A cold is a cold is a cold. And it is a pain. Three days coming, three days with you, three days going. Science has yet to conquer this tiny mighty agent of infection and annoyance; so wily are they at changing their coats. This leads me to believe that these viruses may play a positive role in our lives and perhaps protect us from other, more deadly, viruses. This is just a lab chair hypothesis and has not been tested rigorously. But there are some trials underway right now that are using the cold virus to kill cancer cells.
Yesterday a cold hit me upside the head ─ a rhinovirus without rivals; a post Christmas reminder (as if I needed it) that life is not all tinsel and cookies. With alarming speed it clogged my sinuses, and simultaneously turned on a spigot of, um, snot which the extra strength cold meds could not lock down. I moved from room to room, tissue box in hand, desperate to breathe free.
Today is day two. I wake, side step the pile of tissues the size of a ski run beside my bed, and head to the kitchen ... to roam. I have a tiny kitchen so roaming is really just spinning in place. I want to eat but why bother when I cannot smell, taste or chew without feeling like I am suffocating? Then it hits me, mid-spin, that all I want, and what I know will cure me, is Chicken Tortilla Soup. A survey of cabinet and cooler show we have none of the ingredients. Can I make it to the store in this condition? My family offers to go but in my enfeebled state I think this may be part of the cure so off I go to my local market ─ a wonder land of produce and foodstuffs from all over the world. This market is the third place in my life (home and lab being numbers one and two). It is nirvana. As a young, untenured professor I would often stop there on my way home to pick up a few things for dinner or special treats to delight the family. Just the sight of the fresh baked breads or pyramids of pomegranates were enough to cure the pre-tenure blues. My backup plan if tenure was denied was to work in this market, rotating from bakery to produce and finally graduating to the wine department where I would dazzle customers with my scientific knowledge of how fruit is transformed to a liquid with soul. I would be the market microbiologist.
Today is no different. Just walking into the store causes my body to tingle with the warmth of relaxation. Into the basket goes the free-range “happy” chicken, organic red onions, red and orange peppers, and organic chicken broth; avocados and cheese to heavily garnish the end product, and the tortilla chips (white corn, lightly salted). Just gathering the ingredients makes me feel hopeful that I can short circuit this vengeful virus. I am careful to avoid leaving behind virus bombs by wearing my gloves and not touching my nose. I feel virtuous but notice I am being given wide berth. At the checkout the young man politely asks, did you find everything you were looking for? My reply causes him to glance up and when he sees my red swollen nose and eyes, he quickly looks away and does not offer to carry my bags. I snatch the bag, and with one last snuff to avoid leaving a trail of slime, I make a dignified exit.
Home again I plunge into chopping onions and mincing garlic. A typhoon of onion tears (and other secretions) are loosed ─ nature’s decongestant ─ a flow that sends my husband and daughters scurrying. And I am alone with the head clearing, soul satisfying scent of onions and garlic simmering in olive oil. Time slows. Snot slows. The soup comes together and simmers. Soup moves to the table and we gather, as we always do, to share a meal. I bow my head and breathe.
Chicken Tortilla Soup
½ cup olive oil
2 medium red, orange or yellow peppers, seeded and chopped
1 medium red onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 teaspoons dried oregano
1 teaspoon cumin
¾ teaspoon chili powder
2 tablespoons chopped Mexican green chilies (I use the canned type)
1 cup diced canned tomatoes with juice
4 cups organic chicken stock
2/3 pound boneless skinless chicken breasts
1 (15 ounce) can cooked black beans, drained and rinsed
2 cups fresh or canned corn
½ cup fresh cilantro, chopped
Sea Salt, to taste
Tortilla chips
Diced ripe avocado and shredded Monterey Jack cheese for garnish!
1. Heat olive oil in a pan over medium-high heat.
2. Sautee the peppers, onion garlic, oregano. Cumin and chili powder for 3 minutes, stirring often, until the onion is translucent.
3. Add canned chili peppers and tomatoes, heat and stir for 1 minute
4. Add the chicken broth and whole chicken breasts.
5. Bring soup to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer uncovered for 20 minutes
6. Remove chicken breasts to cool. When cool enough to handle cut into bite-sized pieces.
7. Add cut-up chicken to the coup, add black beans and corn and return soup to a boil.
8. Remove the soup from the heat, stir in the cilantro. Season to taste with salt.
To serve: crunch a handful of tortilla chips in the bottom of each bowl. Ladle soup over the chips. Garnish with avocado and cheese!
