Not Waiting for Inspiration

 I have pledged to return to writing.

Sometimes it is easy, the inspiration strikes and words flow readily.  All they require is for me to sit down quickly and start typing.

What to do on days I don't feel the juice?  I am fairly worn out.  Today is Sunday.  I have the time.  I already took care of the week's schedule and payroll.  Sketched out a calendar and some menus.  Absolutely nowhere to go except to the washer and dryer and perhaps the kitchen and bathroom for tidy up.  

I have the idea if I wait for inspiration, perhaps it won't find me.  Maybe I need to trust inspiration can strike even in the middle of a rote practice.  

For example, I sit in my beat up old hand me down chair in the corner of my room.  The window is open and a soft breeze caresses my cheek and seems to tell me secrets.  I am listening!  No other noise around but the sound of my work papers fluttering.

Or, A tiny little alcove in my bedroom holds a Book of Common Prayer and a hymnal.  Set upon the books a beautifully painted box filled with whispered prayers of panic and pleading, wishes and fears.  They are covered in dust telling the truth to anyone who cares to look.   

Hmmmm.  I have been a person of faith for my whole life.  Seeing the mystical and magical woven all around me, through the shaft of sunlight piercing the clouds, or the drops of dew glistening on the moss.  My dad led the singing at the tiny country churches we attended.  Mom played the piano.  Singing around the piano with my parents and their best friends is still one the things that delights me more than anything. 

Uh oh.  The tears started flowing and I just remembered there will be no more singing around the piano with my dad.  

I haven't been in church more than twice the past few years.  The most recent time was at my dad's funeral, and to tell you the truth I am perfectly content if I never set foot in a church again.

Whoa.  I said it.  Out loud where people might actually read this and become very concerned.  I am going to assume my kids are the only ones reading this.  Since they know me and love me I don't have to fear their judgement.  

It isn't very complicated.  I have completely lost faith in the trappings of religion.  I am not exactly certain what I believe about God and Jesus these days.  Well.  I am certain that if there is a God, he/she would certainly transcend gender, denominations, sects, religions.  Oh.  And politics.  

I might be a bit more comfortable with the concept of the Holy Spirit.  

This shedding has been going on for years and years.  No, not because my husband died and I am angry at God for taking him.  Although I have had quite a few questions about that.  For one, since Philip was the more spiritual, the more holy and committed to an evangelical belief system, wouldn't God have left him here? He would be the influence my children needed to keep them in the church?  When my children, okay, not kids anymore, have spoken to me about the loss of their faith, about their doubts, I sadly smile and agree that it is sometimes confusing to not have the certainty of our former belief system.  

Evidence overwhelms me again and again as I seem to perceive the hand of some invisible source providing, directing.  So in what exactly have I lost faith ?  I still pray, setting forth my intentions and desires.  Sometimes around the table with Mom I end my prayers "in Jesus' name" and it is comforting.  I do not mean it the way I did some years ago.  Not at all.

I believe the wind and the trees speak to me on a regular basis.  I believe when I set my heart toward gratitude, a shift occurs, bringing about change.  I speak to dead people all the time, their spirits so real I can almost, not quite touch them.  Right, Dad?  Right, Philip? And then I laugh at myself and tell myself I don't care one whit if I am merely speaking to myself and it is the computer in my brain answering back, and not the spirits of these dearly departed.  

When assailed by fear or joy or gratitude or worry, saying a prayer (to whom? I don't care!) is a connection to something bigger than me.  

This loss of my former faith makes many folks sad and confused. I certainly don't mind if they pray for me.  Truth is, I don't feel very confused at all anymore. 

