Obama Restaurant Watch

Looks as if the Obamas will soon have yet another reason to eat at home. Michelle Obama, who's been doing great work promoting local, sustainable produce, has decided to have a garden at the WH. Landscape Guy has been working on this project and I can't wait to congratulate him tomorrow.

The Obamas will feed their love of Mexican food with cilantro, tomatillos and hot peppers. Lettuces will include red romaine, green oak leaf, butterhead, red leaf and galactic. There will be spinach, chard, collards and black kale. For desserts, there will be a patch of berries. And herbs will include some more unusual varieties, like anise hyssop and Thai basil. A White House carpenter who is a beekeeper will tend two hives for honey.

. . .

The plots will be in raised beds fertilized with White House compost, crab meal from the Chesapeake Bay, lime and green sand. Ladybugs and praying mantises will help control harmful bugs.

Cristeta Comerford, the White House’s executive chef, is eager to plan menus around the garden, and Bill Yosses, the pastry chef, is looking forward to berry season

Sam Kass, an assistant White House chef who prepared healthful meals for the Obama family in Chicago and is an advocate of local food, will oversee the garden. The White House grounds crew and kitchen staff will do most of the work, but other White House staff members have volunteered.

“First of all,” Mrs. Obama said, “there’s nothing really cooler than coming to the White House and harvesting some of the vegetables and being in the kitchen with Cris and Sam and Bill, and cutting and cooking and actually experiencing the joys of your work.”

Mrs. Obama, who said that she never had a vegetable garden before, said the idea for it came from her experiences as a working mother trying to feed her daughters, Malia and Sasha, a good diet. Eating out three times a week, ordering a pizza, having a sandwich for dinner took it’s toll. The children’s pediatrician told her she needed to be thinking about nutrition.

And huzzah to the pediatrician who helped to inspire this!

Picture found here.

My New Name For A Blog

What echidne said.

Art found here.

I Was A Bride Married To Amazement

Gus has been posting some very thoughtful stuff about the perceived "need" for Pagan clergy. In general, I agree with him. My brilliant friend S once said to me that religions begin w mystics. Then, a clergy comes along and sucks all the juice out. I think that's about right.

As an old woman, I want to particularly endorse what Gus says about dying and funerals:

What about dying and burial? As we grow in legitimacy, as we are, it will be increasingly possible for a person's coven mates to visit to be present in the final moments of physical life, should he or she so desire. As to burial, the government has a legitimate interest in making sure dead bodies are disposed of safely, and maybe protecting other public values as well. So long as those standards are met, government should have no say whatsoever as to whether we preach, dance, drink ourselves silly, cry, laugh, or what have you at the final services.

I posted a while back about how I'd like to go when I set off in my burning Viking boat, headed for the Isle of Apples in the West:

"The sisters who are with her today have dressed Shekhinah in her ritual robes and surrounded her with rose petals from her garden. It was exactly the way she'd always said she wanted her final moments to be.

Those same sisters are now singing over her body, and soon they will conduct the ritual washing of the body as they prepare her to go back into the arms of the Mother."

Oh, when I die, dress me in the black gown with the hecate trim. Surround me with herbs from my garden. Tell some jokes. You don't need to wash me; my Mother will take me dirty. Drink all my good wine. Scritch my good, grey cat. Turn on all the lights.

I figure the UUs will rent out their space, and my coven can give the law borg the shock of its life (Please. Make them dance the spiral dance!), and I'll go, as Mary Oliver says, saying:

[A]ll my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms

And the lilacs will say, "Hmm, interesting fertilizer. Do I detect a note of Stoli? A hint of rosemary and orange? Quand meme."

The DFHs Were Right

Fuck St. Patrick

I say this every year, but fuck St. Patrick. If any religion ever did any people more harm without essentially exterminating them than Catholicism did to Ireland, I don't know what it would be. The snake was an ancient symbol of the Goddess and Ireland has been the poorer for her absence lo these many centuries.

But a happy Celtic Heritage Day to one and all. I love me some Celts.

Map found here.

My Brilliant Friend Amy

Check her at Amy Clarke on iTunes.

That's It Dude. You've Totally Convinced Me. It Was The Bad Fifties Movies And The Non-Existent Sixes In the Celtic Knots. Get Me A Priiiieeessst!

Obama Restaurant Watch

Dude, I understand that you've got to talk like that; you're a politician. But you're the leader of the free world; you don't have to eat that stuff, at least for another three years. I'm just going to say it: the "steak" in a Philly Cheese Steak is nasty. And cheese whiz is even nastier.

Flame away.

Photo found here.

Obama Restaurant Watch

I'm not sure why this site is reporting on what Obama likes to eat in Hawaii, but it's interesting. I admit that I've neither heard of nor had a "plate lunch," nor does the description leave me longing for one:

I’m going to get a plate lunch,” Obama proclaimed, moments after arriving in Honolulu on his August vacation.

The name “plate lunch” doesn’t quite do it justice. It should be called: Heaping pile of rice and meat crammed into a plastic foam container that could feed a small family, costs about $6, will require a couple of Rolaids and induce a two-hour nap.

And if there’s nothing on the plate that’s deep fried, soaked in mayonnaise, smothered in gravy or doubles your bad cholesterol level, it’s not a true plate lunch.

. . .

Plate lunches have been a part of Hawaii for decades. They are believed to have originated in the 19th century plantation era, when sugarcane workers brought rice, pickled vegetables and other leftovers from dinner and took a lunch break together in the shade. Decades later, “lunch wagons” started delivering plate lunches to laborers, much like they do today.

Plate lunches reflect the state’s multicultural population, with Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Filipino, Hawaiian and American influences.

There are literally hundreds of combinations of plate lunches to choose from, and some places now offer gourmet selections and more healthy choices with brown rice and tossed salads, instead of the traditional white rice and macaroni salad.