Wolf Moons and Mink Coats
“The timber wolves will be our friends. We’ll stay up late and howl at the moon, till nighttime ends, before going on the prowl.” – Hobbes the Tiger, from Calvin and Hobbes, by Bill Watterson
Tonight I feel like howling at the moon, which hangs full and bright in the winter sky. The holidays are gone, gone, gone. Lizzie is back to her studies at Pitt, Kat to the waning days of elementary school, and me to the grind of the winter semester with no vacation in sight. I am feeling heavy with pounds and heavy with envy of those who live in a warmer clime or don’t work for a living. It feels like there is a wolf at the door, or maybe a wolf within.
But snow, that white powder of hope, is covering the frozen ground, and few things are prettier than fresh snow under a full moon. January’s full moon is known as the Wolf Moon, according to the Farmer’s Almanac. Amid the cold and deep snows of midwinter, the wolf packs howled hungrily outside Indian villages. It is sometimes referred to as the Old Moon, or the Moon after Yule, and some called it the Full Snow Moon. I’m going with the Wolf Moon. It is said that wolves howl at the moon, but it is a myth. Wolves are simply more active at night and more visible in the light of a full moon. Wolves howl for many reasons: to claim their territory, to summon their pack for a hunt, to draw a mate, or to announce a birth. Or maybe because they have the post-holiday blues?
I think I know how my foremothers survived the Wolf Moon and long winters of the north country. Like my grandmother, they wore mink. As she swept into our house with the cold snowy air and picked me up in her arms, I’d press my face against the soft mink fur. The smell of leather and her lilies-of-the-valley perfume melded until it became my grandmother’s smell. I’d beg to wear the coat and she would always indulge me, a girl who loved luxury from the get go. I’d parade around, sweeping the coat past the adults, swiveling as I imagined mink-draped models would do in some exotic place like New York City. The lining was heavy and silky and felt so good against my skin. My mother, who had worked at Detroit’s J. L. Hudson Company, bought my grandmother the coat as a sixtieth birthday gift. Daughters, are you listening?
A childhood friend’s grandfather was a retired furrier who continued to make and repair fur coats. On a table in my friend’s basement recreation room, where we played while her grandfather worked, pelts were laid out and pinned in various stages of becoming a coat. The mystery of how animal pelts became clothing to adorn our furless fragile human bodies was revealed to me in that basement. My friend’s grandfather never spoke while sewing the skins together. As his sausagelike fingers felt and stitched the pelts, I’d wonder if he meditated on the lives of the animals that gave up their skins for human vanity. Was he curious about where they had roamed and what conditions gave rise to their thick and lustrous coats? Did he think about their deaths? Did he wonder about the person who had skinned and tanned their pelts? Had he ever made a coat for a woman he loved or lusted for, taking more care than usual or perhaps stitching in a secret message? Or perhaps he performed his craft while meditating on the stitching and not on the woman who would find comfort in the warmth of the coat. I wish I knew.
Coming of age in the 1970s, I eschewed fur of all kinds, even telling my grandmother, “Hey, Grandma, you really shouldn’t be wearing mink―don’t you know it’s cruel?” My grandmother kept wearing her mink coat defiantly; now it was not only a shield against the cold winters but her granddaughter’s frigid judgment. Today my own daughters are against wearing fur. But my grandmother belonged to the generation that survived the Great Depression and Hitler. Having dealt with such terrors, perhaps the politics of wearing fur seemed trivial to her.
When I visited the Pasteur Institute in Paris in 2003 I learned that Pasteur, the patron saint of microbiology, was his generation’s version of a rock star. This man not only had proven that microbes cause disease but he saved minks in Russia from rabies. A stuffed mink in a glass box sat in his living room, a gift of gratitude from the Russian government. Pasteur saved humans from rabies as well, but I wonder if the Russian government valued that as much as his efforts on behalf of their mink population.
I don’t know what happened to my grandmother’s coat, but I sure wish I had it now. The cold winds of middle age have suddenly sparked in me the desire to wear fur. I want the protection it provides against the cold, against the ravages of time. I want its beauty next to my aging skin. I wouldn’t save it for parties and holidays like my grandmother did. I’d wear it to the grocery store and out to walk my dog (who might even be envious, although her coat is more stunning). I would turn the thermostat down low and wear it around the house, invite my husband inside, and fall asleep under its warm weight. I would travel to my favorite beach―where I only go in summer―to feel the winds of winter and defy them with my coat, my shield. And each time I slipped my arms into the satiny sleeves I would give thanks to the animals that made the coat, their immortalized skins forever young and beautiful.
