Charmed, I'm Sure

photo illustrative magic courtesy of Philip Brooker

I have always been a hard sell when it comes to magic. Back when I toggled my first loose baby tooth, my parents explained about the Tooth Fairy -- your tooth falls out and the Tooth Fairy appears while you sleep, takes the tooth and pays you for it (your original Cash for Clunkers concept). I looked at them, smiled coolly and nodded. I didn’t believe a minute of it. I was over magic by the time I was five. Kind of too bad, but that’s the way I’m made. I didn’t burst my parents’ bubble. The idea of the Tooth Fairy seemed to make them so happy, and I didn’t object to handing over my teeth in exchange for the coins my father left by my bed.

Several years later, my adult teeth affixed firmly in my head, I’m beginning to believe magic isn’t such a bad thing and might, even, in fact, exist. Paul Bowles defined magic as “a straight connection between the world of nature and the consciousness of man, a hidden but direct passage that bypasses the word.” I might add it bypasses the eye, too, unfolding within its own damn time frame which is not necessarily ours. Perhaps that’s why we say a watched pot never boils, because though there’s science behind cooking, if the end result is any good, there’s magic’s involved, too.

It may also be why with Joe Meno’s otherwise excellent novel The Great Perhaps and with the film Henry Poole Is Here, two works about belief, magic, transformation, the whole shebang, the pivotal moment, the sea change, felt false or even forced to me. As with the Tooth Fairy, I wanted to believe, but I didn’t. Magic is not interested in proving itself to you, it just happens. I mean good magic, white magic. The other stuff -- when the roof leaks or your honey dumps you or the doctor says pathology, that to me isn’t magic. That’s life doing its best to bleed magic right out of you. Magic can happen despite that stuff, but you can’t set your watch by it. Like H1N1, it comes, it goes.

Maybe magic is Blake’s energy, eternal delight. I see magic with P, who makes art, and with S, who makes bread. Sometimes I’m even capable of magic myself -- more often, my husband says, than I realize. I certainly wasn’t capable of it at three this morning, in a knot of insomnia-induced dread (see previous post). Magic does not come on demand. It cannot be forced -- God knows I’ve tried. It can sometimes, however, be coaxed.

Ritual helps -- you know, indulging in the notion that something you do or say or wear can affect change. This is known as magical thinking, a rather sparkling term made famous by Joan Didion’s memoir The Year of Magical Thinking. Magical thinking is probably a mild form of delusion. I see nothing wrong with this. Magic comes with surrender, with infatuation with possibility, with being loose and giddy right up in life’s ugly little face.

And if magic is being coy or annoyingly elusive, the next best thing is to appreciate it and be grateful for it when it comes. This is what I tell myself, anyway. Then I curse and make dinner.

Magical Moroccan Tagine

Most Moroccan tagines take hours. The transformation that comes from slow-cooking is part of their magic. You can make this one, with very few ingredients, in minutes and you don’t even need a tagine. That is its own kind of magic. Freewheelingly adapted to the point of being unrecognizable, its origins can be traced back to a recipe by the oh-so-magical Paula Wolfert.

Enjoy over whole grain couscous or quinoa. Also very nice stuffed in a pita.

2 tablespoons olive oil

4 cloves garlic
1 head of broccoli

1 15-ounce can of diced tomatoes

1 tablespoon smoked paprika

a pinch of red pepper flakes or, even better, Aleppo pepper

sea salt to taste

1 large handful cilantro

In a large (14-inch or so) skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat.

Mince garlic and add, stirring, just for a minute or two.

Chop broccoli into bite-sized pieces, both florets and chunks of stem. Yes, you are using the entire broccoli. Magic does not appreciate waste. Neither do I.

Add broccoli to skillet, along with tomatoes, paprika and pepper flakes. Stir together. Reduce heat slightly, so tomatoes are still on the boil. Stir constantly. The tomatoes will (magically) thicken and turn jammy and the broccoli will become tender, in less than 10 minutes. Remove from heat.

Chop cilantro. Add to broccoli. Season with salt. Enjoy the magic.

Serves 4.

Next up: Fowl play.

To Sleep, Perchance

“Methought I heard a voice cry “Sleep no more!”

Oh, jeez, Macbeth, you, too? Even those of us who haven’t killed a king have insomnia issues. There's not one, but two types of insomnia, both of them bite. There's your not-being-able-to-fall-asleep-at-all, bad enough, but the other is the really diabolical one. Falling asleep’s no problem, but then shortly after, you wake with a sense of panic and the knowledge you have ruined your life.

