My Man and My Plan

I finally got back to my man! After a nice nap, I got busy building my new Party for Positive Progress organizations, also known as the One Million Matriarchs (OMM) and the Mostly Righteous Men of the Matriarchs (MR MOM). Both of these organizations exist to promote peace through activism for non-violent conflict resolution. This was in response to the request by Dr. Jean Shinoda Bolen that Womenspeak2010 attendees assist her in pressing the UN to create international law making it a crime (on an international basis) to rape women and children, and to include women in UN policy setting. How could I not sign on?

Without going into dramatic detail, I thought I could get everyone up to speed by giving you the link to Dr.Bolen’s website that contains a link to her work with the UN and a UN petition, http://www.jeanshinodabolen.com.

With me being such a party animal, I thought it would be best to form a group that could party for this cause. If there's enough interest, my first mission will be to New Orleans for the Jazz Fest. I believe I can secure the same unfurnished apartment that we used for Mardi Gras, which ended us up on the front page of the New Orleans Newspaper, The Times Picayune. We were very comfortable with my cooking, camping chairs and air mattresses (although the noise level in the location at the corner of Canal Street and the French Quarter required heavy-duty ear plugs for sleeping). This apartment is located very conveniently to the Fairgrounds site of the Jazz Fest.

My favorite tent at the New Orleans Jazz Fest has always been the Gospel Tent, not only because of the marvelous music, but because it’s in the shade. The food at the fest is beyond compare, from crawfish bread to bread pudding to beignets. Music and arts from Congo Square feature original paintings, sculpture, clothing, jewelry, musical instruments, and an array of handcrafted artworks.

Contemporary Crafts</i>, is a nationally recognized showcase of alluring handcrafted clothing, beautiful leather goods and handblown glass, along with a brilliant array of paintings, photographs, sculptures and irresistible jewelry.

In the Louisiana Marketplace, the state’s finest traditional and contemporary artists display and sell hand-colored photographs, pine needle baskets, whimsical jewelry, and other creations that evoke the state’s unique cultural history.

LOUISIANA FOLKLIFE VILLAGE Like its signature dish, gumbo, Louisiana is a spicy stew comprised of many distinctive elements — African American, Cajun, Native American, Isleño and practically everything in between. To experience this unique culture firsthand, visit the Louisiana Folklife Village and discover many of the state’s generations-old traditions.

Here you can see musicians meticulously handcraft accordions and guitars, and papier mâché artists create whimsical sculptures for Mardi Gras floats. Watch as an Isleño woodcarver transforms indigenous cypress into lifelike reproductions of Louisiana waterfowl right before your eyes. These are only a few of the traditions featured in the Louisiana Folklife Tent that bear witness to our state's unique cultural history. –From the website http://www.nojazzfest.com.

I think I could also make this a mission to promote Appalachian Arts (especially those from Coker Creek) if I can secure a booth at the Jazz Fest. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to sell Jack’s book and other Coker Creek Creations at such a well-attended venue?

A Day of Driving

With a day of driving there’s little to say,
Unless excitement happens on the way.
When behind the wheel, excitement’s bad;
This was the least eventful trip that I’ve had

I got to Rachel’s, making good time,
Where she gave a Sarah Boynton book of rhyme.
She fed me chili and we had a chat.
As usual, my bed was off limits to their cat.

Sarah practiced piano while her sister complained.
My enthusiasm for the conference was poorly contained.
I got downright giddy as I showed them my buys
Of pieces of needle art that are quite the prize.

My children both think its good I’m going home;
They feel I need some time on my own.
Richard is soothing, that is quite true
And I have much work still left to do.

"My Boys" Michelle and Buffy

I’m making my way back to my honey in the holler, but first a stop by my boy and his Buffy at the beach. I did have to backtrack over an hour to get back to the beach, but it was certainly worth the effort. I not only got to see my boy and his Buffy, I got to see all of “my boys.” I like to call Michelle’s husband Sam and Melanie’s husband James my sons. And I tell the three Yardy boys that I always wanted five sons, so I’m adopting them and Melanie’s two babies as “my boys.”

