Author: ferylfiles

Aunt Becci’s Mean Dip

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It’s time to share one of my most favorite things to make at the end of summer–“Mean Dip.” I always like to grow a variety of peppers from mild bell to some version of atomic-devil-death. Jalapenos definitely get pride of place as I find them to be the superior pepper. I ususally grow two or three plants. I also have Hungarian Wax, Pablanos, Cayenne, Anaheim, and something this year called Purple Death. I’ve been sharing here and there with neighbors and friends as the plants have been putting on fruit, but by September, I’m able to do a big harvest. Yesterday, I got enough to make a big batch of Mean Dip.

First step preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Get a baking sheet and drizzle olive oil all over. Next, slice up all your peppers, the more seeds and the hotter the peppers, the meaner the dip. I also do one full bulb of garlic, peeled and each clove halved. I make sure the pan is thickly covered with the peppers and garlic and I top with a little more olive oil and some ground cumin.

Then I bake these beauties for 25 minutes. Once they’re out of the oven, I put them into a food processor and blend with a little more olive oil, some red wine vinegar, and salt & pepper. Don’t ask me how much, I eyeball it. Do what looks good. Once it’s fully blended, I take it all out and then use about 1/4-1/3 c of the pepper blend to one brick of cream cheese. I ended up with four cups of the pepper blend and ended up mixing it a little at a time with eight bricks of cream cheese.

This isn’t the meanest of the Mean Dips I’ve ever made, and I suspect the next round will have a couple more of the Purple Death peppers. This round only had one. My nephew, Brennan, said it could be meaner. Mary, my kiddo, called it “Spicy Nice.” I can tell you this though, it’s addictive and ridiculously delicious. Eat it with tortilla chips, crackers, cut veggies, anything you can think of.

There’s a reason I only make this once a year.

Lucky

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Bryan often spoke about how lucky he felt largely due to the relationships and people in his life. Bryan had plenty he could have complained about–a cancer diagnosis at 50 that he managed with grace and aplomb, another one at 58 that would give him less than five months to live. Even so, he practiced gratitude, particularly with regard to his daughter and wife, his friends, his healthcare providers, the quality of the pork chop served by the hospital kitchen at St. Mary’s. I’ve never heard anyone wax lyrical about hospital food, but he sure did. Bryan was lucky to be surrounded by so much love, but he fostered that in his confidence, his ability to know himself fully in order to put everyone else around him at ease.

I find myself trying to emulate his practice. The more I notice how lucky I am, the luckier I seem to get. In the past two weeks, especially, I’m reminded how the people in my life make me lucky in a similar manner. I have friendships, durable relationships that have lasted decades–friends who have known me since first grade, or middle school, or the whole time I’ve lived in Walla Walla (18 years this month, can you even?!) They have seen me at my best and unfortunately at my very worst (yes I did flip cold French fries off a plate in a fit of pique/temper…I’m not proud of it, but it’s funny to tease me about. And don’t get me started with what happens if I forget to eat breakfast). They span continents and time zones, which makes these middle-of-the-night musings welcome in Australia or to my bestie who works the night shift a few time zones away.

When someone doesn’t believe me, they’re all ready to line up and give testimonials of my character. More importantly, they remind me of myself, giving ME testimonials of how they see me, my heart, my intentions. It’s never fun to have the worst believed of you or to be painted with a brush meant for someone else, but at the end of the day, that’s not my business. What is my business is to tend this garden of friendships, of durable relationships because they’re the ones that see me through when my heart aches, when my person is dying, when the world is on fire. I am lucky because they see me and love me.

Resolving the Chord

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In (tonal–I should be specific since I’m not an expert) music theory, there is a home chord that sets the basis for the piece/movement in a particular key. This is where things are stable, at rest. The music needs to have tension to be interesting, but the resolution back to that home chord gives a sense of release and relief. The complexity of this dynamic gives music drama, intrigue, a reason to listen. Am I painting with a very broad, novice’s brush, yes, yes I am. That’s okay, it’s my blog and I’ll write how I want to.

Life is less like a 3-minute rock song with obvious chord progressions and resolutions–tension followed by relief–and more like a jazz jam session with amateurs. We have an idea of what’s going on, we may know some of the chords, but we’re kind of doing our own solo hoping for the best, and sometimes it sounds great and sometimes it sounds like hell.

We don’t always get the relief of the chord resolution. What happens next? Is the problem fixed? What do they think of me? What did I do wrong? Will the villain get punished? Will the aggrieved get justice? Do the good guys win in the end? Bryan often used to say that “we’re not in control of the outcome.” I think of that so often and he was right. We’re not. We do our best. We play the notes we know as well as we can and then hope things turn out. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t. And sometimes, we don’t get to know the outcome at all. It doesn’t make the longing for resolution go away, but with time and wisdom, perhaps we can let it go and just enjoy the music for what it is. Maybe we find our own home chord and go back there when the tension is too high–nature, prayer, communing with friends, creation, gratitude. Those are my home chords. What are yours?

