massage and olive oil

I have no idea where I am going with this. I have not had body work or touch for over a year, and recently had two massages courtesy of the student clinic in town and my ex-husband calling me to say there was a slot. Granted, it was odd to go to a site where I had had some decorating input, but I pride myself on our post ex-relationship, amiable and somewhat bittersweet. And I NEEDED a massage.

I cannot afford one on a weekly basis and have always thought, with mixed chagrin and total envy,o.k. say hatred, of Jackie Onassis who, it is said, had a nap and a massage every day. I would look damn good if I had a massage every day. Cellulite would disappear. I would not have lines. I would walk like a slyph.

but I don't.

And so, the lovely chance to have some students work on me, without cost thanks to generosity, was appealing. I creak, I ache every movement, my forearms are numb and wake me up at night. I tried really hard to be charming, nice and the "ex wife" "but knows her way around a massage "client. My hurts and aches and problems intake sheet is short, "stress" and I have no other complaints. Get on with it. They were great, especially the man who did tuning forks on my back and a diggery doo (how in the world to spell it) over my aura before beginning. I felt better, I creaked less, less hurt and I could feel my arms.

Of course, I wanted touch. I crave it. I miss it, I hug my dogs, wear warm and coomfy sweaters and get hugs whenever I can. It has been over, none of your business, how long since touch. ( read sex, fools) I think of the widows and people who do not get it and I swear to God if I am ever incapacitated, I don;'t want money, I want touch.

Sideways, I was in the elevator at a hospital today and two much elderly women came in. Both were on top of fashion, small camisoles, lace, cleavage, beads, embellishments, not the little old lady type. Works? I was noticing and noticing that I noticed. Should they have looked like grandmas? Should they show cleavage at 80? Or, damn it, should they get an applause for still liking fashion? If Mick Jagger can gyrate at over 60...why not show cleavage and an Abercrombie and Fitch sense at 80.

Back to me.

I want more than touch, I want you know what I want, and it is hard to be polite. But, a massage was great, and needed and necessary. At the end, I had to dress. darn. But, there I was, with the admonition, "take your time and get up slowly and I will meet you out front. " yeah, sure. I cannot sit more than a nanosecond on the table, sit up quickly and begin to get dressed. I have trouble turning off my mind. I need drugs with massage, I need a glass of wine, I need oblivion. But, I almost hyrdoplane off the table, I have so much oil on my legs.

It is enough to sit there and try not to worry as my glutes are massaged. I have been on a diet and am WORKING on being thinner, and so visualize cellulite pounded into submission. But, the oil! and, I have not shaved my legs! I cannot cross my legs while dressing, I slip off of myself in oily substance. I loved the massages, and my only comment, are "need a wipedown." Like a racehorse after a race, I need wiping down. Now, covered in sweat, well, as Paul Simon says, "slip sliding away...." Perhaps in the future.

Olive oil would be my choice for massage. In Turkey, the wrestlers oil themselves with olive oil before wrestling, grappling in eel-like fashion to gain purchase. Olive oil is wonderful, grassy, green to yellow, and can smell like a salad or nothing at all but the winds of the Mediterranean. I would love to be massaged in olive oil. Olive oil in the hair is lustrous, as a soap it is luxurious, as a lotion I want to have a dish of pesto and Alfredo. I love the leaves, the fruit, the wood, the smell.

So, cover me in olive oil. Knock out the knots, the fatigue, the accumulated lack of touch, rendering me as intractable as a piece of dry strata. Once hydrated, not in water of life, but the oil of forgiviness, of light, of life, of flavor, of color, I rise from the depths of the year and emerge.
More massages indeed, there is hope.

