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The Blue Nile

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If you go at last to the Ethiopian restaurant nearby, remember this post, or google a bit before making an ethnocentric fool of yourself.

Most of us remember the 1980s when famines turned Ethiopia into one of the poorest countries and starvation was real for 8 million people. One million people died of it. Food is not something we associated with this country - more like the lack of it. But Ethiopia is now one of the fastest growing economies in Africa, and there seems to be at least one Ethiopian restaurant in most good-sized U.S. cities.

At our Ann Arbor Blue Nile, our waitress was a white American, so at least when we goofed and asked for small individual plates and used a fork to scoop up the wat, it wasn't in front of an Ethiopian. Yikes. Oh wait, the owner saw because he brought us more bread, he's Ethiopian. Such humiliation.

In the shot below Don has figured out the technique of tearing off a piece of the stretchy injera bread to scoop up some stew with his fingers. But see, he still has a little plate. And there is that blasted fork. Duh. Individual plates were my idea actually. "Could we get some small plates please?" They had so neglected our needs.



But the thing is, if any person in the world would not make you feel stupid for ignoring the whole point of Ethiopian cuisine - a way to bond by sharing food from the same plate and eating with your fingers - it would be an Ethiopian. I have never met more gracious and genteel people in my life. My sister Nanny's best friend is Elsabeth, from Ethiopia. "Hello Rootie, how are you? How is Don? How is Lesley? How is Peter?" she asks after not seeing me for maybe ten years. I happened to be squeezed in next to her surrounded by thousands at the outdoor Obama rally when he came to campus during his campaign in the summer of 2008. Elsabeth's daughter Kalcadon looks a lot like the painting of a face in the restaurant, top photo.

The table in that same photo, with chairs intimately circled around? That's a mesob - authentically it would be made of straw too, like the conical cover, which you leave over the food until everyone's ready to plow a furrow in the wat with their rolled injera. I am the worst kind of blogger. I research after the experience.

The spices used for wat are similar to Southwestern chili spice and the mix is called berbere, with chile peppers, ginger, cloves, coriander, allspice, rue berries, and ajwain (in Amharic, it's netch azmud and it's a type of caraway seed. By the way, I discovered a spice information page of a German Professor Gernot Katzer, including history and different names of spices in various countries and languages. Brilliant!)

Is every Ethiopian restaurant in the U.S. named The Blue Nile? Almost, I think. I don't know if they are connected, I didn't find out. But it's a good name for an Ethiopian restaurant, of course, since of the Blue Nile's miles - 900, about 560 are inside Ethiopia. The Blue Nile meets the White Nile in Khartoum (Sudan), which means "the place where two rivers meet."

In the next two photos are appetizers, which I liked a bit better than the main course wats. I'm not proud of that, because I'm pretty sure the appetizers are Westernized creations for morons like me. These rolls made with the injera bread are an ingenious way to make me happy though, with fresh veggies inside. Using that stretchy bread for wraps is a good one - easier than sticky rice California rolls, says me.



And crostinis with humus and roasted peppers and onions. I think that's feta on top. Super delicious.



Of course now I find a youtube, How To Eat Ethiopian Food.

Melkam Megeb!



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a mind of winter

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One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;



And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter



Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,






Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place



For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.






"The Snow Man"
- by Wallace Stevens


NOTE: About Bishop, the barn cat in the photo, above. Several of you left comments that you are worried about her. She lives outdoors. She has a very, very thick coat of fur. She has an ever-heated cozy bed in the garage where she can go when she wishes. In the shot above, she is doing what she loves to do on a sunny winter day - squirm around in the snow so I will pet her. Believe me, she loves her outdoor life and romps out there all winter long. On the very coldest days, she stays in her warm bed perch in the garage.


I really feel very sorry, and even a little afraid, for my poor friends who live in the South of the U.S. and in parts of Europe who are unused to a cold winter and have had many days of freezing temperatures. I hope you will be feeling warmer in the next few days. If your house isn't warm, please layer on lots and lots of clothes, and wear a hat and gloves indoors if you have them. Weather.com says the next couple of days will see temperatures start to moderate for you in the South.

