Shrimp sticks grilled with ginger and garlic, Crab cakes with Mango chutney and garden salad, and of course...Key Lime Pie for desert.
( legendary key lime pie! only authentic ingredients !)
Monday, June 23, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
sunset
Evening Sun sets
But man's Spirit does not
At Night, his anguish looms
in the quiet of his room
(photo taken from Panther Key, Ten Thousand Islands, November 2007)
like crystal blue water
Periodically throughout the day my thoughts shift and turn astray, to thoughts of you and I stop and say, just what is it you’re doing, today? When not at work, how do you spend your day? What things occupy your leisure time? Do you share interests similar to mine? I will occasionally look at your picture and smile, and giggle and calm that sensation that burns out of my root chakra. It’s been a long time since we first met and only recently since we get to know each other. Are we karmic podmates, like dolphins sailing from pod to pod, reconnecting with one another? I approach cautiously, weighing each and every word I speak, write, every thought I allow to be sure I am acting in the spirit wholly and completely of who I am, and who I want to be. Sometimes, unconsciously, a fantasy will slip loose from my grip and I allow myself to feel the seductive decadence that could be us. I imagine touching your lips to mine anticipating the electricity that our souls would ignite. And then I catch myself, and ask for guidance to keep my intentions true. I sense that you are emotionally fragile. I was once there, and clung to every rung within my grasp. Some were not anchored and I lost my ground. Others served to elevate me to a new understanding. I want to be that for you: a rung that will help you rise to a new understanding of yourself. An appreciation of who you are and who you want to be. I don’t want to mislead you - I don’t want to fail you. And most of all, I don’t want to complicate your life anymore than it already is. And while I can, and want to be all those things for you, I am afraid. Afraid to allow myself …to allow another ..to get inside my heart. Don’t look at the scars that have poorly healed - they’re an ugly mess of ragged tissue, a poorly designed and poorly crafted relationship gone wrong. I am safe within myself with no one to judge past craftsmanship. Sometimes we have to tear down existing ways of life to build newer, stronger more beautiful foundations. It’s all about Choices - the choices we make that design our experiences. We choose who we are, how we are.
Sometimes our choices lead us to experiences that are out of sync with who we really are. Then we need to choose again.
This is what I would say to you if I could.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
mango chutney
I enjoy cooking, along the same pleasure line of writing and gardening. A few weeks ago, Lauren mentioned that she’d been craving a dish I had made one time. She said it was crab cakes, but with shrimp, and a mango chutney. Heck if I remembered making that dish. A contract employee for the town brings in bags full of mangos from his property when they are in season. I love mangos, and have fixed them a bejillion ways. Local mangos aren’t height of season right now, but, I felt an urge to cook, and my daughter’s craving was incentive.
After going through my tried and true cookbooks, without landing on the crab cakes substituted with shrimp recipe, I went to google. I determined that the recipe referenced was probably one that I “altered” with the shrimp. Now on to the mango chutney. Lauren was quite clear about the ginger in the recipe. So I searched all mango chutney recipes for ones with ginger. I came up with one, and it sounded good., So, notes on an old envelope and off to the supermarket.
On this little island, there are two supermarkets. I like them both for different reasons. Today I would shop Publix. The Beach Publix is unique in many ways, but most noticeably, is the narrowness of the aisles. Land is premium on a barrier island, and Publix maximized use of available land. With grocery list in hand, I began the customary approach down the aisles. Must be spring training. Lots of folks in baseball uniforms. Lots of NY Yankees and Boston Red Sox and… I lost interest. I noticed more how difficult it was for a normal person to navigate narrow aisles.
I knew that buying mangos was critical, so I made my way down the first aisle picking up basic items, stopping at the dried and canned fruit to buy golden raisins (per recipe) and to find currants . Knowing the store layout better than the back of my hand, I went to produce. No point in buying anything else if there’s no mangos. SALE!! Mangos! 10 for $10,.00. I bought ten. I proceeded on, selecting various groceries items for the up coming week.
As I rounded one aisle, I saw a woman, friend, former neighbor who works there. We greeted and stopped to chat. She was cashiering the “ ten items or fewer” aisle and as we chatted she kept alert to upcoming customers. Seeing some, we quickly ended our chat, but not before I asked about currants. Yes, maybe in the dried fruits, but check with produce: they may have fresh.
I”d been all over hell and back looking for currants. After the umpteenth visit to produce, I saw a young man working produce. “ Can you help me?” I asked, Darn he was tall. And I recognized him Not sure how or why or where. The name Chris comes to mind. He’s a Beach kid. “ I’m looking for currants” I said. He looked at me like I had two noses. “I’ve been working produce for four years, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
As I went through the check out, the cashier asked, “darn. How may mangos?” and I said, “Ten! Ten for Ten!”
