Soup, salad, shrimp and cat

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So, I'm looking out my kitchen window a few days ago, and I see this: Nutmeg scaling the roof of the garage. After this photo was snapped, he considered throwing himself into that forked tree -purposefully and deftly of course- but decided instead to perch on the very spine of that roof and sit a spell. Not two minutes later he was running pell-mell down the slope and then he disappeared. I was worried until a friend said, "Well, you don't often see cat skeletons in trees." Nutmeg showed up at the front door of our home a half-hour later.

Cats. It's all that can be said. And I love them, and him, for that. He is so damn sure of himself!

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Hubs has worked late every night since whenever I last saw him. I think that was Sunday. Poor guy caught my cold and then gets slammed. Because I'm Mrs. Silver Lining this week (except for a marginal breakdown yesterday afternoon; different story for different time), I decided to make one of my favorite soups and have a vegetarian friend over for lunch as she would enjoy it so very much more than my carnivorous T.

This Leeky Sunchoke Bisque did not disappoint because it never does. It's just a damn good recipe of which I'm proud, not least because it always reminds me of why I save my Parmesan and pecorino rinds and how wise that is. Mmm...cheesiness! Plus sunchokes (aka Jerusalem artichokes; they are NOT artichokes so this moniker is both odd and misleading.), leeks, shallots, nutmeg, buttermilk and so on.

Unfortunately, this is not a pretty soup, but imagine the inner glow of health and hale you get with each bite. It's enormous!

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I also made some bread. Though my friend said it was good, I imagined I'd forgotten to put the dough in loaf pan and had, instead, lined up some soggy hockey pucks. Mon dieu. I brought some to the boys at pick-up and they were thrilled. Until they took a bite.

"Mom, this bread is HARD."

"Yeah, it lacks moisture. Or something."

"Maybe if I hit it with a cheese hammer?!"

What, pray tell, is a cheese hammer? Oliver swears he meant sledge hammer but forgot the first word. The point remains, the bread was a #fail. Hilarious.

Then the breakdown occurred -SOS- and then I made my beloved farro salad with gold beets and pecans and feta and herby oil. Then I made some browned-butter and pimenton shrimp and felt myself settling back into an even keel.

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As I sat quietly with my newspaper and this fine meal and some wine, I read about the insane measles outbreak and cursed the anti-vaxxers. I sipped some wine, turned the page and read an incredible essay so as to let the ire go. Nutmeg purred at my ankles and I called it a day.

#likeagirl

The hot-catch Bachelor feigns somber nervousness as the final, trembling-lip Bachelorettes approach his stage. Teetering on stilettos and wrapped snugly in revealing duds, these women look like overeager Barbies. Their sparkly costume jewelry radiates the very hope in their hearts: each wants that rose. I first saw The Bachelor a decade ago when a group of my now-husband's business school classmates invited me over for a girls' night. We drank Chardonnay and snacked on appies, smooshed together on a plump couch in one of their apartments. These women were pals, bonded by the experience of successfully navigating an old boys' club. They were kind, but I knew I stood on the periphery. I was just a fiancée, a partner of, an educator for christs' sakes. I felt time-warped back to high school: unsure and ill-at-ease, the odd girl out amongst these pretty, confident femmes.

Their excitement was palpable. Who would Bob reject? Who would he consider loving? I remember watching with revulsion. Did these contestants really think they'd fall in love this way? How disgusting that in looking for a life partner, you'd have to be a contestant. It all seemed so desperate and sad and utterly constructed; a modern-day race to a coveted MRS degree.

Bob looked smug, so satisfied that I felt ill. He had nothing to lose, for even though none of the contestants seemed to have much in the way of dignified sense-of-self, he was the one who got to dip his toes in each pool as often as possible with nary a hint of 'please.' I could not imagine why any woman enjoyed watching this play out, much less participating in it.

Of course Bob chose Estella, to her credit a seemingly equally-calculating individual, and of course they broke up shortly after the final tape rolled. The rose was a ruse, an empty ploy for viewers and ad money. (I am shocked anew each and every time I see a photo, that Trista and Ryan are still together.)

Fast forward several years, and The Bachelorette aired. Inevitable I guess, but as a woman, I didn't feel terribly empowered by this nod towards my team. That both the His and Hers versions continue (The Bachelor is now in its 19th season!) to run still makes me green around the gills, but we're all so inured to fake "reality" TV these days, that it seems less desperate and sad in some ways. I think that's pretty sad in and of itself.

