Cocoon

All of my life I've had healing powers, so much so that my mom (who likes to play skeptic) was forced to tell me so directly to my face. It's a huge "win" for me, but a severe loss in her magically passive-aggressive "Wonderland of Rightness", with rules according to "Dr. Diane". She pretty much had to, because I've nursed her through such severe injuries, breaks, falls, and surgeries, that there were times when, even in her delusion fantasies, she didn't think she'd make it back, going so far as to say to me a few times "I'd be dead without you". Fear not, New Yorkers; she'd lapse right back into snarky self-righteousness, right after I picked her up off the floor. Again. 

In this century, we have companies with paid personnel who exist to help old ladies from their apartment floors and cloudy senses of reality, with such great hits from my mom like: "I was very athletic when I was young. You don't know!" Really? What did you do? "I walked bridges! I used to walk all the time." Yeah, I know. It's called "New York", not "Oz", and you were sixteen years old at the time, which means you should be able to walk a few miles, and you did it one time exactly. What else?

"No, no, no. I used to ski. I'm an excellent skier!" When? Once, on your honeymoon in the Poconos, so you could make fun of Dad comin' from broke-ass Bed Stuy because you knew he wouldn't be able to do a rich white man sport the very first time he put on downhill skis. Or, was it the time you tripped playing tennis and broke your back, which we nursed you back from? "OK. Let's change the subject. You're getting on my nerves." That's what I thought. Win all over it.

It's right up there with her superior sense of martial arts skills above me and my very-belted bro, because years ago I introduced her to Tai Chi while I was taking classes. I showed her a video I had on hand, and then I either gave it to her or bought her one of her own for Christmas, but, basically, my deal. She went home, found a "Bubbies-only" Tai Chi class in Westchester that's sit-down in a chair, then bragged to everyone for years about how "good" she was. "See? Look at me punch. Look, Marie! I'm really good at it! My teacher said so." Good at simulating punching...yeah, I know you like to hit.

Anyway, back to reality. Everyone in my family who's had direct contact with me gets healed. My cousin Susan beat Stage 4 lymphatic cancer, and she was the only one in her control group to do so. She chain-smoked cigarettes the whole time, too, much to my dad's embarrassment when he picked her up after her doses of chemo curbside, as a small bald child with a headscarf was wheeled into the facility. Wave "hi!" to them! She also beat the secondary cancers afterward, knowing the aggressive treatment she had was the cause. 

Of course, it isn't magic. She had the right attitude, and she did everything her doctors told her to do (rare for her personality type), plus she was motivated to heal for her son, who would be orphaned if she died. Then, my dad had cancer. He beat it, too. Ditto with my mom and her sisters. Of course, they all used traditional Western medicine, as well as some homeopathic kinds, too.

It's become such an open thing with me that I don't even really try to stop people from making the connection any more, mystical guru powers aside. I made friends with an odd but friendly Korean lady who was taking martial arts at the same dojo. She really sucked at it, but she wanted to make herself feel better from both physical and mental symptoms, so she continued with it, despite an utter lack of focus, continuity, muscle mass, and talent. After she figured out that a few cheap kickboxing classes do not cure you from being a lonely orphan in a new country or painful sciatica, she decided to add into her already ridiculously over-packed life Acupuncture classes, at a professional school in Manhattan.

Over brunch one morning, she played with light conversational sparring techniques that are much more effective in Asia than New York City, where we knew all the flava's here, honey. By now, she knew I was some "big-time" Art Director in publishing, which meant her prior career as a commercial print-making designer for a Chinatown textile firm that fronted her the money to relocate here meant squat to me, though I was delighted to learn that she was artistic at one time. She then worked in massage (got that down, too) and her new studies at the traditional school of medicine that's part voodoo folklore mixed with some basic common sense.