There is no redemption, no hope and let’s not even talk about going back to sleep. You just lie there rigid and brood or turn over and over like a rotisserie chicken. Your overwhelming sense of dread may fade with the coming of dawn, but it does not, let us say, make for a good night. In insomnia parlance, this is known as fragmented sleep.

I’ve been there. Often. Most of the people I hang with have, too. We talk melatonin, tryptophan, serotonin. We talk warm milk, scotch, Ambien. We have lots of time for talk, because we’re not sleeping.

There’s a reason sleep deprivation is used as torture, or as we call it these days, enhanced interrogation. Lack of sleep breaks you down, it produces serious cracks in your personality and dents in your reasoning. It also screws with your brain chemistry, including interrupting the flow of leptin, the neurotransmitter that lets you know when you’re full. Lose enough sleep and you overeat, don’t eat anything or eat crap.

If it’s any comfort for those similarly afflicted (and it’s probably not), this complaint is not new. It is not a byproduct of the terrible modern life we lead. According to my excellent friend, a former seminarian, the "Lucernarium," a Matins liturgy dating back to the Middle Ages. contains the line, "Éripe nos de timóre noctúrno." Translation: Deliver us from the terror of the night. Through the miracle of modern science, we now understand that terror as the chemical imbalance occuring around 3:00 AM, when your serotonin levels have tanked and you feel vulnerable to just about anything.

So how do you avoid insomnia? Good question. My friends and I pass on the latest tips and very little seems to do any good. Among the advice handed out by smiling experts:

No coffee (doh).

No booze.

Keep your bedroom dark and cool.

Keep regular hours, going to sleep at the same time every night.

Don’t succumb to afternoon naps (except for those who say, go ahead, succumb, nap -- it’s enough to keep a girl up nights).

Drink chamomile tea.

Chamomile tea, if you recall your Beatrix Potter, is the little toddy old Mrs. Rabbit (why old? Because she had four kids?) gave naughty Peter after his misadventures in Farmer McGregor’s garden. “One teaspoon to be taken at bedtime.”

When you ask for herbal tea at a restaurant, chamomile is always the one they have. Why chamomile? It is a medically proven soother of nerves and a digestive. But it tastes to me of dust and just makes me anxious. This I do not need.

The other thing experts say just might lure you to sleep is to eat a light snack an hour or so before bedtime. Not just any snack, one that doses you with a little tryptophan, making you happy, relaxed and deliciously drowsy. That means a cocktail of complex carbs and protein. Bananas and apricots are a particularly good source, also nuts, both of which are, happily, vegan.

I came up with these apricot squares with an almond crust, a little nursery food for grownups, heady, gratifying and made with low-glycemic agave, so it won’t cause your blood sugar to spike just as you’re getting cozy beneath the covers. They taste pretty decadent for your healthier-than-average cookie. I’m not guaranteeing they’ll produce zzzzzs. But they won’t be among all the things you’re rueing while you’re lying wide awake at 3:00 AM.

Wishing you sweet dreams. Eripe nos de timóre noctúrno.

Macbeth hath murdered sleep. I have probably massacred the Latin for

Dolcia Somnia Quadruus (Sweet Dreams Squares)

1 cup water or herbal tea (chamomile if you must)

1 cup dried apricots

1 cinnamon stick

2-1/2 cups almond meal, also known as almond flour, or 2-1/2 cups blanched almonds, ground fine

4 tablespoons coconut oil

4 tablespoons agave

1/2 teaspoon almond extract

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon cardamon

grated zest of 1 lemon

Pour tea or water into a medium-sized saucepan. Add apricots and cinnamon stick. Bring to a boil over high heat. Cover, reduce heat to low and let simmer for half an hour.

Preheat oven to 350.

For the crust: In a bowl, blender or food processor, mix together almond flour, coconut oil, 3 tablespoons of the agave and almond extract just until it forms crumbs. Then add 1 tablespoon of the apricot poaching liquid and mix until everything starts to come together into dough.

Set aside 1 cup of the dough and press the remainder into an 8X8 pan. Bake for 20 minutes.

While crust bakes, prepare the apricot filling:

Pulse apricots, remaining tablespoon agave, cinnamon and cardamon and grated lemon zest in a blender or food processor until mixture is coarsely blended, not fussily pureed.

Remove crumb crust from oven, spread apricot filling on top and sprinkle remaining cup of crumbs on top. Bake for 15 minutes.

