bottles of cheap red wine

Foot tapping, keeping time with the older gentleman on the clarinet

The Girl From Ipanema

On the Street Where You Live

What I would give to play a song or two on a Tuesday night with nothing but a tip jar

And a light

On the night stand

Shining clearly on the music I hadn’t needed to read for decades

Before arcades

And parades

And other sorts of escapades took precedence

Over the decadence

The reverence

The plain, good sense of rhythm and meter

It’s me

In the same jeans

Walking the same street

Dragging my feet

Humming a tune

Making eyes at the moon

Soon

I’ll walk

a different

street.

Where I am...

DSC_0111, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

See this? This is where I am pretending I live right now. That this is the view from my kitchen window as I'm stirring something yummy on the stove that works because appliances would never break here. I would never have a crummy day where I cry for no reason. I would run around like a maniac in a twirl-y skirt and sing songs very loudly because I would have no neighbors to hear me. Or me, them. At one in the morning. Telling each other how many years (yea-ahs in northern jersey speak) they've wasted on each other. Blah. Blah.

So, I'm taking a little mental vacation from my broken oven and my unhappy neighbors. I'm pretending I live here. Just for a few hours. Sorry, you can't come.

Linda and Esther

I was seven going on forty when I was contemplating the apparent societal paradox of being both a, "Godly woman and a strong woman".  I know.  My poor mother.  In desperation, I called my Aunt Linda in Austin,Texas and begged an answer.  (Being a Presbyterian Minister and the smartest woman I knew, I figured if anyone could figure this one out, it'd be her.) She told me that I had only to look in the Old Testament to find strong, female examples after whom to model myself.  Unfortunately, being the smartest woman I knew had some disadvantages: she wasn't keen to the fact that to a seven year old, the idea of having to search through all the "thee's" and "thou's" of the King James so beloved by my Baptist family was more daunting than being last picked for kickball in gym class.  After I voiced those concerns, she assured me that she had an idea.

For Christmas that year, I received the first package ever addressed solely to me.  With my name on the front! Only mine! It was a chapter book with pictures.  Inscribed in the front cover was a note.  It read:

"Dear Jenny,
This a lovely story I have always been fond of.  The next time I visit, maybe we can read it together.  Some of the words may be a little difficult, but Mommy or Daddy can help- and they can help you find the story in the Bible, too!
Love,
Aunt Linda"

Needless to say, being the child I was, I was a little offended that she thought I would need help with the words.  I was in the highest level reading skills group at school, after all.  They didn't call us the "Jets" for nothing.  But, I was astounded that the story of Esther, so beautifully played out in words and pictures in the book she sent me, was actually a story from the Bible.  A courageous woman who broke rules? Who defied laws? Who was as smart as she was beautiful? Get out. She must be the only one.

Turns out, she wasn't.  Not even close.

So began the barrage of mail (addressed only to me) of stories that clearly defined the type of woman I wasn't sure existed.  Deborah, Ruth, Lydia, Mary, Sarah, etc.   All women who loved the Lord- who had stations, and titles, jobs, and callings. Some, who commanded men, some who began churches, some who were faithful and loving wives and servants who had hiccups of faith but always came back to the saving knowledge of where and in whom they found their identity. I have poured over each story, each life, for twenty years since I first received those books.  But Esther, was and still is, forever my favorite. I believed she was the first one sent to me for a reason- that we shared a special connection, somehow, and my Aunt just knew we would be life-long friends.

We celebrated the passing of my Aunt Linda this past weekend- she suffered greatly in her life and we rejoiced that she is finally able to rest, and am quite sure she is not through with asking God her list of questions she must have brought with her.  ( More on that, later.) Though it was lovely listening to all of her friends and family share about her life, I spent the majority of the time marveling at the gift she left behind for me.

The illustrated Esther, now worn, replete with orange juice stains, maple syrup and further on, coffee stains marking the progression of my transformation from childhood to adulthood, has never left my bookshelf.  I have moved four times, have had five different jobs and got married.  Esther has come with me through them all, reminding me how to be both strong and Godly.  Without always realizing it, Aunt Linda has done the same.