After she cleaned her plate way faster than me, a sophisticated salad of greens perfectly dressed for summer, remarking on the deliciousness of the food in every restaurant I took her to during our brief friendship, she said to me that I should seriously consider becoming an herbalist at her school for Asian folk and their wanna-be's. After a few more outings with her, when I casually body-surfed expertly in an ocean she was afraid of and then schooled her in my 'hood, I noticed that she gradually distanced herself from me, in that way that I've come to know as the typically passive-aggressive Asian lady brush-off. 

I could see that she didn't have much to come back with, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that my mom was one of the first female botanists at the Bronx Botanical Gardens, or that the devoted people of my faith have made real discoveries in medicine that are now worldwide cures, from the traditional abbey herbal gardens that span thousands of years. She wasn't listening to me, anyway.


Yes, my Asian peoples of the world: it's time to get over your "foreigner" fears. School is now in session! Please to enjoy the following links:
http://www.scienceinschool.org/2013/issue27/monastic
http://legacy.fordham.edu/halsall/medny/herbgdn1.html
http://bit.ly/1KpoTz4

Mr. Squirrel

"Hi! I'm Mr. Squirrel!"  Hello to you, squirrel!

Last week I had an intense, cheerful, and also deeply meaningful experience with the small squirrel that lives in a spectacular tree on the front lawn of "National Frat Boy Headquarters", which is across the street from the big yellow Dutch farmhouse where I currently reside. 

As I watched him comfortably groom his cutely small body parts high above my head (where he's smartly safe and sound), I thought it a great sign that squirrels are living and thriving in direct community with a group that's well-known for hazing, poor drinking habits, and other life-hindering skills like independent thought, because at the end of any given day, my new friend "Mr. Squirrel" does way more for the planet than those shaky, flabby rich kids will ever do, with much less harmful results. Boo! at you: http://genius.com/De-la-soul-tread-water-lyrics* (* https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=allegory).

A big "thumbs up" goes out today to all the happily productive squirrels in the 'hood: http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2015/02/nut-job.html. 

I'm your "Number One Fan" for life (!), as well as:  

• wily woodchucks with cheeks full of young grass shoots 
   http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2015/04/woodchuck-lives.html, 

• young bear cubs wrestling unmolested on their Bear Mountain
   http://www.lohud.com/story/news/local/rockland/ramapo/2015/04/22/ramapo-police-bear-video/26176665/, 

• wild city coyotes on the move for game 
  http://www.nydailynews.com/new-york/coyotes-deserve-warmer-wildlife-biologist-article-1.2199378, 

and all of the thriving, healthy bird life throughout the tri-state are also always happily included.

A highly alert and intelligent life form does his thing undisturbed. Yes!

It's all connected, peeps. 

Get with it, and get in step with the universe! 

Make Your Voice Heard

Today's "Mission Impossible": get involved. Whew! Wow, so hard...

Hey, friends! Over the next few years, I'm going to talk and write about hearing loss (which is congenital in my family) in a way that's constructive and helpful, because I've found that the current dialogue (when it is present) is wayyy crazy (read: typically human). I tested the waters recently with a group of my senior friends, a really well-educated and hip crowd, and they had stunned, scared looks on their faces. Oh. Not a good sign. It's a contentious topic, mostly because it's been co-opted artificially by health insurance companies that do not work for you. They work for money and profit. I think it's self-explanatory, but you'd be surprised by the level of ignorance people have when they are resistant to adult subject matter, ie: "not fun" stuff, like a Florida vacation. Oy. New Yorkers!

Anywho, let's get on with it. I'll go first: I started losing volume in one ear around age 30-32, a time typical for great bodily change in mature women, and so it was with me, too. My live-in boyfriend noticed it first, and then I noticed it at work. Aha! My dad is deaf, and so was his sister, my late aunt; actually, they're much more impaired than I am, but that's also an outcome of their generation's neglect. Well, I got diagnosed early on (wrongly at first, but that's a story for another day), learned all about it, became an expert so as to self-advocate for me and my health, and now I can share it with you all.