I don't know how long my love of winter will keep me in Michigan, if it will last until the end of my life, if the end of my life is another twenty or thirty years as my parents lived. Even if I bundle up and feel toasty, my fingers turn into icicles before the rest of me gets cold. I think they must have had minor frost bite one of those nights ice skating in Grand Ledge under the bridge. When I went out yesterday to shoot these photos, every bit of me was warm, especially my heart. Except for my fingers. Even with good warm gloves and sticking them in my pockets between shots, they froze. But regardless of my aching fingers, I will always have a mind of winter, in the sense of Wallace Stevens' poem.

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cold winter nights

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In January Michigan is cold. This week the whole U.S. has had a cold snap, with even the Orange Bowl football game being played in Miami in forty-something degrees fahrenheit (around 10°C). But that's far from normal, whereas here in The North, 0°F (-17°C) is not uncommon this month and next. When Mr. North Wind bottoms it out with some wind chill, staying warm is an art. Out in the country we have a propane gas tank that feeds our forced air furnace ducts that web into the walls of the house, but we try to keep the front half of the house where we live warm with heat from the wood stove, allowing us to turn down the thermostat and save propane. This means the rest of the house is chilly.

If you are truly of The North and love it as I do, this is perfect for bedtime, because where I sleep must be chilled - in fairy tale proportions. So for instance if Hansel and Grethel were sleeping in a cold room, a Grimm might have written something like -

The fire had gone out, and the air became colder every hour that the hands on the clock moved around the face's numbers. The brother and sister huddled together under their shared thin blanket, hoping to catch some heat from each other and fall asleep before morning. But there was one good thing about being too cold to sleep. They were alert to plan their escape.

But that isn't how it was in the wicked witch's cottage. She had fed them and was plumping them up to be eaten. After a supper of pancakes with sugar, milk, apples and nuts they were tucked into a warm bed for a cozy sleep, unaware of their impending doom. See? If they were cold they might have been more wary.



100% wool blankets made by the Orr felt and blanket company of Piqua, Ohio (pronounced pick-wah) could have been a blanket fairy tale children would cover themselves with. When I pull out this old blanket I feel like a child of an old time. Wool has been the warm weave for centuries, unlike microfibers in comforters nowadays, which are very nice and warm but just don't have the same aesthetic. However one blanket is never enough, and I don't put a wool blanket directly on top of the sheet, because it is too itchy and scratchy, even through a sheet. It's better at the foot of the bed in case I wake up freezing and need an extra layer against the frost.



On dark winter nights it is nice to turn pages of Grimm's Household Fairy Tales, illustrated by R ANDRÉ under a warm fleece blanket by the wood stove. Snow-White and Rose-Red welcome a big black bear in out of the cold to warm up by their fire. Evil dwarves and wicked Queens are always stealing or selling, and usually plotting to kill somebody, sometimes to eat them - all pretty scary and grimm.


When it's time for bed there are those uncomfortably Siberian minutes getting undressed, washing my face, brushing teeth, thinking about how cold the sheets will be. This makes me remember sleeping in a three hundred year old stone cottage in the Scottish Highlands outside a village called Lairg on Loch Shin in November 1980. They kept each room's door closed and only heated them as needed. So our bedroom was freezing - more than even I could stand - but there was a heated mattress pad in the bed waiting for us after painfully undressing in the Frigidaire - I mean frigid air.

When one of you goes to bed before the other, or sleeps alone, there must be some strategy for warmth. I don't care for electrically heated pads or blankets. I like a heavy pile of three or four blankets that doesn't move when I do - first the sheet, which needs to be dense weave cotton, no polyester, then a soft cushy fleece, then a heavy cotton quilt, then a flannel blanket and maybe the Orr wool, and if it's any warmer than 60-63°F (15-17°C), I get too hot. Perfect is having your body toasty and your face cool. The heavy blankets feel protective when you've just read grim and scary stories too, I think, but I don't want the story too scary to stick out my foot in case I get too warm.

The Orr felt and blanket company and Pendleton started making blankets in the 19th century, and during World War II both made hundreds of thousands of drab green army blankets for soldiers. I picture them not being able to get quite warm enough under one thin wool army blanket on cold winter nights, and that's no fairy tale.



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blog family

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Photo by Ginnie of her "Gathering Wisdom" bronze sculpture in October getting packed for her move to the Netherlands last month; NOTE: the sculptor is Mark Hopkins - after a couple of you thought Ginnie sculpted it, but quite frankly, she is artistic and soulful enough to do this kind of work, believe me. I am adding her avatar, below, which she drew when she was a teenager. It was my idea to make it her blog avatar. I don't know what I love most about it - the free girl, the forward motion of the whole image, the sillhouetteness, I don't know, but I have admired it since I was a little girl, maybe longing to be as free as that.


