Buddha Belly Blog

Life According to Dale

My sixteen year old son recently confessed to me, with some trepidation, that he thought he might be an aetheist.  He added that he was reserving a small space for the slim possibility that everything is evolving according to an intelligent plan.  Otherwise, he mused, it all seemed like random happenings affecting other random happenings.  He concluded that either way, it was still a beautiful world and the best any of us can do is show up and be present for the wonder of it all.  

I have to admit, I was a little bit stunned;  not by his aetheistic ideaolgy, as he thought I might be, but rather by his heart-melting conclusion.  I mean, I raised this child...be still my heart.

We drove in silence, side by side in the front seat of my mini-van, which is where all of our important conversations seem to take place.  And then I told him that, for the most part, I agreed with his spiritual assesment.   Now it was his turn to be a bit shocked.  

I agreed that none of us really knew for certain about spirit and matter; that in the end, it was all essentially theory.  I added, however, that I'd put quite alot of effort into exploring different theories and had arrived at the one that made the most sense to me.  The complexities of our existense are described in such sense-making detail in the Vedas, that I'd settled on this path as a "Believer".

But, ultimately, I told him, he and I were practicioners on opposite sides of the same spectrum.  While he was an "Anarchist" reserving a small space for "God" or "intelligent plan", I was a "Believer" reserving a small space for possibility of senseless random existence.  

I explained that this made us agnostics, not aethiests, a term he'd clearly never heard, which bumped me up a few notches in his estimation of me as a "knower of stuff".  I could tell :)

Then I shared the story of my friend, Dale.  Back in my twenties, I made my living designing and sellling batik clothing at craft/art shows,  jazz concerts and street fairs.  I met Dale at one of these venues.  He carved intricate spirals of wood that could be twisted into vessels or spun in the opposite direction to lay as flat as cutting boards.  Cool stuff.  

Our booths were across from one another's in a middle school gymnasium somewhere in Connecticut.  We struck up a conversation and before too long, we found ourselves pontificating on death and the here-after (as one often does with a perfect stranger...or is that just me?).  Standing under the fluorescent gymnasium lights with the gleaming hardwood floor harshly reflecting it back, Dale shared his view on life.  "The way I see it,"  he said, "if there is a God, it's best to live a kind and compassionate life.  And if there is no God, it's best to life a kind and compassionate life."  

We stood there, me in my hippy-chick batik dress, Dale in his tie-dyed t-shirt, sipping weak coffee from styrofoam cups, listening to the hum of the overhead lights.  I don't remember much else of     what we shared that day.  But that little nugget was more than enough.  I've recounted it often.  I'm not sure I ever thanked him for it.  Thank you, Dale.

                                                                                             ******

Going vegetarian was a super-gradual process for me.  I stopped eating red meat in high school.  I took decades to arrive at the almost vegan diet I follow today.  To be honest, giving up dairy is hard.  Everything wonderful seems to have cheese on it or be bubbling in cream sauce.  

But, here's what happened to me.  Shortly after I became a chicken farmer  (see Judy the Transvestite Chicken),  the sufferings of all those factory-farmed chicken-bodied beings became real.  It was as real as the sufferings of a dear friend or a relative.  You can't walk back through some doors once you've opened them.  So, then the sufferings of all those cow-bodied beings and goat-bodied beings and pig-bodied beings got real.  But, I was especially haunted by the suffering of baby cow-bodied beings, the victims of my cheese addiction.

These next few sentences are not for the weak of heart.  So skip ahead to the * if that's you. 

Baby girl cows are routinely taken from their mothers at birth.   They are fed with bottles and raised away from their mothers.  The mother cows often go into mourning for weeks for their lost babies.  As an animal  mother of three, I don't want to begin to imagine it.  The fate of the boy cows makes the fate of the girl cows look like a fairytale.  They are taken from their mothers, crated so as to disallow movement and muscle development, force fed an anemia producing diet and shortly thereafter,  killed for veal.  

*That's how I was able, more often than not, to say "No, thank you" to those bubbly, cheesy, dishes and walk toward a vegan diet.  

So, for you, dear reader, a truly satisfying vegan cream sauce.  I kid you not.  I've served this creamy delight as a pasta sauce, a pot pie sauce and as the base of a cream soup (think corn chowder!)  Its a knock-out.  Add it to your arsenal of kindness to help you live a life according to Dale.

 

CREAM OF COMPASSION

4 TBLS. Earth Balance buttery spread

1/2 cup garbanzo bean flour

2 1/2 cups unsweetened rice milk**

1 teas. salt

pinch of black pepper 

pinch of nutmeg

 

Melt the Earth Balance in a sauce pan.  Add the garbanzo bean flour and whisk into a roux.  Over medium high heat, add the rice milk and continue to whisk the mixture.  Continue to heat the mixture,  constantly whisking, until it boils and thickens.  Add the salt, pepper and nutmeg.  

**If you aren't concerned about fat and/or calories, you can replace half (or all!) of the rice milk with So Delicious dairy free Original Coconut Milk creamer.  

***Try adding 1-2 TBLS. of nutritional yeast for a cheesy, alfredo-esque sauce.

And there you have it.  A sauce to make all your creamy, vegan dreams come true!

 

ⓒcopywrite  October 2012 Beth Beaton Mausert

And They Lived Happily Ever After

I was a brand new yoga teacher.  I couldn't have taught more than half a dozen classes.  And it happened.  A strikingly beautiful woman came into the studio.  She was tall and lithe with long, red hair.  She told me she wanted to work on inversions.  My palms got a little clammy.  Oh, and and she was pregnant.  Gulp.  "Also,"  she mentioned casually, "you should probably know that I have a prosthetic leg."  Sisters of Mercy, save me!

I seem to have blocked out most of the details of what happened next.  But, I guess it went well enough.  At least  there was never a law suit initiated.  

I recently shared this story with Leslie Kaminoff, author of Yoga Anatomy.  He believes that if you woke up this morning, put on your underwear, and got yourself out the door, you are an excellent candidate for asana practice.  Again and again, he contends to various students with a host of ailments in our class,  "There's nothing wrong with you.  You just need to create more 'good space' in your body."   "Sukha,"  he says, "literally translates to mean good axle."  Its a great image for asana practice.  We are simply trying to create space for the wheels to spin freely and smoothly in our bodies.  Anything stuck creates the opposite of sukha.   Dukha, more commonly translated to 'suffering'  in yogic circles, could then be viewed as bad axle (and if that's not a great name for a heavy metal band, I don't know what is!)

Leslie's affirming, inclusive teaching ultimately hinges on the mechanics of breathing to facilitate this freeing up of stuck organs, muscles, tendons, ect...and ultimately prana (life force).  It turns out its a lot less complicated than many of us have come to make it out to be.  Breathe in fully, make good space.  Breathe out fully, get unstuck.  

If you get a chance to study with him personally, I highly recommend doing so.  A lifetime of study and application coupled with a truly unassuming, unaffected, lighthearted personality make it a joy to learn from him.  

When I related my new teacher tale to him, he smiled and said, "Well, at least you knew enough to learn something from her." 

It's true.  I did learn some pretty good stuff that day.  Here's what I gleaned from my stunning student/teacher:

Show up.

Ask for what you want.

Fully embrace what you've got. 

Don't waste time lamenting what you haven't got.  

I'm happy to say that I continue to learn from my students regularly.  Over the years,  I 've learned from them that our bodies are as different as they are the same.  Ditto for our minds.  Our hearts have all suffered from and reveled in unimaginble sorrows and joys.  But, ultimately we are all after the same thing.  We all want to love and be loved.  How we go about finding this reciprocal love is another story. 

I've begun to notice something similar about all the teachers that truly inspire me.  They all seem wildly comfortable with who they are, right here, right now, imperfections not withstanding.  

The idea that I  could feel this way, too, is counter intuitive to everything I've been raised to believe.  Everywhere we turn in this culture, we are bombarded by the messege that we could be happy if only we:

lost weight

bought a new car

got a new job

lightened our hair

covered our gray

whitened our teeth

tightened our abs

liposuctioned our hips

botoxed our brows

got married

had a baby

got divorced....and the list goes on....

But, what if we followed in the footsteps of those self-affirming gurus and decided to like ourselves just the way we are?  Maybe we could start to like other people just the way they are.  And this reciprocal like might begin to evolve into the reciprocal love we are all longing for.   Maybe, just like Leslie's take on asana practice, its a lot less complicated than many of us have come to make it out to be.

Maybe our longing to feel the presence of the Divne in our lives is as simple as recognizing that it is already with us, crowned with thinning hair, dimpled with cellulite, dotted with teenage acne, smiling a crooked, chipped-tooth smile and driving a Dodge Dart.   Maybe our ability to see beyond the veil of these temporary material coverings is the only lesson we really need to live happily ever after.