It's kind of a scary process: you get locked into a sound-proof booth, and it feels like you're taking a test that you know you're going to fail. Uh oh. Yeah, I know, but do it anyway. Just like any subject, a big "Fear of the Unknown" factor compounds and effects wrongly our attitudes about health care. I had my teeth cleaned by my dentist yesterday, and there's some pain and discomfort involved. I know that from years of experience, so I practiced deep breathing exercises while watching Will Farrell on t.v. dressed up like a green pilgrim for St. Pat's Day, knowing I was being tended to and cared for by a real Rockland County kid (my new dentist: such a nice boy!), whose parents own the jewelry store across the street. In other words, I'm home!

But first, we need to address the inequity that exists in health care and within their corporate culture. I was told by a rep at a well-known health insurance company back in the day that my hearing loss was "cosmetic" (and that it would "NEVER", an actual direct quote: "Never be covered by health insurance") because I am relatively young and no one can see it on my face, like seeing a squinting blind person with thick glasses. Can you imagine a rep saying that to someone born near-sighted? Insane! So, first, let's get it straight: as complex as hearing is compared to vision (thus making it more expensive, naturally), you must first accept the concept that hearing devices are like glasses for the ears.

That's it, folks. It's simply this: giving assistance where it's needed, and as it's needed. Get involved in the conversation by talking about it with someone today. Start there, and then let's build on top of that. Let's do this thing! Thanks to Tracey in town for supplying me with the handy dandy hand-out you see pictured below. More to follow on this topic in the future. Be sure of that.  Good day to you all!

http://www.hearingaidtaxcredit.org/

Macaroni with Broccoli

unc·tu·ous

Readers know that I primarily cook Italian-American at home, though in the interest of full disclosure, I also eat a lot of Cajun, Creole, Acadian, French Canadian, and classically French foods as well, given my ethnicities with those cultural, genetic preferences. Since I typically cook for Italian-American family when I'm at home because it's food I know they'll enjoy, I often find myself going there as comfort food.

Hit that sh*t with bow ties!

This macaroni dish is a huge hit every time I make it, regardless of the type of pasta I use or the condition of the broccoli, because IT'S THAT GOOD. My grandmother made it first and then taught it to my mom, who made it at home for me, thus making it a type of cooking perfection in my family that's been lovingly honed through time and the changing of hands. I've written about the magical powers of Locatelli Romano before, and though I am no food snob, I must warn you once again before you shop for ingredients: only this type of Romano has the content to withstand frying in high heat in oil well. Also, just like with great music and art, timing is key. 

Big stainless steels mixing bowls make me happy.

The cheese cubes have to be removed right before you think they're brown enough, otherwise you've cooked the cheese all the way through, and they'll become hard while drying on paper towels. They should crunch lightly on the outside and still be creamy on the inside: salty cheesy pillows that are highly addictive foodstuffs. I made extra with this batch to eat while I cooked, otherwise (I've learned from experience) the ratio of cheese to other ingredients may be noticeably thin when it finally hits the table.

A warm bowl of pasta on a cold day = happiness.

After that, it's a breeze. When the water is boiling and the macaroni is cooking (my grandma used ziti, but here I used an open box of Farfalle bow ties), I fried some diced onion in the remaining oil. You can either parboil the broccoli florets, but in the interest of brevity and one pan cooking, I flash-fried the florets with the onions this time. 
  

Yeah, yeah, zoom in on that.

I used a sieved spoon to add just the right amount of macaroni into the bowl with the fried cheese cubes, onions, and broccoli, and I was generous with the seasonings, too: salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, more grated Romano. Some of the reserved pasta water goes in to make it moist, supple, and slightly soupy. A good bowl of pasta should "shine" back happily at you, and mine did. Ah! Fini! It was, dear readers, food magic. My mom, who can be a fussy eater, ate two bowls. So did I ;) Buon appetito.