Eulogy

The Contrariness of the Mad Farmer

I am done with apologies. If contrariness is my
inheritance and destiny, so be it. If it is my mission
to go in a exits and come out at entrances, so be it.
I have planted by the stars in defiance of the experts,
and tilled somewhat by incantation and by singing,
and reaped, as I knew, by luck and Heaven's favor,
in spite of the best advice. If I have been caught
so often laughing at funerals, that was because
I knew the dead were already slipping away,
preparing a comeback, and can I help it?
And if at wedding I have gritted and gnashed
my teeth, it was because I knew where the bridegroom
had sunk his manhood, and knew it would not
be resurrected by a piece of cake. "Dance," they told me,
and I stood still, and while they stood
quiet in line at the gate of the Kingdom, I danced.
"Pray," they said, and I laughed, covering myself
in the earth's brightnesses, and then stole off gray
into the midst of a revel, and prayed like an orphan.
When they said, "I know that my Redeemer liveth,"
I told them, "He's dead." And when they told me,
"God is dead," I answered, "He goes fishing every day
in the Kentucky River. I see Him often."
When they asked me would I like to contribute
I said no, and when they had collected
more than they needed, I gave them as much as I had.
When they asked me to join them I wouldn't,
and then went off by myself and did more
than they would have asked. "Well, then," they said
"go and organize the International Brotherhood
of Contraries," and I said, "Did you finish killing
everybody who was against peace?" So be it.
Going against men, I have heard at times a deep harmony
thrumming in the mixture, and when they ask me what
I say I don't know. It is not the only or the easiest
way to come to the truth. It is one way.

—Wendell Berry



Last week was busy. There were meetings for new projects, class, packing for our week-long trip to Ohio, dad's memorial, and the potatoes au gratin for 60 to go with it. Auntie had asked for me to say something at the dinner, but there was so much to do, it was a great excuse not to have to think about it. I purposely decided not to prepare anything so that I could more easily opt out of any speech—the thought of having to stand up in front of so many people to bare my soul over my father was gut wrenching. But now, here I sit, trying to fulfill my obligation to myself to complete the challenge I signed up for, and needing to publish a post for the week. All I can think of to write is my father's eulogy.

The poem above is how I would have opened. I've always loved this piece; of all the poetry I've ever read, this is the best to me. I love the contrariness, the seeming irreverence. I love that God is seen in Nature—fishing—and not in the politics of man. And I love that death is a thing to possibly be celebrated, knowing that another adventure awaits us after we leave these houses.

This poem sums up my opinions of my dad. He's been irreverent from the start. Not unloving in the least, he's just incredibly defiant of anyone who might try and keep him in any certain line. There's something about his character that might be called Heyoka, the Sacred Clown. That was definitely dad, always jovial, and sometimes a little backward. Being his daughter, I have not always enjoyed these qualities. Not being one to be held down did not always work in my favor when it came to his "obligations" as a father; things like regular visits sometimes got sacrificed for the thrills of dredge mining with drunk indians in the hills of the Hoopa reservation.  I was always so hurt when he wouldn't show up on time, or sometimes just wouldn't show up; but in the end, I know he was Spirit lead, and if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans—the only real appointment book is Nature's. Those adventures do make for great stories, however, and he certainly shared a great life with a lot of people along the way. The very things that hurt me so deeply as a little girl are the very qualities that made so many love him so dearly. These are also qualities I have seen reflected in me, and now that he's gone I'm having new considerations for his casting in this life. That free-spirit irreverence is what funded his lust for life and deep appreciation for the workings of the Universe, and they have contributed greatly to my desire to live a full life, unconventionally and with reverence to the Majestic.

He was fairly unapologetic for his timing, and was often heard proudly exclaiming any number of cliches on tardiness: better late than never; if I'm not late, I'm not coming; and my personal favorite, I'll be late for my own funeral! Who knows, he probably was—especially considering all the many times he frightened his family by cheating Death. This is a Willes trait that seems to be written into our DNA, and fighting time sometimes seems to be like telling a salmon to find another place to spawn.

A great deal of compassion for who my father was has come to me with age, and more has come with therapy, but the most healing of our relationship (unfortunately) has come with his passing. Now, there is only the him inside of me to have a connection with. There is only acceptance or denial. No more wishing for things to be other than what they are, and no more, "maybe tomorrow".

