OPPOSABLE THUMBS ARE TO HANDS as language is to brains.
Where Are You Most You?
IN CARLOS CASTANEDA’S EPIC FANTASY, The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge, his titular shaman Don Juan Matus describes “places of power” — those locations where we can experience deep wisdom and indomitable purpose. No two are the same for everyone, and when you find yours, it’s best to stake it out and pay attention.
In my case, it’s the kitchen.
Our kitchen is a small one, measuring roughly 7’x9′ – a mere 63 square feet. (It’s also and actually the model for the inside of Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon.) That cozy space contains a refrigerator/freezer, double sink, drain rack, electric stove/oven, toaster, four drawers, and a trio of small counters with seven cabinets above and three below (not counting the one under the sink). In it are all things necessary for providing and consuming tasty fare: knives, pots, pans, dishes, tableware, pantry goods, raw ingredients, assorted seasonings, and a handful of small appliances and wall-hung utensils. In it I have prepared breakfasts, lunches, dinners, snacks, holiday feasts, and endless cups of tea. After a quarter-century of daily use, I know where everything is and should be, and I daresay I could find it all in the dark The size doesn’t bother me – it’s where I learned to cook, and I don’t know any other. (Besides – tight-space discipline is good for the soul.)
Perhaps most important of all is the boombox, either tuned to our hidden gem of a local radio station or filling the savory-scented air with background music from the CDs and cassettes stored atop the refrigerator. (I have occasionally been known to spend more time and energy selecting appropriate music than making the meal or washing the dishes that the music is supposed to accompany.) Few things can better motivate good cookery than listening to or singing along with the right tunes. Often, I will prop a book on the counter beside the stove while whatever’s cooking is cooking, standing a studious watch until the timer goes off.
Our kitchen is one of the two or three places I feel most like myself. What are yours?
I’m In (Finally)
IT HAPPENED AS AN ALL-AT-ONCE thunderbolt moment that I wasn’t expecting, but it’s here and I can’t go back: I am now an enthusiastic and sincere convert.
Yes, it’s true. Despite my longtime denials and aspersions, the undeniable fact has overtaken me – and now, I fully, unreservedly, and happily love mayonnaise.
For years, I had a bad attitude when it came to the white stuff. “Slimy,” I called it. “Blandly WASPish,” I pooh-poohed. “That disgusting goo which defiles all that it touches,” I complained to anyone who would listen. It was in the house, yes, but used only by my copilot. I even avoided even touching the hefty glass jar with the familiar blue label, lest it somehow give me cooties.
But last month, curiosity (largely from watching Julia Child prepare her own from scratch) overcame aversion and I reached for That Condiment. I unscrewed the lid, scooped the tiniest bit on the tip of a teaspoon, brought it to my open lips, and licked experimentally.
WOW, I thought. Tangy. Salty. Rich. Flavorful. DELICIOUS! How could I have been so wrong for so long?
They say that if you try something and hate it, it’s because it wasn’t prepared properly. Mayonnaise preparation is simple: beat the dickens out of some eggs, then s-l-o-w-l-y add oil in a thin stream while you continue beating. Sprinkle a tot of mustard powder and a drizzle of vinegar (for stabilization, it’s said) and you’re prepared for feasting.
Since my conversion, I have been using it for a pre-breadcrumbing slather on Petrale sole, and as a binder in the best tuna salad I’ve ever eaten (along with anchovy paste, ground Dijon mustard, sweet relish, capers, black pepper, and a dash of thyme; an adapted recipe also courtesy of Julia Child) – and am eager for more.
So now, the question is: What are your favorite uses for this heavenly substance? Drop a comment in the space below!
Minute Mitzvah: ALL ONE ALL ONE OK OK!!!
Today’s Task: Know that “God” is One.
My dead psychic twin Sputnik, who rediscovered his natal Christian faith around the same time I came back to Judaism, was fond of saying, “Monotheism is not for wimps.” By that he meant that if you subscribe to the nondual one-Source-for-everything paradigm, you have to take the bad with the good: earthquakes and aurorae, wars and wonderment, convicted felons and patriots. In other words, if you believe that “God” is only responsible for the stuff you like, and is not to be found in the stuff you don’t, you might be spiritually hobbling yourself. Since the potential for every particle of existence emerged from the Big Bang, we are ALL connected; even to the people and things we despise. That can be a hard concept to swallow — but it can also be worth the chew.
Exercise: Flex those soul-jaws by trying to digest the idea that someone or something you find objectionable, or even loathsome, also partakes of the Divine. That doesn’t mean you have to condone or agree with them or it – an important distinction! – only that you acknowledge the connection. (Or, as Robert Anton Wilson writes, “Everyone has the Buddha-nature, but some poor bastards just don’t realize it yet.”)
“Room 101 Amusement Park”
RELAXING IN PUBLIC CAN SOMETIMES bring unexpected consequences.
Seated in the Walnut Creek BART station in the spring of 1980, I was reading my well-thumbed copy of 1984. So engrossed was I in Orwell’s pessimistic prose that I didn’t hear the man approach.
“You’re only reading this NOW!?” he demanded in an outraged bellow.
His intensity belied his nonchalant appearance: mid-30s, cleanshaven, plaid shirt, blue jeans, loafers. Although he seemed a normal human (for some values of the words “normal” and “human”), it also seemed best not to provoke him.
“No,” I replied with calm sincerity. “I’ve read it a couple of times.”
His blue eyes speared mine with an emphatic glare.
“Good!” he declared, and stalked off toward the escalator.
I guess it pays to be polite.
365 Names of God: “The One Who Spoke and the World Came Into Being”
THE ONE WHO SPOKE AND THE WORLD CAME INTO BEING expresses a pretty profound metaphor, at least to those students of the Torah unbothered by anthropomorphism. Think about the many possible ways to spin a creation myth: divine entities dreaming everything into existence; a landscape composed of a giant dragon’s hero-dismembered parts; a war of cosmic proportions between co-creators; divine entities populating their fresh new world with grateful worshippers just for amusement. But the Torah’s version is sublimely, psychologically subtle: it posits that our reality is created by words. And really – isn’t it?
Once upon a time, in 2011 in fact, The Metaphorager aspired to daily feature a year’s worth of different names for that-which-some-people-call-God: some creative, others traditional, each unique. For reasons, instead we’re going to occasionally post one until we run out of what we’ve collected so far. If you want to see your favorite here, but haven’t, pass it this way with the subject line “365 Names” and let us know whether or not you want to be credited.
Words to Bring Back: “Quotidian”
– Definition: adj ordinary or everyday, especially when mundane.
– Used in a sentence: If you can’t find pleasure in the quotidian, you likely won’t find it anywhere else.
– Why: To seize our eyeballs in the current attention economy, modern media abound in exclamatory superlatives: “Maximum!” “Ultimate!” “Extreme!” One welcome corrective might be to shift our focus toward life’s less intense, but no less important, aspects: a sincere handshake, late afternoon sunlight, soft music, petrichor, the flavor of cold water. Try it for yourself and see.