On Being Useful

Overture

“All I need from you, is that you continue to exist. You are my Seumas. Just keep being my Seumas. That is all I need from you.” Cody leaned back on the other side of the table in the bar with a broad smile and gestured expansively. He looked like a man who had won a fight. He hadn’t, but he had put a chink in a set of armor that I didn’t know I was wearing.

I met this man when he was about nine years old on the day I married his father to one of my best friends; his new step mother. We had barely seen each other again in the intervening two decades until a couple years ago when he reached out. “Your card has stayed with me through three new wallets. That has to mean something. Let’s talk.”

We started to spend time together. It wasn’t instant, but we did find a way past the father’s friend / friend’s kid framework and grew comfortable with each other as peers. Over many evenings of food, drinks, and intense conversation we grew close.

Act I: But the story begins before that, of course

Like most of us, I went to public school. In 1980s small town Washington that meant graduating from a high school with only about 800 students in total, and there wasn’t a great deal of diversity. I had a few close friends, but was never well liked and never felt a part of anything other than my own small group.

We were all into the paranormal, and eventually started a coven together. I had a leg up because I already knew a bit about the subject since I had started studying Witchcraft when I was nine. We called ourselves Shadowood Coven, and within our circle of both friendship and magic, I felt safe for the first time.

I also started studying the harp in high school, which became as central to my identity as being a Witch. It added a new dimension to my life which connected me to the world-wide network of harp players, but further isolated me from most people. In the harp world I could be special.

After graduation, I went to college for music. Not to a big mainstream college, mind you. Nor to one that had an established harp program that could mould me into a working musician. No, I went to the hippie school where I designed my own program. Even at Cornish College of the Arts, I was alone, being the only harp student. At least, however, I was among fellow musicians.


After getting my degree, I still lacked the courage to try to make my living with music. I went to work in student lending instead. I had been helped to get Summer jobs there by a commuter buddy I met riding the Washington State Ferries named Kris Abbott. It was the path of least resistance at the time, so I took it. I was unbearably awkward and made cringeworthy gaffs regularly. By the time I left that field I had a few friends, but I mostly found I had to keep all my true interests to myself.

Meanwhile, outside of work, our coven continued to meet, and it was truly what sustained me. I made a reasonably good set of connections in the local Pagan community, and served in volunteer roles. Along with that status among the local Pagans however, came drama and I made my exit.

My career as a harp player stumbled along without much effort from me. I wound up helping to found an Irish / Scottish traditional band called Wicked Celts, and that became the centre of my social identity for many years. I became a more accomplished player, which gave me a higher status with my bandmates and others in the ‘Celtic’ music community. (I hate that term)

In 1994 I started studying the Scottish Gaelic language as the next logical step in deepening my expertise in the music. My class of six people were chugging along just fine when the films Rob Roy and Braveheart happened. Suddenly our teacher had huge classes and we started organizing weekend intensives. I found many, many ways to make myself useful for the next 18+ years.

photo: michael sean morris

During that time, because of Gaelic and our society’s relationship with our sister group in Vancouver BC, I met the love of my life, Doug Barr. We have been together for 19 years now, with all the usual ups and downs. We often joke about not knowing why the other stays, but there is a grain of truth that makes the joke funny. In the early years of our time together, I was working very hard to be useful. It was what I knew how to do, having never been in a relationship before. I can’t recall when it was exactly that I stopped being afraid that he would give me the boot, but I did eventually. I had never felt as safe in any relationship of any kind in my life.

And now, Act II

The condo I live in had to have a massive remediation project done in 2015 which meant that our building was wrapped in plastic for most of the summer, and it was a hot one.

I have never been comfortable being alone in public. Somewhere deep inside I have always felt that when I walk into a place everyone there wishes I hadn’t. I know it doesn’t make much sense.

I had gone into one of our local bars, Teachers Lounge, once or twice and pulled my usual move of tucking myself back into a corner and trying to be inconspicuous. This bar, however, had air conditioning, so in desperation to escape the plastic wrapped building I overcame my social anxiety and started to go pretty often.

After a couple of weeks of dropping by regularly, Desiree the co-owner and I had chatted several times. She is a disarmingly beautiful woman with a razor sharp wit and a tolerance for bullshit that starts at zero and goes down from there. She is, therefore a woman perfectly suited to steal my tiny cold gay heart.

I have known many people who work in hospitality and the stories about patrons who interpret friendliness to be friendship are the worst. I understand my job in an establishment: 1) make up my mind 2) order off the menu 3) say thank you often 4) be patient 5) tip well. That code of behaviour has almost always gotten me excellent experiences, but I never interpret that as meaning anything other than I’m good at being a patron.