Cool and cut into squares.

Makes 16.

The (Spaghetti) Wrestler

While in New York last week, I discovered spaghetti wrestling. Silly me, at first I thought they were two separate entities -- spaghetti, as in something you eat and wrestling, as in something you do. Spaghetti wrestling offers both.

You are, no doubt, more worldly than I and already know this sport of sorts involves inflating a kiddie pool, filling it with pasta, sauce and two wrestlers dressed in provocative undergarments. They then wrestle and tumble amongst the pasta. Mirth ensues.

I found out about spaghetti wrestling not at a city biker bar (though bikers are big fans), but at a local fair in upstate New York where it’s billed as your basic family entertainment.

I went cross-eyed with wonder over issues including:

-- Quantity

A pound of spaghetti amply serves four. Kiddie pools range from a capacity of 100 to 200 gallons. So how many pounds of spaghetti does it take to fill it? The answer? Until it’s full.

-- Safety

The spaghetti and sauce are not hot. This is done more for the sake of preventing plastic pool melt and leakage than protecting the wrestlers from burns.

-- Sauce

The preferred kind of sauce varies from your classic marinara to Wesson oil, which seems lazy. If you’re going to grind fistfuls of spaghetti into someone, you might as well go the distance, so to speak, with a true sauce.

-- Noodle

When I asked which made for the better performance, whole grain spaghetti or the standard semolina pasta, people stepped away from me. Asking whether spaghetti had the edge over linguini or fettuccini seemed out of the question.

-- Marketing

Who. Came. Up. With. This? And why? And why do people think it’s fun? And if I don’t, what does that mean?

-- Morality

Forget kink, it’s an egregious waste of food that could feed the hungry. This is the sort of high-minded thinking that makes one unpopular at parties.

No spaghetti was hurt -- or wasted -- in the production of the above image. Photography occurred post-meal and involved a handful of leftovers. Recipe below.

TKO Spaghetti

1 fennel bulb

2 onion

2 zucchini

4 garlic cloves

2 tablespoons olive oil

1/2 cup dry white wine, or more to taste

2 dozen kalamata olives, pitted

sea salt and fresh pepper

4 ounces whole wheat spaghetti

juice and zest of one lemon

handfuls of fresh herbs including parsley, tarragon, basil, thyme, whatever you like

Preheat oven to 425.

Chop up your fennel, onion and zucchini into bite-sized pieces. Spread out into generous-sized roaster, so the vegetables aren't crowded and have space. Mince garlic and stir into vegetables. Stir in one tablespoon of olive oil, 1/4 cup white wine and olives.

Roast vegetables for 45 minutes, stirring occasionally, so they roast evenly.

In a large pot, cook spaghetti until just al dente, even a little chewy. Drain well. Return pasta to pot, along with vegetables and any accumulated juices. Grate in lemon zest and squeeze in juice. Chop herbs fine and stir in, along with remaining 1/4 cup of white wine and the last tablespoon of olive oil

Heat over medium-high heat, stirring, until just heated through, about five minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Serves 4.

Spirit House

This photo looks very like the spirit houses I used to see around Asia. There’s usually an image -- a portrait or statue of the spirit, whether it’s a god or someone no longer living, and some offerings, frequently oranges. Candles and incense are lit, all of which is done to keep the spirits from being pissed.

Eastern religion was not on my mind when I started this. I wanted to write about figs. If anything says life, it’s a fresh fig. It’s a lovely source of fiber, antioxidants, potassium and magnesium, and lovely, period. Even erotic. As D. H, Lawrence wrote:

The proper way to eat a fig, in society,

Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,

And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.

Then you throw away the skin

Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,

After you have taken off the blossom with your lips.

But the vulgar way

Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite.

Every fruit has its secret.

You can read the whole Lawrencian thing at www.kalliope.org/digt.pl?longdid=lawrence2001061702.

In any case, don’t be polite, be vulgar. Figs demand to be bitten. It is a crime against nature to do otherwise.

Figs are just starting to come into season, reason enough to live and be joyful. A fresh fig really needs no adornment, but what the hell kind of recipe would that be, so I scrambled for a fig idea despite being 1) short of time and 2) halfway nuts. So I thought, nuts. Nuts are nutritional powerhouses -- with protein, fiber, trace minerals, and my favorite, walnuts, are a good source of omega 3s, too.