 

VEGAN FRITTATA

What could be more self-affirming than a dish that calls itslef a frittata, but has absolutely no eggs in it.  This is a vegan, gluten-free, one-dish wonder.  Serve it up with a salad and some good bread and its a meal worth inviting  company over for.

 

8-10 cups chopped veggies (the frittata in the picture is cauliflower and broccoli)

1 lb. firm tofu, drained

1/4 cup garbanzo bean flour

1/3 cup water

1 1/2 teas. salt

1/4 teas. pepper

1/4 teas. tumeric

Olive oil

Preheat oven to 350*.  Heat a large cast iron frying pan on the stove top to medium-high heat.  Coat the pan with a couple of tablespoons of olive oil and add the veggies.  You can alternate covering the pan and vigorously stirring the veggies as they cook.  Add the salt and continue to saute the veggies.  The salt will help to sweat  the water out of the veggies.  Cook the mixture down until it is slightly browned and fairly dry.  Remove the pan from heat and prepare the tofu mixture.

Add the remaining ingredients to a food processor or blender and puree until smooth.   Pour the tofu mixture directly onto the veggies in the cast iron pan.   Fold the veggies into the tofu mixture.  Scrape down the sides of the mixture and smoothe the top.  Pop it into the oven and bake for 30 minutes until the top is lightly browned.  

Slice, serve and self-affirm :)

ⓒcopywrite 2012 Beth Mausert

 

Shortcake for Slackers

It's the day before Mother's Day, a Saturday, about 6:30 am.  I'm awakened to my 5 year old son's gleeful proclamation, "HAPPPY MOTHER'S DAY!"   Before I can tell him he's a day early, he yells, "SHUT YOUR EYES!"  Considering I've only barely managed to pry them open, I gladly oblige.   Then he shouts, "Keep them closed while I go get your presents!"  Secretly I'm hoping he'll get distracted somewhere along the way and I'll get to log in another 20-30 minutes of sleep.  But he's a small man with a big plan.   And he's back in a jiffy, hollering, "Surprise! Open your eyes!"  I open my eyes to receive the first of my two pre-lated Mother's Day gifts.  Its a sparkly, emerald green, light-up, flashing, shamrock necklace.  Seriously.  I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.  The second gift is a slightly deflated, royal blue,  Spiderman ball.  He is so incredibly pleased with himself, standing there in his pirate pajamas with his chest puffed out and his hands clasped together behind his back, grinning like a lottery winner, that I actually get a little choked up.

And so, my Mother's Day "weekend" began.  It actually turned out to be an excellent Mother's Day this year mostly because I resisted the urge to pick up a single dirty dish, sweep up a single scattered mess or throw in a single load of laundry (colors or whites!).  I just didn't.  And guess what?  It wasn't that hard.  I figured I could regroup easily enough from a single day of letting everything go.  

But then a little miracle took place and the house got cleaner!  My husband decided to wash all the windows, inside and out.  Yup.  You read that right.  Then he planted rose bushes.  Then he cooked dinner.  

My older son gave me coupons for (4) 15 minute footrubs with the disclaimer that I could only use one per day.  I cashed in my first one immediately.  And I'll tell you, that boy's got skills.  If I've done nothing else right as a mother, at least I'll  be sending him out into the world, able and ready to give a darn, good foot rub.  Parenting is a hard job.  Its important to recognize your small successes.  

My daughter hand painted a  beautiful watering can for our gardening pursuits.   I'm happy to report that so far this year things in the garden haven't' gotten toooooo out of hand...(see Rebel Underground Tubers).   

But the biggest miracle this Mother's day was that I sat down.  I read books, some alone, some to my kids.  I napped.  I woke up to a lovely dinner.  My children cleaned the kitchen.  And then I sat down again.  Honestly, I felt as relaxed and peaceful as I can ever remember feeling.  I began to think it might be good for all of us if I celebrated a faux Mother's day every now and then.  

Maybe I'll start a movement.  The first Sunday of every month will be Faux Mother's day.  Not a mother?  Not a problem.  It's faux!  You're in!  

Imagine if all around at the world, we simply sat down, read, napped and generally slacked off regularly and collectively.  But, wait a minute, isn't this starting to sound a bit familiar?  Remember when people used to observe to tradition of the Sabbath?  Or even when ALL the stores were closed on Sundays?   There was actually a time when people were not only encouraged, but actually forced to be slackers.   It was the era of the Blue laws.

Since I was on the verge of starting a movement, I decided to have a look at some of the ancient Blue laws and see what we'd given up for the convenience of this 24 hour life we live.

One thing's for sure.  These laws were not created with the intention of creating space for slacking.  It seems that they were simply another way for the heavy puritanical ethic to suck the joy out of life.

  The Blue laws of Connecticut state that "No woman shall kiss her child on the Sabbath."  Seems a little joyless, no?  How about, "Whoever wears clothes trimmed with gold, sliver, or bone lace, above two shillings by the yard, shall be presented to the grand jurors, and the selectmen shall tax the offender."  So cheap bling is ok, but don't break out the pricey stuff 'til Monday.  This  next one is oddly random.  You can almost see the group of men sitting around a table, arguing the details, until it read:  "No one shall read Common-prayer, keep Christmas or saints-day, make minced pies, dance, play cards, or play on any instrument of music, except the drum, trumpet, and the jaw harp." Alrighty, cherry pie on Easter accompanied by a band of African drummers it is!

So, maybe we don't want to move back in that direction.  My husband once jokingly said that puritanical law was based on the nagging suspicion that somewhere, someone in the world was happy.  We happy slackers will have none of that.  We want to be able to dance and sing and kiss our children as we gleefully ignore the grind of our daily duties once in a while.  That's all.  That's our movement.  Since its hard to mandate contentment, I guess we'll just have to fit it in whenever we can.  First Sunday of the month?  Third Thursday?  Every other Wednesday?  An hour on Tuesday?  Take it when you can get it.  Happy Slackers Unite!   Go put on your best bling, grab a book, sing a song, take a nap, kiss a kid and  slack off.  Do it for the team!

 

VEGAN STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE

One tradition that I religiously uphold is making my children strawberry shortcake for breakfast on the last day of school.  It's our way of celebrating that the season of slacking is upon us.   Its time to wear our pajamas a little too long, stay up late, sleep in, sleep outside, catch fireflies, bathe in a lake, pick whatever's in season and eat it for dinner, start a hobby, read a long novel...And we kick it off with cake for breakfast.  Here's how to do it...

 

STRAWERRY SAUCE:

6 cups of sliced strawberries

3 TBLS. sugar

1/2 cup orange juice

Mix and let sit for at least 20-30 minutes, ideally overnight.  

 

SHORTCAKES

1 1/2 cups whole wheat pastry flour

3 TBLS. sugar

1 1/2 teas. baking powder

1/4 teas. baking soda

1/2 teas. salt

1/3 cup non-dairy butter (I like Earth Balance)

1/2 cup non-dairy milk (I like hemp milk)

1 teas. vinegar

Mix all the dry stuff.  Cut in the butter until the mixture resembles coarse sand.  Mix the vinegar into the milk and slowly add the wet stuff to the dry stuff.  Mix gently until the everything is incorporated, careful not to over knead.  

Scoop six heaping globs onto an oiled baking sheet or a silpat (I ♥ my silpat!).  Bake for about 15 minutes at 425 degrees.  

VEGAN CREAM

If you want a picture perfect shortcake, you can look for a product called "Healthy Top"  made by MimiCreme.  It's a predominantly coconut based product that is shelf stable.  That's what you see in the photo.  You whip it yourself and taste like a less chemically tainted cool-whip.  If you don't mind your cream a bit less whipped and you're a more inclined toward a less processed product try the recipe below.  

(1) 15 ounce package silken tofu (I like Mori-Nu)

(1) 15 ounce can light coconut milk

1/4 cup sugar

1 teas. vanilla extract

1 teas. guar gum

juice from 1/2 squeezed lemon

Put all the ingredients in the jar of a blender or a food processor and blend well.   Refrigerate until ready to use.  

Happy slacking to you and yours ♥.

 

 

 ⓒ copywrite 2012  Beth Beaton Mausert

 

 

 

Greedy Blind Kings Make Bad Fried Rice

 

The first verse of the Bhagavad Gita, an epic tale about the transformative power of love, is spoken by the malevolent, blind king, Dhritarashtra.  Dhritarashra is literally blind.  He cannot see.  He cannot discern even light from dark.  In the translation that I am reading* it is explained that Dhritarashtra is blind spiritually as well as physically.  Blinded by his own greed, he has forgotten that he is an eternal being in a temporary material existence whose nature is to love and be loved.  So profound are his desires for material wealth and power that he is willing to wage a war that will ultimately claim the lives of his own sons, destroy countless families, and ravage a country with grief.  Just so he can keep his "stuff" and go on to amass more of it.   Though the Bhagavad Gita was recorded some 5,ooo years ago, the lessons clearly continue to apply to life as we know it today.

