375: hubert

His name is Hubert. I caught him in one of those plastic, "Have-a-Heart" traps, which, I agree with Shawn, is a bit of a cruelty, especially when you leave over Thanksgiving break and then recall the peanut-butter laden trap. I am, of course, glad my husband is Ryan, who holds his hands up in I-have-nothing-to-do-with-this-ness, which means I do not have traps in the basement (AKA, the "vortex of hell") as I will not go down there on my own, but when little mouse poos started showing up beneath our upstairs bathroom sink, I thought, "Aw, rats, I have to do something about this." I'm also glad that my husband does not leave me to do brain-bashing of mice. Instead, he's fully accepting of my field trips to release our errant wildlife. I'm not sure I could motivate myself to do it any other way.

And so I did. A little opaque trap, cemeterily black, a daub of peanut butter and then the lip closed and I picked up, just a wee bit heavier than when I set it down. I discovered the weightiness before bed, and the next morning, Hubert spilled onto our bathtub floor.

This is what I do: I anthropomorphize these little buggers and then fill up with ridiculous guilt. I put down a saucer of water and a spoonful of peanut butter and went about my morning routines, hoping Hubert would fill up; he didn't know it, but his next step was the chilly outdoors. Oh! If I cannot handle it, then don't set the trap, right? Curses.

I did drive him to the cemetery, which is only a few blocks away, and I tucked him beneath a bush and near a building, but I suspect he wouldn't make it. I wanted to give him some chance, no matter the bedraggled conditions, and at best, I suppose he'd make a wee meal for some chilly creature.

I have a sneaky feeling there are many Huburts in our house, though not by the excess of poo. Meryl informed me, after needing to hire an exterminator, that mice are fairly timid, that each male has its territory, that mice are certainly blind-ish and leave poo-trails to find their way home, and mice also leave poo-piles for territory marking. This is the third mouse, unless you count the flying mouse, and I do not: Libby caught one, and Gatsby sent the other from the second floor to the first and I caught it in a tupperware. The third was of cruelty, and the fourth will be less so.

374: back to bodies

Photo: Life; Unknown Source
(photos aren't permitted in the exhibit--hence, my not using any of my own, which drove me a bit nutty)

Another field trip up to the Twin Cities for a tour of Bodies: The Exhibition, this time with company who would allow me* to really take the time I needed to write and process so much material--someone who spent some time writing and processing herself. Thank you, Meryl, for your forever-good company (and thank you for talking me down from my poetic ledge this past week!). I wrote a great deal; it was a successful day, which makes me awfully happy.

We spoke to the woman at the end of the exhibit, who didn't mind us haranguing her, who asked us if we were medical students, and told us that all the bodies died of natural causes, were from China because China is the only country that allows full-body preservation, and there are three of these competing exhibits touring the world--this being the one focusing mostly on education, and the others a more artistic endeavor, which makes sense, touring the photos on the web, discovering the shock of some images.

In searching Google images: This image is interesting by this artist.

Also: I love this image from a Valparaiso exhibition.

After peering into the caverns of bodies and jotting notes from placards, we went to Ecopolitan, a raw foods restaurant new to me, with a completely vegan menu. I had the "Rawvioli," which had this walnut wonderful on it, and we shared a Orange Julia, and, of course, very good conversation. Feel free to check out a new project we've started, welcoming Colleen C (and others who wish to join us, just let us know)--strange, yes: I love dead bird poems, already featuring Elizabeth Bishop and Adam Zagajewski.

* to be fair, Ryan and Mike would have tolerated my slow locomotion, though it's not entirely fair to them!--kind of like taking me hiking or camping with my camera--

373: thanks and giving

Our Thanksgiving recipes (all from Cooking Light, with the exception of the pie):

- for the bird: classic roast turkey and giblet gravy
- for the veggies: roasted Brussels sprouts and apples, green beans (meant to make haricots verts without warm bacon vinaigrette), sauteed carrots with sage, cranberry, apple, + walnut sauce, and sweet potato and butternut gratin
- for the pie:

Bumble Berry Pie
- 1 cup blueberries
- 1 cup blackberries
- 1 cup strawberries
- 1 cup raspberries
- 1 cup sugar *
- 5 tablespoons flour
- 2 tablespoons corn starch
- 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

Preheat oven to 375.
Line a 10-inch pie pan with crust. Combine the sugar, flour, corn starch, and cinnamon and mix well. Lightly mix in the fresh fruit and pour into the pie shell. Dot with butter and cover with a top crust. Prick the crust and sprinkle with sugar. Bake at 375 for 35 minutes in a convection oven or 40 minutes in a regular oven.

from Betty's Pies: Favorite Recipes from Betty's Pies in Duluth, Minnesota

* Recipe note: I used organic cane sugar, which smells so very strongly of molasses, and, consequently, tastes like molasses. Yum.