Remember if you can the first time you heard the word blog. Weblog. Web log. We blog. I think my first time must have been in 2005 when my sister Ginnie started hers. (I call her "Boots" because when she was born she was tiny, her booties went all the way up to her hips, and the doctor said "She's all boots!" That's her photo, above, and the blog post about the lady is embedded in Ginnie's name under it.) Blogging hadn't exploded yet, and I just wasn't very interested. I didn't even visit hers that whole first year, I really didn't get it. What's a blog? Even so, I tried to convince our decorator sister Nancy to start one too, picturing her beautiful designs on a pretty site that would reflect her talents.

Finally in January 2006 feeling inspired by Ginnie's In Soul blog because she did such a good job chronicling her life in words and photos, and I always liked journaling (though I didn't stick with it), I went out shooting pictures of the snow, came in, picked out a Blogger template (Minima Ochre), uploaded a photo of our spruce tree, et voila! -- instant publication -- what a rush! On January 21 I will have posted here every three days for four years, something I couldn't have known I would stick with at the time, let alone turn it into an outlet for writing practice and a new hobby of photography.

I've noticed a lot of reflective end-of-year and new-year blog posts about how blog friends are real friends. I couldn't agree more, and I also wonder what we imply with that statement. Maybe we feel some guilt that we don't have more face to face contact with people nearby? More on that in a minute.

These days online newspaper columnists have blogs. Celebrities and authors have them. What is it with blogging?



Is it that in just a few minutes you can fly over oceans and continents and meet a man in Chennai, India who tells you a story about a young girl named Priya saving him from wild dogs in a lovely tribal village near Varagaliar forest? That post needs to be made into a children's story and picture book. Through stunning photographs, humor and wit, rauf opens our eyes to Indian culture, to Nature, to what is not right with India's society and ours too, and he also shows what is so very right with humans, by being the right kind of human. I hope one day Don and I can shake hands with rauf in Chennai-Madras, with the smell of curry and diesel, the yells of street vendors and humidity so high my hair frizzes up like bird feathers - oh, kinda like Priya's, below. Please do browse rauf's posts and photographs, but be gentle on him because he hasn't had as much time to blog as he used to, and comments might frighten him as much as wild dogs!




Photos of Priya by rauf

This is what we owe each other. To speak honestly, to listen quietly, and to connect. When we live like this, our life is a prayer. I could not have predicted that in four years of contact with bloggers I would travel so far and learn so much - about specific places in the world and in space, about humanity, about myself, and that I would become more curious.


Don's turkey and chickens


I am happy to report that at least five of these dear friends are real. Don is my husband: real. Ginnie is my sister: real. Loring is my hometown neighbor and classmate: real. I've met dear friend Susie twice and Sanna once, and it felt like old home week: real.

As for face time with locals, I actually think I may get enough of it with Don's and my big families and my 1,000 academic advisees. But something Patricia told me in a comment got me to a gorgeous web site that supports reestablishing oral stories, to connect people with each other and the earth, called the Alliance for Wild Ethics - "a loose group of folks around the world who all share a common aim to rejuvenate a wild, animistic, participatory culture that honors the whole boisterous community of earthly life -- plants, animals, woodlands, rivers, winds, and thunderclouds -- as our real neighborhood." Apparently the site is somewhat dormant now, according to the founder David Abram, that is until he releases his next book in August. But it's worth exploring even in dormancy (like a woodland in winter). In 2010, thanks in part to Wild Ethics, while we're meeting here in our digital salons I'm going to remember to keep eye and hand connection with people and Nature firsthand.

Here's to being more wild, more free, more connected. If you have time please listen to Andrew Bird accompany himself on violin - while he sings - about becoming "this animal" in the official Rolling Stone released stop-animation video directed by Lisa Barcy.