 

 

I've always loved narratives that shed light on some lesson by way of inviting us, the readers, into the dilemma of the protagonist.   Dhritarashtra is not the main character in this tale, however.  He is a mere side character.  Our main man is the celebrated warrior, Arjuna. 

 

At the onset of our story, Arjuna has arrived onto the battlefield at Kuruksetra.  His work is clear.  He must defend the Good People from the Evil King.  But, suddenly, he is plunged into uncertainty.  Looking out at the array of personalities assembled to fight--- his cousins, his uncles, his teachers--- he falters.  And we arrive at his dilemma.  

 

Arjuna turns to his chariot driver, Krishna, and says, "I see familiar faces here, honorable men ready to fight and die.  My mouth has gone dry.  I tremble, perspire, my skin burns, and I can no longer hold my bow.   I do not remember who I am.  I see only horror before me.  No good can come from this.  I could not  live with victory.  Even though they wish me harm, I am unwilling to kill family or friends.  The Vedas say there is only sin in a deed that would undermine the kingdom.  The wrong in such killing is in escapable:  destruction of tradition, orphaned children---better that my enemies kill me first."  Arjuna threw down his bow and arrows and collapsed on his chariot, weeping.**

 

The dialog that unfolds between Krishna and Arjuna is the basis for the teachings brought forth in the Bhagavad Gita.  Throughout the course of this dialogue, Krishna teaches Arjuna the ABC's of living a spiritual life.  Concepts such as reincarnation, karma, yoga, dharma and bhakti are introduced.  The foundation for uncovering our true Selves is laid clearly into place.  

 

By the end of the discussion, Arjuna is armed with the tools necessary to face his current situation virtuously and  courageously while maintaining  a soft, open heart.  Ahhhh, yes, that's what I want!  Courageous, virtuous, soft-hearted living.  While I can really relate to Arjuna's lessons, I found myself coming back again and again to Dhritarashtra's plight.  

 

The truth is, I can also relate to the troubles of the blind, greedy king.  Perhaps I don't want to rule a kingdom and have a cellar full of gold coins.   But, sometimes, I want what I want and I'm greedy about how I'm going to get it.  While I'm not proud to admit it, just the other day, I yelled at my kids to stop yelling.  I know it sounds absurd, but I actually stood up and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Stop yelling!!!"    My cellar full of gold was a a quiet, settled home.   And I didn't care how I was going to get it.   I didn't take the time to listen to what was going on.   I definitely wasn't coming from a clear, strong, soft-hearted place.  I'd just had enough.  And I wanted peace and quiet.  If my children weren't going to willingly give it to me, I'd get it any way I could.  In fact, I was willing to fight for it.  

 

It was a pretty ineffective plan.  And you probably won't be at all surprised to find out that I didn't end up getting what I wanted.   Greed has a way of begetting dissatisfaction.  

 

Another place that I find really interesting to explore the concept of greed is on a yoga mat.  Most of us come to yoga because we hope it will make us better people in some way.   Maybe we want to be more relaxed, stronger, more flexible, more in touch with our spiritual nature.  Whatever our motivations,  I'm willing to bet that that most of us get a little greedy on the mat from time to time.  

 

Yoga translates to "yoke".   In other words, to unite or to connect.   What are we trying to connect to?  Well, actually that's up for debate.  Some say we are trying to connect the breath to the movement.  Others say we are trying to connect our lower selves to our higher selves, our Divine spark to the Divine fire.  It is said that yoga is about connecting opposite forces, expansion and contraction.   Hatha yoga translates as "ha"--sun, "tha"--moon, "yoga"--unite.  The place where the sun and the moon unite.  

 

What I've never heard it translate to is, "six-pack abs, tight butt, firm quads."  That's a proverbial cellar full of gold if ever there was one.  But, really, who of us can say that they haven't been at least a little bit distracted by the glitter and glint of those beautiful bodies on the covers of yoga magazines and sometimes even on the mats around us.  

 

A regular and active asana practice will likely provide the practitioner with many benefits.  Sometimes the benefits, like a beautiful, toned body can actually give rise to impediments on the yogic path.  We can start to think we're "all that".  We can start to focus our goals on keeping our "stuff" and amassing more of it.  I love yoga teacher, Max Strom's reminder.  "Remember, it doesn't matter how deep into a posture you go-- what matters is who you are when you get there."  

 

For me, when I practice yoga, I am trying to connect to the truth.  I am simply trying to become more of aware of that which is true.   They say that what you cultivate on the mat is what you cultivate off the mat.  If I am trying to jam my head down to my knee to make a pose look more like something I want it to look like, I'm doomed.  Trust me.  I've done it.  Its the equivalent of yelling at the kids to stop yelling so that the house momentarily looks more peaceful.  Meanwhile, underneath it all, there's a current of charged hostility that could burst at any moment.  On the mat, that's how pulled hamstrings and other such yogi mishaps occur.  

 

On the other hand, if I'm sincerely breathing into the discomfort of my hamstrings or back, I can move into truth and acceptance.  From that place I can begin to dissipate the  tension.   Being present for that which is true isn't always comfortable.  But, really, are there any alternatives worth our time and effort?  

 

Back on the battlefield at Kuruksetra, our protagonist, Arjuna, is arriving at his truth.  I don't really want to spoil the ending for you, but I feel compelled to share with you that Arjuna does, in fact, end up fighting the battle.  We learn, alongside our fearless protagonist that we must do our duty without attachment to the fruits of our labor.  Arjuna must ultimately do his duty to restore the balance of power begotten of an unjust rulership lest  innocent people suffer.  I must listen to my children's troubles, even though it might get a lot louder before it gets quieter.   And those of us with tight hamstrings must bend our knees and take deep breaths, lest we create tension where we are trying to alleviate it.  

 

The opportunity to discover the truth presents itself to us again and again.  I like to remind my students when they appear discouraged or overwhelmed in an asana, that their only work in that moment is to be present for that which is true.  One breath at a time.  

 

 

FRIED RICE

 

As I was reading this post to my husband, who is my main editor and overall morale booster, our 15 year old son looked up from his manga book and said, "I thought this was a food blog."    (Who knew he was even listening?)  Well, it was a good question anyway.  It is a food blog.   And here's what we're making.  Fried rice.

 

 Every couple of weeks or so, I find myself at a loss of what to make for dinner, rummaging around in the fridge, short on time and ingredients.  If you have leftover rice, fried rice is a great option.  The key is to good fried is not to be greedy.  Yup.  Greedy blind kings make bad fried rice.   Too many flavors will spoil your efforts.  

 

This is not so much a recipe as it is an exercise....

 

Steam your rice in a colander to heat it up.  

Add a little oil to a heavy frying pan and add things that go together :)

for example:  

1. sun dried tomatoes, capers, basil and pine nuts.

2. black beans, corn, cilantro and olives.

3. water chestnuts, baby corn, carrots and peas.

4. cranberries, walnuts, and chick peas.  

 

Let me know what combinations you come up with!  

As always, happy meals to you!

 

 

 

* Joshua M. Greene's "Gita Wisdom" 

**Chapter one, verses 29-46

 

 

 

ⓒ copywrite 2012 Beth Beaton Mausert 

Rebel Underground Tubers

The first step, they say, is admitting you have a problem.  Every spring I decide that this will be the year I get clean.  Really clean.  This will be the year I quit this obsession of mine that has made my life  unmanageable.  I'll just quit it cold turkey.  I won't be waking up every morning stiff and achy with hard, brown crud caked up underneath my fingernails.  You won't see me on my hands and knees, crawling through the dirt, sweaty, delirious and dehydrated in the middle of a beautiful, summer day.  And come mid-August, I won't be surveying the rubble of my misadventures thinking, "God help me.  What have I done?"  You see, I am a gardening junkie.

This obsession of mine has wreaked havoc on my life in many ways.  There was the year that I envisioned a 30 foot circular garden and petitioned my neighbor to rototill the backyard accordingly.  My wagon-wheel design featured a hand-built twig sculpture in the center, surrounded by well-weeded pie shaped slices of fertile, compost laden earth.  I labored over the plot for weeks.  I dug deep trenches between the wedges of earth and generously filled them with hay to keep the weeds down.  (You'll see the irony of this in a minute.)  I gingerly transplanted my tender shoots into their respective triangles and stood back to marvel at the splendor of my embodied dream.  

But, as the weeks went by, I noticed the hay had begun sprouting wildly and was threatening to overtake the rest of the garden.  Despite my vigilant efforts to maintain order, I lost complete control and watched as my dream garden transformed into a big, circular hay field.  Apparently, gardeners in the know use seedless straw, not hay, for mulch.  Who knew?