With his life, he taught me so many things about life, love, beauty, and resourcefulness. He taught me how to observe nature to live, how to eat like a king when out in the wild, and how to keep it around for future feasts, he taught me how to climb rocks, traverse streams, how to keep warm with leaves on a cold night in the woods, and how to catch a second wind by breathing deeply of a crushed California Bay leaf when out on a trail. He taught me how to get high on adrenaline, cannabis, sex, and booze, and to enjoy these pleasures of the flesh, because all too quickly, our merriments will be gone. He taught me that often playing hard means working hard.

With his death, he is teaching me to act, because the world in our head only exists up there.

I wish I had done more acting when he was alive. I wish I could have put aside my pain from the past, and had a relationship in the present. I wish I could have accepted what was, instead of wishing for what was in my head. I wish, I wish, I wish... But as mom says, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.

There are no wishes.

There is only what is.

Thank you dad for all that you've shown me.

I look forward to deepening my relationship with you as I deepen my relationship with me.

Feel the Burn: Bacon Wrapped Meatloaf, Playa-Style

Burning Man is upon us, and in my fashion, I decided to over-work myself for the pleasure of it--and, of course, the accolades of my peers ;)

Those words were written after a sixteen-hour stint of cooking in preparation for the Big Event at the end of August. It's taken me that long to recover enough from the whole experience just to finish writing out this recipe, and I gotta tell ya, I'm not even up for the challenge now. If it weren't for the commitment to myself, I would be curled up in bed, watching an old movie and waiting for the rain to fall.

But here I sit—typing—on my cold, hard chair, instead of napping in my warm, fluffy bed. All just to comfort my spirit, and perhaps, to add a cozy dish of deliciousness to the Mad Hatter's T.V. tray.

For the Burn, I had been invited to be one of Flirt Camp's three chefs, along with M.H. and SuperDiva. And as you can see, I went all out. The old timers consulted with me to warn against cooking more than one camp meal per day, to divvy up the days, and to go over menus so as not to have any overlap. With three uber-foodies at the helm, meal time was epic, and our camp never ate better!

Taking everyone's food sensitivities into consideration, and purchasing only the best ingredients—all recipes were organic, gluten free, and farm-stand fresh. I was able to get a screamin' deal on both thick sliced, maple smoked bacon, and on 90/10 halal beef from Restaurant Depot—and, yes, I stole an old employer's identity for the privilege of that discount. Next, I haggled my way down at some local farmer's markets, caught a break with Mariposa Baking Company for my large order of gluten free bread crumbs, and sneaked away with an amazing flat break on some of the most delectable mushies I've ever worked with from the Ferry Building.

I rarely ever measure out my ingredients, which probably comes from nearly a lifetime spent cooking professionally. So, bear with me on this recipe while I try and give proper measurements. Also, whenever dealing with a mash of raw ingredients—like a meatloaf—always test the product for appropriate seasoning by frying up a quarter-sized amount in a small frying pan before baking off the whole kit and caboodle. There is nothing worse than taking that first bite of what is supposed to be sumptuous and juicy, only to discover it tastes like fancy cardboard.

INGREDIENTS

Ground Beef or Turkey
Italian Style Pork Sausage
Wild Mushrooms
Mirepoix—or—Onions, Carrots, and Celery
Fresh Garlic
Eggs
Fennel Seed
Italian Seasoning
Cayenne Pepper
Golden Flax Seed, ground
Gluten Free Bread Crumbs
Braggs Liquid Aminos
Tapatio
Delicious Bacon

If I can remember correctly, I used two parts beef to one part sausage, and one part ground mushrooms (I used a combination of oyster, shitake, crimini, and portobello, then threw them all in the Cuisinart to finely chop).

Next, I diced the carrots, onions, and celery as fine as you can. It doesn't need to be a brunoise, but a finer dice works better than a larger cut for both mouth feel and flavor distribution.

When adding the garlic, I choose to grate it over a Microplane. This is much easier than my old preferred method of peeling, crushing, and dicing. The result is a finer product, so there will be no large chunks to surprise anyone; and none of the oils are lost, so you can use less product for more punch.

Since the ground mushrooms comprise so much of the bulk in this particular meatloaf, I chose to add in more Italian seasoning and fennel seed to offset the lack from a smaller portion of sausage, and I used cayenne instead of black pepper when finalizing my seasonings. Cayenne is a wonderful blood cleaner and stimulant (owning to it's reputation as an aphrodisiac), leaving a gentle warmth in the mouth if used sparingly, as opposed to its more brusque brother, black pepper.

As a binding agent, I threw in about equal parts of ground golden flax seed and gluten free bread crumbs, figuring that we could use the extra fiber in the desert to cut down on commode time. Plus, the golden flax seed is a wonderful anti-inflammatory agent to combat our excessive partying in the hot summer sun.