Plate lunches are widely available from white lunch wagons parked around downtown and at many restaurants. The best spots don’t show up in tour books, but the locals prefer it that way, because the lines are already too long

And, for dessert: At one point during his last visit, Obama offered journalists a shave ice. Hawaii’s shave ice is a monster version of the snow cone, featuring fine-shaved powder with no icy chunks and a long list of tropical flavors.

“Guys, here’s your chance,” Obama said. “No? I’m telling you, this is really good.”

Photo found here.

Even If We're Just Dancing In The Dark

Today at brunch, I was wearing a necklace (actually one of Lunea's lovely rosaries) with a picture of Hecate on it. She doesn't look too kind in the picture and G/Son is at a stage where you're either a Superhero or a Bad Guy. He was interested in the necklace and he looked at Hecate and said, "We don't like her." I said, "Oh, yes, I like her very much. She stands at the crossroads when you're not sure which way to go and she points the way." She doesn't really; she simply opens up crossroads when you need them, but I wasn't quick enough to explain it that way to G/Son. Later, when we were watching DVDs, he wanted to wear the necklace and he flipped it over to the picture of a sacred fire and said, "This is my necklace; the necklace with fire."


Later still, G/Son and I were playing in the basement and he opened up the closet where I keep, among other things, the Samhein decorations. Not surprisingly, among those decorations are several large witches. He pulled out the old stuffed witch on a broomstick with her orange-polka-dots-on-black-satin clothing and a metal silhouette witch who holds a basket into which you put a candle. He said of the first witch, "Nonna, is she Oz?" And I said, "She's not the witch from the Wizard of Oz. She's a nice witch. See her nice smile?" G/Son lifted up the brim of her hat and said, "Yes. She's nice. She has a nice smile." Then he turned to the other witch. "But she's mean. She has a mean smile." I said, "Well, maybe she's mean because people were mean to her," and that seemed to work for G/Son.

Even later still, we opened up my computer. My wallpaper is a picture of me and my wonderful circle of women, skyclad, from the shoulders up. G/Son said, "Nonna, that's you and your friends," and I said, "Yes, that's Nonna and that's Miss X, Miss Y, Miss Z," etc. G/Son said, "I like them. Why do you have blue moons on your foreheads?" I said, "Nonna and her friends paint those moons to remind them how special the moon is." G/Son said, "I like you. I like Miss X. I like Miss Y," etc. "But I don't like the moons."

I really don't know what I'm doing; I'm feeling my way in the dark. More than anything, I never want him to be hurt. There's this huge disconnect between what society tells him about witches and my experience of witchcraft and he's not old enough yet to understand. I worry a lot about how much I've burdened his 'rents and how much I'm burdening him by being a witch in a society that's not welcoming to witches. But I just can't lie to him.

Picture found here and on my neck.


Update: To be fair, we spent only about 1% of our time on witches. In between, we played about ten games of Hi Ho Cherry Oh, which I totally would have won were it not for that annoying bird who makes you miss turns. We traced stencils of Batman and hung them on the fridge w/ dino magnets for Miss Thing. We gave Miss Thing a treat and, when she made the ever-fascinating cat puke, Nonna cleaned up the cat puke w/ a wet paper towel. We went outside and walked backwards up the street, blew bubbles on the front step, went and hid in the batcave aka Nonna's shed, made a v long train out of all the Thomas the Tank Engine pieces, and played that we were going fishing w the cat toy. We pretended that the shells that Daddy got a long time ago for Nonna were marshmallows and we roasted them over a pretend fire. We played inside soccer in Nonna's basement and we took all the nutcrackers out of Nonna's decoration closet and pretended that we were cracking nuts with them beside a fire in the woods. We did some art with stickers and we had some grapes and cheerios and graham crackers and ice water. It was a busy afternoon.

The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams and George Meredith

"The Lark Ascending"
George Meredith (1828-1909)
He rises and begins to round,
He drops the silver chain of sound,
Of many links without a break,
In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake,
All intervolved and spreading wide,
Like water-dimples down a tide
Where ripple ripple overcurls
And eddy into eddy whirls;
A press of hurried notes that run
So fleet they scarce are more than one,
Yet changeingly the trills repeat
And linger ringing while they fleet,
Sweet to the quick o' the ear, and dear
To her beyond the handmaid ear,
Who sits beside our inner springs,
Too often dry for this he brings,
Which seems the very jet of earth
At sight of sun, her music's mirth,
As up he wings the spiral stair,
A song of light, and pierces air
With fountain ardour, fountain play,
To reach the shining tops of day,
And drink in everything discerned
An ecstasy to music turned,
Impelled by what his happy bill
Disperses; drinking, showering still,
Unthinking save that he may give
His voice the outlet, there to live
Renewed in endless notes of glee,
So thirsty of his voice is he,
For all to hear and all to know
That he is joy, awake, aglow,
The tumult of the heart to hear
Through pureness filtered crystal-clear,
And know the pleasure sprinkled bright
By simple singing of delight,
Shrill, irreflective, unrestrained,
Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustained
Without a break, without a fall,
Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical,
Perennial, quavering up the chord
Like myriad dews of sunny sward
That trembling into fulness shine,
And sparkle dropping argentine;
Such wooing as the ear receives
From zephyr caught in choric leaves
Of aspens when their chattering net
Is flushed to white with shivers wet;
And such the water-spirit's chime
On mountain heights in morning's prime,
Too freshly sweet to seem excess,
Too animate to need a stress;
But wider over many heads
The starry voice ascending spreads,
Awakening, as it waxes thin,
The best in us to him akin;
And every face to watch him raised,
Puts on the light of children praised,
So rich our human pleasure ripes
When sweetness on sincereness pipes,
Though nought be promised from the seas,
But only a soft-ruffling breeze
Sweep glittering on a still content,
Serenity in ravishment.
For singing till his heaven fills,
'Tis love of earth that he instils,
And ever winging up and up,
Our valley is his golden cup,
And he the wine which overflows
To lift us with him as he goes:
The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine,
He is, the hills, the human line,
The meadows green, the fallows brown,
The dreams of labour in the town;
He sings the sap, the quickened veins;
The wedding song of sun and rains
He is, the dance of children, thanks
Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks,
And eye of violets while they breathe;
All these the circling song will wreathe,
And you shall hear the herb and tree,
The better heart of men shall see,
Shall feel celestially, as long
As you crave nothing save the song.
Was never voice of ours could say
Our inmost in the sweetest way,
Like yonder voice aloft, and link
All hearers in the song they drink.
Our wisdom speaks from failing blood,
Our passion is too full in flood,
We want the key of his wild note
Of truthful in a tuneful throat,
The song seraphically free
Of taint of personality,
So pure that it salutes the suns,
The voice of one for millions,
In whom the millions rejoice
For giving their one spirit voice.
Yet men have we, whom we revere,
Now names, and men still housing here,
Whose lives, by many a battle-dint
Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint,
Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet
For song our highest heaven to greet:
Whom heavenly singing gives us new,
Enspheres them brilliant in our blue,
From firmest base to farthest leap,
Because their love of Earth is deep,
And they are warriors in accord
With life to serve, and, pass reward,
So touching purest and so heard
In the brain's reflex of yon bird:
Wherefore their soul in me, or mine,
Through self-forgetfulness divine,
In them, that song aloft maintains,
To fill the sky and thrill the plains
With showerings drawn from human stores,
As he to silence nearer soars,
Extends the world at wings and dome,
More spacious making more our home,
Till lost on his aerial rings
In light, and then the fancy sings.