Kintsugi

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When I was a little girl in one of our houses in Yakima, I remember jump-roping in the living room. My delight and play turned to chagrin when the rope looped around a porcelain figurine of bright red cardinals, a treasure my mom cherished because it reminded her of seeing those beautiful birds in Ohio. The look of horror, sorrow, and anger on her face still haunt me to this day. I didn’t mean to break anything, least of all this prize possession, but my intent didn’t matter when the damage was done. Unfortunately, there was no possibility for restoration with superglue or gold dust. I had to acknowledge that my carelessness hurt her and broke something irreplaceable. It’s a tough lesson to learn when you’re six. It continues to be a tough lesson no matter the age. Fortunately, my mom didn’t ever hold a grudge on that score. I just wasn’t allowed to jump rope inside the house anymore.

Kintsugi, the traditional Japanese technique and art for fixing broken pottery gives me a little bit of hope. (Go with me on this metaphor, pretty please.) In this tradition, pottery is mended with a lacquer dusted with powdered gold. The effect is extraordinary. The broken part is no longer something to be hidden or even grieved, but the repair turns the whole piece into something completely new and beautiful. Perhaps it is so when we work through hurt caused by careless words or actions. Maybe grace and joy, and most of all love, are the kintsugi gold to our hearts.

Insomnia-induced Creative Writing…?

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Her phone battery died 15 minutes ago. The B&B she had reserved for a weekend getaway loomed frustratingly close, but she hadn’t brought a map or memorized the route. Her charger?  Back at the apartment in a different purse. Kicking herself, desperately needing to use the restroom, and weary with exhaustion from a long drive and an even longer week, Rose pulled up to a house with warm lights glowing. Weighing risk and reward in a two-pan balance, she knocked on the door, hoping against hope a sweet grandma type would let her in to use the loo and maybe have easy directions to her lodging.

Rose knocked once and waited. Then knocked again. Surely someone had to be home. She remembered how she left a living room lamp on in her apartment to give the illusion someone was home. Frantic, she started surveying the bushes and shrubs as possible cover. Things were going from desperate to crisis when finally the door opened. 

“Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but I’m lost and really need to use the bathroom,” she exclaimed in a rush.  When the very rumpled, sleepy man at the door gestured her in and pointed the way to the bathroom, Rose wasted no time. Locking the door and taking care of business, she relaxed enough to realize what she had just done and what might happen.

“Oh my God, I’m going to be a Dateline warning story,” she thought. After washing her hands and looking around, she noted the room was tidy, clean without giving off serial killer vibes. Okay, maybe she’d lucked out and would be able to leave unscathed. Dumb bladder. Dumb water bottle of which she had consumed the entirety. Dumb dead phone. She chuckled when she noticed she had grabbed her bear spray but not her phone charger. Classic Rose.

Hands dried, bear spray tucked up her left sleeve, she threw her shoulders back and opened the door. While she had solved one very urgent problem, she had created about seventeen more. 

“Thank you so much, I appreciate that, I’ll just be on my way.”

“Hold on a minute. What in the hell are you doing driving alone in the middle of the night in unfamiliar territory? And why in the name of Frank Sinatra are you knocking on doors of complete strangers?! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” His voice scratchy with sleep still had a booming quality. No one ever yelled at Rose. She was sweetness incarnate. Her eyes began to well up, her jaw set and her fists clenched.  Just as she was about to give this stranger a piece of her mind in his living room, she stopped to notice he wasn’t wearing a shirt. A nice amount of chest hair trailing down to gray sweatpants and bare feet. His hair was sleep-rumpled and he had creases on his right cheek from the pillowcase. 

“Um, could you tell me how to get to the bed and breakfast nearby?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Of course, you’re the writer Sam told me was coming. That makes so much sense.”

“Sam? You mean Ms. Fairbanks?”

“Yeah, my sister. I’ll show you the way. It’s not far, but it’s tricky directions at night. Don’t you have a cell phone?”

“Yes, but I forgot my charger at home.”

The look he pierced her with had Rose equal parts furious and breathless. 

“My name is Rose, by the way.”

“I know. Now let’s go.”

As she got in her car, a number of sailor-worthy expletives escaped her mouth. The grumpy stranger hadn’t even given his name. How rude. She followed him for 15 minutes around winding curves and backroad turns. She would have been lost for sure if she hadn’t stopped. But it was hard to be grateful when she was still seething with anger and unable to stop thinking about the striking figure in gray sweatpants. Whatever this retreat was meant to be, it certainly wouldn’t be restful. “But it won’t be boring either,” Rose said aloud. At that, she smiled for the first time in a long time.