I look up from my chair, laptop in lap.  About the time I think my pal, the wind, has gone on and left me behind, he? she? comes in and tenderly touches my cheek.  Such loving comfort.  It moves me deeply and I have to hold myself back from sobbing so as not to concern Nora.  I may not be confused.  But there are all flavors of grief.  It was easier, back in the day, when I was so certain.  Maybe I should pull out that sacred hand painted little box, peruse the little slips of paper.  Maybe it is time to make a little fire, present them as a burned offering.  A great big thank you to the powers that be for getting me from there to here.  Maybe it is time to start writing out my concerns and wishes on tiny slips of paper to tuck in the box. I don't have to define anything.  What if this blog is a bit of my prayer?  Sharing an authentic piece of human with the world.  Making myself vulnerable with my words.  Isn't that a prayer? 

In the meantime, I have the still afternoon, the sound of Nora stirring around in her room.  The cool breeze says summer is over and we can welcome a dear season of harvest.  

 

Fran Rowe, Artist (i need to write a blurb about Mom for a magazine and might as well start a draft here)

Several years ago Mom and I were driving around Alpine. She and Daddy had come out for a visit. I was still baking out of our home kitchen at the time. I suggested it would be a lot of fun to have a brick and mortar gallery somewhere downtown disguised as a bakery. We laughed and laughed at the idea. I told her that all the people coming in to get their cup of coffee would see her paintings, fall in love and buy them! 

 Isn't it funny how little nuggets of inspiration appear from out of nowhere? We are entering our fourth year downtown Alpine, bakery and fine arts gallery and now we chuckle in gratitude. Sure enough, she has sold several original oils and quite a number of giclees. What is even more lovely is the fact so many people get to delight in her craft, her life's work. 

 Mom has been painting and drawing all her life. Born in 1941, Wichita Falls, Texas, daughter to a small town preacher and his wife, the church pianist and organist. Mom always loved running around outside and was way more a tomboy than her mother would have preferred. She had a way of picking up every pretty rock that caught her attention, and still does! Mom sees more deeply into nature than some, perhaps because she actually pauses to take it all in. I think seeing nature is a part of her spiritual practice, as is her continued work of playing the piano, at home and at her church. 

Mom works in oils on linen. Occasionally watercolor and pastel. She has been recognized both regionally and nationally, through Oil Panters of America, Contemporary Masters and others. She has a big pile of medals and ribbons and writeups. Which is impressive on its own. I see things through a different lens. 

Mom always had a studio, wherever we lived. Daddy would see to that. While we girls would be rustling up dinner in the kitchen, riding horses, doing homework, she would be out there painting away. Sometimes she would go down to Big Bend in an RV with her boxer and paint on location for weeks at a time. The church ladies at home were a bit perplexed, wondering if Fran and John were getting a divorce! No! Their marriage was strong and endured richly because Dad recognized how desperately Mom needed to be in nature to get paint on a canvas. 

August, 1997, my parents and sister were involved in a head on collision with a drunk driver. Mom was in the hospital for weeks. Every bone in her foot was crushed. She had breaks in her legs, a head injury, was told she would never walk again. We worked to help her adjust to wheel chair life in the hard long journey of recovery. She couldn't remember how to paint. Depression set in. 

Here is where my mom went from average amazing artist and great mom to super hero status in my book. She decided she would completely disregard the prediction of the doctors and began the even longer and harder journey to freedom from the wheelchair. 

Mom was able to painfully get around with a cane and on a whim I suggested she and I make a road trip down to Big Bend National Park. Her healing place. Her heart's desire. Bound and determined, grasping her cane and my arm, tears running down our faces because of the agony, she lifted one foot. And then the other. Many minutes to cover a few feet, breathing in the mountain air, with the Chisos leaning over us like a giant friend. That short walk in the spring of 2000 was perhaps the longest, most painful journey of our lives. And the most victorious, empowering moment as well. 

Twenty years later, Mom still endures chronic pain from her injuries and we have lost count of the many surgeries. But she never gives up. Bound and determined. With a fierce need to do whatever it takes to get paint on canvas. She wishes to bear witness to the natural beauty she sees in the piles of rocks, the clouds, the looming canyon walls. Many take notice of the way she captures movement and light. Mom will tell anyone she paints as an act of worship. It is a spiritual practice for her, same as playing the piano in church. All I know is her journey is inspirational to me. Her courage and resilience heroic. Being able to share her work in our bakery/fine arts gallery is a dream come true.