My Favorite Artist

Miss Thing Has Been Going Galt For Years

Merci

As I've noted before, I'm a huge believer in birthdays. Shoot, if you're not entitled to one measley day out of every 365 that's all about you, you, you, well, shoot, that would be silly. You won't find me shying away from birthdays, pretending that mine doesn't exist, going, "Oh, no, I'm too old; I don't have birthdays any more." I LOVE birthdays. I love celebrating my friends' birthdays and letting them know how glad I am that they were born. And I love my own birthday, the merely-hours-away Ides of March (my dad swore that I was born yelling Sic semper tyrannis! I like to think that's true).

So you can imagine my delight when I came home this evening and found a birthday gift from Lenore and Bob in Georgia; but, really, you can't imagine my delight until you read the wonderful, wonderful, wonderful book that they sent to me. Gardens for the Soul by Pamela Woods is, I think, one of THE lovliest garden books that I've ever seen, and, as you can imagine, I read a number of garden books. It's imbued with Goddess spirituality and is the witchiest gardening book that I've ever read, and I've read books that purported to be specifically about witchy gardening.

There's a picture of Sternbergia lutea on page 121 that is the emodiment of everything that Rumi tried to write. There's a picture of a germinating seed in damp Earth on page 138 that is everything you've ever thought, or felt, or longed for about Spring. There's a picture of mushrooms and Autumn leaves on page 143 that makes me long, right now, for Autumn, that reminds me why Autumn will always be the time when the veil between Here and Fairy is tissue thin. There's an idea on page 56 that is going directly into the plan for my backyard patio. This is a garden book with a lot of text and I'm looking forward to reading all of it.

So namaste and many thanks to Lenore and Bob for the gift (and the lovely birthday message). I'm going to savor this book for quite some time.

Obama Restaurant Watch

The Obamas have been too busy this week to eat dinner out at a restaurant, but here's the recipe for the "creamless creamed spinach" that WH chef Cristeta Comerford has been making to wow Michelle Obama:

No Cream Creamed Spinach
Serves 6

2 pounds baby spinach, washed and cleaned
2 tablespoons olive oil
4 shallots, minced
2 garlic cloves, minced
Salt and freshly ground pepper.

1. Blanch half a pound of spinach in salted, boiling water. Immediately, “shock” the blanched spinach in a bowl of iced water. Drain and squeeze out the excess water. Puree in a blender. Set aside.
2. In a large skillet, sweat the shallots and garlic until translucent. Add the rest of the spinach leaves. Toss and sauté until wilted. Fold in the spinach puree. Season with salt and pepper.

Dear Ms. Obama,

On Sunday, Son, DiL, and G/Son are taking me out for my birthday to Tap & Vine in near-by Arlington, VA. They have amazing Beef Short Rib Sliders - on two mini rolls with horseradish slaw and crispy fries, which the staff will gladly replace with truffled fries. And, it's v kid-friendly, so the girls would enjoy it, too. You'd love it, and you know that you owe VA some love.

Art found here.

WANT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My brilliant friend Elizabeth has a post up about the coolest thing EVER. No. Really. This thing is the coolest thing ever. I want one!!! Now!!!!

You Should Go

One of the most amazing things that FDR worked into the Works Projects Administration (WPA) was an emphasis not only on building infrastructure, but also on the arts. It's been funny (well, not "funny, ha, ha") to watch the wingnuts flat-out lie over the past six months in an attempt to discredit the WPA.

The Smithsonian has an exhibit (that I really want to see) showcasing some of the art produced by the WPA.

In 1934, Americans grappled with an economic situation that feels all too familiar today. Against the backdrop of the Great Depression, the U.S. government created the Public Works of Art Program—the first federal government program to support the arts. Officials in the Roosevelt administration understood how essential art was to sustaining America's spirit. Artists from across the United States who participated in the program, which lasted only six months from mid-December 1933 to June 1934, were encouraged to depict the American scene. The Public Works of Art Program not only paid artists to embellish public buildings, but also provided them with a sense of pride in serving their country. They painted regional, recognizable subjects—ranging from portraits to cityscapes and images of city life to landscapes and depictions of rural life—that reminded the public of quintessential American values such as hard work, community and optimism.