We glumly rummaged through the circular hay field, emerging with a few pumpkins, an anemic watermelon, a colander full of cinnamon basil and a prolific amount of cherry tomatoes.  (I'm convinced that cherry tomatoes will be all that's left for the cock roaches to eat when the world comes to an end.)  Finally, I called my neighbor, a seasoned gardener himself, who only shook his head in pity for me, to come and rototill my dream plot under.   I still feel a twinge of sadness every time I visit the site and I'm toying with the idea of simply covering  the whole thing over with a 30 foot circular, above ground pool this year.  

I  have come to believe, however,  that a power greater than me can restore me to sanity.  My fervent prayer is that this will be the year I can reign in my out of control impulses.  This will be the year that I plant less and weed more.  Just as I was on the verge of acceptance, surrendering to a single plot of corn, maybe a couple of grape tomato plants, a smattering of herbs, and  one small patch of mesclun mix,  my twelve-year old daughter approached me.  Her cheeks were flushed.  She had a faraway, glazed look in her eyes.  Her breathing was slightly labored.  Uh-oh.  This was the moment every mother knows will come one day.  She was exhibiting all the signs.  And she clearly had it bad.  "Mom?"  she hesitantly asked, "can we talk about... the garden?"  

"Sure,"  I said.  With a heaving sigh of relief, she let the floodgates burst open.  Talking a mile a minute, she handed me several hand-drawn plot designs.  She showed me her list of desired plantings, including but not limited to:  eggplant, bell peppers, chili peppers, summer squash, peas, string beans, asparagus, bitter melon, spinach, kale, arugula, cilantro, dill, mint, basil, pumpkins, corn, tomatoes, radishes, potatoes, carrots and beets.  Phew.  I began to wonder if there might be a medication on the market for our particular type of obsessive gardening disorder.  My mind drifted as I imagined her twenty years from now, on a glorious spring day, sitting on a folding chair in church basement amongst a group of friends, announcing, "Hi, I'm Claire and I'm an ACOGA (adult child of a gardening addict).  

As she continued to talk, I began to notice the special zeal she exhibited whenever she talked about the root vegetables.  I'll be upfront and tell you that I don't, in any way, share my daughter's  love of root vegetable gardening.  In fact, I'm a little bit (okay, seriously) in love with vertical gardening.  If I can make anything grow up a lattice, a wall, a fence post... I'm beyond the beyond.  One year I grew so many morning glories up the south side of our home that the shear weight of the vines actually detached the lattice from the wall and the whole kit and caboodle came careening down,  effectively barricading the driveway off from the garage for several days.  I somberly cleaned up the tangled mess, grieving the loss of my spectacular pink, blue and purple morning glories before carting them off to the compost pile for a proper burial.  

As an aerial gardener, its truly difficult to even understand the impetus of a root gardener.  Plants that grow upright are straightforward and fully accountable.  You can see exactly what you've got and what your plants are up to.  Vertical gardening allows you to look your subject squarely in the eye, assess the situation and address it appropriately in a clear and calculated manor.  More fertilizer.  Less water.  Arm the spray bottles for beetle infestation.  

Root gardening, on the other hand, requires inordinate amounts of faith and trust.  Months go by and you wonder what exactly what's going on down there.  Is there rot?  Slugs?  Crowding?   Are they ready to pull up?  And finally, when you actually do harvest, you wonder if you found them all or if there are a few dozen tubers huddled up together, hiding out, shushing each other to settle down and look dormant every time you step foot into the garden.   Secretly, at night, you imagine them partying hardy down there, celebrating yet another day of going unseen. Rebel Underground Tubers.  (If you've been searching for a name for your band, feel free to steal this.  I won't be adverse to a small mention on the jacket credits.)

"Claire, what's your deal with the root vegetables?"  I queried.  "You don't really like radishes or carrots.  Last year, I remember feeding the bulk of our carrot crop to the chickens, who didn't really like them either.  I also remember that we didn't do too well with potatoes.  So that just leaves beets.  How about we just plant beets?"

I might as well have suggested she start wearing a burlap sack cinched at the waist with a garden hose to school.   She looked at me incredulously.  "No, Mom.  We HAVE to plant carrots."  "But, why?"  I asked her.

"Don't you remember the time I found those carrots in the garden at our old house?"  I did have a foggy, vague memory of something like that.  She filled in the details.  "Auntie Kathleen was visiting.  I was probably five years old.  We were digging in the dirt in those raised beds around the deck.  Remember how nothing really grew in them because the yard was so shady?   Well, I  had no idea they were in there, but suddenly I dug up a whole bunch of carrots.  It was the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me in my whole life."

The single, most, exciting thing that EVER happened to her.  It wasn't the moment she stepped foot into the enchantment of India, nor the day she got her ears pierced after begging me daily to let her do it for three years straight.  It wasn't the moment her little brother was born.  Nope.  It was the moment she accidentally stumbled across a hastily planted, unharvested crop of carrots in the back yard.

Parents and caregivers take note.  Let your children play in the dirt.  Its cheap.  Its easy.  And it can obviously impact your child's psyche in a profound way.   In fact, I know this to be true because the sharpest memories I have of my own childhood are of playing in the dirt with my sisters.  

Even though I grew up in the northeast, with it's long, cold, snowy winters, in most of my childhood memories, we are digging in the dirt under a bright, hot sun.  We are making  mudpie cupcakes, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar sand and stews of rotten wood and  rhubarb. We're making shepherd's pie with gravely mud and dried grass and lemon pies with fluffy milkweed pod meringue toppings.  

Inside a milkweed pod  is an unlimited universe for a child.  I clearly remember cracking open the chicken skinned pod and finding a world of wonder;  dense black-brown seeds with feathery edges, silky white threads that present themselves as orderly and integrated, but fluff up and get fully unruly with the slightest amount of ruffling and creamy, sticky, milky, white ooze somewhere between elmer's glue and heavy cream that seeps from the edges of the pod which itself holds the potential to become a boat, an itty-bitty fairy baby cradle, or a vessel begging to filled with any manor of mudpie confections.  

Although we had access to hundreds of milkweed pods, living next door to a wondrously, unkempt city lot, it was the "string bean" tree that so much of our childhood play centered around.   It grew tall and strong in our tiny, postage stamp of a front yard.   I've since learned that its called a catalpa tree.  It produces foot long pods that look like Flintstone-like string beans.   These magical pods were the featured ingredient in so many of our mudpie creations and play.  Our current neighbor has a tall catalpa tree on the side of his house that borders the yard to our house.  Spotting it when we moved in was like being welcomed by an old friend.  

As I mulled over my own memories of playing in the dirt, I realized that the magic of the string bean tree is my parallel memory to my daughter's mystical experience with the carrot crop.   And that each of those experiences is the basis for our love of and particular style of gardening.  

And what a beautiful thing that is, really.  All it took was a little bit of unruly nature, a child's natural curiosity, and a lot of dirt.

In our high tech world that  promises to entertain and delight us constantly (and by this, I mean, exhaustively) a good dig in the dirt,  can be restorative.   There's something comforting in knowing that this year's dirt will not be replaced next year with a  newer fancier, faster model.  Next year's dirt will not have more apps.  It won't have more giga bytes.  It won't be smaller or flatter or lighter.  It will still just be dirt.  And it will still have infinite possibilities.  

Dirt will never be the basis of cafeteria taunting.  Nobody will say, "My dirt is way cooler than your dirt."  Or, "What kinda dirt did you get for Christmas?"  All around the world dirt is dirt is dirt.  And the simple act of allowing our children to dig in it together can help them transcend  barriers of race, gender, age and socioeconomic status.  

So, this week, my daughter and I, the underground gardener and the aerial gardener, will be trotting off to the garden supply shop.  I fear I may never be able to imprint my ideal of  "plant less, weed more" on her psyche, having yet  to embody this myself.  But, maybe that's ok.  Maybe she has already gleaned the most important lessons that the garden has to offer her; that he world we live in is full of magic and mystery.  And it is teeming with untapped, unlimited potential.   All she has to do is plant a seed and tend her dreams.  

 

EARTH MEETS SKY SALAD

Incorporating veggies that are grown both upright and underground, this salad is simply dreamy.   You can layer it up on a big platter to serve a crowd.  Or you can create small individual salad sculptures for your guests.  

serves 4 

(1) medium sized beet

(3) medium sized carrots

8 oz. sugar snap peas

1/2 cup salted, shelled pistachios, coarsely chopped

Peel the beet and the carrots with a veggie peeler.  Shred them, separately, with a box grater or the shredding disc of a food processor.   Please rinse the grater or the food processor between veggies or the beets will stain the carrots.  

Rinse your sugar snap peas and remove any bits of stem.  Slice them into long, thin strips.  

In three, separate bowls, toss the veggies with 1/3 of the citrus dressing. 

