People have always said to me, "you should be a writer." By this, they mean that I should be published (or at least try to be), should make some money doing this, should get my words and stories out there into a much bigger forum - the forum of public consumption.
This terrifies me, the public consumption thing.
The reason? I don't write fiction. All my writing comes only from the deepest places in my heart, from the life that I have lived so far. I have let out parts of it before. Some were sanitized and some, not so much. What I haven't done is told the entire story in a cohesive way, which means:
I haven't been totally honest. I haven't told the truth entire.
That's not to say I've lied. What I've chosen to write about has certainly been the truth, but when the truth comes out in little spurts, it's hard to get the whole picture. Writing this blog is an act of courage for me, the same courage that gets me up and out of bed every morning. My resolution is to begin at the beginning; tell you what happened and what's happening now. And my fear is that in so doing, I will be harshly judged, and maybe not liked, by you. The reader.
This not being liked thing, this being judged: it shouldn't be so important to me, because frankly writing has saved my life more than once. It has allowed me to exorcise some demons, to make some sense of a world that sometimes makes no sense at all. Writing has saved me through the death of a child; through addictions and -isms; through the loss of a partner and losing my home to fire. Writing sustained me when my personal liberty was at risk and I was pretty sure I was losing my mind entirely. Writing has been the thread, the ONE thing that stayed the same.
And so, I write. Sometimes people connect to it, and sometimes I have nothing remarkable or insightful to say, but I still do it, and sometimes it's pretty good and other times I can totally see that it's self-indulgent babble.
My mom sent me a package not long ago containing old pictures and some thin, yellowing scraps of paper. Written on the paper were things that I'd dictated to her as a child: nothing earthshaking, but telling simply because even then I knew that words and memories were important. One of the scraps says, "mommy and I went shopping and then she let me have green Jello and pop."
So there's the next common thread. Life, and food. Of course we all need to eat, but some of us eat to live and some of us live to eat. I'd have to put myself in the latter camp, because food is as important to me as my writing is. Of course food sustains life, but it is also another of my passions. I love to shop for it, I love to eat, I love to plan meals and read cookbooks and cook for people. Cooking is how I express love; it's my art-form. It's supported me financially many times, and when it hasn't I went on ahead and did it anyway because I just plain enjoy it. I find Zen in the kitchen; in the rhythms of chopping and stirring and tasting and creating. Some people are at peace working behind a computer; some folks paint or draw or make music or jewelry, but cooking and food bring me joy and expression, and usually it means that at the end of the day, we have something good to eat.
Yesterday, I was thinking about this blog and not even really recognizing yet how scared I was to actually commit to doing what I said I was going to do: tell my whole story from the beginning. I did know that I felt uneasy; that I was having a lot of scattered thoughts and random memories and that I was self-editing even my brain, trying to figure out what was okay for public consumption. I knew that I was futzing around on other sites, trying to accomplish a boggling amount of paperwork that will help me align my life one more time, but I didn't see that I was actually getting in my own way by filling my head so full of numbers and data data data that I lacked any clarity at all.
I knew that I needed soup. Matzo ball soup, to be exact. Chicken soup with matzo balls, to be completely specific. And so I made it: not from complete scratch since I had broth on hand, but scratch enough. It smelled wonderful and comforting while it simmered, and tasted familiar and delicious when I ate it. It did what soup is supposed to do: nourished me and calmed me. I had to sit down while I ate it, had to take that little time-out to spoon it in without my shirt ending up as a big bib. It gave me a little courage.
Soup, and writing, can do that.
Matzo Balls for Chicken Soup:
1 c. club soda or seltzer
1 c. matzo meal
2 T. schmaltz (chicken fat, rendered - or whatever congeals at the top of the broth you've made. Butter or olive oil can be substituted, but schmaltz is really where it's at.)
1 egg
1 t. kosher salt
pepper and nutmeg to taste
1/2 t. chopped parsley
Pour soda/seltzer over matzo meal, and stir until water is absorbed. Add fat and egg and seasonings, and stir until evenly distributed. Place in refrigerator, covered, for an hour or longer. When ready to use, roll into walnut-sized balls, using a light hand - you're more shaping them until they hold together rather than zealously crafting them like play-dough. Set aside; you should have 8 or so.
Bring 10 c. salted water to the boil in a 4-qt. pot. Add matzo balls and cover tightly. Lower heat to a good simmer, and let them cook for 20 minutes. Serve in good strong chicken broth; feel free to throw some carrot coins or sliced celery into the broth.
If you need help with a broth recipe, or troubleshooting the matzo balls, contact me here.