1934: A New Deal for Artists celebrates the 75th anniversary of the Public Works of Art Program by drawing on the Smithsonian American Art Museum's unparalleled collection of vibrant paintings created for the program. The 56 paintings in the exhibition are a lasting visual record of America at a specific moment in time. George Gurney, deputy chief curator, organized the exhibition with Ann Prentice Wagner, curatorial associate. The exhibition will begin a three-year national tour in 2010.

Here's a slide show of the art. I'm mad for about a dozen of them (check out Racing) and G/Son would love the train scenes.

Losing Our Religion

So all over the blogosphere, Paganii are talking about this new study showing a significant decline in the number of Americans who call themselves xian, or indeed religious. Within xianity, dwindled though it may be, more people call themselves "evangelicals," but the authors of the report note that it's not always as easy as one might think to figure out what "evangelical" means.

I'm pretty fascinated with the fact that, over the last two decades, as xians have grown in political influence, their actual percentage w/in the population has been shrinking. For the past two decades, as xianists have made control of women's bodies their number one cause, as they've shown themselves to be obsessed with gay sex and denying evolution, as priests have been exposed as pedophiles and bishops as enablers, as xians have loudly and forcefully supported warmongers such as George W. Bush, Americans have been saying, in statistically-significant numbers: "No thanks. Not with my Sunday afternoon. Not with my kids. Not with my funeral service." Yet, among those who stayed or became xians, evangelicalism appears to be a growth industry. (Requisite disclaimer: There are lots of wonderful xians in America. Some of my best friends are xian. They haven't been out front and center, they don't get media attention, and they don't, sadly, seem very willing to criticize their co-religionists when necessary.)

I can't think that there's anything but good to come from this report. I don't expect Obama to close his unconstitutional, and expanded, Office of Faith-Based Initiatives. I don't expect politicians to stop kissing xian butt. But I am glad to see more and more Americans saying, "If that's religion, religion's not for me."

As for Wicca, as I was saying to a friend recently, we're basically a religion that doesn't want converts, a religion that would prefer that you go find something else, a religion that stands up and goes "Shhhsss. Shhhsss. Go away. Nothing to see here. We don't want you in our religion." And that's the way I like it. We've grown too much, too fast, IMHO.

One of the findings that interests me the most is captured in this chart from the report:

Gender Composition of the Religious Traditions 2008

% Male % Female
Catholic 46 54
Baptist 43 57
Mainline Christian 44 56
Christian Generic 48 52
Pentecostal/Charismatic 42 58
Protestant Denominations 45 55
Mormon/LDS 45 55
Jewish 49 51
Eastern Religions 53 47
Muslim 52 48
NRM & Other Religions 52 48
Nones 60 40

New Religions Movements (Scientology, New Age, Eckankar, Spiritualist, Unitarian-Universalist, Deist, Wiccan, Pagan, Druid, Indian Religion, Santeria, Rastafarian), [and it's pretty damn funny that the authors of the report consider Unitarians, Diests, Pagans, and Druids to be "new" religious movements] Eastern Religions, Muslims, and "Nones" (people who report no religion) are the only categories that report more men than women. And, yet, in all the various "traditional" religions -- where male leaders far outnumber and often claim the entire field from females -- women members outnumber men. It's odd for me, a Dianic witch, to figure out what that means. Are there that many Pagan men? The study says:

Since women live longer than men there are normally more women than men in the population. The current sex ratio or gender balance of the national U.S. adult population is 49 males to every 52 females. Table 7 reveals that there is a split among the religious traditions whereby Christian groups tend to meet or exceed
this female bias whereas all the non-Christians in the bottom five rows exceed the national average of 49 percent males. Among the religious groups having more female adherents are the Pentecostals, Baptists, and Mainline Christians of which 56%-58% are females. The most gender unbalanced group is the Nones, those who profess no religion or self-identified as atheists or agnostics. The ratio of 60 males to 40 females is a remarkable result. These gender patterns correspond with many earlier findings that show women to be more religious than men particularly in majority Christian societies. The male gender bias found among the minority religious traditions such as Muslims and the Eastern Religions is due to the high proportion of young immigrant males in these groups.

Go away. Find some other religion. Be a "None." Scat.

Photo found here.

Mary Oliver

Howling At The Moon

Last night, my amazing circle of women came together to do magic beneath the Full Moon.

When we went out onto the deck to, literally, howl at the moon, something howled back. It came from a long way away, and I'm not sure if it was a dog or a wolf, but whatever it was, it heard us, and answered us, and reminded us that we are not alone. Reminded us that, the moment we turn to the dark, wild, misty side of ourselves, the universe is waiting there to answer us.

And, all day, driving to work, sitting at my computer, loading the dishwasher, I keep remembering that spooky, answering howl coming through the mist, and I smile to myself. I smile the deep, secret smile of a witch.

AAAWOOOO! AAAAWOOOO!

It's pretty good. It's pretty darn good, the howling at the full moon with a group of skyclad witches in the cold and fog and darkness. It's pretty darn good.

Picture found here.

Do You Ever Have Days Like This? I Do.

Someone could walk into this room and say, "Your life is on fire.
It's all over the evening news.
All about the fire in your life on the evening news."


Photo found here.

Swamped At Work

Go check out Eisler.

Barbara Ehrenreich.

Elizabeth Warren.

And, if George Bush hadn't broken the economy, I'd love to go to these Omega workshops this summer. I love the star-lit nights at Omega, I love the organic food, I love the lake, I love the stag who came crashing past me near the meditation center.

Tarot and More tarot.

The Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers.

Gabrielle Roth on Slow Dancing with Chaos.