CITRUS DRESSING

1/2 cup orange juice

1/4 cup white balsamic vinegar

1 TBLS. maple syrup

 

Lay down a bed of the sliced sugar peas.  Top it with a layer of the shredded carrots, followed by a layer of the  shredded beets.  Sprinkled the salty pistachios on top.  

ⓒ copywrite 2012 Beth Beaton Mausert

 

 

 

 

 

Beyond Spam

I'm standing in the check-out lane at the grocery store, idly eying the rack of star gossip magazines.  Did you know that Jennifer Anniston is pregnant with her ex-lovers twins and secretly texting her woes to Brad?  Meanwhile, Demi Moore has checked herself into rehab and Ashton Kutchner has already proposed to her daughter's  best friend with a 7 carat diamond engagement ring.  I'm trying to visualize the size of a 7 carat diamond when I hear the cashier's voice calling out to me, pulling me back to reality.   "Um, are these just rotten bananas?"  she asks me, holding up a deep, yellow and brown speckled fruit.   "No,"  I tell her.  "They're plantains.  I guess you don't sell a lot of them."  "Nope,"  she answers.  All my thoughts of dazzling diamond rings dissipate as I prepare to preach the glories of plantains to this poor, captive check-out girl.  

"They're similar to bananas, but significantly more starchy.  I prefer them pan fried in some olive oil, but my kids like them baked in the oven and sprinkled with a little cheese.  Depending on how ripe they are, you can serve them more savory or as a sweeter dish.  They're super delicious and a super easy to make."   "Sounds kinda good," she admits.  "But, it might be because I haven't eaten for 9 hours and all I had for lunch was Spam."

I, of course, think she's joking with me.  So, in my mock-horrified voice, I reply, "You did NOT  have Spam for lunch."  I mean, really, who even eats Spam anymore?  She's ready for a little fun check-out banter and quickly counters with a taunting sibling rivalry voice,  "Did tooooo!"   She relents a bit and tells me, "Well, it was actually Spam Lite."  

I'm at a loss for words.  Spam Lite?  They make Spam Lite?  And we complete my sales transaction cloaked in an awkward silence.  "One last thing," I ask her as we're wrapping things up.  "What do you think you sell more of...Spam or plantains?"   "Um, probably Spam,"  she guesses.  

Now I'm truly horrified.  What is Spam?  And how do they make it light?  This warrants a trip back into the grocery store for further investigation.  I don't even know what aisle it might be located in.  I check the section with canned tuna and, BAM!,  there it is...Spam Lite.  The ingredients read a whole host of unpalatable items, but the one that really grabs my attention is mechanically separated chicken.  I have absolutely no sense of what this could mean.  I decide to google it when I get home.  

On the ride home, I fantasize about showing up at the grocery store with a steaming, hot plate of fried plantains, sauteed kale, mashed sweet potatoes and black beans for my hungry check-out girl.  I know she's about as likely to be interested in a plate of food like this as  I am likely to down some Spam Lite.  But, the mom in me as well as the foodie, can't resist the idea of feeding this sweet girl a hot, hearty meal to break her 9 hour fast.  

Back at home, I google Spam.  This is what I learn.  Spam, named as such after SPiced hAM, comes in 13 different flavors, including a limited release special flavor called Spam Golden Honey Grail in honor of the Monty Python broadway musical Spamalot.  Who knew?  For a moment, I consider whipping up a vegetarian version of Spam just to see if I can get my family to act out the Spam scene from Monty Python.  But they will likely do this if I simply order take-out chinese.  And this is a distraction from the task at hand that I have committed myself to...discovering the truth of mechanically separated chicken.

Here's the truth.  Mechanically separated chicken is a process that uses mechanical devices to separate the flesh from the bones of animals.  Mechanically separated meat (MSM), also known as mechanically recovered/reclaimed meat (MRM), results in a paste made up of the fleshy parts of animals.  That paste is then used in products including Spam light, chicken nuggets and hot dogs.  However, bits and pieces of spinal cords and bones have found their way into these pastes and are believed to be responsible for Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy, AKA Mad Cow Disease. 

Call me crazy, but at the height of the Mad Cow Disease frenzy, while experts scrambled to find solutions to this potentially epidemic, life threatening disease, my husband and I would often shake our heads and wonder why the most obvious of solutions was never presented.  Simply stop eating animals.  There, I've said it.  We don't need it.  The world would certainly be a better place if factory farming came to an abrupt halt.

"The UN reports that the meat, egg, and dairy industries account for 65% of worldwide nitrous oxide greenhouse gases, which are 296 times as warming as CO2. 

In the US 50% of overall water use goes into animal agriculture.  It takes between 2,5oo-4,ooo gallons of water to produce 1 pound of meat.  1 pound of soy requires 250 gallons of water.  And 1 pound of wheat requires 25 gallons of water.  

80% of the deforested area in the Amazon rainforest are occupied by cattle pastures and soy fields.  70-80% of that soy is used to feed livestock, not humans.  

The world's cattle alone consume a quantity of food equal to the caloric needs of 8.7 billion people--that is more than the current human population one earth." *

The impact on our well-being as individuals is equally compelling.   A vegetarian diet has been shown to lower a person's body mass index, lower levels of cholesterol,  lower blood pressure, produce less incidence of heart disease, hypertension, type 2 diabetes, renal disease, metabolic syndrome, and dementia.  The risk of cancers of the esophagus, liver, colon and lungs are noticeably lower in individuals following a vegetarian diet.

Our four healthy children have been vegetarian since conception.  We've never, not even once, had to consider the paramount issue of childhood obesity in our home.  Throughout our nation we are endangering the welfare of our children every day by presenting them with food choices that can not and will not sustain them as they grow.   Factory farmed animals are pumped with dangerous levels of  hormones and antibiotics.   Chemically laden  fast "foods"  are made to look and taste palatable with salt, sugar and dyes.  Why do we put up with these things?    Very simply, old habits are hard to brake.

In the yogic tradition, the term for this kind of habitual patterning is called samskara.  Whatever our reality is over the years tends to make mental impressions that stay with us.  To a large degree these impressions unconsciously shape the choices we make.  Transcending negative samskaras (think Spam) can be difficult.  

My Aunt Mikie, who I fully adore, used to take me to Honey Dew Donuts for a glazed donut and a glass of milk.  She would put a couple of teaspoons of her coffee into my milk so I could feel grown up like her.  Often, she'd do a couple of loads of laundry at the laundromat next door to the donut shop while we sat on the high, red,  counter stools, drinking our "coffee".  To this day, I have a fondness for donut shops AND laundromats.   Samskaras...

I am grateful to have been fed real food as a child.  My grandmother used to make stuffed escarole that could make a leafy green eater out of even the pickiest child.   I remember her baked beans as one of the most delightful tasting and smelling foods on the planet.  I inherited the big, brown, clay bean pot that she used to cook them in.  I have only to pull it down from the shelf to feel grounded and loved.  

Unfortunately, my food memories also include quite a bit of animal eating.  And I passionately believe that the one thing I can easily do to lesson or eliminate the suffering of many beings is stop eating animals.  Rather than trying to transcend a couple of decades worth of samskaras, I simply make vegetarian versions of all of my childhood comfort foods.  

The most common statement I hear from people trying to transition to a plant-based diet is, 
"I don't know what to eat."  I encourage them to keep eating whatever is familiar to them, but a vegetarian version of it.  Love Italian?  Make marinara instead of bolognese.  Or add soy crumbles to your  bolognese.  Have your bolognese and eat it too!  Burritos?  Make 'em bean instead of beef.  Burgers?  Make 'em Boca.  And the list goes on... If you get creative you can find a vegetarian version of whatever you have a hankering for.  

Then, if you want to explore new territory, try one new vegetarian recipe per week (or month) and begin to step outside the box (or can of Spam).  You can transcend your samskaras, make compassionate food choices AND delight your palate.

Here are two recipes to start the process off.  The first one is for home made vegan sausage.  Please don't be overwhelmed by this seemingly daunting task.  I promise you, this is a crazy, simple recipe with a serious "Wow!" factor.  After making it,  you will feel like and empowered, vegan foodie!

Reserve the second recipe until you are craving change and ready to move beyond the familiar foods in your diet.  

 

VEGAN SAUSAGE

1 cup mashed pinto beans

2 cups water

4 TBLS. soy sauce

4 teas. ground flax seed mixed into 1/2 cup water

2 1/2 cups vital wheat gluten

1/2 cup nutritional yeast

3 teas. fennel seed

2 teas. paprika

2 teas. oregano

Mix all ingredients together well.  Separate the mixture into 6 balls.  Roll each ball out into a log.  Wrap each log in aluminum foil, twisting the ends like tootsie rolls.  Place all the sausage logs into a colander fitted with a lid.  Place the colander over a pot of water and bring the water to a boil.  Steam the logs  over the pot of boiling water for 45 minutes.  Wait until the logs have cooled a bit before unwrapping them.  