PS: Cooking Light gives a few recipes for the vegetarian.

372: the end of meat

There have been a few things leading up to it: first, my body decided it. I respect and trust my body.

Second, I got a tattoo. I spent seven hours with some of my favorite vegans; when I came home, I confessed to Ryan: "Well..." And he said, "You are not becoming vegan."

Oh. Oh, no.

But: I'd been debating it by then though. Not veganism, not when I love milk-and-cheese-and-wool-and-honey, but stopping the meat again.

And there it was, a little something, a particle of something, a something that niggled and now, I'm taking that plunge, with more thought than I did for my first venture.

There are thirds and fourths and fifths and so much else influencing me:

:: Food, Inc.

:: Jonathan Safran Foer's new book.

:: The considerations of No Impact Week.

:: But most of all, last night, when we went for our last visit of my grandmother in the nursing home. The four of us piled into the car, Mom and Dad up front, and my grandmother's white kitty between us (oh, and: interesting dream, if you haven't read it), Ryan and I poking our fingers through the bars, cooing, calming, and suddenly there is that metallic sound, that crunch that is car-upon-something-big, something-frighteningly-big, and it wasn't my father rear-ending someone, but instead that slam that-is-a-body. My father has bagged his third deer, each roadside creatures, and this one, leaving that gritty red-upon-red, those quill-hairs in miniature, something that looks like an organ-bit or something-fatty. I sat still for so long, my fingers pressed against my mouth, my mother fretting over the trip back home (flat tires, radiator fluid leaking, what-could-it-be?) and the cat, silent, a few mewls from her kennel. My mother confessed: "If we were in Wisconsin, that deer would be yours" after the pondering of what might happen to the body.

Fortunately for my father, just around the corner of his home is the Wildlife Sanctuary, and he can make some kind of karmic retribution.

I hate to admit this, but I'm glad, of the four of us, that it was my father who hit the deer: he has the right distance from me for me to not feel the hot shame (Ryan), he feels the right level of guilt (me: I'd spiral out of control in sorrow) balanced with the right level of nervousness at the car's ability to get its passengers to the nursing home (my mother kept repeating her hyperbolic fears--whatifwhatifwhatif!)--but my father, my poor father, who has now hit three deer in his life (this is the second from visiting his parents), who hasn't wanted to hit any--he knows how beautiful these creatures are and how good it is to contentedly drive a hanging-in-there car--

Can I now? The biggest images will haunt me: the chicken whose breasts are too-heavy to hold the bird upright, the cow whose hind legs couldn't hold it upright, the chicks separated so aggressively, and now, the sound of the thunk of bumper-on-deer.

371: from our hands to yours

This year, Thanksgiving is like some others in that: we drive for hours, stare at the familiar blankness of the Indiana tollway, witness the falling of the drizzle, eat in small + cramped spaces, eat in sticky places that should be closed for family time, put my fingers out the window to feel the air, think of Touchdown Jesus as we pass South Bend, sleep through the chaos of Chicago in the backseat.

We stopped to visit my grandmother, a moment that was eerily familiar to two years ago, when stepping onto the soggy grounds of a nursing home, but this time, the occupant was lucid, her ailment not Alzheimer's but a hip broken in not three places, but four. We had to wake her in the dark of her room to say hello, but she lit up and when Ryan walked in, uncomfortable at participating in the gentle rousing, my grandmother turned to him and said gratefully, "Ryan, you brought my girl!" Oh, to be my grandma's girl. I want to treasure that small moment, keep it safe and close to me.