Women and Power: Connecting Across the Generations with Isabelle Allende, Gail Straub, and (worth the price of admission) Helen Thomas. Feministing is a sponsor.

Or, I'd go to Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, or I'd go to Spoutwood Farm, or I'd go to London to visit my Sister, CeriseBlack, and see the Chelsea Flower Show.

But, tomorrow, I'm going to go to work.

Where would you go if you could?

Full Moon

A couple of random thoughts, not sure if I can pull them together, or not.

Since I posted about Gavin and Yvonne Frost's notion that you can't be a witch unless you surrender control of your sexuality to some "elder" (complete balderdash), I've been thinking a lot about what it was like when I first heard of Wicca. I wasn't especially young or naive, but I was so terribly thirsty for what Wicca seemed to offer, Goddess knows what I'd have done, back in those pre-internet, pre-Amazon.com days, if someone had come along and offered me a big, heaping dose of it in exchange for something questionable. Like Rumi, I might well have said: "I would love to kiss you!" "The price of kissing is your life." Now my loving is running toward my life shouting, "What a bargain! Let's buy it. "

I wasn't sure, back then what "living as a witch" entailed, exactly, but I was 100% sure that, whatever it was, it was what I wanted.

Thorn recently did a podcast with Karen Tate in which Karen discussed, inter alia, some of the daily "routine" tasks that she completes that she considers the work of a priestess: priestessing. And I was thinking about that, today, as well, as I rushed home from work to prepare my home for this week's Full Moon Ritual.

My circle meets in the homes of our members and this month is my turn to hostess. And there are few things in Wicca about which I am AD.AM.ANT, but one of them is the need for ritual to take place in a clean, lovely, calm environment that invites busy women in, reminds them that they are manifestations of the Goddess, gives them space in which to relax, provides them with a genuine opportunity to transition between "mundane" (I hate that word) and sacred space. So, for me, part of the work of a priestess is cleaning up, smudging, setting the table, laying the altar, making my home ready for magic, ready for the Full Moon.

I'm not sure that's what I had in mind when I first read about Wicca, first felt that desperate thirst for the chance to live the life of a witch. But that's what it's turned out to mean, for me. I don't have to sleep with someone ordained by an elder. I scarcely keep a book of shadows. I don't often grind special herbs to make a ceremonial incense. I don't wear a pentacle and my eye make-up is pretty damn conventional. But I will move heaven and Earth to provide a group of busy, Washington, DC career women -- witches all --with a space where they can lay down government, consulting, education, news, family, law, and life and step into a clean, calm, quiet, sacred space in which to do magic. I will do that. Because the Goddess says:

Whenever you have need of anything, once in a month, and better it be when the moon is full, you shall assemble in some secret place and adore the spirit of Me Who is Queen of all the Wise.

You shall be free from slavery, and as a sign that you be free you shall be naked in your rites.

Sing, feast, dance, make music and love, all in My Presence, for Mine is the ecstasy of the spirit and Mine also is joy on earth.

May your March Full Moon be a blessed one and may you find the work that makes a Priestess of you.


Photo found here.

Liftoff!

Houston, we have Spring.

This morning, on my way to work I could see tiny little crocus buds. When I came home this afternoon: there they were, the first full blossoms of 2009. (The hellebores are still in bud, so, even though they "showed up" first, I'm giving pride of place to the crocus, that flower of Narcissus.)

I saw a morning dove this morning and -- finally! -- a robin this afternoon in my backyard. And, I have the windows open and it's 71 Al Gore degrees in Arlington right now. Thank the Goddess; I'd had about as much windy cold as I could stand.

Who Benefits?

Living in a silenced world. Cui Bono?

Slavery

We Own You

Here's NTodd linking to Jeffers, who says:

Poverty is a social condition that puts us in charge of your life, and allows us to judge how you live in your poverty. Your money is, ultimately, your identity. If we strip you of all your money, we strip you of your identity, too. Your self-worth, your integrity, your self-esteem: all belong to us. Everything has it's price, and when you are poor, when you are impoverished and have to go to a soup kitchen to hope as kind and beautiful a woman as Michelle Obama smiles at you and serves you a hot meal, then you must certainly pay the piper, and you are more clearly a commodity than at any other time or position in your life. We own you, because you have become a public figure: you are poor. You are more nakedly dependent on our largess than the rest of society, so you are ours, and we will exact our payment for our charity.


And here's me going: THAT'S what I was talking about last night when I said that everyone feels free to weigh in on how each woman uses her womb.

Hi, Jeffers! Welcome to my world!

Photo here.

My New Name For A Blog

What Susie Said.

Photo found here.

Ginger Shrimp

I got this recipe from the divine Vicki at Eschaton.

Ginger Shrimp

1# shrimp, deveined, with tails intact

Marinade:

1 T chopped, fresh ginger (1 t ground ginger works, too)

1/4 t red pepper flakes

2 T finely chopped parsley (2 t dried parsley is okay)

1 bay leaf

1/4 teason thyme

2 T olive oil

Juice of half a lemon

salt and pepper, to taste

Combine the marinade ingredients and mix well. Marinate the shrimp at room temperature for a half an hour.

Meanwhile, melt:

6 T butter, combined with one crushed clove of garlic.

Broil, saute, or grill the shrimp for a minute or two. Turn them over, and
cook for 2 - 3 additional minutes.


For the last two months of her pregnancy, my brilliant DiL was on bed rest. On Saturdays, I'd cook up storm: a pot of vegetable pistou or of chicken, sweet potato, and wild rice soup, a roast chicken, collards, corn bread, tapioca pudding, spanikopita, stuffed peppers, walnut bars, berry salad with sugared ricotta dressing, blood oranges, grapefruit, pomegranate, and kiwi in honey, whatever I could cook up so that she'd stay off her feet. Someone, her doctor or childbirth coach or doula -- I forget who -- advised DiL to eat as much protein as possible, and so I made this shrimp recipe several times; Son and DiL both like shrimp and it's pretty much protein.