Love in a Coffee Can Stuck in the Closet

I have always enjoyed food. I have a recipe box, beaten up and grimy, tucked away somewhere in the garage, with recipes collected and written out in my second grade handwriting on index cards and lined school paper. My mom is a terrific cook. And perhaps one might say reluctant? No one can do angel biscuits or sopapillas like Mom. That said, Dad was the one who delighted in the kitchen.

Daddy had a rusty old coffee can full of his own scribblings. Little things picked up from ladies at the church potlucks. A faded newspaper clipping of a recipe. List of ingredients and measurements for curing corned beef or bacon. Our family favorite: slop cake! You know the one? Perhaps not? Slop a can of cherry pie filling, a can of crushed pineapple into a rectangle baking pan. Dump a box of dry cake mix on top. Pour a melted stick of butter (let's face it, you know it was margarine) on top and liberally sprinkle cracked pecans on top of everything else. Bake in a hot oven until everything is bubbly and the smell is divine. Try not to burn your mouth when you sneak a spoonful from the corner.

I don't eat sugar anymore. Hardly ever. And my baking is all whole foods, real organic cherries and never a boxed mix in sight. But I can admit that I do feel quite nostalgic when I remember the smell, the tangy sweet taste, the buttery flavored goodness. And can see his handwriting on the little slip of paper stuck in among the old school photos and business cards and what not.

We all got together a few weeks ago to remember Daddy on his birthday. Mom pulled down the coffee can and we spread the contents all over the big wooden table he made with his own hands way back when I was in elementary or early middle school. I laughed at the school pictures. Wow we had some big glasses! Thanks Mom and Dad for the braces! Awkward and painful but now look at my straight teeth!

And all those scraps of paper. Backs of receipts, butcher paper, index cards, lined school paper. All with his handwriting, probably using a pencil he had just sharpened with his pocket knife. It made me cry. Touching my dad's fingerprints all over the years of his little stash, kept up in a corner of the closet, was it to the left? The right?

Daddy was a firefighter with the Oklahoma City Fire Department. Four days on, four days off? I don't know for sure, but I do remember he would be gone for a few days a week and of course those would be the days the rabid skunk would lurk around our farmhouse and Mom would have to woman up and kill it, did she actually cut the head off to send off to be tested for rabies??? I will ask her this afternoon. Or a poisonous snake by the backdoor. I can't forget the time I cut myself rather severely, playing in a forbidden zone, barefoot of course, an old fallen down barn full of broken glass. Blood was spurting from my ankle with every pulse of my heart and she had to gather up me, the toddler and the baby, to drive into town to the ER.

But wait, this is about Daddy! All the time Mom would be milking the goats and hanging the diapers on the clothesline, Daddy would be on call, heading out to fires all over the city. Dangerous, but he loved it. And when not tackling fires, he would be taking over the kitchen, cooking for the crew. He did such a good job his crew frequently asked him to share his recipes with their wives, haha! Dad cooked by taste. And oh how he loved to make people happy by giving them delicious food!

It is a wonder how this peanut farming cotton picking kid from dustbowl Oklahoma grew to love the kitchen so much. Back in the day, early to mid eighties I guess, Mom was spending a lot of time in Lajitas and the Big Bend, out here in West Texas. She would come to paint on location, have art shows, meet fancy people who loved her art work. Most of the time Dad would be back in Central Texas managing the place and their three daughters. Occasionally they would cross the border into Ojinaga, Coahuila, Mexico and go out to eat. Dad would question the cooks in his broken Spanish, coaxing them to share their recipes. From these forays comes my favorite meal my dad would make. In fact, when we reunited after two years of my living in Japan, the very first meal I requested was his Tacos Chihuahua.

Beef, chicken, venison or shrimp, the protein doesn't matter much. Hey! I've made this with tofu, but don't tell Daddy. He would be rolling his eyes in heaven, telling me we have a freezer full of meat, go get some.