James, who has been cooking professionally since he was fourteen, has been offering to cook for me for well over a year. With his work schedule, Melanie’s school schedule, and them having two boys under the age of two, it hasn’t been easy to coordinate the effort. Sam and Michelle picked the three older boys up to go to Cole’s baseball game. Scott, Buffy, and I were sitting by the poolside discussing the option of taking advantage of the unheard of event of the three of us being alone for the evening by going to a restaurant for a meal.

Just then Melanie called to see where I was. She and her family wanted to drop by to see us. I jumped at the chance to offer James up as the evening’s chef du jour. It must have been all that new "woman power" I picked up at the conference that made me volunteer James.

James agreed, and said that they’d be over as soon as he could collect a few of his supplies. Next thing I knew, James was proudly walking in the door with a portable deep-fryer and several bags of groceries, including two quarts of half and half. I knew that meal requiring that much cream had to be worth waiting for.

I grabbed Gabe and Mel held onto Harold while James performed his kitchen magic, with Buffy acting as his sous chef. Sam, Michelle and their boys headed back upon hearing that James was preparing our dinner. It was quite a sight, big brown James and beautiful blonde Buffy flying around the kitchen. My-oh-my, what a feast came out of that kitchen!

As I sat at Scott’s back yard bar with Mel, Scott and the boys, James presented me with a plate full of pasta cover with fried catfish, to which he had added a creamy crawfish sauce. It was divinely decadent. I barely made it through my meal before beginning to doze off. I kissed everyone good night, thanked chef James, and entered dreamland with the theme song from the conference, “My Breath” playing in my head.

One Million Matriarchs

It is impossible for me to sleep for more than four hours. It begins with the extreme excitement of the women’s conference. And the stunning sunrise over Mobile Bay happening in panorama outside my twenty-fifth floor bedroom window -- Who could possibly sleep through that?

The most amazing woman has proposed the most amazing concept for my next phase in life, helping to unite women in circles of power for peace. She didn’t exactly ask me to do this; I sort of offered. How could I resist when a dead ringer for a mature Mulan announces that she’s petitioning the UN to create a UNICEF for women, and I have so missed the community activism of my New Orleans days?

I remember when women in the good old USA were blamed for bringing rape upon themselves. And I had to walk away from more than one job, even though I had two children to support, because I had no recourse for sexual harassment on the job. I’ve lost a business, and very nearly lost my freedom because I was forced by a bank to have a man sign for my business loan. When the man tired of me, he gave my business to the bank and told them that I was guilty of an attempt to defraud them in order to extricate himself from a relationship with me. It wasn’t so long ago that women in America were treated as badly as women in Iran and Afghanistan. This is an issue that I can sink my teeth into.

I had thought that my next big project would be to write a book about The Feminine Face of God, but I also found a book by that name at this conference. In writing it, the authors did exactly what I had planned to do, interviewing women of many backgrounds about their incarnation of the Almighty.

I’ve been referred to most of my life as “That God Damned Warrior” and “A Mighty Powerful Woman.” I was recently challenged by one of my granddaughters with the words, “Granny, you have some good ideas. You just need to step up.” This was on the heels of my daughter admonishing me that I need to “be brave” in facing her.

And since I’m always waiting to be burned at the stake when the next witch trials are conducted, I just as well know what I’m going to be burned for: Inciting women to stand in a circle around what we hold most sacred: a peaceful place to love our families and the extended families of our world. After all, aren’t there only six degrees of separation between me and the homeless mother in the on the streets of New Orleans and the veiled Muslim mother in Afghanistan?

I’m beginning the circle of One Million Matriarchs (and their men, I hope) to march on the UN in support of the Fifth World Conference on Women. Please join me. We’ll make quite a pleasing parade.

Women's Work

Chuck gave Gayle a newspaper article advertising an upcoming event in Mobile, Alabama. He thought I might be interested in attending this women’s empowerment week-end less than an hour from Scott’s house, since I was already in the area. How sweet is that, a man who used to leave the room whenever he encountered me is now offering suggestions for getting my matriarchal mojo going?