ginger karma

Besides figs, I am crazy about ginger. This branched, lumpy beige spice has always has an attraction to me. I have grown it, dried, pickled, marinated, saute'd and fried it. I like it crushed, diced, sugared, preserved and in Chinese liqueur. My first memories of ginger are my mom's teriyaki chicken. She used to make it when we lived on the SAC base in North Dakota. Military wives are often ahead of culinary trends, as they travel so much and exchange recipes. I think she got this from Mrs. Kim, a German war bride married to a Hawaiian Korean American. typical descriptor of base housing. Anyway, she would slice the ginger, bash it with the back of her knife and make a sweet soy sauce and sugar marinade with oil , green onions, and minced bits of yellow ginger in it. I loved the chicken, it was exotic for 1962. But, I craved the ginger and would fish it out of the marinade and eat it, my fingers dripping with oil and soy. In recent years I have used ginger in many dishes, it lifts the recipe above the mundane, the crisp bright notes liven the worst wilted-bottom-of-the-fridge veg drawer stir fry when desperate. I have tried to sprout ginger, finding a sweet new bunch in the market, scraping its thin beige skin to show the younger pink ginger underneath. I cut it, and planted it in sand to sprout. Sometimes I am successful. Sometimes not, and the moral I keep learning over and over is not to fuss, not to worry, and for heaven's sake let it be. Gee, if I had learned that lesson in many aspects of my life I would also be elevated and lifted. So, I continue to learn my ginger lesson. When pickled with shiso leaves, the ginger turns a carnation pink and is perfect with sushi. Paired with light green wasabi, it masquerades as a spring combo, cherry blossoms and green leaves. But that pack in the mouth punch of ginger and wasabi knocks your sinuses open, and the the top of your head off if you have been over eager with the two. Again, a ginger lesson: not too much, and don't be a show off. I also like it candied, especially the large slabs which have been steeped in a sugar syrup, lightly candied and then are covered in large sugar crystals. You are supposed to dice them up for cakes and confections, I just eat the whole slice. I like the peppery burn aftertaste, the crunchy sandpaper extreme of the sugar and the fibrous bits of ginger as I chew. Extreme, hidden in sugar, a lion under the candy. Me? Am I a lion hiding in sugar? Have I hidden my favorite part of myself under a marinade, only waiting for someone else to fish out my bits? Something to think about. And then, there is more to my ginger lesson, the chewy Indonesian candy, dusted in cornstarch, and individually wrapped in wax paper. And, the Altoids ginger mouth mints. I crave both, can eat three chews by the time I get to my car en route to work in the morning. I always travel with them for upset traveler's stomach. Ginger is my pal. The altoids are eccentric, dime size disks which pack that familiar almost endorphin-inducing punch of pain and flavor. Few people like them, the contrast with heat and sugar is not for the faint of heart. Except in matters IN the heart, when I was breaking, I am not faint OF heart and happily crunch these when lesser women eat mints. Too dainty. Yep, I am a ginger snob. I break the branches with abandon, checking the insides before I buy them. I save them in sherry when costs are high, but ginger is now cheap enough to buy often. Two years, my dear mother in law bought Chinese ginger liqueur when it was imported. Fabulous, alcohol, syrup and ginger all in one...heaven. It is hard, if not impossible to find this liqueur now, but I can taste its syrup and warming effects still. Who will find that liqueur for me now? She is gone and I miss her dearly, that she noticed I loved ginger. Not the least of my pantheon is ginger ale, perfect in drinks and punches, and guzzled when ill. Last year I went through gallons of ginger ale for upset stomachs which were nightly. It was my wake-up juice, my hangover remedy, and general hydration. I haven't had it for a few weeks now on a diet, and just writing about this makes me want to figure out how to make a concoction of ginger tea just to warm myself. So, ginger has been a companion, a snobby friend of spices, a kick in the head karma of over-indulgence, a constant flavor throughout my life. And, those IN my life, past and future must get used to its presence in my food, and sensibility. Heat and passion, syrup and pain, hidden extremes of nature, a great metaphor for my being.

airplane food

Many have written about, and most have survived. I mean airplane food. I travel fairly often, never as much as I would like. However, I am always bemused by airplane food.

In the 1950's, (late I might add) when my family and I traveled overseas, we always had full meals with real silverware. What I remember most however, is that the stewardresses would come down the aisle with trays of individually wrapped Chicklets gum, so we could alleviate air problems with our ears. No one passes gum anymore, or much else either.

Much much later, I am traveling with my husband from Vancouver to London. This will be known as the liqueur-all-over-me flight. Just before we landed, the stewardress, not carrying Chicklets this time but small glasses of liqueur on a tray, collided with me, spilling Glenlivit, sherry, Creme de menthe, Creme de cacao, and God knows what else all over my black slacks. Now, of course black is the travel color, it does not show dirt. But the aroma! As I lurched through customs in Gatwick, I was amazed I was not sent back to AA or into solitary.

I particularly like leaving FROM a country back to the United States. I can count on caterers who have prepared the food in that country. I love the new labels, and where food is packaged. I have hopes that it just might be more interesting, or at least indicative of where I just was.

When we were leaving Turkey on Turkish Air a few years ago I had dolmas, lovely pilaf, some grilled lamb, thick slabs of white cheese, Turkish coffee, raki, and a tiny bit of baklava. There was a hideous returning tour group seated around us. They were making fun of "real" toilets on the plane, "we are going back to civilization" and generally embarrassing us as true Ugly Americans. The woman across the aisle said, "I am having I don't know, I don't know, and I don't know. " A damn shame after three weeks in Turkey and she doesn't know what she was eating. Tried to tell her but realize I may have looked like one of those particularly irritating women who frequent British mystery cozys with advice given to total strangers and small dogs.

There was the Kosher Incident. Hearing that asking for vegetarian would be best, and freshest I tried it one time. A sad time. I was on Lufthansa traveling with my six year old daughter to Trier to see family. Time for lunch. Out came my daughter's personally ordered special kid's happy meal. happy kid.