So, tomorrow is G/Son's third B/Day party. DiL has about 30 people, most of them three years of age or younger, coming over to her lovely, warm, inviting home. I cooked up four pounds of ginger shrimp, remembering those cold, scary months when we all worked every kind of magic that we could work to get G/Son safely here. And, I did that v odd magic that I've been doing for almost 20 years, I sent magic back to my scared self in 2006, standing at the counter chopping ginger and garlic, squeezing lemons, melting butter. I tell myself: It will turn out better than you can imagine. You can do this. Hang in there. It will be ok. And, back in 2006, I use and depend upon that magic.

Elegance

Check out the million Watt smile in France.

Hat tip: Ms. Fahrenheit

Photo found here

I Love Birthdays

I love birthdays.

Sweet Goddess, the absolute least that each of us deserves is one day -- one day! -- out of 365 that's devoted entirely to us. One day where we reflect upon what a gift it is to be born into this world of sonatas and trees and fountains and orgasms and wine and austere poetry. One day where the people who love us show up and say, "I'm glad that you were born." I love cakes, and gifts in perfect paper and beautiful bows, and champagne, and balloons, and flowers, and silly cards.

I've been thinking all day about birthdays. Yesterday was G/Son's third birthday. He iChatted me and couldn't wait to tell me, "I'm three! (/Universal Sign of Toddler Holding Up Three Fingers)." He and DiL had made chocolate chip cookies and his 'rents put a candle in the cookies (the "real" party, w the Batman cake, is this weekend). Then his 'rents, a sister witch who was over at my house, and I sang "Happy Birthday" to G/Son. (Hecate: "Hold that v witchy thought. I have to take this call and sing Happy Birthday to my G/Son!" Sister Witch: "No problem.")

We do that, in this country. When it's your birthday, we sing a song for you. For many of us, it's the only time all year that we stand still and have a song sung to us. And, that's mostly what I've been thinking about. It's such an unusual thing, in this culture, to have to do. To have to stand there and receive the intense, sudden, focused, musical attention of a group of people.

Last year, we took G/Son to a Mexican restaurant on the day of his actual (aka not the weekend when the big party was) B/Day. The waiters and waitresses came over w a piece of cake w a candle in it and sang "Happy B/Day" to G/Son. Last year, at two, he broke into tears. Too much attention, too many people focused on him, no context for how to handle all that sudden intensity.

This year, what happened was so sweet to me. I've been telling G/Son for a few weeks that people would be singing to him, and he's been to some friends' B/Day parties to watch what happens. We've practiced it a few times. So, this year, he was ready for us. I watched him so closely. He clasped his little hands in front of him and he had the sweetest, expectant, but, also, tolerant, expression on his little face while we sang to him. Part of it was waiting to get to the part where he got to blow out the candle, but part of it was also a deep willingness to receive the attention inherent in a group of older people all singing a song to him. At the moment, G/Son seemed to me both brave and vulnerable, both tolerant and timid. He seemed to be growing up.

All day, while I wrote about directorates and sat in meetings and took conference calls, I kept coming back to that benevolent look, those tiny clasped hands, that gentle acceptance, the wonderful gift of that little man being willing to be the focus of attention.

/Sigh. I've done this before; pulled out the strings of my heart and handed them to a little boy who needed to take the thread and go walkabout. I can do it again. I always knew that I would come this way. But like the Zen master, yesterday, I did not know that it would be today.

Because It Doesn't Blanche! Because It Doesn't!

There's just a concept out there that religion doesn't belong in schools," said Whitehead, whose group acted as co-counsel for Borden.

And, in fact, it doesn't.

Someone else look at the sick marriage between high school sports and xianity and "gift" me with an explanation from their "faith community" of how xianity isn't patriarchy.

Or, don't.

NB: Denial of cert. means nothing one way or the other.



Photo found here.

Happy Birthday, G/Son. Many, Many Happy Returns Of The Day

Pisces Sun/Taurus Moon to Pisces Sun/Taurus Moon, we're in this one together, aren't we?

Thank You Yukio Ozaki.

We're a mere 18 days away from Ostara, a name that modern witches give to the Spring Equinox. My garden and trees are shrouded in snow. Last night, the wind wailed like a bereft lover and the stars held solemn wake in the ice-clear sky. Miss Thing and I huddled, I swathed in sweatshirts and socks, beneath cotton covers, duvets, tightly-woven tapestry, linen sheets. This morning, there was ice forming, again, on the beautiful Potomac River, just above the spot where it runs by the Lincoln Memorial.

And, yet, all my thoughts are for the Kore, for the maiden, for She-who-has-been-missed, for Spring. (Long before the xians sent their son god up from the underworld after a three-day stay, my pipple, well, you know. Eleusias.) I want to eat peas, and spring greens spiced with slices of radish, and violet petals. I want to drink warm cream from a gentle cow, and wild parsley tea, and melted ice. I want to dance barefoot on sun-warmed new grass and I want to bury my nose in a baby's scalp and smell that perfect smell.

In my lovely city by the river, one of the loveliest signs that Spring, has, indeed, returned from the underworld, is when the cherry blossoms, planted mainly along the city's Tidal Basin, bloom. The exact date when they'll bloom is, in this ancient city, a subject of debate, and augury, and record keeping, and instinct. A warm day in February, a chill wind in March, even a few cloudy days in April -- almost anything can throw off the best guesses of ancient and practiced blossom watchers, of large computers humming in the basements of sandstone government buildings, of learned scientists at the Smithsonian, of lovers planning picnics, of merchants making magical amulets.