This Womenspeak2010 conference is only the second one of its kind, ever. There are over six hundred and fifty females, mostly over forty, from all over the world, creating their identities as crones. I’ve never been one to embrace large groups of women unless I had a job, as I quickly bore of the talk of gorgeous grandchildren and horrible husbands. This conference touts itself as a way for women to connect their strengths to exponentially create more harmony across the vest span of creation. How cool would that be?

The organizer is a woman named Paula d’Arcy who has turned the pain of losing her husband and one of her two children simultaneously in an automobile accident into a passion for world peace. If the opening ceremonies were any indication of the grandeur of the vision of her organization, she may indeed be able to change the world. Cirque du Soleil could take a few lessons from this lady.

We were wowed with incredible African dances and drum beats created by choreographer Eleanor Gwynn in North Carolina. Mother and daughter Bronwyn Cooke and Heather James came all the way from Hawaii to inspire us with a plea to be kind to our earth, imparted through a most magnificent hula dance. A prayer for peace was shared with us from the gracious heart of a member of the Mennonite community, Mary Etta James, before Sara Thomsen took our breath away with her singing of the conference theme song “By Breath.”

This song seamlessly segued into a sacred scarf ritual conducted by authors Joyce Rupp and Marcrina Wiedelkehr. Grammy winner Cynthia Wilson gave voice to the grief that facing real life can bring just before dramatist Janette Scott shared the story of the Mama Moses of many slaves, Harriet Tubman. Marie Plauche-Gustin brought life to a simple slip of silk with her interpretive dancer while Cynthia Clawson sang of the river and seeing God.

Palestinian Poet, Ibitisam Barakat, opened our hearts to hear of the horrors of her homeland with humor, poetry, and passion. We were again brought out of our chairs by the power of the E. Gwynn African dancers, only to be lulled before bedtime by the perfect pitch of the only male performer, Craig Hella Johnson. All of this was interspersed with Paula’s pleas for us to unite our breath, blood, bodies, and spirits to recreate our world in peace.

The message Paula wants us to take away from this week-end is that we didn’t attend a conference, we attended our lives, and that we can use our lives to affect change. I can hardly wait to see what she has planned for us today.

Diets and Diapers

I did ask Bub for his recipe for his “corn.” He said, “I put in a little onion and bell pepper and some banana pepper that I had.” I asked, “Didn’t it have some Rotel tomatoes?” To which he replied, “Oh, yeah, some of that, too.” On to the pasta…

Me: So, Bub, what did you put in the sauce for your pasta?” Bub: “Mostly what I put in the corn, but with olive oil.” Usually, I don’t give the recipes referred to in my blog, unless someone requests them, but I couldn’t resist sharing these.

I feel honored when my friends allow me to cook in their kitchens. I’ve always really felt that the kitchen is the heart of the home, and that it isn’t just men’s hearts that have an access point through their stomachs. Many a mother and maw-maw has changed a child’s life while changing the child’s diet and diapers.

I told Kathleen that I think my need to cook wherever I go is my way of “scenting” territory. Many people have trusted me with their pots, their pans and their progeny. I have a huge bag that I’ve taken to carrying around with me. It has leopard spots with bright red trim; I call it my “bagitude.” If I could only fly in on an umbrella, I think I’d closely resemble a rather wild and woolly version of Mary Poppins.

Gayle says that she recently saw a man on a motorcycle with a skillet and spatula hanging off his bedroll, and she thought of me. I’m scared of motorcycles and heights, so I’ll probably have to keep transporting myself and my ice chest full of exotic ingredients in my trusty red van. I don’t need to carry kitchen equipment; I don’t stay with people who don’t have well-equipped kitchens.

A friend told me that her idea of heaven is to be able to eat her most favorite foods whenever and however often she wanted without suffering health consequences. For her, it was made-in-New Orleans version of Cheetos called Chee-Wees and her mother’s pecan pie. She further illucidated this heavenly vision that Jesus will be at the head of the buffet tabIe, and we (all the women, I presume) will all be a size two.

