We joined the bar-b-que across the street with the Vietnamese, and let me tell you....the kabobs were dynamite. I was momentarily transported to Asia. I met a new friend named Tao and she was kind enough to share her recipe for the kabobs. However, I warn you that the measurements are a bit unclear to me. Here goes....
Vietnamese Kabobs
1. Chicken, Pork, or Beef (this recipe is for 10 lbs. of meat)
She said you can use any meat for this recipe. I hope you're hungry, folks!
2. Teriyaki Sauce = 1 small rice.
"1 small rice" means purchase a small rice bowl from the Asian market and fill it with teriyaki sauce (her words not mine), and that's how much teriyaki sauce will be needed. The bowl she is referring to is slightly bigger than the palm of your hand.
3. Lemon grass = 10
I asked, "10 what?" Tao held her hand in a fist and said, "you know?" The best I can figure from this is that it means 1o bunches of lemon grass (that seems like a lot to me, but what do I know).
4. Garlic = 5
Is that five heads of garlic for 10 lbs of meat? That's a butt load of garlic. Have you ever minced five heads of garlic? I have. Confession: when I was first learning to cook about eight years ago I didn't know the difference between a head of garlic and a clove of garlic. When the recipe called for four cloves of garlic, oh yes....you guessed it. I slapped four heads of garlic in my fancy food processor and pressed "blend." I could hardly breathe when I opened the lid. Shortly thereafter I saw a chef mince a clove of garlic on the Food Network, and I felt like a moron.
5. Shallot = 10
6. Ginger = (she left this part blank)
Tao said that fresh ginger is what keeps the meat tender, but "Don't use too much!" How much is too much? "You try. You will know," she said with an assuring smile. I almost told her my garlic story but decided against it. Tao and I both agreed that this part needs experimentation.
7. Sesame Oil = 1 cup
8. Black pepper = 3 teaspoons
or according to taste....
Mix all these ingredients and marinade kabobs overnight. Then throw them on the grill and there ya go!
Tao and her husband told me that before I could tell anyone I actually cooked authentic Vietnamese food, his family had to come to my house and test my attempt for official approval. "This may take three visits," he said laughing. "We will be there on Sunday," he said joking.
At least I think he was joking. Hmmm....
May 31, 2010
Ivan Illyich
In Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Illyich the central character Ivan dies. I know. Big surprise. The book is about Ivan's journey through the dying process: denial, anger, regret, acceptance, etc. Though it may sound like morbid reading, I actually really enjoyed this book this past weekend. It's not long. You can actually read it in a few hours. And though I realize the author's name provokes intimidation for some, this book is very readable (unlike Anna Karenina's endless web of Russian names that I could never keep straight).
Ivan's plight makes me think about how important it is to really listen to one another and to do so in a way that takes others seriously. This is hard all around. It's hard with the people who know me best, it's hard with those I feel are "just like me" and it's especially hard with people who do not think like I do. To me geninue listening implies genuine surrender to another's thoughts, state of being, and contributions (or lack thereof).
Ivan spent the bulk of his adult like living for his job, his social status, and material wealth. His marriage was unhealthy and unhappy. Upon facing "It" (Ivan's term for death), his primary torment was that those closest to him would not acknowledge his true state of being -- he was dying. His family would visit and say such things as, "Everything will be alright." "I'm sure you'll get better." But everyone knew that Ivan's illness was terminal. Ivan's family came to represent to him what he called "the lie" -- he saw in them the same resolve to orient one's life around things that amount to nothing in the end. This caused Ivan to feel degraded "by the very propriety to which he had devoted his entire life." As a result Ivan was utterly tortured inside by bitterness, isolation, fury, regret, and excruciating physical pain.
But here's where it gets really interesting. Ivan's primary torture was that no one understood him because no one would truly listen to him. No one, that is, except for his servant Gerasim -- the only individual in Ivan's world who readily acknowledged that Ivan was dying. As Gerasim served Ivan (as was his job to do), Ivan found great release and peace whenever Gerasim was around because in Gerasim he saw an individual who lived for everything he had not: compassion. And so through Gerasim love invades Ivan's vaccuum of terror as he faces It.