Walnuts scared me as a child. Unlike almonds, which are smooth and uniform, they’re lumpy and resemble brains. Instead of peanuts’ frank, happy flavor, walnuts are earthy and rich but with a hint of puckery tannin, thanks their paper-thin brown skin. It is their odd shape and counterpoint of flavors I now love about them. Go figure.

Spirit houses are little altars for those who no longer have their bodies. We, fortunately, have homes for our souls -- our bodies. We rarely appreciate our bodies, but we ought to, they're very clever. We should pay attention to our wonderful bodies and treat them right. This recipe helps. It’s the sort of food to make you glad you’ve got a nice corporeal self, to make you glad you’re alive. It is not, however, gorgeous. All the ingredients save the orange are brown, put them together and you have a taupe spread. Do not let this discourage you. You get the juxtaposition of the fruit -- soft and smoothe and sweet -- with the nuts -- solid and crunchy and bracing. This is warming and fragrant and sensual, a spread to appease the most cranky of spirits.

Why are the figs and nuts, the cornerstones of this recipe, not in the photograph? Because they’re in the pate, silly.

Fig Pate

1 cup dried figs

3/4 cup walnuts

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon cardamon

1 orange

2 tablespoons red wine

Place figs, walnuts, cinnamon and cardamon in a food processor or blender. Cut orange in half. Pop out any visible seeds. Toss half the orange in with the figs, nuts and spices. Squeeze in the juice from the remaining orange half. Add the wine.

Process for a minute or two, until mixture forms a thick paste.

Awfully nice on whole grain toast with a glass of sherry or a fortifying cup of tea. Spoonfeed to someone of whom you are fond.

Keeps tightly covered in the refrigerator for 2 weeks.

Makes 1-1/2 cups, serving 4 to 6.

Orange Crush

It is Sunday afternoon, I am in my frock, ready to go out. I am waiting for my husband, who’s been out running errands, to pick me up. He is a smidge late. I am used to this. The phone rings. “I’m okay,” my husband says, “but I’ve been in an accident.”

My heart and stomach fall down my inner elevator shaft to the bottom. He’s okay, I tell myself, running out the door. He called, he spoke and he said he is okay, ergo he is okay. This is what I think as I run. I do not have to run far. The accident has happened a block from our house.

My husband was driving home when a 17-year old ran a stop sign. Husband is indeed fine, kid is fine, both of them standing bewildered in the debris in the middle of the intersection. I am wobble-legged with relief. My husband says he felt tremendous relief at the sight of me, too, and holds the image of me storming towards him like some righteous angel, my white frock fluttering. The dress would soon be drenched with sweat, thanks to anxiety and to standing outside in a shadeless 90 degrees. That part his brain has kindly edited out.

Angels and such are a good idea, but I’m not one and I don’t believe in them as a rule. Yet some benevolent something-or-other must have been present. Had the kid or my husband been driving faster, if there had been any sort of injury or worse or, oh, I can’t even bear to think about it. And since I could not bear to think about it, I got a headache and a sound worm -- the technical term for a refrain or song stuck in your brain. A logical choice would be Radiohead’s “Airbag,” with its happy (for Thom Yorke) refrain, “An airbag saved my life.” Instead, my brain seized on REM’s “Orange Crush.”

My husband was not crushed, he is not orange, nor is his car, he doesn’t even drink Orange Crush. We met at an REM concert, but well before the song came out. I had liked “Orange Crush” for its boppy hook until learning it was really about Agent Orange, after which it pretty much creeped me out. But we don’t get to choose our obsessions.

I play “Orange Crush” repeatedly to try and get it out of my mind. It doesn’t work. I kind of hate when life so shakes you up and instead of devoting your life to finding a cure for cancer, you go and do something weird like obsess about an REM song. And yet I think these shakeups, however we react to them, are also when we are closest to the real business of living. Even if we don’t understand it. At least that's what I tell myself by way of comfort -- this is easier for me to accept than angels.

Back at the scene of the crime, the cops come. They fill out a report. We learn the kid is driving with a suspended license. Kid's car isn't so bad. Husband’s man vehicle has to be towed. He endures a few days of achiness, but he is, as he says, okay. I pop ibuprofen for a few days, just to keep him company and do not tell him about my “Orange Crush” obsession but take to touching him more frequently, as a way to reassure us both. And come up with this heady saffron and orange-scented couscous to cook this sound worm out of my head and celebrate the privilege of being alive.

Here’s a vid of REM doing “Orange Crush.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2BvXBwtrs_k Proceed at your own risk.

