Lavender's Blue (dilly-dilly)

The scent of lavender is unmistakable. My big wooden box of essential oils is arranged more or less alphabetically. The way my world runs, it is usually nighttime when I find myself in need of lavender—to help me sleep, perhaps, or to calm a headache. I make my way over to the box in the dark, trying not to step onto, say, the sharp edge of a carelessly tossed Birkenstock. I know approximately where the lavender bottle is in the box, and I take out and open one bottle at a time from that general area. Some of the scents I don't recognize, and some are similar to others. But the lavender is unmistakable. When I have finally found it, I drop three drops into my left hand, rub my right-hand fingers into it, and slather it onto the back of my neck, reveling in the astringent but floral scent as much as in the pride of having found it in the dark.

 

Lavender is a useful oil. If you are prone to panic attacks or anxiety, to depression, to inertia, try lavender. Put a drop or two into one hand, rub your hands together briskly, then cup your hands over your nose and mouth and breathe in deeply and slowly for three to five breaths. Or longer if you can spare the time. If your anxiety comes when (or because) you are in a meeting, prepare for the meeting this way: put two drops of lavender on a kerchief or tissue and keep it in your purse. When the inanity and/or nastiness of the meeting threatens to overcome you, simply hold the kerchief or tissue beside your nose, as if to stifle a sneeze, say, or dab a runny nose. You can breathe in the calming lavender with no one the wiser, thus allowing you to keep both your job and your sanity.

 

This year I transplanted a small, unhealthy lavender plant from the front yard to a pot in the back. In its gratitude it is currently giving me a small display of flowers at the end of stems that are expanding and multiplying to fill the pot. I in my turn am grateful.

 

 

Copyright 2012 Ann Tudor

www.anntudor.ca
http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

Shoes for Dancing

I have worn Birkenstocks for the last 40 years, sandals in the summer and some sort of closed-toe slip-on as a house shoe in the winter.

 

Like all Birkenstock wearers, I have experienced the sharp, shooting pain of accidentally stepping on the sharp edge of the comfortable valley cradling my foot. I know how dangerous that can be, since the immediate, fierce pain demands a quick response and can precipitate a fall.

 

In 2000 the Bone Clinic took me through a long list of potential falling hazards: don't climb on chairs to reach something (use a ladder instead); don't strew little throw-rugs around the house—they will trip you up; and don't wear Birkenstocks or other shoes that are awkward and/or might slip off your feet.

 

They weren't telling me anything I didn't already know. And we are all aware that falling is NOT what we want to do. (I was, however, struck by a friend's story that when her father turned 65 he took a series of Tae Kwan Do classes expressly to learn how to fall without hurting himself.)

 

Recently two-year-old Georgia came to visit, riding on her mother's hip. Although we are great friends, that day Georgia began playing shy, hiding her face, refusing to go to Nana. So Nana began playing the game. I danced away from her, saying "Oh no! NO, don't let that baby come near me! Keep that baby away!" And I shuffled backward until I bumped into the big chair and then began to shuffle sideways, away from Georgia. I was, of course, wearing my in-house Birkenstocks.

 

And the lesson for today, dear ones? You can't dance sideways in Birkenstocks. One of them stuck fast to the floor, thus failing to slide to the left, as I was commanding my foot to do, and the other shoe bumped into it. I was dancing, remember?

 

So over I went. The view I have of myself in general is more or less the same as it has always been: I am 15. All right, I am 25. I weigh what I always used to weigh. My body is lithe and graceful and responds quickly to stimuli (as in "Help! I'm falling!").

 

Well, that's an interesting image to bear in my mind, but it's far from the truth. When I began to fall I was aware, for the whole 90 seconds it took me to hit the hardwood floor, of how very heavy I am. Or at least how much stronger gravity has become over the years.

 

I went over, falling to the left, in an arc so graceful that everyone at first thought I was doing it on purpose. Nice to know I have retained a graceful move, even if it comes into play only when I am falling. I landed on the side of my elbow and the side of my knee, both of which hurt like the dickens. My head had come within inches (perilously close, is the term I would use) of slamming sideways into the oak coffee table. (I realized this only after I had been pulled into a sitting and then standing position.)

 

Many helpings of arnica and applications of Traumeel later, I was absolutely fine. I didn't even feel the residual shock that sometimes stays in the whole body. Arnica really works.