I had no reason to think that my experiences at Teachers Lounge were going to be any different, but then the most surprising thing happened. Desiree invited me to join the party at the bar instead of hiding back at a table. I don’t know why, but I said yes. I had never actually sat at a bar before, much less chatted with total strangers. I discovered I was less awkward and less uncomfortable than I had been when I was younger.

I started sitting at the bar regularly and meeting other patrons. Over time, very amicable casual friendships started to happen. Some of them have grown far beyond that. It takes a true friend to climb in a taxi with you and head to the bad part of Las Vegas looking for your stolen purse.

Then, growing more brave, I became a patron at another of my local bars. I connected with both staff and other frequent customers. I even played harp and the wedding of two staff members.

Act III Where I Try to Self-sabotage

I am a fearful person by nature. When something good happens, I start looking for the problem that is going to wreck it all. My inner demons were more than up to the task this time. A question started to form in the back of my mind as I continued to enjoy spending time with my new neighborhood friends. Why are these people interested in talking to me? They’re not into anything I am. I’m not an expert in anything they want to learn. They don’t need any of my professional skills. There has to be some mistake.

Winners get pictures

Then, in one of our continuing conversations, Cody said:

“Those of us who grew up without much sense of self worth often settle for being useful instead of loved. Please believe me. I do not need anything from you. I just love you and if you want anything in our friendship, you can ask for it.”

He won the fight. I was shaken and my armor was in pieces on the ground.

I saw clearly that I had been doing exactly that since childhood in most circumstances. I found ways to be useful because I wasn’t sure if I was much more than that. I can see now that it was never true, or at least not as true as I thought. I have had friends without many common interests before and Doug has stayed with me even when I was very needy. I suppose I have unconsciously processed those realities as flukes, but I can’t anymore. The preponderance of the evidence shows that some people actually just like me for no apparent reason.

Paying for friendship with labor was how I lived in the world and I had not seen it. That is, until a certain Canadian stuck with me for nearly two decades. Until a young woman running a bar in my neighborhood took a chance, and invited me to come closer. Until the man I met when he was a boy told me it was OK to ask him for things in our friendship.

I must be more than useful.

Miso Soup

I made myself some miso soup today for Lockdown Lunch, and realised that I hadn’t done so for an awfully long time. It reminded me how much better it is when you make it at home and can be more generous with the ingredients than is usually found out in restaurants. It’s a very simple dish, which is one of the things that delights me about it both from an aesthetic and dining perspective.

Boil the dashino-moto

Miso Soup

1 packet dashi powder

4-5 cups water

1 scallion

2 tablespoons awase (mixed red and white) miso paste

1/2 cup firm tofu

6-8 dried seaweed pieces

Mix up your miso paste with hot broth

Begin by combining the water and dashi powder. I prefer Shimaya brand, but alternatively it is very easy to make your own. I should write about that. There are vegetarian options for stock, of course, or you can just use plain water and add a couple pinches of monosodium glutamate (which is completely safe - the anti-MSG thing is just anti-Asian racist propaganda)

Bring your soup base to a boil while you slice your scallion. When the base is boiling, remove it from heat and drop the scallions in to blanche. Ladle some of your hot broth into a small bowl with your miso paste and mix. Add the miso paste to the pan.

For the seaweed pieces, I like to use dehydrated wakame which you can get from Amazon or your local Japanese market.

Lastly, the firm tofu. Cut it up into 1/2 to 1/4 inch cubes are drop in. Let the ingredients get to know each other for a few minutes, then serve.

I like to add some soy sauce to my soup bowl, but that’s pure taste.

Add the scallions

Add the rest of the ingredients

My favourite dashi

Tasty snacks also

Hooray, Hooray, for the First of May

One of the things that I have always loved about the Wheel of the Year; the cycle of eight holidays that are celebrated in the Craft, is that they are anchored to real events. You can look out of your window and see the Winter Solstice happen. Likewise the Summer Solstice, Spring and Autumn Equinoxes. They are not the anniversary of a supposed historical event, or the day when ‘our people traditionally do the thing’ but rather the reverent observation of the patterns of movement in the Universe around us.

The tricky bit happens because of two guys: Julian, and Gregory. Julian invented this calendar system, and it was predominant in Western Europe when the ancient holidays marked on the Wheel of the Year entered into a broader syncretic cultural context. The first of May, for example, was actually just about always right in between Spring Equinox and Summer Solstice. Same with the first of February, August, and November being just about exactly poised between equinoxes and solstices.

Gregory, however, screwed that all up. He made a new calendar and moved things four or five days away from where they previously were.

In my opinion, clinging to the human-invented date of 1 May as the day to celebrate when the actual halfway day is 4 or 5 May is an elevation of a defunct human calendar over the divine movement of the Universe around us.