Tolstoy spent a great deal of his life focusing on the death inquiry. When I took Spiritual Formation in seminary, we spent a substantial segment of the course on the dying process in the context of physical death but also in the context of dying to self (i.e. in Jesus' words, "he who loses his life for my sake will find it...."). Oddly enough, this segment of the course was interrupted when I had to move to Florida to care for my mother who had been diagnosed with cancer. She was staring It in the face, and on a lesser level so was I. Late one night we were laughing and talking, and she told me how afraid she felt. I had no words, but I shared her fear. I laid next to her, wrapped my arms around her, and prayed for her. We eventually fell asleep.
Why do I share all this? I don't know. Death is one of those things that people never talk about (unless they or someone close to them faces It), but my observation is that people are on some level hungry to talk about it, while others seek to deny it altogether.
It's ironic to me that even though we are all dying and we all want to be heard and noticed, we don't want to really listen to each other, because listening -- true listening -- requires us to die to ourselves, our thoughts, and suspend our "agenda" while someone else has the spotlight. Listening is more concerned with the individual sharing rather than a calculated response, yet at the same time listening breeds the best of responses because listening doesn't respond to words spoken, it responds to the speaker. There is a difference. A listener not only hears your words but hears you beyond your words.
Perhaps the servant-like, compassionate mentality begins with those willing to listen and notice others, even at the expense of being heard. Perhaps God uses this listening to create a space for others to enter and encounter a love powerful enough to invade the vacuum of fear, anxiety, insecurity, and strife that we all experience. It's really only at this point and in this space that words and truth gain the full force of their power anyway.
I want to be a better listener. That's what I take away from Ivan and Gerasim.
(Just for the record my mother is doing great, is cancer free, and I think everyone close to her appreciates life on a whole new level.)
Ivan's plight makes me think about how important it is to really listen to one another and to do so in a way that takes others seriously. This is hard all around. It's hard with the people who know me best, it's hard with those I feel are "just like me" and it's especially hard with people who do not think like I do. To me geninue listening implies genuine surrender to another's thoughts, state of being, and contributions (or lack thereof).
Ivan spent the bulk of his adult like living for his job, his social status, and material wealth. His marriage was unhealthy and unhappy. Upon facing "It" (Ivan's term for death), his primary torment was that those closest to him would not acknowledge his true state of being -- he was dying. His family would visit and say such things as, "Everything will be alright." "I'm sure you'll get better." But everyone knew that Ivan's illness was terminal. Ivan's family came to represent to him what he called "the lie" -- he saw in them the same resolve to orient one's life around things that amount to nothing in the end. This caused Ivan to feel degraded "by the very propriety to which he had devoted his entire life." As a result Ivan was utterly tortured inside by bitterness, isolation, fury, regret, and excruciating physical pain.
But here's where it gets really interesting. Ivan's primary torture was that no one understood him because no one would truly listen to him. No one, that is, except for his servant Gerasim -- the only individual in Ivan's world who readily acknowledged that Ivan was dying. As Gerasim served Ivan (as was his job to do), Ivan found great release and peace whenever Gerasim was around because in Gerasim he saw an individual who lived for everything he had not: compassion. And so through Gerasim love invades Ivan's vaccuum of terror as he faces It.
Tolstoy spent a great deal of his life focusing on the death inquiry. When I took Spiritual Formation in seminary, we spent a substantial segment of the course on the dying process in the context of physical death but also in the context of dying to self (i.e. in Jesus' words, "he who loses his life for my sake will find it...."). Oddly enough, this segment of the course was interrupted when I had to move to Florida to care for my mother who had been diagnosed with cancer. She was staring It in the face, and on a lesser level so was I. Late one night we were laughing and talking, and she told me how afraid she felt. I had no words, but I shared her fear. I laid next to her, wrapped my arms around her, and prayed for her. We eventually fell asleep.