They engaged me in a conversation about mangos: how \to clean them, the toxins in the skin, how to cook.. Etc., I used my wallet and debit card to demonstrate the method of cleaning a mango!
The recipe calls for three to four pounds of mangos…. Peeled, seeded and diced. How the heck would one know that? So I cleaned mangos and diced the gorgeous fruit as my finger nails turned peach. Based on the proportions of other ingredients, seven mangos looked good..
I diced ginger and onions and garlic and added cider vinegar and raisins and cloves and salt. And brought it to a slow boil, and shut it down.
Lauren is my ultimate perfect taste tester. I can’t adequately taste test my own cooking. Over the years, Sarah and Lauren have responded to that need. Lauren is the best because she doesn’t placate me. Tonight was a great example.
The pot of chutney is simmering on the stove. I had a small cup scooped out to cool: the taste tester’s cup. I offered it to Lauren, and she began her magic “MMMmm; “ she said. “ It’s good. There’s one flavor…” I interjected, “Ginger?” “No, not ginger” she said. “ It’s a bit overwhelming.” She took another spoonful. “It’s good…” as she scooped another spoonful. I asked, “Is it cloves?” (knowing that only two spices made it into this recipe: ginger and cloves). “ That’s it!:” She exclaimed. “ The cloves….” Then she opened the fridge for …whatever reason teens open the fridge “Oh! Mangos!” she exclaimed, having spotted the three out of the ten that did not get sliced and diced for the chutney. “ I think you should add those..” Lauren’s suggestion was to add the three other mangos to the current chutney to absorb and balance the current spices.
So, I did. I cleaned the remaning three mangos and added them to the chutney.
Superb idea, superb suggestion! Before she went out tonight, I mentioned my conversation in the store about currants, and commented, “ I think you know this kid..” and she said, “Yeah.. Chris… just saw him the other night” (Beach Kids Rule).
Tomorrow? Crab and shrimp cakes with mango chutney, Fresh garden salad and Key Lime Pie!
(Yummy Yummy!)
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
NightMare
Norbert and Kathryn DeMars raised ten children; five boys and five girls. Of those ten, two were considered to be “all Kessler” as they resembled my mother’s side of the family. Mary Beth was all Kessler. She was three years older than I. Until she went away to college, we always shared a bedroom. As a young girl, she would wake at night with terrible dreams, earning her the nickname “NightMare.”
Throughout middle and high school we played on the same basketball team, we were on the same cheerleading squad, we were in the same extracurricular activities. We fought often. I’m not sure who resented whom more. She felt that I was stealing her thunder, and I resented her pomposity. She graduated high school valedictorian of her class and received honors such as the Daughters of the American Revolution, I was glad to see her go off to college.
Mary Beth dated a lot, and a lot of different guys. During the summer of her sophomore year of college, she met a local guy. Bill was born and raised in the Poconos from an extended family with much local history. He owned a small photography business in town, and every one knew Bill and everyone liked Bill. He was the guy that would buy you a drink, shake your hand, make you laugh. Mary Beth fell in love with him and they planned to marry right after college. I recall my Dad commenting, “I hope she’s not being swept away by fast cars and fancy clothes.” They married, and I stood up as her maid of honor. I think she felt obligated to ask me, because we certainly were not close.
She earned a good job with the Social Security Administration and Bill kept his shop. They built a house on a lot that belonged to Bill’s family, and was next door to his mother. The irony here is that the guy I was dating at the time lived in the same neighborhood and was also a professional photographer. Bill’s and my path crossed often, although I only saw my sister at family functions. Bill was a player, and had made passes at me from time to time which I brushed off to an over active imagination. One evening he pulled up in front of the dorm I was living in and asked if I wanted to go for a drive in his Austin Healey. I thought he was just being brotherly, and it was a nice evening for a drive in a convertible. This time his intentions were quite clear and I knew it was not my imagination. He accepted my refusal, and took me home. I felt somehow dirty, and never spoke of it to anyone.
Shortly after, I moved to Florida. I had a brother living in the North Miami area who helped me to get established. My mother was very good at keeping all of us informed about everyone else’s whereabouts and happenings. The years just sort of went on, and I honestly couldn’t tell you much about my sister and her life, except that mom said that she really wanted children, but Bill did not. Mary Beth was holding the family together financially as Bill’s business had failed and they were facing bankruptcy. Her life had little bearing on mine, until one night in November 1980.
I was working in Hollywood, Florida for a magazine printing company. I worked the “graveyard” shift from midnight to eight AM. I usually slept from three or so in the afternoon until about eleven o’clock in the evening, and would then get up and go to work. I would unplug the telephone because I slept when most others did not. Being a single female living alone in a ground floor efficiency, I was very security conscious. One night at about ten o’clock, a knock came on my door, waking me from my sleep. There was a streetlight directly outside the window of the back door, and I could see the silhouette of what appeared to be a large man. The apartment was dark and quiet, and I just waited until he left. Shortly after, I was up and getting ready to go to work when there was again a knock on the door. This time I answered it. It was my brother, Ken. He’d tried to call, but the phone was unplugged. He’d gotten a call from Mom. Mary Beth was dead. She’d been shot.