 

I was lucky. And I am open to suggestions for new house shoes. They must be comfortable and easily slipped on, requiring no shoelaces or buckles or other fasteners to slow me down. They don't have to be fashionable. But I must be able to dance sideways while wearing them, should the occasion arise.

 

 

Copyright 2012 Ann Tudor

www.anntudor.ca
http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

My Last Word on Pies

And now, for all of you who weren't lucky enough to live in the southern United States for eight years, I will talk about chess pies. This will be my final word on pies for the foreseeable future.

 

There are pies, and then there are pies. You can eat a whole pumpkin pie in a matter of hours and suffer few ill effects (though it will be a while before you lust after pumpkin pie again). Even cherry or other fruit pies lend themselves to the gluttonous approach, though less so if they have a double crust.

 

But some pies are meant to be eaten in slivers. Maybe two slivers a day, but no more. Chess pie is one of those. Chess pie has no redeeming nutritional value.

 

Let's start with the name. No one knows for sure where the term comes from. Some say it's because the pie used to be stored in a "pie chest." That's one of the more stupid etymologies, to my mind. More commonly accepted is that it comes from "cheese pie" and is British in origin. The cheese pie has no cheese in it. A direct descendant of cheese pie is Canada's much-loved butter tart. I know I'm a reductionist, but let's face it: one country's cherished and distinctive special treat is just another country's forgotten familiar fare.

 

Back to chess pie. Forget the origin of the name. It seems to be a pie made and served only in the Southern U.S. these days. A recent cookbook called simply Southern Pies contains, among many other recipes, half a dozen versions of chess pie. The "classic" chess pie is made with half a pound of melted butter (that's one cup), two cups of white sugar, and three eggs. Perhaps a little vanilla. Now, I ask you to deconstruct this pie. Let's say you'll be sharing it eight ways. Each pie piece will contain two tablespoons of butter (that's 30 grams, not counting the crust), three-eighths of an egg, and four tablespoons of sugar. That's one-quarter cup, or 12 teaspoons, of white sugar in every serving. Are you SURE you want a piece?

 

Other chess pie recipes add a little lemon juice or vinegar, which I would have thought was the classic version, but not according to the author. It makes no nevermind with respect to nutrition, because the lemon and vinegar versions still have the same proportions of butter and sugar.

 

If you add raisins, you'll have the Canadian butter-tart. And don't try to pretend that the raisins will pump up the nutritional aspect of the pie enough to counteract that butter and sugar. The same basic recipe plus pecans (and some of the sugar converted to sorghum syrup or—god forbid—corn syrup) will give you pecan pie. And the pecans contribute a nutritional component as strikingly minuscule as the raisins in a butter tart.

 

These pies, in totality, are sometimes called "transparent pies." Perhaps because it is clear—i.e., transparent--from a cursory reading of the recipe that they offer nothing good for your body. Not even much pleasure, I would say, since the amount of sugar sets your teeth on edge and leaves a terrible taste in your mouth. Actually the term "transparent" refers to their almost-clear, almost-gelatinous texture: sugar suspended in a butter-and-egg mixture that solidifies slightly as it cools.

 

In fact, this solidifying is the only redeeming thing I can think of. I love to eat my pieces of pie out of hand, and I resent having to eat pie at a table with a fork and a plate. So I relish pies that can be picked up neatly, and the chess pie and its derivatives answer that need. Try to pick up a piece of homemade apple or cherry pie and you'll be out shopping for a new supply of stain remover.

 

But pumpkin pie? Now there's a pie that fills the bill. It's not only portable (you could even, if necessary, carry a piece in each hand), but also nutritious. All that beta-carotene, vitamin A, lovely fall squash-i-ness, with a little cane molasses, some milk and eggs, and those lovely eastern spices, once rare, now commonplace: ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, cloves, and a pinch of black pepper. A chess pie might entice by its profligate use of sugar—but a pumpkin pie is a pie you can get your teeth into over and over and over. Never make just one pumpkin pie. It won't suffice.

 

But maybe I've been talking to myself about pies, which are toward the top of MY list of important subjects, but perhaps less interesting to the world at large. So no more talk of pies.

 

 

Copyright 2012 Ann Tudor

www.anntudor.ca
http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com