Mine arrived. It was an all purpose, one size fits all dinner. It was rabbinical, Kosher, no salt, low fat, and damn near inedible. Canned oranges, canned prunes, some canned salmon and a little salad. I especially liked the packaging. Way before security replaced those metal knives and forks with plastic ones, mine were plastic. Several sets, just to keep things Kosher. Wrapped in plastic also was a prayer in Hebrew, and rabbinical certification. I am sure now that the meal would also be acceptable to Muslims in a spirit of all inclusivity. I dropped plastic wrap everywhere, had three forks, spoons and knives. I ordered red wine, to wash everything down.

Dinner five hours later...it was a long flight. More of the same. prayers, wrappers, forks and knives everywhere, only now it was also vegan! My heathen daughter continued happily with her kids meal. By the time breakfast came around I was desperate, grabbing the stewardress by the wrist, I pleaded with her for any other meal. There was one left, a sodden lasagne, and creepy orange jello. I fell upon it like a woman starved, and drank more red wine. Moral of the story, take your own, or just go with the herd; do not order special.

Lately though, those meals are a fond memory. One three hour flight, I actually, like Pavlov's little poodle, looked forward to my twelve, twelve count 'em, fish shaped crackers. I am ashamed to admit I actually licked my finger and ate the rest of the salt. I was really hungry, and on my way home with no cash left. (A common occurrence, thank God for Starbuck's cards in airports. ) Rummaging in my purse, I ate the rest of the Altoids.

And now, people carry on food. Wolfgang has a take-out in some airports, and I am sure that Emeril, Rachel, and my other friends in food will soon follow if they have not already. Order a huge Cony dog, load it up with sauerkraut and mustard, grab a latte and lumber onto the plane reeking of oil, vinegar, and caffeine. Ask the person next to you to please hold your food while you put away your luggage twelve seats away. The space overhead, a product of eminent domain which should be yours, but no, earlier lazy folks have taken your space! Return, seat, and then begin to break all taboos, eating in front of others, and don't share.

Where are those stewardresses with Chicklets? Where are my liqueurs? Where is elegance, fine dining, good food, clever little bento boxes and real silverware? Probably in first class, but then I would never know, at least not yet.

Still love the pretzels, order a plain bloody Mary mix, and no ice please.

computer guys

I have been off line for about three weeks and using others' computers, a new form of itinerants. Like a homeless tecchie, I have used my breaks, and lunch hours at work to keep in touch electronically. A sort of transitional lobotomy from my other life. Thankfully, though, my computer was in a self-induced coma and I had a former student come and fix it with a brain transplant this weekend. It was as if the circuits had been restored not only to my business but my communication with others. And, at the same time I was appalled that I used so much of my time on the net. However, during that time I had some interesting experiences with the tecchies I worked with. Usually the computer aneurism happened at the very end of my day; of course the last thing I would do would be to check my mail before going to bed. You never know, right? E- harmony might have the perfect guy and if I did not reply THAT INSTANT I would have my life irrevocably changed. However, not the case, but often the computer would break. I had on little post-it notes scattered throughout my desk 800 numbers of 24/7 call signs for help. During this time, I spoke to people not in my hemisphere, my culture, my knowledge, or even my astrological sign. After a while I would call them with resignation, and one time almost in tears, " I cannot do this, I hate this, my husband used to do this, can you help me?" And they would, in their wierd follow-the-flow-chart way, try. Sometimes I would try very hard not to be bitchy about their accent and thank them. Sometimes I would invoke the whole U.S. Congress, the Nafta act, the whole balance of powers, the Communist fear, the Asian world is taking over our U.S. school system belief, because these people who are probably brialliant are willing to take my call because I am an idiot. And so we would wait while arcane and obtuse computer programs would be transfused into my computer. I would sit there, trying not to cry and feeling stupid and so would ask, " So, where are you?" Given the answer, I would craft a question, " What are you cooking today? " " Do you have any special dishes you like to eat?" Thrown by a question outside of their provenance, the tecchies would begin to be human;" I am eating dosas, I like adobo, "etc. Usually the foods were Asian, Indian, and Phillapino. One particularly horrible download lasted twenty minutes, so I discussed food with this man somewhere in the Goan region. I'm sitting in sweats at my computer, with tea and trying to keep warm and knowing in 3 hours I would have to get up and go to work! And so, as my computer finally died, and I finally had a local tecchie visit a home care update, I thought about the people thoroughout the world who had tried very hard to help me. They were not successful, but humored my food requests in the down time. And that is what it is about, not the synapse, not the programs, the firewalls, the spywares, the downloads, but what you have to eat at lunch. Maybe I helped their dull day, overeducated working at a dumb down flow chart job; they helped my angst doing it alone evenings trying to help me with my technology. Let's do lunch indeed.