For the four huge loafs you see in the picture, I believe I used eight to twelve farm-fresh eggs, along with healthy squirts of both Braggs and Tapatio. Please add these before adding your salt and pepper, as they naturally will season the loaf.

Once all of the ingredients are in the bowl, or in this case, the extra-large storage drawer, roll up your sleeves and start mushing! Your product should be moist and sticky, but not gloopy—you want the concoction to hold its shape all on its own.

Pull off a small meatball, flatten out, and fry up in a pan to test your seasoning. Remember, you can always add more of whatever you want (salt, pepper, garlic, fennel), but you can't take it out!

If the levels are where you want them, then it is now time to shape and wrap. When you have split up the loafs, roll and press and re-roll to work out all of the air pockets—this way, when it bakes off, the loaves will maintain their girlish figures. Also, the more compact you can work your meat, the easier it will be to wrap in bacon. Now, I know Grandma used to cover hers with ketchup, but we are a different generation—one where pork fat rules—and that can be an after-cooking accoutrement. Bake off your beauties in a 350 degree oven until they reach about 165 internal temperature, and let rest before slicing.

In the desert, we ate our meatloaf with a kale salad comprised of roasted beets and sweet potatoes, raw red onion, and bacon bits, tossed in an apple cider vinaigrette; but it is also delicious accompanied by mashed potatoes and gravy, on a sandwich the next day, or served on the bare breasts of a unicorn-headed unicyclist.

And, don't forget that cherry cobbler—or in our case, gluten free/dairy free peach and summer strawberry crumble—to complete your Hungry Man meal.

Slathered in Sunflower Seed Pate

Each week I attend a meeting for a few hours—really it's like a group counseling session—with the focus and goal being on having amazing, long-term partnerships that reach new levels of turn-on and intimacy over time (instead of what so many of us have experienced in or past, which is just the opposite). So, as you can imagine, many and most subjects get covered in our year-long course. This meeting was on Halloween, and my dad had just passed not two weeks prior. The facilitators had asked if I would like to share with the group what was going on for me, and it turned into one of the most intense experiences of my life.

Halloween happens to be one of my most favorite holidays of the whole year, and this was no exception. Adam had just given me a beautiful black silk corset, custom made by the uber-talented seamstresses at The Dark Garden here in San Francisco, as a belated birthday gift. That, along with his pre-Burning Man surprise of a red cloak, and I was well on my way to being a sexy Red Riding Hood, with him at my side as the Big Bad Wolf (apropos since he's also the furriest man I've ever met!).

The topic that night was the prostitution of the authentic pains of our past for the purposes of our Super Ego today. After a 20 minute meditation, feeling into our body and the experience of Now, Erwan lectured on the subject and asked us to split into groups of three and give ten-minute monologues on how this shows up for us personally in our lives. So, there I was, dressed like a Victorian prostitute, feeling into my experience and divulging some of the most intimate details of my inner self, when it was all-of-the-sudden time to share my feelings on the passing of my father. Life has such a sense of humor sometimes. I was physically so exposed, and yet that almost seemed to help with revealing those details I was having such a hard time fully baring to myself. When I stood up, I didn't know what I would say. I thought all I had to tell were the facts of his final adventure. What came out were questions of the reason for existence, and a turbulent vacillation between hot anger and deep sadness.

This was intense and exhausting.

We were ready for food.

As I've mentioned before, I tend to pour my emotions out into food. A few nights prior I had started out to make Adam and me a simple dinner of seared chicken with peppers over polenta, and maybe a little something green. What we got was red wine and garlic marinated chicken breasts in a spicy sauce of peppers, onions, and sundried tomatoes with crispy Italian sausage over herbed polenta. This was accompanied by sides of pureed butternut squash with ginger, and sauteed red Russian kale with apples in white wine to top. Along with that hot mess, I started the Sunflower Pate for the Evening of Intensity.

INGREDIENTS

3 cups Sunflower Seeds
1 1/12 bunches Green Onion
6-8 Cloves Garlic
4 Eureka Lemons
1/2 bunch Basil (fresh)
1-2 teaspoons White Truffle Oil
about 1 1/2 cups First Cold Pressed Olive Oil
Celtic Sea Salt, to taste

I started soaking the seeds on Monday night. Select your bowl and make sure you give them at least three times the space to grown as was the original volume. Cover the seeds with at least two inches of fresh, cold water and leave on the counter for about 24 hours. I am a little anal retentive, so I ended up rinsing them about twice in that period of time, first to wash away the blackish, murky water; and second, to try and figure out how to pull out the chaff quickly separating from the seed. If jostled in the bowl a bit, I found the majority of the outer-coating of the seeds will float to the top of the pile, then I just skimmed it off. A few seeds were sacrificed, and a bit of the chaff remained—but I ain't trippin'. The seeds will start to sprout, if they are still live seed, and that is what we want.