Serve with fried peppers, into tomato sauce over pasta, with mashed potatoes and gravy, in a bun with mustard and sauerkraut...or any other way you can imagine.  When you run out of ideas...

RED LENTIL SOUP WITH SUNDRIED TOMATOES, SAUSAGE AND SWEET CORN

3 cups red lentils

12 cups water

3 teas. Better Than Boullion (optional)

3 vegan sausage links

1 teas. salt

2 TBLS. chopped sundried tomatoes packed in oil

1 1/2 cup frozen sweet corn (fresh if you're that lucky)

 

Rinse the lentils well.  Bring them to a boil in the 12 cups of water.  Let's take a minute to talk about beans and foam.  Depending on how well you rinse your beans, you will likely see some amount of foam on the surface of the boiling water.  Simply scoop the foam off and dump it.  

Add your bouillon and boil the beans for about 20 minutes, until soft.  

Meanwhile, slice the sausages into 1/4 thick discs and pan fry them in a little olive oil.

Add the sundried tomatoes, salt and corn to the lentil mixture.  

Ladle out bowlfuls of the lentil soup and top them with a hearty scoop of the pan fried sausage just before serving.  

 

 

*www.belsandia.com

ⓒ copywrite 2012 Beth Beaton Mausert

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

COME ON, GET HAPPY

Statistically, women live longer than men.  And I have a theory as to why this is true.  Around the world, women do the yeoman's share of the cooking.  And around the world, women do that cooking together.  If you've ever had the good fortune of working in a kitchen with kindred folks, you know what a curative experience it can be.  And if it was a volunteer group effort, I tell you, this joy is like no other.  Here's the the research explaining why.

Scientists who like to quantify and qualify everything, have statistically analyzed the lifestyles and choices of the happiest and healthiest amongst us.  The data is more than a little surprising.

 
According to the longest running social-science study, following the lives of 200 participants for over 50 years, generativity, or our ability to give to others, is a key determinant in how happy we are.  Apparently, a great capacity for giving can up your happiness factor even in the face of the most difficult life circumstances, including long term illness, divorce, death of loved ones, and financial difficulties.  Simply put, when it comes to happiness,  the more we give, the happier we are.  

As far as the healthiest amongst us, the data is even more astonishing.  Yes, you should eat healthfully, exercise, and quit smoking.  But equally, and in some cases, even more importantly, you should cultivate healthy support systems.

 
One study, following the habits of 300,000 participants over the course of 7.5 years, showed that people with little social support have a mortality rate risk equal to those suffering from alcoholism.  Additionally, the mortality rate risk of people lacking social support is even higher than the mortality rate risks of obese or physically inactive people.  

Another study on social relationships, conducted over the course of three decades, showed that participants with healthy social relationships lived 3.7 times longer than those without.  That's an effect comparable to the benefit of quitting smoking!  

The sages of the ancient practices of yoga knew this.  Five thousand years ago, they coined terms for these lifestyle practices being studied by social scientists today.  They called them seva and sangha.  Seva means selfless service. And sangha refers to a community of like minded people.  

About 20 years ago, my husband and I took a trip across country.  We stopped to visit some friends of his at an ashram in Denver, CO.  While he was off reminiscing with his buddies, I found my way into the kitchen.  Someone handed me an apron, a vegetable peeler and a bushel of carrots.  I spent the next several hours of my life in a bustling, basement kitchen with a group of new friends working toward the creation of a meal to be distributed to anyone and everyone in need.   I remember that day as one of the happiest days of my life.  

It seems impossible that my happy place could be knee-deep in carrot peelings, surrounded by dirty dishes and good company.  But it's true.  

That day, while we peeled and chopped and simmered and stirred, we managed somehow, as a group, to dissolve our feelings of unease and separation.  Working toward the well being of those in need made us feel connected and focused.  Our interdependence made the impossible seem possible.  One or two people cooking a meal for hundreds of others is overwhelming.  Ten people working together for this same goal is empowering.  By the day's end, I felt buoyant and joyous as we served out a fantastic meal to a throng of appreciative people.  My generativity levels were practically busting at the seams.

 
I can't even tell you what was on the menu that day (except that it definitely involved carrots).   I can tell you that it made me hungry for more kitchen service.  

Finding joy in the kitchen wasn't an entirely new experience for me.  Growing up in a big, Italian family, many of my fond memories harken back to the kitchen.  My grandmother was the youngest of five sisters, Jessimina, Filomena, Madalena, Amelia, and Rosina.  Being in the kitchen with any one of them was lovely.  And if you were lucky enough to be in the kitchen with all of them at the same time, you were lucky enough to know a little bit of bliss.  

Providing food for the people you love is a way of saying, "I'm here for you.  I care about your well being."  Preparing that food with others is a way of saying "We're in this together.  And together we are stronger than the sum of our parts."  

One dreary, fall day a few years back, I roped my friend, Barbara (yup, the same Barbara that I roped into the cacao plantation tour), into making stuffed shells for 35 people with me.  

As we mindfully filled and lined up stuffed shell after stuffed shell, we helped one another knead out the knots in our lives.  We listened and strategized and fell silent and listened and strategized and fell silent again and again, all the while working toward our goal of feeding a mass of guests.  By the time we'd finished making the stuffed shells and cleaning up the kitchen, we both remarked at the overwhelming sense of clarity, resolution and gratitude we felt.  To this day, if either or both of us are feeling overwhelmed by life, we set a date to make stuffed shells...lots of 'em.  

So if you want to be happy for the rest of your life, call a friend, download this recipe and get your generativity juices flowing!

 

VEGAN STUFFED SHELLS

 

Tomato-Basil Marinara:

(2) 28 oz. cans tomato puree (I LOVE Muir Glen products.  They're a little pricier, but way worth it.)

1/2 cup dried basil (That's not a typo.  It's really 1/2 cup, not  1/2 teas.)

2 TBLS. maple syrup

1 teas. salt

1/4 teas. black pepper

Mix all ingredients and simmer over medium low heat, stirring frequently.  Meanwhile prepare your filling and shells.

 

Vegan Spinach Ricotta Filling:

(1) 14 oz. package extra-firm tofu

(1) 8 oz. container vegan cream cheese (I used "Veggie" classic plain.  Be sure to look for brands that use non-hydrongenated fat)

(1) 10 oz. package frozen spinach, thawed

1 teas. salt

1/4 teas. black pepper

Begin by pressing all the water out of the tofu by wrapping it in a towel and squeezing.  A lot of water will come out.  Likewise, squeeze all the water out of the thawed spinach over a colander.

Place all the ingredients in a bowl and mash thoroughly with a potato masher.

Prepare (1) 12 package of Jumbo shells according to the package directions.  Rinse and drain.

Spread a layer of sauce on the bottom of a baking dish.  Fill and line up your shells in rows.  Cover with another layer of sauce. Bake in a 350* oven for 30-40 mins.  

This recipe will make about two dozen stuffed shells, enough for 4-5 people.  Double, triple, quadruple...depending on just how happy you want to get :)

ⓒ copywrite 2012 Beth Beaton Mausert

 

No Mosquitos, No Chocolate

Change is scary.  Let's be honest.  Traveling the same path, day in and day out, even with its infinite discoveries and slight variations, can be comforting.  Deciding to take a hard left turn where you normally go right drops you smack dab in the middle of the unknown.  Recently, I agreed to do just that and ended up in a Costa Rican jungle with my husband, three of our children and my best friend.  For the most part, it was a fabulous adventure.  

We went horseback riding on the beach and in the jungle.  We zip lined the rainforest canopy.  We held monkeys named Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie at a rehabilitation center and saw a myriad of poisonous snakes, spiders and tree frogs.  We learned the nuanced difference between two toed sloths and three toed sloths and decided that both variations shockingly mirror the habits of the American Teenage Human, sleeping for eighteen hours a day and waking only to feed.  We witnessed the drive of the leaf cutting ants, snaking their offerings of green leaf snippets in tidy moving lines across the jungle floor.  In one of many aha! moments, I found myself singing, "Just what makes that little black ant, think he can move a rubber tree plant..."

But, nothing prepared me for what we all thought was going to be an easy, pleasant, perhaps even teetering on the edge of boring, visit to a cacao plantation and factory.  Since I was the only one of our group leaping at the chance to experience cacao up close and personal, I had to convince my daughter and my best friend to come along.  The boys had already dedicated themselves to boogie boarding at the beach.  "Oh, come on.  It'll be fun!"  I told them.  "There'll be a lovely canoe ride, a walk through the plantation, and then we get to make chocolate!  It even includes lunch.  Come on, please."  I was flat out begging.