Anonanimal

See a sea anemone, the enemy see a sea anemone
And that'll be the end of me
While the vicious fish was caught unawares
In the tenderest of tendrils

See a sea anemone, the enemy see a sea anemone
And that'll be the end of me, that'll be the end of me
While the vicious fish was caught unawares
In the tenderest of tendrils

Underneath her tender gills I will become this animal
Perfectly adapted to the music halls
Oh and I will become this animal
Anomalous appendages, anonanimal, anonanimal

Anonanimal, anonanimal
Anonanimal, anonanimal

Hold on just a second
Don't tell me this one you know
I know this one, I know this song
I know this one, I love this song

Hold on just a second
Don't tell me this one you know
I know this one, I know this song
I know this one, I love this song
I know this one

Underneath the stalactites
The troglodytes lost their sight, oh
The seemingly innocuous plecostomus though posthumous
They talk to us, they talk too much

See a sea anemone, the enemy see a sea anemone
That'll be the end of me, that'll be the end of me
Vicious fish was caught unawares
In the tenderest tendrils

Underneath her tender gills and I will become this animal
Perfectly adapted to a music hall
I will become this animal
Anomalous appendages, anonanimal, anonanimal
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powers of attention

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The window of the year is open
the field white
where nothing grows
yet
there it is
curled 'round itself
eager and attentive
the magic life
still, and ready to rise

the ear of corn
the swaddled bean
the bird
and the leaf
up and down like a wing

slowly slowly slowly
here it is
folding and
unfolding
inside.
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blue moon

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I think it's interesting that la luna is considered womanly and fertile, partly because of its alignment with the menstrual cycle, yet we talk about the moon's face as the Man in the Moon. It is the sun that rules supremely and is associated with men - Apollo, Ra, Surya - they ride a chariot of war across the sky. (There is a Norse sun goddess, Sol Sunna, who also rides such a chariot. And the Hittites had Arinna, sun & fertility goddess.)

Quickly after winter solstice and Christmas celebrations - which originated in sun worship called Saturnalia - we have a Blue Moon. My color enhanced version is just a silly literal blue moon. You can read about the origins of the term blue moon at wiki. Whether it's the thirteenth full moon of the year, or the second full moon of the month - like this December with one on the 2nd and another on the 31st - folklore says when the face is blue, he talks to those in his light.

For a long time the way people have listened to Nature is through myths. I am a terrible student of classical mythology - Roman or Greek - let alone Aztec, Ojibwe, Hindu, Arabian or Norse and all those Wagnerian Brünnhildes. First my high school Latin teacher tried to drill Zeus and Aphrodite into my head. Then my university teacher Diane (lunar goddess) Wakoski - who centers her personal story in classical myths when she writes poems - taught me what she could. I would like to know more so that when I read an allusion to mythical characters I can understand the connection without looking it up. Sometimes I think all I do is look things up, and I want to know something without looking it up. Don't get me wrong, I'm devotedly grateful to Google, wiki, imdb and pantheon.

One character I always seem to come across in my readings is Persephone, whose story is a way of imagining the origin of winter. Hades, god of the Underworld, kidnapped her because she was so beautiful. Her mother Demeter, goddess of the harvest - or Earth Mother - wandered the earth looking for her, and the earth ceased to be fertile in her grief. At last Hermes went down to get Persephone back at Zeus' bidding, and he reluctantly let her go, but not before giving Persephone a pomegranate, which she ate seeds from, and it tied her to the Underworld forever for half the year, which is winter in Demeter's grief. She spends half the year with her mother, and that is summer.


Back to the moon. Diana is the moon goddess, or goddess of nature, fertility and childbirth (that menstrual cycle thing). Somehow she managed to protect those realms without getting directly involved in the messy affairs of people. In fact she was so uninvolved she was a virgin. Strange to be the protector of childbirth and fertility as a virgin, no? In myths the male gods may be the supreme rulers most of the time, but goddesses manage to mold and salvage something out of harsh circumstances the guy gods created.

Of course the moon and earth aren't female or the sun male; it's a way to think of the moon as the lesser light that is only reflecting the true source of light, the sun, in terms which have for too long been the parallel for women and men in society. I tend to be earthbound in what I can see, hear and feel and lack imagination and fantasy. We watched "Bridge to Terebithia" the other night, and I didn't much enjoy it. I don't have a desire to see "Avatar." But in spite of my distant quiet "virgin" observation of fantastical creations, it's nice to go out in the moonlight and let something other than facts speak to me. Maybe there really is something not in our heads that the moon says (he or she) when I get up in the night and see that blue light softly falling on the sofa the barn and the maples that isn't spoken in the light of day.

Poems sometimes arrive in the night. And dreams. Fears and worries too. But I don't think I've ever been afraid when the moon shone blue through the window. To me it says, Be still.