One of the THE most magical nights of my life came nigh on 20 years ago, when the blossoms unexpectedly bloomed in mid-March, under a huge full Moon that shone just above the Jefferson Memorial, and I was in love with the Moon and Jefferson and the water and the trees and the blossoms and I learned, through pleasure sharp as a lover's whip, that this city, on a river, with monuments of marble and statues of alabaster and fountains of opal and quartz, was, indeed, built of magic and indeed needed sex to keep it alive.

The cherry blossoms are a koan for the Charge of the Goddess: [K]now that the seeking and yearning will avail you not. No picture of them, no video, no written description can give you the experience of being surrounded by millions and millions of cherry blossoms. I have experienced them in the sunrise, the warm mid day, the sunset, the moonrise, the sudden snow. I have flown home from across the globe and gotten cab drivers to stop for me at the Tidal Basin, dropped my bags, kicked off my pumps, and run to the water's edge to see the last pink blossoms floating softly on the gentle waves. I have loved them at that most magical moment when the sun is thinking of setting and the temperature drops the first degree and these "scentless" blooms give up their scent and you are in the arms of the Goddess, you are making love to the world, you are dancing naked in silks across the sky, you are, well, you are breathing in Gaia saying "Namaste," and it's all, it's all, it's all just, it's all just Spring in Washington, DC.


Photo here.

You'll Thank Me

Leonard Cohen.

Some voices really do age like wine.

His spoken version of A Thousand Kisses Deep is, well, just, oh my.

Hat tip to Monkeyfister.

Photo found here.

Obama Restaurant Watch

We all know that Obama went out with DC Mayor Adrian Fenty for lunch at DC institution Ben's Chili Bowl:

What's a hot dog between buddies on a Saturday afternoon of hanging out in Washington? A lot, if the guy buying is President Obama and the restaurant is the heart and soul of the city's U Street Corridor.

Sales nearly doubled at Ben's Chili Bowl after Mr. Obama and Mayor Adrian M. Fenty stopped in on Jan. 10 for one of the establishment's legendary "half-smoke" hot dogs.

Though the U Street neighborhood has long been the center of the city's black culture and among the most prosperous over the past couple of decades, the rise of Mr. Obama, the country's first black president, has created a wave of energy and prosperity that has rippled through the community.

"It's the cultural heart of the city," said Obama spokesman Ben LaBolt. "The scene isn't driven by politics or money, so it's a good opportunity to escape the D.C. bubble and meet a diverse set of people. . . . Sales of the signature half-smoke - a half-pork, half-beef smoked sausage on a bun with spicy chili sauce - went to 5,000 that week from the normal number of roughly 2,750. And the restaurant went through roughly 550 gallons of chili, compared with the typical 250 gallons a week.

And we all know that the menu at the recent WH dinner was tres elegant, local, seasonal, good: Chesapeake crab agnolottis (stuffed pasta), wagyu beef, Nantucket scallops, and huckleberry cobbler for dessert.

What you may not have heard is that, apparently, the Leader of the Free World likes carbs: [Michelle Obama reveals that]: "There are some mean waffles and grits that are made in the morning that have become a regular staple for some of us," . . . . But she didn't reveal exactly for who[m] that breakfast pairing has become a morning favorite. Though she was quick to add that she's not the one who eats waffles every day.

Dear Mr. Obama:

The best grits and waffles and grits in DC aren't in DC, they're in Falls Church, Virginia. And you know you owe it all to Virginia; come show us some love. Go to the Original Pancake House and get a side of their cheese grits and an order of: Bacon Waffle: Our golden brown waffle baked with real bits of bacon. Served with whipped butter and hot syrup. Or, if it's too late in the day for breakfast, Vidalia makes some of the best shrimp and grits in the city: Yellow grits, andouille sausage, pearl onions, and spicy shellfish cream and you can wash it down with their rosemary lemonade. Have their homemade cookies for dessert, and then walk the girls over to the Ritz for a swim in the pool or walk all the way to Georgetown to burn off the calories.
More good grits recommendations here.

Or, if you ever want to have dinner with w a witch, I make a pretty mean grits casserole:

3 c. quick grits - cooked according to directions
2 sticks butter
9 eggs, whipped with a whisk
1 c. cream
1 1/2 lbs. grated sharp cheddar cheese
1 C chopped onion and pepper sauteed in olive oil
1 C chopped up or mini shrimp, seasoned with Old Bay seasoning
Tabasco as desired

Mix together and bake 1 hour in pan sprayed with Pam in 350 degree oven.

Serve w bloody mary.

Where do you go for good grits?

Photo found here.

Hellebores In The Snow

They're now blanketed under several inches of snow, but I took these picture of my hellebores yesterday, before the snow began in earnest. Landscape Guy and I transplanted them a few feet this Fall, and I wasn't sure if they would bloom this year, especially given the dry, cold Winter we've had. The deep purple ones don't have buds, but the white ones have big, fat buds that I expect will open by this weekend.

Wiki says: Commonly known as Hellebores, members of the genus Helleborus comprise approximately 20 species (ongoing fieldwork may see this figure change) of herbaceous perennial flowering plants in the family Ranunculaceae, within which it gave its name to the tribe of Helleboreae. Many species are poisonous. . . . In the early days of medicine, two kinds of hellebore were recognized: black hellebore, which included various species of Helleborus, and white hellebore, now known as Veratrum album ("false hellebore"), which belongs to a different plant family, the Melanthiaceae. Although the former plant is highly toxic, containing veratrine and the teratogens cyclopamine and jervine, it is believed to be the "hellebore" used by Hippocrates as a purgative. . . .
"Black hellebore" was used by the ancients in paralysis, gout and other diseases, more particularly in insanity. "Black hellebore" is also toxic, causing tinnitus, vertigo, stupor, thirst, a feeling of suffocation, swelling of the tongue and throat, emesis and catharsis, bradycardia (slowing of the pulse), and finally collapse and death from cardiac arrest. . . . However, although Helleborus niger (black hellebore or Christmas rose) contains protoanemonin, or ranunculin, which has an acrid taste and can cause burning of the eyes, mouth and throat, oral ulceration, gastroenteritis and hematemesis, research in the 1970s showed that its roots do not contain the cardiotoxic compounds helleborin, hellebrin and helleborein responsible for the lethal reputation of "black hellebore". . . . Several legends surround the hellebore; in witchcraft it is believed to have ties to summoning demons. . . . During the Siege of Kirrha in 585 BC, hellebore was reportedly used by the Greek besiegers to poison the city's water supply. The defenders were subsequently so weakened by diarrhea that they were unable to defend the city from assault. Some historians believe that Alexander the Great died because of a hellebore overdose, when he took it as medication.