I never watched another episode and haven't thought about The Bachelor in years, save for the regular US Weekly updates on famous people who aren't famous for anything. But yesterday, during the Super Bowl, I caught a glimpse of the Patriots cheerleaders. Don't get me wrong, they are cute as buttons and fit as fiddles. But do they really pep up the team? The crowd? Or are they there for show? I don't know the honest answer, and if each woman is doing the job for herself, then cheer away you badass vixens.

All to say that I was reminded of The Bachelor and how too many women seem to feel they need to be for show. As if their worth derives primarily from what they can obtain with looks and those ole feminine wiles. Just look at the the "Real" Housewives, such obvious iterations of their predecessors. They are vapid, soulless creatures; it's Stepford redux.

We send these messages throughout society, laterally and, more perniciously, down the chain to our girls. I'm old enough (and dealt with the whole image thing long ago), but youth is an impressionable substance, and with the constancy of media these days, well, I'm somewhat relieved to just have my sons. Boys and men can feel the pressures of beauty too, but it's often different and doesn't onset as young.

We need more ads like the Always #likeagirl spot that run during the Super Bowl. More shows and stories and films and plays and all sorts of things in that vein, #likeagirl tropes that celebrate the vast strength and self-determination in "girlness" rather than pay any attention to the porcelain-doll shell- game that diminishes women again and again.

Mental toughness, aka a Super Bowl 2015 review

Compartmentalizing emotional reactions has never been my strong suit. Were that it was! I have spent many a year with many a different teacher trying to master this skill, but it remains elusive, like the grail or a good artichoke in the U.S. I am less like an emotional windsock than I once was -amen!- and that has helped, but if I'm worried or angry or upset about something, it's a good bet that no amount of "Stick that in a box and put it on a shelf in the deep recesses of your closet" is going to work in any quick way. I deeply admire this quality in others -unless it's so extreme that they're cold sociopaths or unemotional meanies- and rarely do I witness it in such vivid, impressive fashion as I do in pro football games. That could be a result of my not watching any sports other than football, but I maintain that the game o' the pigskin offers many examples of incredible compartmentalization.

Though I'd not let my boys play football, I do love to cheer through a good game. I recognize the hypocrisy in that, but no one's perfect, so I'm going to let it slide. What I think can be learned, repeatedly, by watching battles on the great green expanse is the power of mental toughness. The best players take calculated risks, never give up and learn from mistakes. And all during a very intense, relatively compact, much-riding-on-it time.

Taking Calculated Risks

Who watched the Super Bowl last night? If you did you might remember that six seconds before the half, when the Seahawks were near the end zone but on a 3rd down, they decided to GO FOR the touchdown rather than take the safe bet and kick a field goal. Tom was aghast: "That is so ballsy and pretty stupid!" I thought it was awesome though definitely a bit risky. Even schlubby, non-emoter of the world Bill Belichick was probably like, "WTF?!"

Was it an uncertain gander? Indeed. Did it payoff enormously? Because Chris Matthews caught it, yes. And by the way, that was Matthews' first-ever touchdown in the NFL. Just minutes before, he'd caught his first NFL  reception ever. His story (Foot Locker to free agent) is incredible!

Not all risks pay off but if they're well-considered, they're often worth taking.

Never Giving Up

It's late in the game and Russell Wilson launches a pass. Jermaine Kearse is hauling ass down the field with a Patriot hot on his tail. Kearse jumps, he catches the ball, both men fall, Kearse loses control of the ball but never takes his eyes off it. Realizing that it's bounced on him but NOT touched the ground, he keeps his wits and grabs. It's good! That was unreal.

If Kearse had let his attention lapse for a second, had given up when he fell and the ball went flying, it'd have been a failed play. Instead, it was epic. And another reminder of why "Don't take your eyes off the ball/prize" is such a fantastic piece of advice for life in general.

Learning From Mistakes

Do y'all think Russell Wilson and the entire offensive line and coaching staff had horrid nightmares last night about that game-losing pass intended for Lockette but intercepted by Butler? That was an inexplicably bad play decision from the get-go. When you're about to win the game because you've made it to the no yard line and have no more than 30 seconds to go and aren't short on downs, you DO NOT throw it in until you have to. You run that puppy down. Hullo, Seahawks! Marshawn Lynch and his beast power are ON YOUR TEAM. Use that man's gifts, people.

You can be sure the entire team will never allow anyone with whom they're playing to make this mistake again.

It's like why Richard Sherman might as well have been taking a nap on the sideline last night. No one is throwing to the guy he's covering for a reason. Lesson learned. ~~~

The best athletes never let a bad play intrude in defeatist fashion into their psyches; at least not for long. They consider what went wrong and how to avoid that mistake in the future and then move forward. They also refuse to give up.

It's incredible to watch these processes in action. Count me inspired!

*As a complete aside, Julian Edelman had a hell of a game, yes?