Here's how you could make this yourself, if I remember properly.

Thinly slice two or three onions on the bias. He would use yellow ones. Chop up an entire package of bacon. Yep. That was his recipe. Use your biggest cast iron skillet. Gently begin to cook those onions in the bacon. Slice a bunch of garlic cloves and toss them in the pan. When the onions begin to caramelize toss in the chunks of meat. You should have seen my dad debone a chicken. When the meat begins to brown, add several fresh tomatoes cut into pieces about the size of your thumb. And several fresh jalapenos. He would suggest that jalapenos with a pointy end would be very very hot, a blunt end more mild. He would then whisper dramatically that when the tomatoes began to break down, it was important to add a generous glug of soy sauce. How the heck did my dad know about umami??? Try to make this dish without the soy sauce and it is not even near the same, even if delicious. When things are all nice and saucy, and of course after he would taste for salt and pepper, he would finely chop a bunch of fresh cilantro and toss it all in, stems and all, and cook for just a couple minutes more.

We would have this served on rice. Or in hot flour tortillas. Plenty of his special pico de gallo and yes, why not top all that fat off with some sour cream?

I haven't made this dish in awhile. When I do I use a few slices of organic, pastured pork bacon for many servings! Venison is still my favorite go to. Or boneless skinless chicken thighs. I don't eat rice, very few tortillas, but I might have to whip this up this weekend. Makes me teary-eyed thinking about it.

I asked Daddy to make this meal for my fiftieth birthday, yep, several years ago. He couldn't sharpen the knives. He kept forgetting the ingredients and had to ask me over and over if I could help him remember. It was one of the harshest, saddest days ever.

A few doctors had diagnosed him with Parkinson's Disease, but we found a neurologist in Odessa who determined that Daddy had Lewy Bodies Dementia. Similar and yet oh so different.

I took over the cooking and Daddy helped stir. I felt grief spread cold through my body. Little did I know what a hard journey he would have over the next few years. And yet. And yet. We had each other! We had the memories! I had the recipes written in my heart. And on little scraps of paper in a beat up, rusty red coffee can.

Three Years Later

Here I am. Completely out of practice, I can barely remember how to type. But somehow, on this surprising Wednesday afternoon, sitting on top of my little hill outside town, surrounded by wind and mist and completey blanketed by clouds and cold, I feel a hankering to write. So. The bakery. Maybe before I get to the bakery I should tell you a bit about my little refuge. Actually, the bakery does have something to do with this precious place. You see, when I opened the doors to our tiny little shop, I loved it so much, I told it that we were true partners. I loved that place. Still do! But the running of it made me very tired. Some of you know the realities of owning your own business. Thank God the kids work with me and my folks have been such a presence. But if you want to talk about work life family balance, I would have to say it was quite hard. Okay, the truth? Impossible. Yet the bakery and I continued to give ourselves to our community out of pure love. The garden grew. The menu grew, each of us on staff grew. And it felt like I lived at the bakery. Arriving at 4 something in the dark of morning. Sometimes not getting home until nine or ten in the dark at night. My home garden died. The house was neglected. More kids graduated and flew away. My precious friends came to hang out with me at the shop as we would clean up, sharing stories and a glass of wine. Dinner parties at home were no more. A year and a half ago Nora and I began to take Sunday drives out in the country. We pondered the idea of moving a few miles out of town to the big sky, mountains, dark skies and peace. This place too far. That place too big. Yikes, they want how much for that shack? Right in the nick of time we found a tiny little house. End of the lane. View that defies description. Over a mile high in elevation and less than twenty minutes from work. An offer not accepted. Disappointment. A journey to the west coast of Ireland for my birthday. A prayer and steps around a hidden sacred well in the middle of the bog. Second offer made, what do I have to lose? Here I sit. Tiny little house at the end of the lane. Blanketed by misty clouds, wind whipping the live oak and juniper. And slowly but surely balance is returning to my life. These days I wake up to the sunrise. The drive to work is joy. I drive home in the daylight and sit on my deck, feet up on the rail. Friends come to my house and we sit on my patio, socially distanced of course! Sometimes I even cook them food at home! We watch the deer and occasional elk. Sometimes all the kids are here and we sit around our table on the patio and feast and laugh and feel the love. This place is a mercy. A gift. A place where I can heal. My dad died this year. His story is another story. Just let me say that I have some healing to do. And I miss my daddy. How happy he was to come see this place. PS the bakery is still going strong, which is in itself a miracle in times like these. More on that soon. But for now I am going to get back into the practice of writing, which means stream of consciousness, random, whatever strickes my fancy to see if I can do it anymore. PPS what does the bakery have to do with my little refuge? Had I not gotten so burned out, burned out to a faint and dying ember, I might not have taken the drastic steps to save myself. I might not have been so desperate I needed to believe in miracles and sacred wells and the concept of wishes that could come true. You enjoy our partnership. You didn't ask me to sacrifice myself upon your altar. Thanks for growing with me, dear Bakery. I still love you.