I check eBay, where I find mega bays of mink coats. One, listed as vintage, reminds me of my grandmother’s. No one has bid on it yet and three days and twenty-four minutes are left on the clock. Dare I buy it and risk the judgment of my darling daughters? It is snowy and cold today and the dog needs to be walked. Well, I have time to decide.
_____________________________________________________________________
Mink Coat Chocolate Cake
I make this cake in honor of my grandmother, a member of the mink-without-guilt generation; when a tyrant like Hitler is on the loose, wearing the pelts of small animals pales by comparison.
As soon as I had spread the word about my cake book, everyone started offering up family favorites. This is from my masseuse Lauren’s family and, of course, there is a story. Her great-grandmother always made this cake for Lauren’s grandfather, who loved it. When his mother died, he offered a mink coat to any woman who could make it as well as she had. He had many takers but no mink coats were given out, which sounded like a cake racket to me. I asked Lauren if she thought this might be true. She told me that her grandfather was definitely one to run a cake scam.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour a 9-inch round cake pan.
1 cup sugar
1 ½ cups all-purpose white flour
½ cup sour milk (you can make this by adding 1 teaspoon of vinegar to the milk)
½ cup hot water
½ cup oil
1 egg
Pinch of salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon soda
3 tablespoons cocoa
1. Mix all ingredients in order listed/
2. Spread into the prepared pan and bake for 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
3. Leave to c ool in the pan on a wire rack.
When cool frost with caramel icing.
Caramel Icing
½ cup (1 stick) sweet, unsalted butter
1 cup brown sugar
¼ cup milk
3- 3 ½ cups sifted confectioners’ sugar
1. melt butter in a small saucepan on medium-low heat.
2. Add the brown sugar. Increase to heat to medium-high and bring to a boil, stirring. Cook and stir for 1 minute until slightly thickened.
3. Remove from stove.
4. Cool slightly and then add milk and beat until smooth.
5. Add 3 cups of sifted confectioners’ sugar and again beat until smooth.
6. Cool completely before spreading on cake.
Tonight I feel like howling at the moon, which hangs full and bright in the winter sky. The holidays are gone, gone, gone. Lizzie is back to her studies at Pitt, Kat to the waning days of elementary school, and me to the grind of the winter semester with no vacation in sight. I am feeling heavy with pounds and heavy with envy of those who live in a warmer clime or don’t work for a living. It feels like there is a wolf at the door, or maybe a wolf within.
But snow, that white powder of hope, is covering the frozen ground, and few things are prettier than fresh snow under a full moon. January’s full moon is known as the Wolf Moon, according to the Farmer’s Almanac. Amid the cold and deep snows of midwinter, the wolf packs howled hungrily outside Indian villages. It is sometimes referred to as the Old Moon, or the Moon after Yule, and some called it the Full Snow Moon. I’m going with the Wolf Moon. It is said that wolves howl at the moon, but it is a myth. Wolves are simply more active at night and more visible in the light of a full moon. Wolves howl for many reasons: to claim their territory, to summon their pack for a hunt, to draw a mate, or to announce a birth. Or maybe because they have the post-holiday blues?
I think I know how my foremothers survived the Wolf Moon and long winters of the north country. Like my grandmother, they wore mink. As she swept into our house with the cold snowy air and picked me up in her arms, I’d press my face against the soft mink fur. The smell of leather and her lilies-of-the-valley perfume melded until it became my grandmother’s smell. I’d beg to wear the coat and she would always indulge me, a girl who loved luxury from the get go. I’d parade around, sweeping the coat past the adults, swiveling as I imagined mink-draped models would do in some exotic place like New York City. The lining was heavy and silky and felt so good against my skin. My mother, who had worked at Detroit’s J. L. Hudson Company, bought my grandmother the coat as a sixtieth birthday gift. Daughters, are you listening?