At this time, there were five DeMars living in South Florida: my oldest brother and his new wife, brothers Robert and Ken, and myself. We flew up to Pennsylvania together. It was the week before Thanksgiving.
The report was that Mary Beth’s body was found in the woods just off a narrow mountain road in a near-by county. She’d been shot in the head and suffered several stab wounds. Her car was found at a Holiday Inn in the town near where she worked, with blood stains in the back seat. A room at the Inn had signs of a struggle.
A funeral service was held in the same church in which she was married. The church was standing room only. At the cemetery, I sat in front of the casket holding the hand of my youngest brother and the hand of the grieving widower.
Thanksgiving dinner was painful. We all had speculations, questions, theories, but no answers. When we said grace, and my father spoke of our grief, I broke down. I knew how much my parents loved her, and I blurted out that “it should have been me.”
The mystery gradually unfolded. My parents received a letter cut from newspaper clippings that read in the form of a ransom note, referencing “the sins of the father.” Dad retired as head of the local Army Depot which employed most of the people in the area. He was a tough boss and not well liked. This “sins of the father” hurt my dad deeply. The letter was sent as a red herring, but the plan backfired. It actually helped the detectives in solving the crime.
Bill had been sneaking around with all kinds of women. While Mary Beth worked nights and weekends to pay off debts from his failed business, neighbors observed women coming and going from the house, even entering through basement windows. He was a regular at a local pub and was most charming to all the ladies. One frequently charmed woman was Pauletta Beehler. If you have ever seen the movie, “Fatal Attraction” with Glenn Close and Michael Douglas, you’d think it was based on the life of Mary Beth and Bill. Pauletta wrote Mary Beth a letter under the guise of a promotional company, saying she had won a prize and needed to go to a certain room at this Holiday Inn to claim it. Pauletta even called her at work to ensure she would come to claim her prize. Mary Beth drove there after work, entered the room, the light switch was taped down, and she was struck over the head. Pauletta wanted Mary Beth to leave Bill. She threatened her, beat her, and stabbed her. Perhaps the “Kessler” stubbornness came out, or perhaps love for Bill, but Pauletta was defeated. She put Mary Beth in the back seat of her own car, drove to the near-by hospital and told her to get out. She could not, or would not. Angered or frustrated, Pauletta drove up a back mountain road, pulled her out, put a gun to her head and shot her.
I returned to Florida, to my little apartment,to my job and tried to return to normalcy. There is something very dark that stays with you for a very long time after an experience such as this. Some of the curious things that came about were the dreams that we siblings had. Mom had a plate rail in her kitchen that ran all along the cabinets and held many very rare antique plates that she’d collected over the years, and prized. Two of us dreamt the same dream, the same night: Mom’s plates were gone. Mom mentioned a dream she had had, nervously giggling at the “rediculousness” of it. She dreamt that she was in Church and Monsignor McHugh was coming down the aisle in a wheelchair. Mary Beth’s death had crippled Mom’s faith.
Pauletta was arrested and charged with first degree premeditated murder. The case never went to trial. The lawyers plea bargained. Pauletta was sentenced to seven years for third degree murder. Bill received double indemnity on her life insurance policy, as she was the victim of a violent crime. He sold the house they built together, and remarried. He moved into a house just a few blocks from my parents’ home; an arrogant slap in their face.
I never accepted the reason for the murder: It always troubled me,. I read the detectives’ reports, the autopsy report, the news articles, everything I could. By this time, I was living on the west coast of Florida. I worked with a woman who was much older than I , who was an “Earth Mother” type. One day we were talking about Mary Beth and her death and my emptiness and my lack of closure. She told me to go to my dreams. That night, I dreamt that I was lying in bed and an apparition approached me, sat down on the edge of my bed, leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Let it go” she said, “ It’s all right.” The kiss was so real, it woke me from my sleep. I sat upright and saw next to me a ghost-like being. In a knee-jerk reaction, I called out, “Who are you?!” The figure dissipated. I sat frozen.
I had never been much of the communicative daughter; someone else could take care of all that update stuff. But after Mary Beth’s death, I began calling Mom regularly. I always felt that Mary Beth stood between me and my mother’s affection. Mom always liked her best. But I also knew that no mother should have to outlive a child. So I tried to be more of a daughter. I called more often, and would end each phone call with, “I love you, Mom.” and she would say, “OK honey.” It took two years before she finally said, “I love you, too.”