One Year Later.....

(Written as a draft September 2018) I finished writing up an employees handbook last week. Took it to Joe, the local printer at Printco to have it printed out, and opening and closing procedures laminated.

We are gearing up for a busy holiday, super busy event season, and this afternoon my staff of 12 will show up for a meeting to go over it all.

Staff of 12????

It blows my mind we are entering our second year as Taste and See Bakery, 116 North Fifth St. Alpine, Tx. What a whirlwind education. I could write a book about the uncommon and amazing loyalty of my terrific employees. Or our loyal local customers who grin and bear it as we muddle through, making our mistakes, learning the ropes. Or the fun, sweetheart tourists who delight in our unique offerings. How about I just mention what this bakery has done for our family???

Thomas, my oldest son who is on the autism spectrum, comes in to work two days a week. He earns a little pizza money by taking out trash, doing some dishes, setting up candles for pizza night, washing our weekly load of local produce. He assists up front by serving customers water, taking them cheese nibbles and baguette. We love seeing him be engaged, not just with us, but with our customers.

Patrick and Maggie jump right in to help like warriors when they pop in for a quick visit. They don't berate me when I am a workaholic and forget to send them care packages. They listen and advise from afar.
Rose and Nora jumped in from day one, working double shifts, doing anything I needed. Tending the customers up front, making grilled cheeses, countless pieces of cinnamon toast. Rose was our first pizza night chef. Seventeen years old, tending the kitchen like a rock star, in between making all the cookie dough for the week. Sad as I was, we all knew she would graduate. Nora, fourteen at the time, slid right into head pizza chef position, directing orders to other employees, training, advising and consulting with me on menu choices. She also handles the front like a charm, and her grace, poise and confidence have soared. Oh, and may I say that these kids certainly enjoy knowing how to earn their own spending money?

Yes, I have worked more hours than any sane human should work a week for the past year. Strangely enough, our family bonds have done nothing but grow closer and closer.

My sister Christine has helped hang my mom's paintings. My sister Terri sells her super cute aprons here. My mom has sold seven paintings this year. My dad brought us a five gallon bucket of organic swiss chard every week for nine months. One week he brought me six five gallon buckets. Oh. My. Goodness. I begged him never do that again!

Mom and Dad come in to the bakery several times a week, and I am so thankful to have healthy, fun food for them.

I will say there is nothing in the world more stressful than opening a storefront business. Offering our tiny little venture to the world is scary and downright nerve wracking. It hurts to have people occasionally be mean to us. It hurts to make big mistakes and feel embarrassed.
It is hard to be a boss and know how to effectively train a staff when I am on a significant learning curve. It is daunting when the mill goes down. Or our shipment is delayed. It is shocking how quickly one's feet will go to ruin, even wearing expensive, supportive shoes, just because one is not supposed to stand upright for 18 hour days for weeks and months.

Oh, but the joy! The memories! The larger than life little moments that remind me daily we are doing exactly what we wish to be doing with our lives, offering our tiny little gift to our town.