A childhood friend’s grandfather was a retired furrier who continued to make and repair fur coats. On a table in my friend’s basement recreation room, where we played while her grandfather worked, pelts were laid out and pinned in various stages of becoming a coat. The mystery of how animal pelts became clothing to adorn our furless fragile human bodies was revealed to me in that basement. My friend’s grandfather never spoke while sewing the skins together. As his sausagelike fingers felt and stitched the pelts, I’d wonder if he meditated on the lives of the animals that gave up their skins for human vanity. Was he curious about where they had roamed and what conditions gave rise to their thick and lustrous coats? Did he think about their deaths? Did he wonder about the person who had skinned and tanned their pelts? Had he ever made a coat for a woman he loved or lusted for, taking more care than usual or perhaps stitching in a secret message? Or perhaps he performed his craft while meditating on the stitching and not on the woman who would find comfort in the warmth of the coat. I wish I knew.
Coming of age in the 1970s, I eschewed fur of all kinds, even telling my grandmother, “Hey, Grandma, you really shouldn’t be wearing mink―don’t you know it’s cruel?” My grandmother kept wearing her mink coat defiantly; now it was not only a shield against the cold winters but her granddaughter’s frigid judgment. Today my own daughters are against wearing fur. But my grandmother belonged to the generation that survived the Great Depression and Hitler. Having dealt with such terrors, perhaps the politics of wearing fur seemed trivial to her.
When I visited the Pasteur Institute in Paris in 2003 I learned that Pasteur, the patron saint of microbiology, was his generation’s version of a rock star. This man not only had proven that microbes cause disease but he saved minks in Russia from rabies. A stuffed mink in a glass box sat in his living room, a gift of gratitude from the Russian government. Pasteur saved humans from rabies as well, but I wonder if the Russian government valued that as much as his efforts on behalf of their mink population.
I don’t know what happened to my grandmother’s coat, but I sure wish I had it now. The cold winds of middle age have suddenly sparked in me the desire to wear fur. I want the protection it provides against the cold, against the ravages of time. I want its beauty next to my aging skin. I wouldn’t save it for parties and holidays like my grandmother did. I’d wear it to the grocery store and out to walk my dog (who might even be envious, although her coat is more stunning). I would turn the thermostat down low and wear it around the house, invite my husband inside, and fall asleep under its warm weight. I would travel to my favorite beach―where I only go in summer―to feel the winds of winter and defy them with my coat, my shield. And each time I slipped my arms into the satiny sleeves I would give thanks to the animals that made the coat, their immortalized skins forever young and beautiful.
I check eBay, where I find mega bays of mink coats. One, listed as vintage, reminds me of my grandmother’s. No one has bid on it yet and three days and twenty-four minutes are left on the clock. Dare I buy it and risk the judgment of my darling daughters? It is snowy and cold today and the dog needs to be walked. Well, I have time to decide.
_____________________________________________________________________
Mink Coat Chocolate Cake
I make this cake in honor of my grandmother, a member of the mink-without-guilt generation; when a tyrant like Hitler is on the loose, wearing the pelts of small animals pales by comparison.
As soon as I had spread the word about my cake book, everyone started offering up family favorites. This is from my masseuse Lauren’s family and, of course, there is a story. Her great-grandmother always made this cake for Lauren’s grandfather, who loved it. When his mother died, he offered a mink coat to any woman who could make it as well as she had. He had many takers but no mink coats were given out, which sounded like a cake racket to me. I asked Lauren if she thought this might be true. She told me that her grandfather was definitely one to run a cake scam.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour a 9-inch round cake pan.
1 cup sugar
1 ½ cups all-purpose white flour
½ cup sour milk (you can make this by adding 1 teaspoon of vinegar to the milk)
½ cup hot water
½ cup oil
1 egg
Pinch of salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon soda
3 tablespoons cocoa
1. Mix all ingredients in order listed/
2. Spread into the prepared pan and bake for 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
3. Leave to c ool in the pan on a wire rack.
When cool frost with caramel icing.
Caramel Icing
½ cup (1 stick) sweet, unsalted butter
1 cup brown sugar
¼ cup milk
3- 3 ½ cups sifted confectioners’ sugar
1. melt butter in a small saucepan on medium-low heat.
2. Add the brown sugar. Increase to heat to medium-high and bring to a boil, stirring. Cook and stir for 1 minute until slightly thickened.
3. Remove from stove.
4. Cool slightly and then add milk and beat until smooth.
5. Add 3 cups of sifted confectioners’ sugar and again beat until smooth.
6. Cool completely before spreading on cake.
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