My friend, Barbara, gave in pretty quickly because that's what best friends do.   And, that's why they're your best friend to begin with.  It also doesn't hurt that chocolate is her second favorite food, taking a back seat only to pasta.  (Definitely best friend material for a foodie, right?).  I think I may have actually bribed my daughter.  But, she came along pretty willingly, too.  

We arrived at the plantation dressed in the last of our clean, presentable clothes.  After having been in the rainforest for several days, the pickings were slim.   But we managed to pull ourselves together and we were looking and feeling good!

The first thing our host asked us upon arrival was, "Do you like mosquitos?"  "Um, well, not really so much,"  I started to say, when Barbara emphatically and clearly stated, "No,"  and referred him to the dozens of bites and scabs on her arms and legs.  

With a wide, toothy grin, our congenial host informed us that mosquitos are the main pollinators of cacao trees.  "No mosquitos, no chocolate."  And  in another one of my Costa Rican aha! moments, I was reminded of a verse from the Bhagavad Gita on the dual nature of the material world.  In our human pursuits of pleasure, constant as they are, we are equally guaranteed to stumble upon suffering no matter how we try to avoid it.  The Gita instructs us to be equipoised in happiness and distress, heat and cold, fear and anxiety, ect... which is exactly what we proceeded to not do.  Nonetheless, I now had  a reason to respect if not adore the pesky, little, bloodsucking mosquito.

We were introduced to our tour guide, Rapha.  He was wearing a long sleeve shirt, knee high rubber boots and red knee sox, firmly secured around his shins with rubber bands.  In contrast, our trio was clad in tank tops, flip flops, and did I mention that I was carrying my dapper new purse?  Yup, I was.   I had it hiked up on my shoulder like we were on our way to shop Rodeo Drive.

Rapha cocked his head off to the left, beckoning us to follow him down a well-beaten path behind the entrance to the plantation.  We nervously smiled at each other and obediently fell in line behind him.  After about a minute of walking, the path narrowed and the jungle closed in on us.  Where was the plantation?  The neatly groomed rows of cacao trees I'd imagined?  We didn't know and we couldn't ask.  As it turns out, Rapha didn't speak a word of English and I hadn't actively spoken Spanish in over twenty years.  

The narrow path began to descend steeply.  Carefully placing one flip flopped foot after another and clinging to one another so as not to accidentally grab onto a poisonous snake skillfully camouflaged as a vine, we made our way down the steep slope.

Suddenly, a murky, brown river expanded out before us and a canoe containing several inches of muddy water awaited our arrival.  Rapha bailed the water out of the canoe and then held his hand out for us.  After exchanging more nervous smiles, we embarked and settled in.  We glided silently downstream--just us, the river, the birds, and the outrageously beautiful jungle.  It was all idyllic for about ten minutes until I started wondering about the crocodiles.  What was the spanish word for crocodile?  I mimed my best crocodile for Rapha, asking if there were crocs in the river.   With my limited spanish, I understood his reply.  "Yes, but they are small,"  he said.  

We moved beyond nervous smiling into nervous laughter, which eventually moved us to start singing, of course.  "Rapha,"  I cackled,  "Quieres cantar?"   (Do you want to sing?)   Or at least that's what I think I asked him.  His answer was a simple but clear, "No."  And we all got really quiet again.  

The sounds of the river began to change.  It sounded somehow familiar, like the rush of traffic on a highway.  Or maybe a waterfall?  What was the word for waterfall?  I didn't  even have a guess.  

We floated downstream a bit further and suddenly arrived on a stretch of beach with the saltwater ocean and crashing waves off to one side and the freshwater river we'd been traveling on off to the other.  We were relieved to know that we weren't headed for class IV  rapids, but completely confused.  I wouldn't have been totally shocked to see Gilligan and MaryAnn greeting us with a coconut cream pie.  

Rapha pulled the canoe ashore and climbed out.  We wordlessly followed.  Were we even on the right tour?  Here we were, strolling on the beach with guy we knew nothing about, without another human in site for miles.  If I was uncomfortable before, I was now saddling up along side my worst fears.  

After a leisurely stroll on the beach, Rapha led us back to the canoe and scooped out the several inches of brown water that had accumulated in our absence.  He motioned for us to get back in.  Should we?  I flashed on a self-defense course for women I'd taken where we were instructed to make our last stand in the parking lot, never get in the car and absolutely never go to the second location.  Was that the rule for canoes and beaches, too?

Mainly because we didn't  really have another option, we got back in the canoe and proceeded to engage in the kind of inappropriate laughter you might find yourself engaging in at, say, a funeral.

Rapha took us across the river to where it converged with the ocean and pulled the canoe ashore to the edge of yet another jungle.  We disembarked and began a treacherous climb up a slippery, muddy path that seemed to be taking us directly into the heart of the jungle.  The mosquitos were thick and vicious.  I looked ahead and saw that Rapha was carrying the canoe's oar across his chest.  For protection?  As a weapon?  Maybe we should have taken our chances and made our last stand on the beach.  A couple of swift blows to the head and Rapha could easily have his way with any one of the three of us he liked.  I strategically positioned my daughter between myself and my friend.  And we stoically marched on, single file, deeper into the jungle.  By now we were scrambling under thickets and artfully dodging dangling vines to keep up with our tour guide/captor.  Occasionally one of our flip flops would get stuck in the thick mud and I'd yell, "Uno momento, por favor!"  (One moment, please!)

On one such extraction, as I bent to pull my daughter's turquoise flip flop up form the jungle floor, I noticed paw prints.  Big cat paw prints.  Mosquitos, waterfalls, crocodiles, subservient captivity...it all paled in comparison to my fear of being eaten alive by a jaguar.  "Rapha!"  I screamed, "Hay gatos?!"  (There  are cats?!)

Rapha appeared, oar across his chest.  Calmly, he studied us.  He studied the paw prints.  He replied in spanish, "Yes, but they are small."  It was all too much.  We started to laugh uncontrollably.  We clutched at each other to keep form falling down.  Rapha helplessly looked on.  Suddenly he stretched out the oar and pointed to a tree with a large papaya shaped fruit clinging to the bark.  "Cacao,"  he stated.  We had arrived.  We were on the cacao plantation.  He cut the fruit off the tree, (he'd been carrying a knife?!), and sliced it open for us.

The outside of the fruit was green and yellow.  The inside of it was fleshy and creamy white.  He scooped  a chunk of it out and popped it into his mouth.  After a few seconds he spit out a seed.  It was about 2" long and 1" wide.  It was lightly covered by a thin layer of the creamy white flesh.  He cracked it open to reveal the purplish innards of a raw cacao bean.  We each scooped out a hunk of cacao flesh and sucked our way down to the bean  The white flesh was sweet and sour at the same time, like Smarties.  It was surprisingly delightful.  And I wondered why some enterprising exotic fruit salesperson had never had the sense to market cacao fruit.  

We made our way back to the entrance of the plantation, giddy and relieved.  We were served a lovely lunch of vegetarianos casados.  This is the staple meal of Costa Ricans, consisting of black beans, rice, plantains, mixed cooked vegetables and salad.  You will find it anywhere and everywhere you go, making it a wonderful country for adventurous vegetarian visitors.

After lunch we were invited to the chocolate factory.  We followed a group of a dozen or so tourists who had the sense to skip the plantation tour and move straight to the chocolate making.  

The "factory" turned out to be a thatched roof structure with no walls, housing a table, two benches and an open fire.  First we roasted the cacao beans in a well worn iron wok.  When they cooled, we rolled the beans between our fingers to break off the outer husks.  The freshly roasted cacao beans were collected and poured into a hand-cranked grinder that was firmly attached to the edge of the table.  We all took turns winding the handle around and around in big circles.  The gritty cacao powder was scooped into a large, wooden bowl and mixed with milk and sugar.  We were all handed a ball of the mixture and instructed to vigorously knead and roll our little masses.  When we'd sufficiently processed the chocolate, each of our offerings was collected and rolled into a large uniform rectangle by hand with a rolling pin.  The result looked like a cross between brownies and fudge.  This was cut into small squares and offered back to us for sampling.  It was beyond my wildest dreams.  If I'd been a passionate advocate of dark chocolate before, I was now beginning to feel an evangelical calling.  

We sat and savored the fruits of our hard earned labor until the rest of the tourists had cleared out, floating on our own little cloud of cacao bliss.  "One more square?" I asked my cacao loving partners.  They agreed that they'd already eaten at least a half dozen squares each.  "Yes, " I smiled, unable to help myself, "but they are small."  

 

CACAO BLISS TRUFFLES 

This recipe came from my sister, Kathleen, who happens also to be a foodie and a vegetarian.   She makes them in the most outrageous flavors...rosewater, cardamon and orange, chai spice, cayenne pepper, basil...the list of possibilities is endless.  According to her, the secret ingredient is the tiniest pinch of salt, because salt, she says, "makes chocolate sing."  