Why do I share all this? I don't know. Death is one of those things that people never talk about (unless they or someone close to them faces It), but my observation is that people are on some level hungry to talk about it, while others seek to deny it altogether.
It's ironic to me that even though we are all dying and we all want to be heard and noticed, we don't want to really listen to each other, because listening -- true listening -- requires us to die to ourselves, our thoughts, and suspend our "agenda" while someone else has the spotlight. Listening is more concerned with the individual sharing rather than a calculated response, yet at the same time listening breeds the best of responses because listening doesn't respond to words spoken, it responds to the speaker. There is a difference. A listener not only hears your words but hears you beyond your words.
Perhaps the servant-like, compassionate mentality begins with those willing to listen and notice others, even at the expense of being heard. Perhaps God uses this listening to create a space for others to enter and encounter a love powerful enough to invade the vacuum of fear, anxiety, insecurity, and strife that we all experience. It's really only at this point and in this space that words and truth gain the full force of their power anyway.
I want to be a better listener. That's what I take away from Ivan and Gerasim.
(Just for the record my mother is doing great, is cancer free, and I think everyone close to her appreciates life on a whole new level.)
May 23, 2010
Ode to Lost
Tonight is the series finale of Lost, although I won't be able to watch it until Monday. Long story. Actually it's not a long story. I just said that because I don't want to tell the story. That's because it's lame. Lame story. It's so lame I can't even go into detail without saying something that I will later regret (not that I'm bitter about missing the FINALE....TONIGHT). I digress.
I confess I'm kinda sad to see Lost coming to an end. And so now I bring to you the suspense, mystery, humor and soap opera of Lost according to my face. If this doesn't motivate you to watch the show, then I don't know what will.
Confusion....
I think this face adequately sums up Seasons 1-6. If I look like an old crinkly foreheaded woman when I'm 80, I blame my Lost obsession.
Humor....
A few comedic gems littered among the suspense...
Sawyer: "Baby, I am tied to a tree in a jungle of mystery. I just got tortured by a damn spinal surgeon and a genuine Iraqi. Of course I'm serious."
Hurley: "So, like, the hatch blew off your underwear."
Ben: "So tell me, John. How do you expect to pilot our submarine? I mean, it's a complicated piece of machinery. You don't just press 'Submerge'."
Shock...
This is how I felt when Desmond put the pedal to the metal and plowed over Locke in the parking lot.....right in front of the kiddies!
Fury...
I was furious when I thought Ben killed that rabbit (season three?). Nevermind the compulsive lying, the diabolical scheming, or the Dharma genocide.
Romance...
I talked it over with Bruce last night.
Desmond, the answer is yes. Of course I will marry you. Penny Schmenny.
I'm lacking photos that capture the philosophical overtones of the show. I'm faced out. But I'm open to suggestions and/or contributions....
I confess I'm kinda sad to see Lost coming to an end. And so now I bring to you the suspense, mystery, humor and soap opera of Lost according to my face. If this doesn't motivate you to watch the show, then I don't know what will.
Confusion....
I think this face adequately sums up Seasons 1-6. If I look like an old crinkly foreheaded woman when I'm 80, I blame my Lost obsession.
Humor....
A few comedic gems littered among the suspense...
Sawyer: "Baby, I am tied to a tree in a jungle of mystery. I just got tortured by a damn spinal surgeon and a genuine Iraqi. Of course I'm serious."
Hurley: "So, like, the hatch blew off your underwear."
Ben: "So tell me, John. How do you expect to pilot our submarine? I mean, it's a complicated piece of machinery. You don't just press 'Submerge'."
Shock...
This is how I felt when Desmond put the pedal to the metal and plowed over Locke in the parking lot.....right in front of the kiddies!
Fury...
I was furious when I thought Ben killed that rabbit (season three?). Nevermind the compulsive lying, the diabolical scheming, or the Dharma genocide.
Romance...
I talked it over with Bruce last night.