Next, I had to split my portion of sprouted seeds in half because our food processor isn't quite big enough to fit all that goodness in it's little bowl. Into this batch I threw half of the garlic; half of the green onion, chopped from white to green; the juice of two lemons (please do not be tempted to use Meyer lemons. They are way to delicate in flavor and acidity to "cook" the onions and garlic, and to stand up, taste wise, to the other ingredients.); and a pinch or two of Celtic Sea Salt (I chose this variety because of it's high mineral content, and softer punch).

Now blend the bejesus out of it. While it is whirring, there should be enough liquid in the mix to allow the ingredients to break down, and start to form a paste-like substance that will climb up the bowl walls, then crumble back over into the middle of the spinning blades. As this is happening, slowly drizzle in half of the olive oil. You know you have poured in enough olive oil when the mix stops climbing the walls, and seems to be a bit wet. (Note: this should not take *too* long. If it's dragged out, the contents will heat up and separate, or break. If  that happens, pulse in some [as in 1-4 tablespoons] ice water. This *should* bring it back, or re-emulsify the product.)

Once the batch is at the consistency you want (it will be a little less smooth than hummus), pulse in half of the basil that has been roughly chopped with a super sharp knife. Basil bruises easily, so a sharp knife will reduce this browning effect. That is also why I throw it in almost at the end—all that action in the Robot Coupe really tears it up. I highly recommend tasting the batch as it progresses, and adjusting the seasoning as you go—like now. Adding salt is much easier to get consistency in the mixer, than later by hand.

After the basil has been pulsed in, dump into a large mixing bowl and do it again with the second half.

We now have a product of garlic-y, oniony, lemony pungency. The hot garlic is cooled by the crisp basil, the pungent onion brightened and cleaned by the lemon. But what of umami (pronounced: you-mommy)? That is where the beloved/hated truffle oil comes in. You should have about eight cups of product in your bowl, but truffle is notorious for being an under-estimated David taking down some pretty big Goliaths. With that in mind, start with folding in one teaspoon of the stuff, and taste to see where everything ends up. I highly recommend having some coffee near by to cleanse the nose, and maybe a glass of white wine for the palate, as the taste and smell of truffle oil will saturate your senses.

Also keep in mind that these early tastings will have the flavors polarized. This concoction should sit for at least eight hours to allow the flavors to blend and calm. The fresh lemon ends up cooking the garlic and onion, primarily, turning their heat to sweet. The addition of the truffle oil is to meld the flavors, not to actually taste it, itself. It simply adds a certain something that should tickle and flirt with the eater, not beat over the head with it's brazen attitude.

I served it up with Dosa Chips I found in the Marina at a Bi-Rite, I think. They are a fermented rice based, gluten free, salty/crunchy treat perfect for dipping in this raw, vegan pool of deliciousness.

Maybe it was the sensitization that comes from such an intense evening, but one of the gals (a deliciously buxom blonde, I might add) exclaimed she was enjoying the dip so much, she wanted to slather her whole being in it. Could there possibly be a better compliment?

Breakfast for the Bereaved

I am writing about food because it seems so much easier than to write about all of the other stuff that is still so close to the surface. That other junk is so close and swirling, I can't even begin to put words to it; too many emotions right now to decipher up from down, in from out.

While my family isn't Jewish or Italian, we do grieve with food—in fact, we do everything with food. My father just passed last Monday, unexpectedly during an abalone dive. He was only 56, though he had lived enough for three lifetimes, and the entire family—not to mention all of his friends—were stunned to hear the news. He had cheated Death on so many occasions, we all just thought he would go on living forever to be a grizzled old man. Last Monday, Mr. Grimm came to collect.

We have a large family, and can hardly ever align our schedules to converge at one location. We all made it for this, though. It was so wonderful to be together, I just wish it hadn't taken such a horrific event to do it. Grandma and Grandpa are Mormons, and my dad is survived by four siblings and their progeny, not to mention his two parents. Grandma had been so sick recently, she had been hospitalized twice in the past few months, so when I got the call I was prepared to say goodbye to a woman who had lived a long and full life—not to hear she would have to bury her wild and wooly son.