I wish you a wonderful New Year.



~Top image is the Sturgeon Moon shot August 28, 2007, processed blue in PhotoScape
~Persephone image by blackeri
~Diana image by Marinshe
~Bottom image shot when I was out in Lesley's kayak before sunrise, October 7, 2006; look closely at the .
.....horizon on the left side for geese in the water
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Christmas fires

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We're closing the circle of the year. Christmas for me is a spiral of memories, unwrapping tree ornaments from worn and wrinkled tissue paper, laying out glass and glitter, like stars burning light years away. When it's time to rewrap them, clouds will cover them until next year's opening into another season of light in Nature's darkest days.

Besides personal memories, there is genetic memory. Don comes from Brits, and I come from Swedes, Brits, and maybe some Irish. Traditions from those ancestral families were not given attention when I grew up, and I felt the lack when I saw other families make German lebkuchen or Swedish papparkakor. Whatever European landscapes are in our past, I know in my blood that I am from old stone houses with ten foot hearths, where mutton from the moor bubbling in a pot fills the room with savory smells.

This Christmas, without our Lesley, Brian and Peter to celebrate with us - Don and I wanted to honor the day simply, in new Old World ways. We found three traditions.

1 We burned our first yule log Christmas Eve, cut from a fallen French lilac branch that I'm dragging, below. For centuries European barons had laborers carry in a felled tree to their hearth, sticking its end into the fire - the rest jutting out into the room. That night everyone was invited to party - servant and master together, equal and friendly. Old feuds were drowned in flowing wassail. Then a brand was taken from the fire and set aside as a talisman against fire and evil for the year ahead. This same remnant from the yule log was used to ignite next year's holiday fire.

Smoke from our lilac branch smelled like sweet pipe tobacco outside. Christmas evening, with fireplace tongs we grabbed a charred remnant from one of its pieces in the wood stove, cooled it in snow, then set it up on the mantel to be a symbol of safety and hope for the year ahead. We'll ignite next year's yule log with this year's piece.






The whole time we focused on this yule log thing, I had my mind on another Christmas fire - the devastation I'd driven up to going to town the day before Christmas Eve. A siren-screaming fire truck barreled past me on our country road, and there ahead I saw billowing smoke, and a little house in flames! Fire trucks blocked the road, so I had to turn around and go to town a different way.



When I returned home later in the day, I drove by the charred house and could still smell fire though there wasn't any smoke in the air. We read in the paper that two young men lived in the house, though only one was home and only had minor burns on his face. We were relieved but sad thinking of what gets lost in a house fire that can't be replaced. A nightmare before Christmas.


2 The second tradition we claimed was from Ireland, the country where we both have spent more time than any other in Europe.




For Christmas dinner we cooked lamb, carrots, onions, potatoes and turnips on top of the wood stove for stobhach gaelach, or Irish stew. The smell of thyme and all that goodness almost drove us crazy for two days, first cooking the bones for broth Christmas Eve, then the stew on Christmas Day. Christmas Eve Don had to run out for buttermilk when we suddenly decided Irish stew needed Irish soda bread. He got to the store (15 minutes away) one minute after closing (it only closes once a year, for Christmas), and the utterly worn out frazzled store lady at the door mercifully let him in when she heard his desperate plea for the soda bread. "Run," she said. He ran, picked up buttermilk, then grabbed a bottle of champagne, paid for them, and handed the merciful worn out lady the bag with champagne and the receipt (so no one would think she was stealing it) saying, "thank you, and Merry Christmas," and she wept.


3 On his way home from the store Don heard Lynn Rosetta Kasper rave about a French holiday cake on NPR. So, because I am a francophile and love to bring France to the farm, we added this Gâteau Basque for dessert: a shortbread type cake with Don's homemade blackberry jam layered in the middle. "It's a great cake to make for the holidays because it's sturdy and easy to transport and can be eaten at any time of day . . . it's a grown-up pop tart." Delicious!




When our grandchildren come on the scene one of these days, I want them to connect with their own memories, those of their parents and grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, and also with those of their ancestors. Stone. Iron. Wood. Fire. Water. Bones. Edible roots out of the dirt. You know, they're just embers gone cold that get rekindled on our hearths, in our ovens and on our stoves. I am very thankful for what we have not lost.

I hope you had a wonderful Christmas.


Killarney, Ireland - 2006


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