Tonight is preparing for tomorrow's feast, which will include both of my parents this year, as well as me and my husband, my aunt and uncle, my cousin and his wife and five children, and another cousin:

Winning the husband lottery, we prepared:

:: Brine for the turkey, a first experience for both of us. Ours included plenty of kosher salt, sugar, sage, celery, cinnamon sticks, and carrots.
:: Cranberry, apple and walnut sauce with this recipe (and adding hunks of the orange we grated and minus the pepper as I forgot to get that ingredient):

• 1 cup sugar
• 3/4 cup fresh orange juice (about 3 oranges)
• 1/2 cup white wine
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 2 cups diced peeled Granny Smith apple
• 1 1/2 teaspoons minced peeled fresh ginger
• 1/8 teaspoon ground red pepper
• 1 (12-ounce) package fresh cranberries
• 1 tablespoon grated orange rind
• 1/2 cup coarsely chopped walnuts, toasted

Preparation

1. Combine first 4 ingredients in a large saucepan; bring to a boil. Cook 3 minutes or until sugar dissolves, stirring frequently. Stir in apple, ginger, pepper, and cranberries; bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer 35 minutes or until sauce thickens. Remove from heat; stir in rind. Cool; stir in walnuts.

Tomorrow will be a great deal more: bumbleberry pie from scratch, the turkey, of course, as well as Brussels sprouts, green beans, carrots, sweet potato and winter squash gratin, and pumpkin pie. My aunt is bringing the mashed potatoes, a ham, and the stuffing.

Have I mentioned this is my last week of poultry? I have a chicken and corn soup that is waiting for consumption at home, and after that, it's just seafood, and fortunately, there isn't a lot left, which means by Christmastime, I will officially be vegetarian again. I would have switched immediately, but because we have such a stockpile of "my" meal accouterments that my charming-but-finicky husband will not eat, I figured instead of wasting them, I would switch. I must confess, he had these beef sticks with cheese he picked up at the butcher that smell so good and every time I spotted them, I was incredibly tempted to cheat, until I remembered that scene from Food, Inc. in which a cow cannot walk on its hind legs naturally (instead, on what appears to be the "hocks," or what, in humans, would be the calves, where the tibia and fibula reside); then, my mind drifts to the chickens whose breasts are so immense they plop over like toddlers each time they stand up, and I think: I am grateful this is my last week of poultry; I cannot have these images in my head and morally consume on. (I must also admit: I am scientifically fascinated, and I love cooking whole birds, because I can then pull back layers and touch bones and see how it all fits together, which is why I am best at eviscerating the creature at the end, prepared to make soup and stock.)

But I don't want to leave a Thanksgiving post on this didactic note. Rather, I'm going to give you a few things, that, in-this-moment, I am grateful for:

:: smelling sage and oranges on my hands
:: the husband sleeping, waiting, helping me today and tomorrow (and always)
:: finding a few biographies on Robert Lowell, who is popping up in the book I'm currently reading and, of course, a major component to my Elizabeth Bishop study
:: my new slippers, which will get me through tomorrow's cooking without drastically exhausted feet
:: you, of course, in hopes of a lovely time spent with friends and family
:: (and to the tofurky-day I missed with my poetry-friends)

370

I received some disappointing news at the doctor's office this week, and though it does not mean all is a failure, there are possibilities regarding the (lack of?) permanence of my affliction. Is this all veiled enough for you? In other words: a medication I've been taking isn't doing what it's supposed to do, which is scary and frustrating, but after Thanksgiving break, I go in again and they're going to examine me and raise the dosage to see if that works. I feel angry at my body for being a failure, a poor reflection on my self as a whole.

It's hard to not point out the cliche, the obvious: it's all becoming material. Foibles as fodder.

We made the first leg of our Thanksgiving journey late last night; Ryan "allowed" me to stay late on campus so I could spend time with my beloved poetry girl friends, dinner at a campus Thai restaurant, and I drove the whole journey from our corner of Minnesota to his parents' corner of Wisconsin. He slept in the back with Penelope; Zephyr kept watch in the front seat, where we spotted a doe and a few miles later, the most magnificent buck with an amazing rack, and the fog descended with a light drizzle and I sang lonesome country songs in my head.

369

So last night I was watching an episode of Northern Exposure with my husband, the episode where Ruth Ann hurts her ankle and Ed gets all freaked out at her turning seventy-five and he ends up throwing her a surprise party and her gift is a patch of land for her grave and before the credits, Ruth Ann says she wants to dance on her grave, because it's one of those rare opportunities, and so they do and the camera pans out and you can see all of that Alaskan glory, the pines and the lake and the great mountains.

The very next episode, by the way, opens with a handful of people (in an old-fashioned circus, bus broke down) walking down a wooded dirt road with a bear on a leash. I cannot handle how much I want to snuggle with one of these tame animals on the show--the elk, the deer, the brown bear. No worries, I still abhor the idea of wild animals as pets, but I still can't help but get squishy at the idea of touching one.