The local boys who dived with my dad were the heros who came to his rescue. After three days of Search and Rescue being too timid to go where my dad dove, a crew of four yahoos—just as ballsy as dad—found him with his hand stuck in the cookie jar, so to speak. He was about 20 feet bellow the surface, with his hand caught in a small cave, going for what I want to believe was a big ten incher.

I am part of a woman's circle with my auntie (dad's sister), who meet once a month to perform ceremony and show support to each other through the ups and downs of life. The Monday night he went down, Aunt Kathi suggested I ask for a dream about the whole event (we didn't yet know for sure what had happened to him). I dreamed I had a favorite cat who loved to get in the fish tank. Every chance he got he would get in just to hang out, so when I looked over and saw him in there again, I didn't give it a second thought. As I looked in, I saw he was pinned beneath a rock just bellow the surface, and I saw his body go lifeless. I panicked and pulled him out. After which, he sprang right back to life, and gave me a look—as cats often will—saying, "What's the big deal? I like it in there—Jeez!"

Little did I know how accurate that dream was. We finally got the call on Thursday afternoon that would give us closure, and my boyfriend and I hit the road for Timber Cove. We spent the next few days crying, laughing, and eating. Grandma had bought an entire store full of food, not to mention the typical Mormon stash of three months worth of goodies kept beneath the house. Then there was all the food brought over by the members of the Baptist church my dad and his wife belong to. Oh, and the yellow fin tuna, salmon, and abalone dad had just caught and bartered for that he was planning to have for dinner on his days off.

Saturday night finally came, and two of my cousins had made it in with more adult reinforcements. Adam was the lucky man who bore witness to the wake of women crying and laughing and progressively getting drunker by the hour that night. As the bottles were opened and consumed, I cooked while being serenaded by Grandma's toothless rendition of What Does The Fox Say.

We started with the No. 8 red from Trader Joe's while The Man and I raced each other to peel the most apples, quarter, and core them for some homemade apple sauce. Then a limited release of Schramsberg Brut Rose was popped and I stared in on the breakfast strata. This is a dish that was introduced to me by one of my best friends when I was the breakfast chef at the Inn at Parkside in Sacramento. It's essentially a savory, stuffed french toast. This was made by slicing two day old torta rolls in half and then fit to the casserole dish. Next, the top half of the bread was slathered with basil pesto and placed aside while the other ingredients were layered. Oil soaked sundried tomatoes were laid down first, followed by fresh sliced crimini mushrooms, then artichoke hearts with chiffonade of kale, and all topped with gooey Laura Chenel Melodie. Top all of that goodness with the pesto laden buns, and throw on a heap of fresh parmesan. Finish this dish of deliciousness by mixing a custard of eggs and whole milk (or cream if you really want to be a Hedonist), and soak the whole mess overnight. Bake in the morning for about an hour at 350 degrees, covered with tinfoil for the first 30 minutes. Finally, eat to your heart's—or gut's—content.

It was the only way I knew to feed my grief. I allowed myself to pour my love, despair, guilt, and unspeakable angst into that dish, in order that it might nurse our inevitable hangovers and nourish our reluctant souls.

The Dinner Party

If you sign up for Scott Dinsmore's free website, Live Your Legend, he sends out a bunch of free stuff to help figure out if you're at the right job, and if not, to see what direction might be best to head in. Part of this bundle of amazing freebies is a questionnaire, 27 queries long, to help one hone in on their passions and gifts. One of these questions has stuck in my mind for months now: When was the last time you couldn't sleep you were so excited about what you had to work on?

Last night was one of those events. I prepared a dinner party for a friend's 33rd birthday, and am still buzzing from the blissed-out affects of the evening. Even after all of these years of following Spirit, and witnessing the Universe—in all of her power—provide for my needs and heart-felt desires, I still don't trust. Dee is blessed with a husband who pays attention to her, and who wants to make her happy—they both also have impeccable taste. So when I received the email one morning after a turbulent night spent fretting over the future, my heart leapt to be considered in the pool of possibilities for creating this divine event. He wanted to create an enchanted evening filled with succulent foods and close friends in the intimate setting of their home.

This is what they got:

• A salad of red butter leaf and little gems tossed in an anise seed vinaigrette, peppered with slices of seckle pear, the season's first persimmons, and honey pickled shallots
• The entree comprised of herbs de Provence rubbed game hens on a bed of chanterelles and Lundberg wild rice, severed with bacon seared Brussels sprouts
• For dessert: heirloom apple galettes with a blend of cardamom, cinnamon, cayenne, nutmeg, and star anise (my own five spice) to flavor the crust, served a la mode with San Francisco's own Three Twins vanilla ice cream. 

