J. Doe

Sails in the Sunset

04.22.2015 by J. Doe // Leave a Comment

Last spring, The Child and I fostered a rescued dog, the Feisty Girl, whose energy was boundless, especially when there were cats to be chased. Eventually, she was adopted, into a home that could satisfy her need for constant activity and attention. Her Adopter had lost both his home and his dog in a divorce, and was looking for a full-time, devoted companion that could tolerate his current living situation: a tugboat.

Once Feisty Girl settled in, The Adopter invited us to go boating with him, so The Child, the Red Dog, and I spent a long July day boating out to Blake Island State Park, where we hiked along the beach and talked about daughters, dogs, divorces.

The next evening, he sends me a note thanking me, and inviting us for another ride. I reply, I am the one who should be thanking you, and next time, I’ll bring lunch.

You’re on, he says.

In the months that follow, we trade emails from time to time. Once, he tells me about how the Feisty Girl barks with delight on seeing him pack his suitcase; she knows suitcase means road trip, and road trips are fun. Another time, he needs vet records, and though I’ve already sent them to him, I send them again.

When the emails begin, they go on for a bit, with questions about how daughters are doing in school, and jokes about how extravagant things must be in order to be good enough for our dogs.

A December exchange goes from dogs to daughters to the high cost of college, when he remembers our boat trip and suggests we plan another: It’s too cold now, perhaps in March? We ran pretty hard last time but we can go to other locations, might want to do an overnighter if you feel comfortable. We can “Sleep on the hook,” if you’re OK with that.

I have to think about this. I don’t know much about him, or anything about boats, and it nags at me. I word my reply carefully: I don’t think I’d be up for an overnight, just not sure I could handle sleeping on a boat – but for sure another day trip would be great. We had fun last time!

I want to spend another afternoon with him, or even another day; this isn’t the reply I want to give, because I wished he’d asked a different question.

The emails meander on, from college tuition to the state of the stock market.

A few months later, he sends photos of the Feisty Girl and her antics – eating his fork, riding the bow of his dinghy.

But he does not mention the boat ride again.

Garlicky Lentil Soup with Chard and Lemon

04.15.2015 by J. Doe // 5 Comments

The Child and I flew down to California to visit my father and stepmom last week, an experience made easier by direct flights and a funny coincidence: On the TSA screening line, I noticed that the agent testing people’s hands for explosives residue looked familiar. By the time I was close enough to read her name tag, she had recognized me, and threw her arms around me, and admired how much The Child had grown, before finally swabbing our hands and wishing us safe travels.

Seven years ago, she was the dog rescuer who saved The Dog – the first dog she rescued – and helped me adopt him. I’d kept in touch with her sporadically since then, through Christmas cards and the occasional email. Lately, she has struggled with multiple jobs to make ends meet, and more recently, a divorce.

I want to tell her things get better, but for a moment, they are.

For our return trip, I foolishly select a 6 am flight, and since my father’s house is not actually very close to the airport, the night before the flight, The Child and I stay in a nearby motel with 24-hour shuttle service. The motel was nice, and the shuttle picked us up right at the door of our room, saving us the trouble of hauling our luggage across the parking lot.

The driver loads our bags, heads for the airport, and after a few minutes, turns on the radio to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing.

It is the second time I’ve heard this song in two days. The first time, I sat with The Child on Universal Studios CityWalk, and as it played on the loudspeakers, explained to her why every time I hear this song, I think of the final scene of The Sopranos. She couldn’t follow what I was saying, since she’s never watched the scene or the series, and so when it played again on the bus, she didn’t even notice. I did, though, and brooded about death symbolism as the bus passenger next to me asked me where I was flying, and why; as The Child was selected for the speedy TSA precheck line, and I wasn’t; and as the plane took off, and I placed my feet flat on the floor and reminded myself, again, how to breathe.

That’s right.

I didn’t do much on our first day back, but made up for it on the second by unpacking, rearranging my closet, and running a host of uninteresting but useful errands like stocking up on groceries, and filling my car’s gas tank.

Then, finally, I made a simple dinner to end my simple day: I made soup.

I’ve made lentil soup a couple of times, and though I like lentil soup when I eat it elsewhere, I’ve never managed to make one at home that I enjoy. My lentil soup efforts can be summed up in one word: bland. This time, though, I got lucky, with a review copy of Rose Water and Orange Blossoms by Maureen Abood. It’s a collection of recipes from Abood’s Lebanese-American childhood; more recipes can be found on her blog of the same name.

I enjoyed the cookbook, with its lovely photography and intriguing but accessible recipes for things like yogurt marinated chicken skewers and fig jam with anise (doesn’t that sound lovely with cheese?). But the recipe that appealed to me most was Abood’s recipe for garlicky lentil soup with lemon, which, it seemed to me, might be the solution to my lentil soup woes.

It’s pretty close.

The soup is simple enough to make – cook the lentils in one pot, while cooking the garlic, onions, and chard in another, then mix it all up at the end. I loved the garlic, chard, and onion mixture, and could have eaten that by itself. I’d happily have it any day as a side dish, or perhaps underneath some baked eggs for breakfast. The lemon adds a delightful brightness to the soup. Abood uses 1/2 cup freshly chopped cilantro, which I’m not sure I’d do again, but mostly a personal issue as I was unable to locate fresh cilantro and had to use some “fresh” from a tube, which isn’t quite the same thing, especially when used in such quantity in a recipe.