I chose Bavarian cream as what I’d want to wallow in. I may also want a lot of the glazed version of lemon-flavored Hubig’s pies, New Orleans answer to fried pies. I lived on Chee-Wees and Hubig’s pies while I was in high school, but that only because there was no Bavarian cream in our cafeteria. I’ll have to get my friend’s recipe for her mother’s pecan pie.

Gayle’s super hero son is visiting, so I’m going to take him some chicken and andouille sausage gumbo to help him keep his super powers. I’ve just finished making a huge pot of it in Elaine and Bub’s fabulous kitchen, as I looked out on the waters of Lake Pontchartrain flowing past their back door. This is my idea of heaven.

While Waiting...

I’ve been sleeping in Miya’s room on a mattress next to her bed. She announced that she heard me snoring when she was having trouble falling asleep the first night we had this arrangement. On the way to drop her off at her ballet class as I was changing my temporary address from Scott’s to Elaine’s, I asked Miya if she was going to be glad or sad that I’ll no longer be snoring in her room. She says she’ll be sad because hearing me snore actually helped her go to sleep. There’s a reason they’re called grand children.

For those of you who don’t know this: Elaine is married to Bub. Bub’s the father of my children, otherwise known as my ex-husband. I’ve temporarily moved into the apartment above Elaine and Bub’s kitchen, otherwise known as the “caterer’s suite.” I’m often the cook for Elaine, but this time Bub was cooking for us.

Here’s a major difference between me and my ex: I went down to the kitchen where he was stirring a pan of oil, onions, bell peppers, and Rotel tomatoes. I asked what he was making. “Corn,”he said. I took this to mean that the ingredients in the pan were going to be part of the corn dish known as maque choux. “You mean maque choux, don’t you?” I suggested. “I don’t know what that is. I’m making corn,” Bub insisted.

Bub has always been the master of the mundane; I’ve always fancied myself the mistress of magical reframing. I told him he’d never make a living as a caterer. You can charge five dollars for a side dish of maque choux, but try getting that for “corn.”

Bub also made a delicious variation on pasta primavera, which I’m sure he’d have called “spaghetti” – and fried a fish he’d caught off of his back yard dock. I’m going to ask him for his recipes. That should be an interesting conversation.

I’m staying with Elaine while a friend has surgery at a near-by hospital. Sitting in the surgical waiting room provided an interesting opportunity for perusing people.

An older couple came in, the man smiling, his partner impatient to get her surgery over with. As several of us commented on how bad the free coffee was, the older gentleman proudly displayed his too-cool travel cup. Not only did it keep his coffee hot, it’s actually a French press pot. He demonstrated how he can put in two scoops of his favorite grinds, add hot water, press, and presto! – a good ,fresh brew of his choice.

His wife bemoaned the fact that she was fasting, so all she could share of her husband’s beverage was the smell. Then she took his hand and gently smiled as they sat in companionable silence.

Another woman sat across from me, copiously crying into a daintily embroidered handkerchief. When was the last time you saw anyone weep into anything fancier than a Kleenex? She was waiting for her ex-husband to keep her company while their forty-something-year-old son had a kidney stone removed. I love my son, but somehow I think I’d be a tad less upset than this maudlin mom if he was having surgery for something as simple as a kidney stone. Not that Scott ever had to have surgery for anything -- broken bones and stitches, but nothing more serious than that.

The entertainment award goes to the extremely old lady in red pajamas and matching red robe accompanied by her red-haired, also red-robed niece. They apparently came in so the niece could hold court. She regaled the waiting room audience with a detailed description of how uncomfortable the sleeping arrangements are for anyone staying with a hospitalized relative.

She let us all know that there was no way she’d let her aunt stay without her, so whenever her aunt is hospitalized, she dons her pajamas, packs her pillow and blanket, and heads to the hospital with her. She also announced that neither she nor her aunt drank the bad waiting room coffee because they brewed good old Luzianne in her aunt’s room. Then, they shuffled away – presumably to refill their coffee cups.