There were so many wonderful memories made last night, I can't begin to recount the happenings, but for me, something opened up that seems beyond measure at this point. Everyone cleared their plates, and the food-gasm was so thick, it was mind altering. My heart soared. To do exactly this for a living would be a blessing. I keep resisting my work with food due to certain circumstances and abuses of the past, that I am blocking out my deep love and passion for the art of this alchemy. Miss Dee, being a woman of good taste and business savvy, approached me after dinner to discuss just that possibility.

The wheels are now spinning, and again I can't sleep. We will see what the future brings, but I'm getting pretty giddy...

Thanks S&D for a magical night, and one of the best dinners ever! 

Divorce, and everything after

I just recently moved in with my man. We took our time, did everything right, talked about it for months, he played the game of push-pull, and we eventually made the leap after deliberate negotiations, counseling, and feeling into our bodies and the situation.

Since moving out at eighteen, I had lived with many men, but never had it been so deliberate. I would usually just wake up one morning to discover that the asshole had moved in, and then experience the fall out. But this time it's different. What I've wanted—pretty much more than anything—since puberty started to percolate, was to be partnered in relationship with my soulmate. By soulmate, I mean a man who has similar sensibilities in such things as faith, music, food, lifestyle, and such; but primarily I had a sense he would be one who I felt safe with, trusted, and had a deep (and deeply satisfying) connection with—the other stuff is ultimately superfluous.

Was this too much to ask? Apparently so.

After engaging in so many abusive relationships—both physically and mentally—I had all but given up, relinquishing to the fact that real Love wasn't for me. I took a year off sex (and men in general, really) because I was so terrified of making the same bad decisions, studied yoga and Jungian psychology, and moved out of town.

This place had been my home for over twenty years, it was a place fraught with trials and tribulations, and now it was time for something new. While cocooning at my grandparent's house for a while, I ran into an old friend who reawakened me to my mid-thirties sex drive, and who showed me that sex can be both magical and moving. He introduced me to orgasmic meditation, and showed me that one needn't be a dick-wad to give good dick. He had opened me, and I was ready.

Enter Adam.

For the first half of our relationship, everything was going so well I would think to myself, "There is no way this will work". I had been so used to fighting for affection that I couldn't see I was finally getting what I had prayed for.

It was during a Pleasure Course event when I realized what was happening—we were asked to feel into our earliest childhood memories, and an image kept appearing to me of when I was very little and my stepfather had asked for me to call him "dad". I must've been three or four, and from what I can remember, I threw a huge fit. This wasn't my real dad (even though he was the one raising me, and giving me the love and attention I needed as a wee lass), I didn't like him, and I wasn't going to do what he wanted! It was with this memory that I figured out my resistance to Adam being a potential "The One". He was attentive and giving me everything I wanted so he couldn't possibly be my real lover. The real one was someone who was aloof, unavailable, who would prioritize anything else over me—like my memories of my real dad. It was such an a-ha moment, and still brings tears to my eyes. It was with this memory, and all of the feelings that go along with it, that I realized I could potentially marry this guy somewhere down the road. Now, that was a scary notion! All of the other buffoons were ultimately safe. There was no way on God's green Earth that I would marry one of those suckers, no way I would ever have to commit. And now, here I was, getting what I wanted, and being face with commitment—yikes.

Well, I took the first step in facing my fears, and now here we are—cohabitating. So, if I'm so happy and getting everything I want, why am I crying? Once again, I am going to take my teacher's advice and do what I want to avoid—feel into it. I've been avoiding feeling these poopy experiences for so long, it seems painful to sit still and just be with this sacred yuck, to explore the quagmires, tedious to try and find the source of the burbling gurgling that might possibly set me free.

When I inquired within, I discovered another memory. At first I thought it had nothing to do with the current situation and I told it to go away. But, as I delved deeper and fully felt through that thought, I noticed a distinct connection.

When I was in sixth grade, life was pretty dang good. Fifth grade had been rugged (thank you very much, Mrs. Houston), but we were movin' on up! My mom and stepdad had officially been married, and now we were moving into a fancy new home we had built from scratch in a fancy new housing development, I was attending a bigger (and in my eyes, better) school, making new friends, and discovering boys. We had 14' vaulted ceilings, and for Christmas we rambled on a snowy expedition together, as a family, to cut down a tree which had no business being indoors—in fact, it put up one Hell of a fight getting in the dang house! This was the Norman Rockwell painting life was supposed to be.      