Heretical Angel Orange Crush Couscous

A word about this couscous -- it is heretical. The Moroccans would no sooner tart up their couscous than they would sell their mamas. They serve couscous, their national dish, fluffy and unadorned, to serve as foil for the subtly spiced tagines. Nevertheless, I have turned couscous into a stand-alone salad that demands and deserves its own attention. Apologies to any offended parties.

1 cup whole grain couscous

1 cup fresh squeezed orange juice

1/2 cup white wine

1 good pinch of saffron

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon cumin

1 tablespoon coriander

1 tablespoon fresh grated ginger

2 teaspoons cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon Aleppo pepper or other red pepper flakes

grated rind of 1 orange (about 2 teapoons)

juice of 1 orange

4 scallions, chopped

3 handfuls fresh herbs, chopped, including parsley, mint and cilantro

3 handfuls arugula or spinach

sea salt and ground pepper to taste

1/3 cup chopped pistachios

Feta would be a nice addition for those who goat

Pour orange juice and white wine into a medium saucepan. Bring to boil. Add saffron and couscous. Turn off heat and cover pot. Let stand for about 8 minutes or until liquid is absorbed, Fluff couscous with fork. This is fun.

In a small bowl, whisk together olive oil, spices, orange rind and orange juice. Pour over couscous. You may add the scallions, herbs, greens and chopped nuts now, but the couscous is exponentially better the next day. Even this scribbling, which seemed entirely scattered yesterday came together neatly and swiftly this afternoon (note to self -- be patient, sometimes things improve over time).

(Broken) Hearts and Flowers

Going outside to get the paper this morning, I found a piece of notebook paper balled up on my lawn. It turned out to be a handwritten letter -- sent not to me, but to Alex, from Emily. I don’t know Alex and I don’t know Emily. Judging by the looks of her precise and rounded letters, she’s about 16. Judging by what she wrote, she’s had her heart broken.

The letter opens, “Why did you do this to me?” I read the first line -- and stopped cold. I felt the blood rush to my face, looked around, wanted either Alex or Emily to materialize and grab the letter out of my hands. But I was alone and as I say, I don’t know Alex or Emily or how the letter wound up on my lawn.

Did Emily write it then throw it away because Alex didn’t deserve her tender words? Did it hurt too much to share her feelings with him? Did Alex read the letter, then throw it away? I do not know you, Alex, but I’d like to think better of you. And Emily, hon, I don’t know you either, but I hope you’re okay.

If I met you, I’d invite you in and despite your wishes, I would not put on April Lavigne or Billie Holiday. I would let you cry, though, and hug you and give you tissues and have you tell me all about Alex, how gently he’d undress you (sorry, Em, it was in the letter, I couldn’t help reading), how he'd lie to his aunts. . . and of course to you. You would tell me why you love him anyway and why you’ll never be happy again or what an asshole he is. Or all of the above.

I would like to do more. I would tell you how wonderful you are, with or without Alex. I might even start to say you don’t need him, but even without having met you, can see how that would sound both foreign and wrong to you, marking me as a lost cause, a grownup, a creature who does not understand the ways of love. So I would shut up.

When you’re lovelorn, when you’re in the throes of it, there is no food to soothe a broken heart. Your stomach is knotted, your soul is shattered, and eating seems painful if not pointless. How can you eat? So instead of feeding you, I'd brew you an herbal concoction, what the French call an infusion -- a cup of lavender tea. Made simply with dried lavender buds steeped in boiling water, it is a nerve tonic both bracing and soothing. It is fragrant, floral and tastes of yearning and loss, but also of healing and spring, and with it, the promise of renewal. Lavender is also the wee-est bit soapy-tasting. That’s okay, Soap is cleansing.

Breathe. Sip. Close your eyes. Keep breathing. Well done.

Getting the first cup of tea into you might provide a little warmth when you had thought you would feel chilled for the rest of your life. And that may be enough, I hope, to keep alive your spark until you can catch fire again. Which I know you will.

Cheers.

Lavender Tea

1 tablespoon dried lavender

1 pot boiling water

Spoon lavender into an infuser or straight into teapot. Pour water over. Let steep for four minutes. Then pour into an eggshell-thin Limoge teacup. Some like to add honey. Breathe it in. Sip. Strain lavender if necessary. The tea gets stronger the longer the lavender sits. You will get stronger, too.

PS To Alex, Emily and all readers -- please send word. Comment. Let me know you exist. Love letters welcome but any sort of feedback will do.