In the year 2020 of what is called the Common Era, the halfway day between Spring Equinox and Summer Solstice is 4 May, not 1 May. That is the day that I will celebrate; the day when it is really happening outside my front door.

Mother Knows Best

The view from Betty’s front window

I am a medium. I haven’t always known this about myself, but as I have gotten older it has become more and more apparent. When I was about 27, near my first Saturn return, through a complicated and very interesting series of events I met a man named Mischa Duvan, who was at the time the senior and only shaman of the Ulchi Tribe in Siberia. He told me that I would work with the dying and the dead later in life, but that I should not attempt to at my age.

That was nearly half a lifetime ago, so as I approach my second Saturn return, I can’t be surprised that I see and get messages from dead folks more often. It usually happens when I’m doing something else, like giving a Tarot reading or having a deep magical counseling session. It’s not something I initiate, but once it starts, it tortures me until I understand and pass on the message I’m being given. That torture takes the form of a crushing and unexplainable sadness that I must assume is the easiest of my buttons for someone on the other side of the Veil to push.

The last time it happened was on the 19th anniversary of our mother’s death on October 26, 2019. I had been feeling that nagging, causeless sorrow for a few weeks, but it had not risen to the point where I would notice it above the general noise of my fear-prone mind. I and my fiancé were very busy assisting his mother with the sale of her home of 45 years and her transition into a retirement community so I was quite distracted. The winning offer came in on that anniversary day, so the three of us went out to dinner to celebrate. It was such a great load off all our minds and erased so much uncertainty that we were all feeing good. Future mum-in-law has some mobility issues, so I dropped her and her son off at the front door and went to park the car. The instant I was alone, the weight of sadness that descended was absolutely crippling. I remembered that it was our mother’s death anniversary and the penny dropped. She wanted me to know something. I made it into the restaurant and back with other people, I could hold it at bay for a while.

After dinner and returning to her soon-to-no-longer-be home, I excused myself and retired to the basement semi-suite that we use when visiting. I made it to the bottom of the stairs before collapsing in sobs. My man put his mum to bed and came downstairs to find me there. He was of course tremendously concerned and asked what he could do. I told him to stay with me, since his presence is like a control rod in the reactor of my stability-challenged spirit. He logged on to his computer and I curled up on the couch and started playing solitaire on my phone. A few minutes later, a seemingly random thought crossed my mind: ‘I wish I could go home.’ In my idiolect, ‘home’ means our mother’s hometown of Cleethorpes, England. We spent summers there growing up, and I always feel closest to her when I visit.

I had no sooner thought the thought when a surge of energy when through me from head to foot like a bolt of lightning and I saw a picture of my aunt Betty in her home in Cleethorpes. I gasped, dropped the phone, and clamped my hands over my face and started to shake violently.

My man asked if he should phone an ambulance. As soon as I could speak again, I said no. I told him that Mom wants me to go to Cleethorpes. He answered “tell everyone I said hi.” That’s someone you marry.

Mom has never come through to me in all the years since she died, so I took it seriously. I had gotten the message, so within a few minutes the cloud of sorrow was gone without a trace and I went back to as normal as I get and started looking for ways to make a trip back home.

The right opportunity arose and I was able to tack on a short trip to the UK to the end of a business trip to the East coast. I saw most of the family, met a new cousin, and looked in on our eldest god daughter and her partner in Glasgow. I headed home, feeling a little bit foolish, honestly. No huge drama. No big revelations. No spectral appearances. Just a lot of great fish and chips and some much needed family time.

Then COVID-19 happened. Borders started to close. Our wedding plans are thrown into uncertainty. My late-eighties aunt is in lockdown, and like me, many of my closest relations are old enough to be in the at-risk category. I got an e-mail from Betty’s eldest daughter this morning sharing that she is fine, though quite bored being in lockdown, since she has run out of tasks to do around the house.

When the severity of the consequences of the situation became clear, I got on my knees in front of my ancestor altar and prayed to our mother and thanked her for telling me to go while I had the chance. Mother knows best.

Roasted Garlic Soup

This recipe is a little complicated for my tastes, but the results are worth it. If you want a lower carbohydrate version, reduce the number of potatoes or omit them.

Roasted Garlic Soup

4 heads of garlic, roasted

1 medium onion, diced

1 tablespoon cooking oil

6-8 fingerling potatoes

1/2 teaspoon salt

Pepper to taste

6 cups chicken or vegetable stock

2 large bay leaves

1 cup heavy cream

1 lemon, juiced

3 eggs

Begin by roasting your garlic. This step can be done well ahead of time, which can make the rest of the process feel a little less labour intensive. If you don’t know how to roast garlic, here is a tutorial on the YouTube How To Roast Garlic

Peel and dice your onion. Place your cooking oil in a large soup pot and sauté the onion until it is transparent. Usually about 3-4 minutes.