Desmond, the answer is yes. Of course I will marry you. Penny Schmenny.
I'm lacking photos that capture the philosophical overtones of the show. I'm faced out. But I'm open to suggestions and/or contributions....
Need a Pep Talk?
I just had to post the following link (courtesy of Jackie). Makes me laugh every time.
Check out this great MSN Video: Little girl gives herself a pep talk
Check out this great MSN Video: Little girl gives herself a pep talk
May 19, 2010
Doubt
Ann: "Bruce, do you ever have those moments of doubt?"
Bruce: "Like what?"
Ann: "You know, like when you question your whole understanding of God. What if I project too much of myself onto God? What if I rely too much on my own imagination? What if, in the end, I'm just making all this God-stuff up? You know, that kind of doubt."
Bruce: "Yes. I definitely have those moments."
The vast majority of my spiritual life has been a great tension between what I think and what I feel. With one breath I am certain that God is present in an undeniable way, and then with the very next breath I'm asking God, "Who are you really, and are you even here?"
Inevitably someone will read this and misunderstand me. Someone will think I've somehow gone backwards in my spiritual journey as if only the immature bow to doubt. But I resist that line of thinking. I think that my doubts have always been present, and that until recent years I've never felt safe enough with God or myself to let them breathe. So, in some mysterious way expressing doubt directly to God is perhaps a testament to the nature of my relationship with him. I generally don't express my deepest questions and struggles to people that I don't trust.
This week I'm at a staff retreat at Canon Beach. Last night I had an epiphany of sorts during our worship session. The guy leading the music played a bunch of songs I've never heard, which is fine. But as I was listening, my spirit became utterly still inside. All my weariness and restlessness didn't disappear but became secondary. I began to have a picture formulate in my mind. It was like someone grabbed my hand and began to lead me through time -- through the last ten years of my life. "Rememeber this? What about this? How about that?" it whispered as I reflected back on key events and spiritual experiences in my life. I began to see patterns emerge, the most predominate pattern being God's voice moving me in a way I can't explain and definitely can't take credit for. I think I'm pretty creative, but what I'm referring to here was so intense that no human creativity can even begin to touch or take credit for.
This morning I read something that struck me. St. Teresa of Avila said:
"If one were to tell me that a person with whom I had just conversed, and whom I knew well, was not that person, but that I was deluding myself, and that they knew it, I should certainly trust them rather than my own eyes. But if that person left with me certain jewels -- and if, possessing none previously, I held the jewels in my hand as pledges of a great love -- and if I were now rich, instead of poor as before...." then she would believe.
So basically what helps me seperate illusion from reality is found in the substance that is left behind. I've never known an illusion powerful enough to produce substantial and lasting peace, faithful love, or a joy strong enough to thrive in dark despair. Deep down I think these are the makings of a basis for trusting a God I often cannot explain, and my trust has become such that I will lower my strongest filters in his presence and dare to doubt. Perhaps God loves me enough to not soothe every anxiety and restlessness until my deepest questions surface and my darkest doubts breathe. Had I refused this query, I would not know God as I ought.
Bruce: "Like what?"
Ann: "You know, like when you question your whole understanding of God. What if I project too much of myself onto God? What if I rely too much on my own imagination? What if, in the end, I'm just making all this God-stuff up? You know, that kind of doubt."
Bruce: "Yes. I definitely have those moments."
The vast majority of my spiritual life has been a great tension between what I think and what I feel. With one breath I am certain that God is present in an undeniable way, and then with the very next breath I'm asking God, "Who are you really, and are you even here?"
Inevitably someone will read this and misunderstand me. Someone will think I've somehow gone backwards in my spiritual journey as if only the immature bow to doubt. But I resist that line of thinking. I think that my doubts have always been present, and that until recent years I've never felt safe enough with God or myself to let them breathe. So, in some mysterious way expressing doubt directly to God is perhaps a testament to the nature of my relationship with him. I generally don't express my deepest questions and struggles to people that I don't trust.