It's a lovely, poisonous, little plant and it blooms even before the crocus.

My New Name For A Blog

What Susan Said.

Dancing In The Ice

Late last night, I stepped out, as I often do, onto the back porch for a moment before going to bed. It's my final moment with the trees and animals in my backyard, and I wanted to see if I could find the first sliver of the new Moon. It was cold and the sky was covered in clouds and then -- it rippled. (I don't know how to describe it any better, that moment when the veil moves aside a bit, thins so that you can see more through it than you could see before, you take the pill that makes you larger. So, it rippled.*)

The wind changed and tiny ice crystals began to fall, with a lovely bright noise, from the cloudy night sky. The branches of trees and lilacs, heavy with swelling buds, rustled like sistrums. The bark on the birch trees made love to the sudden cold. The atmosphere was instantly charged and I fell, standing upright, through caves of ice, across frozen fjords, into what C.S. Lewis called Northerness, high across the Arctic sky with Serafina Pekkala. My Scandinavian many-times-great grandmothers smiled at me, waved from their skis, reminded me that I come from a people who revel in the cold, pointed to my bare feet, and flew off into the dark. And I was back, on my own terra cotta tiles, in my own screen porch, watched seriously by my own squirrels and cat. And the wind chimes made a very serious "ting" as if to say, "Now, Listen. Now it begins."

And, there they were: the Maiden and the Crone, Spring and Winter, dancing around my frozen backyard, already carpeted with icy snow, dancing with the kind of stately gaiety reserved for special occasions. I watched them, so happy together, a beloved Nonna and her beloved granddaughter, and was reminded of the line: Life and death upon one tether/And running beautiful together. And, that's how it happens. We get one last big snow and that snow mulches and waters the already-emerged green shoots of daffodils and crocus. The warm winds of March will blow in within hours and melt the snow and it's all as it should be/has been/will(please the Goddess)be.

I've had an incubating idea for a post about how the old Maiden/Mother/Crone-Spring/Summer & Autumn/Autumn & Winter paradigm no longer works now that women live longer (thanks, Louis Pasteur!) and that Ostara ought, more than the festival of the Maiden, be thought of as the festival of play, something that even we old crones really enjoy. I wanted to talk about how one becomes freer, in some ways, to play and have fun as one ages, but you know, I'll let that gestate for a year. Just now, I'm all drunk on that loving dance of grandmother and beloved granddaughter.

Turn, Wheel of the Year, turn, and turn, and turn me around with you. I love my life more than I can say.


*It's so difficult as to be impossible to write in any comprehensible way about ecstatic experience, about what happens to a mystic in the moments when all the barriers dissolve, when what appear to be the false boundaries fall away and what appears to be the true web appears. St. Teresa tried, St. Catherine of Sienna tried, Rumi tried, Mary Oliver tries. My own pathetic efforts fall far short. (And, no, it doesn't pass my notice that it's during liminal times that this devotee of Hecate, Goddess of the Crossroads, is most likely to feel the infinite touch the buckle of her spine, to use Oliver's phrase.) In the end, words don't work for mystical experience, which happens to Younger Self, not Talking Self. Go catch that one moment in 53 years when the ice starts falling with exactly that sistrum sound. Go have an orgasm that dissolves all the borders. Go twirl around on a grassy hill with a friend and fall rolling down the hill on the green grass that's grown there for years longing for a child's body to roll down it. Stand in the sun and see that photosynthesis is the ultimate act of love and pleasure and fall down struck by the love and pleasure of seeing it. Go drink the mad witch's brew, love the reeling midnight through, grok the stars, come back, and we'll "talk." But talking won't really do any good, will it? And, by then, you won't mind, will you?

Picture found here.

First of the Month Bazooms Blogging

Ladies! Listen up! Detecting breast cancer early is the key to surviving it! Breast Self Exams (BSEs) can help you to detect breast cancer in its earlier stages. So, on the first of every month, give yourself a breast self-exam. It's easy to do. Here's how. If you prefer to do your BSE at a particular time in your cycle, calendar it now. But, don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good.

And, once a year, get yourself a mammogram. Mammograms cost between $150 and $300. If you have to take a temp job one weekend a year, if you have to sell something on e-Bay, if you have to go cash in all the change in various jars all over the house, if you have to work the holiday season wrapping gifts at Macy's, for the love of the Goddess, please go get a mammogram once a year.

Or: The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention pays all or some of the cost of breast cancer screening services through its National Breast and Cervical Cancer Early Detection Program. This program provides mammograms and breast exams by a health professional to low-income, underinsured, and underserved women in all 50 states, six U.S. territories, the District of Columbia, and 14 American Indian/Alaska Native organizations. For more information, contact your state health department or call the Cancer Information Service at 1-800-4-CANCER.

Send me an email after you get your mammogram and I will do an annual free tarot reading for you. Just, please, examine your own breasts once a month and get your sweet, round ass to a mammogram once a year.

Photo found here.

Merci!