 

Then came seventh grade. Somewhere near the middle of the year (I think), I came home from school to SD sitting on the couch waiting for me (I think). He informed me that he and my mom were getting a divorce. I can remember not quite comprehending what was happening at first, then the pain, followed by a wash of numbness.

Our home was breaking, the rug had been pulled out from beneath me, the painting was on fire.

And now I was experiencing the same sort of joys, moves, and family-making that I had experienced in sixth grade. No wonder I was sobbing. Where was this fancy rug, and when was it going to be pulled out, leaving me flat on my back?

My past conditioning had me gearing up for The Fall. Only, this time things can be different. I don't have to live out those memories from the past; I can rewrite this book, tape over that old recording. This realization occurred one night after The Man had come home from a private counseling session. He was asking in his coaching about all of the crap that was coming up for me (at that point, nothing had been verbalized by me. He was following his intuition and sensing a disturbance in The Force.), and feeling into his own imprints from early childhood.

While he was sharing about his session, and the advice that was given, I started bawling uncontrollably. That's when he did the best thing he could have possibly done—he allowed for my experience. He just sat there with me while I did some self-inquiry. He held me while I cried. He saw me as a perfect being in that raw moment. He loved me—for who I am, where I am.

Thank you, Love.

SRSLY Amazing!

Today, all of my dreams came true.

Last night, I was bemoaning my fate (once again). We had stopped by the Noc Noc for a nightcap, and a few of the crew opted for my favorite--a Trappist ale. By the time I was ready to order, my sour grapes were all twisted up inside and I sprung on the poor bartender like a viper, spitting venom over sorghum beers and too-sweet ciders.

Today, after a daunting morning of job searches through the San Francisco mists of September, I decided to head up to Bi-Rite for a few last-minute items to throw in my butternut squash soup, guacamole, and basil pesto (the farmers market is so great around this time of year, I went a bit crazy with the cozy food). While flirting with the cheese girl and ogling the produce, I glanced over to see a beauty I thought I would never behold on this gluten free trip--Sourdough Bread. I squealed so loud with delight, it made the pan-handlers on the curb put a jump in their jive.

Because a sourdough starter can be so temperamental, and requires certain microbials feasting on certain foods, I didn't think it could be done. When I took an extended stay in Alaska, especially considering a yokel is also called a sourdough, I did some research and figured I would try for myself to manifest my heart's desire. Alas, I was unsuccessful.

I had overlooked that sordid sorghum, however. And now I have BreadSRSLY to thank for one of the most moving food experiences of my life. One of my primary reasons for living is back; I can now eat sourdough toast slathered in expensive butter again!

Thank you ~ SRSLY

Homework: He plus Me, plus She

I'm in a weekly class called the Oracle, which is very much like a group counseling session for singles and couples on expanding and deepening their love lives, and overall connection with life and others. Since meeting up with this group, I have developed the most amazing intimate relationship I ever could have imagined--and frankly, I don't think I could have done it without them--but it hasn't been without its challenges.

I recently returned from Burning Man, where my boyfriend and I decided to cohabitate. We have been dating for a little over a year, and essentially living together for the past two months. However, I am noticing there seems to be a humungous emotional leap that is made in making it official. For the past few months I have expressed my desire for the deepening of our partnership, and I even felt very clearly when I wanted that to happen. For my birthday, I got everything exactly how I wanted it. Then, the voices started to creep in... the feelings of inadequacy overwhelmed; the questions of if we were moving too fast, and what would happen if things fell apart; do I deserve this; things have been going so well, is this now the point where I will start to fuck it up, etc., etc.? My head was/is reeling. There was even a moment just before sending the text to my landlady giving notice when I felt so amazingly tired my fingers wouldn't work. That's when I decided to do some core work (core work is essentially meditation where one feels into their body to inquire about what the heck is going on). I realized that my body and heart feel great about this move, but my mind is so jumpy from unrelated traumas of the past that I'm ready to sabotage the good stuff for the slightest hint of a reason.

Our homework for the week was to read the blog and comment on how this relates to our life. Well, it couldn't have come at a more apt time. This inquiry is apropos especially given that we (I, really) have started having DO-dates as a couple with other women (DO-dates are the practice of deliberate orgasm, where [generally speaking] a man will sit up next to a reclining woman and adeptly stroke her genitals until she's cumming like the Dickens!), on top of making the Big Move. My man is extremely gifted at DOing, and as it is part of his lifestyle that brings him (and me) great pleasure, I wanted to embrace this practice more as we delved deeper into our relationship, but boy, did that compound some of the craziness! I noticed the extreme tumescence as I detail cleaned our room before the date; when I finally slowed down enough to feel what was happening inside my body, my head started spinning so much, and my heart started pounding so hard, I had to sit down--I wasn't sure I could 'go through with it' after all.