This week I'm at a staff retreat at Canon Beach. Last night I had an epiphany of sorts during our worship session. The guy leading the music played a bunch of songs I've never heard, which is fine. But as I was listening, my spirit became utterly still inside. All my weariness and restlessness didn't disappear but became secondary. I began to have a picture formulate in my mind. It was like someone grabbed my hand and began to lead me through time -- through the last ten years of my life. "Rememeber this? What about this? How about that?" it whispered as I reflected back on key events and spiritual experiences in my life. I began to see patterns emerge, the most predominate pattern being God's voice moving me in a way I can't explain and definitely can't take credit for. I think I'm pretty creative, but what I'm referring to here was so intense that no human creativity can even begin to touch or take credit for.
This morning I read something that struck me. St. Teresa of Avila said:
"If one were to tell me that a person with whom I had just conversed, and whom I knew well, was not that person, but that I was deluding myself, and that they knew it, I should certainly trust them rather than my own eyes. But if that person left with me certain jewels -- and if, possessing none previously, I held the jewels in my hand as pledges of a great love -- and if I were now rich, instead of poor as before...." then she would believe.
So basically what helps me seperate illusion from reality is found in the substance that is left behind. I've never known an illusion powerful enough to produce substantial and lasting peace, faithful love, or a joy strong enough to thrive in dark despair. Deep down I think these are the makings of a basis for trusting a God I often cannot explain, and my trust has become such that I will lower my strongest filters in his presence and dare to doubt. Perhaps God loves me enough to not soothe every anxiety and restlessness until my deepest questions surface and my darkest doubts breathe. Had I refused this query, I would not know God as I ought.
May 18, 2010
Canon Beach
I just finished off my final in Theology and am now headed to the Oregon coast for a few days for a staff retreat at Canon Beach.
Think saltwater taffy. The Goonies. Clam Chowder. I love the coast. Great hiking. Breathtaking scenery.
Unfortunately Bruce does not get to go because he still has several deadlines to meet. However, last year he went without me so I don't feel too guilty.
May 16, 2010
Slow Thyself Down
This is my second attempt to tell this story. The first attempt had too much....hmmmm....too much venom. I posted it for about five minutes, felt guilty, and then decided to delete it.
I confess I have a hard time slowing down sometimes, especially this last week. I pulled off a mega surprise party for my man's 33rd birthday. He was totally surprised, even though he arrived in a bad mood. This was quickly thwarted by a living room full of friends yelling, "Surprise!"
The next evening we got in a fight. That happens around here sometimes, though I rarely feel the need to document such things. We don't exactly photograph our fights and post them on facebook. I was so ticked off with my darling precious husband that I had to leave the house (because after all we did have company staying with us for the night and I didn't want to be responsible for corrupting our classmate). I went for a walk, cooled off, and wrote some really nasty comments in my journal. I digress.
I came back home. I apologized. Bruce apologized. Harmony resumed. Then I spent the next seven hours at the foot of the porcelain throne. That's right. Apparently, upon further investigation (which is code for facebook stalking) several other people at Bruce's party also contracted this beloved stomach flu as well. I haven't had the flu in years. Absolute misery. I even pleaded with God, "Please. If you make this stop, I'll never do such-and-such again. I can't throw up one more time. There's nothing left to vomit."
I was wrong. There was plenty left.
I started getting better just in time for Bruce to get sick. And now we are experiencing the art of "slow thyself down" whether we want to or not.
Needless to say, we are both recovering and are almost back on track. Just in time for finals. We have watched most of the first season of The Big Bang Theory (laughing proved painful), and we are both completely caught up on Lost (I have no fingernails left).
I confess I have a hard time slowing down sometimes, especially this last week. I pulled off a mega surprise party for my man's 33rd birthday. He was totally surprised, even though he arrived in a bad mood. This was quickly thwarted by a living room full of friends yelling, "Surprise!"