The recipe claims it makes ten servings; I suppose that’s possible if you have a thimble collection you want to show off at mealtime. I found it made four bowls of fairly thick, satisfying soup; there wasn’t much in the way of leftovers, so next time, I’ll double the recipe.

This soup is a little adventurous, in its way, but also safe and soothing, the way soup should be.

Garlicky Lentil Soup with Chard and Lemon

Author: adapted from Maureen Abood, Rose Water and Orange Blossoms

Ingredients

½ cup lentils (brown or green)
4 cups water
1 tsp salt, divided
¼ cup olive oil
1 large onion, finely diced
1 bunch chard, any type, cleaned, trimmed, and cut into 1-inch pieces
¾ tsp ground coriander
pepper to taste
4 large garlic cloves, minced
¼ cup fresh cilantro leaves, minced (optional)
juice of ½ lemon

Instructions

In a large pot, bring the lentils, water, and ½ tsp of the salt to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until the lentils are just tender, about 20 minutes.
Heat a large saute pan, and when hot, add the olive oil. Add the onion, chard, the remaining ½ tsp of salt, coriander, and pepper. Saute over medium heat until the chard stems and onions are soft, but not brown, about 5 minutes.
Add the garlic and saute until fragrant, another minute or so, then add the cilantro, if using.
Add the chard mixture to the lentils, stir in the lemon juice, and continue to simmer over medium heat for a few minutes.
Turn off the heat and let the soup sit about 10 minutes. Taste and adjust seasonings, as needed.

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On A Jet Plane

04.14.2015 by J. Doe // Leave a Comment

I think of myself as an adventurous person, but it’s entirely possible that I’m not.

I like to go places, all over the world, and when I get there, I tend to wander, impulsively, and experience everything that takes my fancy. On one occasion, this resulted in a week-long stay in a second-rate Mexican resort frequented primarily by German pensioners, who shouted at me for talking during the mariachi performance, a very serious matter. On another occasion, traveling in New Zealand, The Foreigner and I saw a large number of people queued up in front of a stand, so we queued up, too, then sat down on the sidewalk with a brown paper bag full of hot, greasy fish and chips so incredibly delicious that I would travel halfway around the world just to eat it again.

As much as I’d enjoy the fish and chips – and the rest of New Zealand, for that matter – flying there is something I would not enjoy. Flying is something I get through, barely.

It wasn’t always that way. As a child, I flew alone each summer from New York to my grandparents in Wisconsin, happily visiting the pilots and wearing the junior pilot pins they gave me as I admired the clouds and wondered whether we’d land with one bump or two. Flying was different then, involving hot meals served with actual cutlery and china plates; it was something you dressed to do, like going to see The Nutcracker at Christmas.

I’m not sure when flying changed in general, but I know when it changed for me, specifically: On a return trip from Wisconsin at Christmas, in my late teens. For some reason, I cried when I said goodbye to my grandmother, and as the plane waited to take off, thought, I’ll never see her again.

After an uneventful commuter flight to Chicago, I changed planes to a large jet with, as it turned out, only one healthy engine. I do not know how long the plane was aloft before it circled back and landed, escorted up the runway by fire engines and ambulances; I do know that explanations of flight-safety statistics and the science and technology that makes air travel possible have no bearing on the terror I feel with each bump, noise, or change in air speed.

Being afraid of flying is not all bad. Flight attendants pay a lot of attention to you, and on one long-haul flight, gave me free glasses of champagne to help me get through it.

Eventually, it became clear that if I did not address my fears, there was a good chance I might actually never see my grandmother again. It turned out that I had a coworker with the same problem, and together we invested in an at-home course in Overcoming Your Fear of Flying. It was a book and a set of tapes made by a former pilot who narrated each stage of an imaginary flight, describing the sensations and telling you how to relax, in a distinct Boston accent. After each exercise, he’d validate the listener: That’s right, that’s right.

I concentrated on relaxing my muscles. That’s right.

I learned to focus my breathing, to breathe deep and not shallow. That’s right.

He sounded exactly like a Kennedy when he said it. That’s right.

I listened to the tape on every flight I took, until I met The Foreigner in Mexico, and got on a tiny, ancient-looking plane to tour some Mayan ruins. The flight was supposed to take 20 minutes, and took more than 40; by the time we landed, abruptly, passengers were joking that the pilot was lost, something I did not find even slightly funny. The Foreigner was not terribly helpful on that flight, but after we toured Chichen Itza, he did help persuade me that the return flight was safe, and even offered to ride the local buses with me and some peasants and chickens if I could not get on the plane.

I did get on that plane, and later, when I flew to Holland to see The Foreigner, he gave me more tips for staying calm in the air. Keep both feet on the floor, he said, it will help you feel more secure. Drinks lots of water; flying dehydrates you.

Apart from The Child and some jewelry, it was the nicest thing The Foreigner gave me. I’m not sure if the jewelry counts; since it was listed on my part of the divorce property settlement, technically, I paid for it. Still, I traveled a lot while he and I were married, and it became somewhat normal again.

Sails in the Sunset

Garlicky Lentil Soup with Chard and Lemon

On A Jet Plane

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