I did keep the date, and had a great time--I was really turned on, and she was so beautiful with her soft vulnerability. And, wow, did my man feel mighty with two women orgasming at his fingertips! What an amazing insight, as well. I noticed that I was so caught up in my own head at times, that I would check out, distract myself, numb out, get critical, and somehow separate myself from the feeling of what was happening. In doing so, I became even more critical of our guest. Then, when I would realize my own defensive insecurities were projecting themselves, my criticism would soften and I could actually *feel* what she was feeling. The ride was incredible!

The next day has felt like a bit of emotional fall-out, but I am taking the advice of my teacher, and feeling into my experience--just being with the sensations, and allowing myself to feel whatever comes up. It's not all very pleasant, but at the end of the day, I definitely feel more empowered, more solid. I actually feel like everything is pretty damned perfect--and it feels GOOD.

Gluten-Free Erotic

Who knew the Bay Area held so many fanciful delights? When I returned from the Appalachians, I felt all was lost hedonistically--but, alas, this is not the case. My thanks to Chef Chris Hubbard for delighting my many senses a few weeks ago with an erotic dinner, gluten free.

About ten months ago I met, and started dating, a man who has changed my life. The community he has introduced me to has been one of the most fun and supportive I have ever encountered--not to mention their cumulative interest in the pleasures of the flesh. One of the wonderful Taurian women recently had a birthday, and she invited us all to an over-the-top (and under-the-belt) event--an Erotic Dinner. This was six courses of deliciousness, in soooo many ways ;)

When we arrived at our destination on a blustery, wet evening typical of San Francisco in early May, we were greeted by the Guest of Honor and a few of her other punctual peeps. I had no idea what to expect, but with tales of the space being home to perverted play parties and kinky S&M porn shoots, my mind was reeling! Our weekend had already been filled with turn-on from a sensual bachelor/ette party the night before, and the force of tumescence was strong with this group. We had come, and were ready to party.

Ready and waiting for us were Chris and his multi-talented staff, on point to serve us up our every desire. Chef had prepared roasted Medjool dates with chevre, polenta cakes topped with mushrooms and gooey melted cheese, and fingerling potatoes with a coffee foam (a favorite of my companion) to take the edge off our ravenous hunger, paired with the tiny tingles of an Italian Prosecco--delightful! The clean, crisp bubbles helped lower our guard as we mingled and introduced ourselves to those we didn't know yet. Everyone was dressed to the hilt, with the men clean and pressed, and the women spilling over with legs, tits, and juicy juicy ass. Finally, it was time to take our seats.

We were escorted to our assigned placements by silent staff, all of whom were cloaked in black leather masks to pique our intrigue. The dinner was about to begin! We started with a salad of peppery rocket, salty proscuitto, and fresh apricots (a rarity, given the fruit's short growing season and aptitude for bruising). Moving gently into a silky saffron soup garnished with cheesey puff straws--the only item I was not able to indulge in (though I hear tales of a fabulous GF puff pastry from Whole Foods, I also hear Chef Hubbard is quite a fascist about preparing all items himself from scratch). The main course was a piece of red meat so good it made you wanna slap yo' mama! Teres major dressed in Bordelaise, accompanied by glazed baby carrots and turnip wheels. It was so good, in fact, that I had barely taken my first bite when I looked over to find my lover had already vacuumed the contents of his plate into his gullet. We cleansed our pallet with a pre-dessert of passion fruit sorbet and a wisp of chocolate mouse before moving to the grand climax of classic vanilla creme brulee. This last item was the only flaw that caught my attention as they hadn't properly set--but who really cares about the consistency of the custard when it's being lapped off the nipples of such lusty ladies?

Throughout our courses, the service staff would titillate us with strip teases and tantalizing touch, arousing us to greater and greater heights. When the final course came, our staff--both men and women--were bare chested/breasted and serving quite a bit more to us than our creamy creme. Given the group, and our particular penchants, a few of the couples sauntered into the boudoir to take advantage of the three king-sized beds, while the rest of the table finished off with spankings at the hands of our professional dominatrix. The room erupted into orgasm as we descended into debauchery. In my twenty years as a restaurant professional, I have truly never indulged in a more fanciful feast--utterly gastronomical!