The next evening we got in a fight. That happens around here sometimes, though I rarely feel the need to document such things. We don't exactly photograph our fights and post them on facebook. I was so ticked off with my darling precious husband that I had to leave the house (because after all we did have company staying with us for the night and I didn't want to be responsible for corrupting our classmate). I went for a walk, cooled off, and wrote some really nasty comments in my journal. I digress.
I came back home. I apologized. Bruce apologized. Harmony resumed. Then I spent the next seven hours at the foot of the porcelain throne. That's right. Apparently, upon further investigation (which is code for facebook stalking) several other people at Bruce's party also contracted this beloved stomach flu as well. I haven't had the flu in years. Absolute misery. I even pleaded with God, "Please. If you make this stop, I'll never do such-and-such again. I can't throw up one more time. There's nothing left to vomit."
I was wrong. There was plenty left.
I started getting better just in time for Bruce to get sick. And now we are experiencing the art of "slow thyself down" whether we want to or not.
Needless to say, we are both recovering and are almost back on track. Just in time for finals. We have watched most of the first season of The Big Bang Theory (laughing proved painful), and we are both completely caught up on Lost (I have no fingernails left).
May 11, 2010
Dictionary.com, I Need You!
Dictionary.com is perhaps my best friend online when I'm studying. We converse often. Sometimes I know what a word means, but I look up it anyway just to be sure. Sometimes I don't know what a word means (i.e. latitudinarianism), and I then fantasize about the appropriate wood shed and torture devices for the inventors of these obnoxious words.
One time I was playing pictionary and yes, I confess that upon reading the word "splice" I mistakenly drew "slice" (it was a very artistic interpretation). And by some fluke my team guessed it and continued to advance.
Another time I had to draw a beaver and it looked like this:
I thought the teeth would be a dead give-away. I explicitly warned my team before I started drawing, "Be fast, people. This one's going to be easy!" The tree in the corner was strictly bonus, but to no avail. Everyone thought it was Satan....in the form of a cat.
I guess my next entry over at dictionary.com should be beaver followed by satan. Apparently I don't know what either of these two words mean.
One time I was playing pictionary and yes, I confess that upon reading the word "splice" I mistakenly drew "slice" (it was a very artistic interpretation). And by some fluke my team guessed it and continued to advance.
Another time I had to draw a beaver and it looked like this:
I thought the teeth would be a dead give-away. I explicitly warned my team before I started drawing, "Be fast, people. This one's going to be easy!" The tree in the corner was strictly bonus, but to no avail. Everyone thought it was Satan....in the form of a cat.
I guess my next entry over at dictionary.com should be beaver followed by satan. Apparently I don't know what either of these two words mean.
May 9, 2010
Someone
Someone's popcorn exploded all over the coffee table.
I told Someone to clean it up. And yes. Someone is using the vacuum to suck up all the popcorn in the living room.
Ever see the sitcom The Big Bang Theory? Sometimes I think I married Sheldon. This is one of those times.
May 2, 2010
Meet Moses a.k.a. Ninja Cat
Don't mess with Moses. He will take you down.
Don't let this sweet photo fool you. Moses is never at peace, never fully relaxed. Ever. That's why we call him Ninja Cat.
I seduced Ninja Cat into my arms with cat treats. He was not happy (but I was).
Miles is our black cat, who was my birthday present about four years ago. Moses joined us after we moved to Vancouver. I've always been a dog person. I swore I'd never own a cat. However, I changed my mind several years ago when it became apparent that we couldn't own a dog at the duplex we rented at the time, and since we have no kids, I think I just wanted something to smother. My birthay is on Halloween (consequently making it my favorite holiday), and I decided a black cat was fitting. Bruce agreed to get me a cat on the condition that if said cat ever stratched his speakers, cat would suffer. Big time. I love it that I don't have to take them for a walk everyday, and they are rarely needy (the cats, not Bruce). And they hunt each other, and this makes me laugh quite a bit. Nothing like watching a movie and seeing Ninja Cat fly over the coffee table in a single, silent leap and scare the unaware Miles half to death.
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