Mary Beth Catherine DeMars Coffman was born June 21, 1951. I hope you have found peace, Mary Beth.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
For YOU
Come here, my dear - please face me
With my hands on your waist, let me see
If my head can rest
Upon your chest
And let your love embrace me
Shh, be still just listen
Feel the energy glisten
As our hearts unite
And soar in flight
And meld within this union.
Hold me close up to you
As I will do the same, too
Hearts align
Senses sublime
Emotions tugging deep in you. .
Come here, my dear, please love me
With your heart, and soul and body
A test of time,
Your love, and mine
Thrust to the realm of could be.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Camlock Systems
Today I learned about cam lock systems. Yesterday I bought a pair of end tables that needed to be assembled. I also bought window treatments complete with twin rods. It had been a day of shopping and I was having fun. I sat down on the floor of the living room and pried open box number one. Each carefully packed piece was labeled 1A, 1B, and so on. The packet of hardware and the instructions were properly organized in a sealed bag. I heard my dad’s voice, “Read the Instructions!” as he had told us every year at every Christmas or birthday whenever we opened anything, Dad always said, “Read the instructions“. So I pulled out the instructions, and told myself to read them through, thoroughly, first. In the beginning, it was easy as all the parts were identified on a clearly organized chart. The hardware had a full page of identification, too. Next came the item identification, and then came a very strange page. The header said, CAMLOCK SYSTEM and under the header, (Important Information) What followed next looked like a quiz on an IQ test. I recognized the drawing of a screw driver, and an allen wrench (they call a key). ENSURE THAT THE CAMLOCK CASE’S ARROW IS POINTED TO THE HOLE. ALIGN THE CAMLOCK SCREW TO THE HOLE OF CAMLOCK CASE. USE PHILIPS HEAD SCREW DRIVER #3 OR ALLEN KEY #4 (PROVIDED) TO TURN CAMLOCK CASE CLOCKWISE ½ TURN. AFTER TURNING, THE CAMLOCK CASE’S ARROW WILL BE TURNED UPSIDE DOWN. I flipped back to the hardware identification and saw that there were eleven camlock screws. Perhaps this will be evident as I proceed. I picked up where I left off and went through the rest of the instructions. These weren’t the kinds of instructions that you ‘read” per se, as they were just a bunch of diagrams and arrows and insets. OK. Enough is enough, I said, and started with Step 1. - which started off rather badly, as I had used “P. KD. Screw” when I should have used “O - Short Screw”. Frustrated with myself for such a stupid mistake, I decided I needed to break out the cordless screw driver for such a big job.
Using a cordless screwdriver may sound simple to most, but I never did understand all the dials and bits and sockets. I’m feeling pretty good that I understand how to make it drill clockwise and counter - clockwise. I can sew just about anything, mastering a sewing machine, patterns, stitches and bobbins. I can cook with a high level of skill - no recipe is too tough. This? .ha. I felt like a ten-thumbed moron. But I persevered. Until the screwdriver/drill(what-ever…) began humming the slow moan of a low battery. Back in the day of married life, I recalled how Pete would have at least two of these tools always with on charging. Now I understood why. I pulled the battery pack off and plugged in the charger, and poured a martini. (that’ll help, I rationalized!)
I opened the packages of window sheers. I am reluctant to call them drapes or curtains, as I don’t think they are either. I’m so excited at the beautiful rose and salmon colors and how they’ll look against the “Indian peach” color of the room. I measured and marked and did all that I could do without “the famous screwdriver”, even resorting to a manual screw driver at one point, but it was (out of alice in wonderland) either too small or too big. Thinking that perhaps Screwdriver had just enough charge for a few small brackets, I “borrowed” it for just a minute. With each little screw, it cried a weak moan.
So was the process for several hours. So was the situation of a few martinis. To think my understanding of camlock systems would ever come to me after the third ‘tini was insanity. I was determined to assemble this table, to the point where I used a rubber hammer and literally beat it together. I set the table up…it’s standing…it’s holding a lamp and holding its own. ..poor thing.
Today, I finished hanging the window treatments. They look BEAUTIFUL!! I love the rosey glow that emanates from the room as the sunlight gushes through the windows. I managed to dance around just about everything else today, dreading having to assemble table number two. The last furniture I bought that needed to be assembled, I was able to coerce my daughter, Sarah’s boyfriend in to do it for me. Today, I thought of asking Lauren to do it for me. I recall when we remodeled the kitchen, at the tender age of six, she was on the floor assembling kitchen cabinets with greater ease than eve n her father. But Lauren wasn’t home, and, well.. .it’s my project, so I bit the bullet. I put on some Mannheim Steamroller and dove in.
Today, I learned about camlock systems. My what clarity comes with patience and sobriety. Table two was assembled in no time, and with no leftover hardware!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