 

8 ounces chopped fair-trade bittersweet chocolate

4 ounces full fat canned coconut milk

1 teas. almond extract

1/2 teas. ground cinnamon

1/4 cup fair-trade cocoa powder

pinch of salt (a scant less than 1/16 of a teaspoon, for those of you who hate the imprecision of a pinch.  We know who you are and we love you.  You pay the bills on time and water the plants and generally make the world a more predictable place.  Thank you.)

 

Begin by blending the whole can of coconut milk with a hand blender or a stand blender until it is emulsified.  Then, measure out 4 ounces of it.  Add the chocolate and the coconut milk to the top of a double boiler and melt until smooth.  Stir in the cinnamon and the almond extract.  Chill until solid.

Scoop heaping teaspoonfuls  from the solid mass and roll them into balls with your hands.  This is messy business.  Be prepared to rinse your hands several times as you go to  keep the mixture from building up on your palms.  Drop 4 or 5 balls at a time into the cocoa powder and dust them on all sides before extracting them and placing them on a plate.   

They can be kept in the fridge for several days.  You can also store them in a sealed container in the freezer for a longer period of time if need be.  

ⓒ copywrite 2012 Beth Beaton Mausert

 

 

Judy, the Transvestite Chicken

We moved to the country to escape the sounds of the city.  When I say "city", I am referring to a sizable community pushing the edge of 35,000 people.  Our dear friends who actually live in THE city would visit us there and poke good-natured fun at me.  "I've got to get out of the city," I'd say.  "Honey, you don't live in the city,"  they'd say.  I suppose its all relative.  

via www.buddhabellyblog.com

Judy, the Transvestite Chicken

We moved to the country to escape the sounds of the city.  When I say "city", I am referring to a sizable community pushing the edge of 35,000 people.  Our dear friends who actually live in THE city would visit us there and poke good-natured fun at me.  "I've got to get out of the city," I'd say.  "Honey, you don't live in the city,"  they'd say.  I suppose its all relative.  

Where we live now, I can actually intuit the approach of the school bus a few minutes before it pulls up to the bottom of our driveway.  Its specific hollow resonance reverberates over the pasturelands in a way that the tractors, big trucks and super-fast cars, driven by 18 year old boys, do not.  

Maybe I'm peculiarly sensitive to sounds, but the song of the mourning doves on a still afternoon can hold me in its clutches like a school girl waiting for her first kiss.  The raw, high-pitched cawing of the wild geese traveling in their choreographed way stills me.  I gawk, slack-jawed until they have fully passed.  And the gentle, low-throated bawk, bawk, bawking of our happy tribe of hens makes me feel so warm and cozy on the inside that you'll likely find me simply standing in the yard amidst them, grinning from ear to ear like a fool.  

But, let me back up a little and tell you how we came to be "farmers".   When we'd finally had enough of city life, we found a crooked old farmhouse, packed up our stuff and moved to the country.  While we didn't have to climb a telephone pole to receive calls, and I don't own any of those maribou edged gowns, we fit in about as well as Zsa Zsa Gabor and her tv husband, Oliver, from Green Acres.

My husband is a suit and tie wearing attorney.  I work as a yoga instructor.  Our whole clan is vegetarian and we lean heavily to the east when it comes to spirituality.   We held a house warming party when we first moved in, featuring a fire sacrifice  performed by a Vedic monk.  Of course, we invited all our new neighbors.    Some of them, bless them, actually came.  When our now beloved neighbor showed up in a kilt with an apple pie, we knew everything was going to be just fine.  Somehow, that's how it is out here in the country.  Republicans, democrats, hiberians, hare krishnas...we watch out for each other like Ma and Pa Ingalls did with Mr.  Edwards.  

I suppose now would be the time for me to confess that Laura Ingalls was my childhood hero.  I read all the Little House books at least twice.  I took to wearing an apron and a bonnet regularly.  And I wore them well beyond the age appropriate time.  I longed for opportunities to showcase my boldness, my righteousness, my humility and my gratitude, like Little Half-Pint.  

Instead, growing up, I fought bitterly with my sisters.  I complained about having to wash the dishes every night.  I only helped my Mom clean up when she would get completely overwhelmed by the unrelenting tasks of maintaining a household, raising three less-than-grateful daughters, and running her own business.   I hated the wood stove that  heated our whole house.  And I felt burdened by dragging in my quota of nine logs a day.   I cursed the frigid mornings before school when the wood stove burned out and I could see my own breath even as I blow dried and curled my hair into the closest Farrah Faucett do I could pull together.  I grew steadily further and further from my ideal life on the prairie.  

Decades later,  I got married and had some kids of my own.  I wanted something true and real for them to sink into; something that didn't concentrically expand out from food court into a suburban mall.   We seem to have found enough of it here to at least keep things interesting.  Our most recent endeavor definitely challenges my training in suburbia.  Last summer, we became the proud caregivers to six hens (Or so we thought.  More on that later.)  On the ride home from a neighboring farm where we picked out and loaded up our six lovely ladies, my four year old son shouted, "We are farmers!"  I had to join in, "Yes, we are!  We are farmers!"  

My son named his pet chicken, "Judy".  Since I couldn't tell them the least bit apart at first, I began to refer to them all as "The Judies", as if it were the name of their little tribe.  And life went on delightfully.  The Judies weren't of age to be laying eggs yet, so we fed and watered them.  They let us hold them.  And we all took turns sitting out in the chicken yard for long periods of time, just snuggling them up.  "We are farmers,"  I would think to myself.  "We are."  

And then the chicken coop builders came to fix some things up.  "Them there's four roosters you got yourselves," they told us.  No! The Judies? Roosters?!  Well, I guess when I did look a little closer, some of the Judies were rocking some pretty bold combs.  None of them were actually cock-a-doodle-doing yet.  So, really, I tell myself, it was understandable for a first time chicken farmer.  

We traded in the four transvestite Judies for four more appropriate barnyard hens.  What became of the roosters?  I'm not sure.  And I'm not entirely sure I want to know.  I began to have my doubts about the whole venture, honestly.  I consoled myself by knowing that these six lovely hens would have as wonderful a life as any hen could imagine.  They will be pampered and cared for and allowed to live out their entire lives no matter their egg production.  The Judies are like feathered aunties whose welcome will not wear out should they grow old and molt.  

We might not be the kind of farmers our neighbors had in mind, but every time I slide the lock open to the chicken coop, fill up their food and water and collect their eggs, I chant quietly to myself, "We are farmers! We are!"  And I consider it a miracle.  

 

NONNIE'S VEGAN BANANA BREAD

 

You may be expecting a recipe featuring The Judies' eggs, yes?  Well, here's the thing.  Outside of our own chickens' eggs, I don't eat eggs.  The vast majority of chickens lead lives of horrific suffering.  Even eggs labeled "free-range" can be misleading.  A factory farmed chicken living in a festering building with 50,000 other chickens can be called "free-range" if she has access to a 3'x3' "yard" through a tiny door that may or may not be opened.  Her beak and wings will likely be clipped to keep her from harming her barn mates in instinctual acts of survival.  I will go so far as to say that keeping chickens in these conditions is not farming at all.  Its ritualized torture.  

Obviously, I don't follow a strict vegan diet.  I AM a chicken farmer, after all.  A friend of ours coined the phrase "compassionate eater" when he began leaning toward a vegan diet.  And I like that.  Making conscious choices regarding our diets can have a tremendous impact on the fragile state of our planet's well-being.  I'm a big fan of Jonathan Foer's book "Eating Animals", for more on that topic.

 

On that cheerful note, here's a recipe for eggless banana bread that my grandmother gave me when I began exploring a plant-based diet.   The original copy of the recipe, written in her handwriting, is tattered and stained from so many years of use that I should retire it and replace it with a rewritten copy.  But, I won't :)  

 

I've been making this banana bread for my husband since before he was my husband.  And I'm pretty sure its the reason he married me.  Its light and moist, never gummy, and absolutely fool-proof to make.  If you have 4 bananas in the house, you will likely have everything you need to whip up a loaf right now!

 

2 cups  all purpose flour (I sometimes use whole wheat pastry flour.  If you are gluten free you can successfully substitute Bob's Red Mill Gluten Free all purpose baking flour.)

1/2 cup sugar or granulated sweetner

1 teas. baking powder

1 teas. baking soda

1/2 teas. salt

1/4 cup chopped pecans or walnuts (optional)

1 3/4 cups mashed bananas (about 4)

1/4 maple syrup

1/4 vegetable oil

Mix the wet stuff.  Add the dry stuff.  Don't over mix, please.   Pour into a greased loaf pan.  Bake for about 55 minutes in a 350* oven.  That's all.  Sweet and simple.  Enjoy!

ⓒ copywrite 2011 Beth Beaton Mausert