Add the stock, potatoes, salt, pepper, and bay leaves. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer until the potatoes are fork-tender.

Remove the bay leaves and set them aside for future stock-making.

In a small bowl, beat the eggs and lemon juice together. The egg should be thoroughly blended. Ladle two cups of the hot broth into a measuring cup for easy pouring. While continuously stirring the egg and lemon blend, very slowly add the hot broth to temper the egg. Slowly, or you wind up with scrambled egg soup. When the mixture is steaming, the eggs are tempered and will not congeal into solids.

Add the heavy cream and roasted garlic. Lick your fingers - you can, you know. You’re a grown up.

Puree the soup with an immersion blender. Add the lemon and egg mixture and voila! A new way to eat roasted garlic!

Red Spread

 

This was a very lucky strike for me. So, here I am following the guidelines to remain at home during the coronavirus outbreak, which leaves me way too much time to get goofy ideas and give them a try.

I had a couple of tomatoes on the vine that were about to die of old age, and somehow in the last few months and especially in the last few days I have gotten the never-waste-food thing on steroids. I thought I might puree them, but then they would just sit in my fridge and go bad as tomato goo because I only use that in one recipe.

Then I had my brainwave. I added some stuff to the puree and cooked it down to a paste. I just used it as the “T” in my BLT and it is spectacular! Here’s how to do it:

Red Spread

2 medium ripe (very) vine-ripened tomatoes
1 red chili pepper
1 teaspoon garlic
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 tablespoons lemon juice

Put tomatoes, chili pepper, garlic, salt, and olive oil into a food processor and puree. If you want it a little less spicy (he gasped, grasping his pearls) you can de-seed the pepper.

Put the puree into a small pan and cook over medium low heat until all visible liquid has evaporated. Remove from heat and allow to cool for five minutes or so. Add the lemon juice.

Spread it on something and praise my name!

Yes, that’s a White Claw with lunch. Pedestrian judgements have never concerned me.

Avgolemono Soup: An Instant Pot Story

Doug and I are currently learning Greek, and as I counsel my Gaelic students, cultural enrichment activities are a great way to keep your language learning holistic. I have always loved Avgolemono soup, so decided to learn to make it in my Instant Pot.

I read lots of recipes and only a few had any vegetables in them, but I wanted to scale the rice back, so added them to my version for a sense of bounty.

Avgolemono Soup

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 stalk celery

1 carrot

1 bunch scallions

1 teaspoon chopped garlic

1 1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon pepper

8 cups chicken stock

6 boneless skinless chicken thighs

1/3 cup uncooked white rice

2 large bay leaves

3 lemons

3 eggs

Chop the vegetables. Add the olive oil to the Instant Pot and use the sauté function to begin cooking them. After about 4 minutes, add the garlic, salt, and pepper and cook for another minute.

Add the chicken stock and thighs, rice, and bay leaves. Set the Instant Pot to 12 minutes at high pressure. 

While the chicken is cooking, juice the lemons and beat them into the eggs until frothy. 

When complete, do a quick release, but be careful. That thick stock / rice may shoot up out of your release valve a little. Remove the bay leaves and discard. Remove the chicken thighs and set them aside to shred with two forks.

While the broth is still very hot, ladle about 1 1/2 cups into a measuring cup. Very slowly add it in small amounts to the egg and lemon mixture while mixing it continuously. This raises the temperature of the egg slowly enough that it will cook without forming any curds. It’s called tempering and apparently it’s a basic cooking skill that I had not acquired yet. Check!

Add the egg and lemon sauce to the pot, shred the chicken and return it to the pot as well.

Important: Once the egg is in the soup, don’t let it boil again, or your hard work tempering the egg will be for NOTHING.

Enjoy, Darlings!

Sauté

Add stock, thighs, rice, and bay leaves

Ready to temper the egg / lemon sauce

Take your time to get a good result

Shred the chicken and re-add

Perfect for a day in with Yaya

The Remover? Fuck that guy: A Valentine’s Day Meditation

On the occasion of the last Valentine’s Day before we are married:

Doug,

Alteration has found us, but whatever
The Remover? I don’t know that guy and I don’t bend in general, much less so
We see an ever-fixéd mark, and that’s who needs to
We have looked on tempests and been shaken
But we are
Still
Here
We are no fools, not for Time, various taxing authorities, or even Grindr
Shakespeare? That one writ, and we loved

Always yours,
S

****
#116.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved.