The Road to Happy Valley

This is a story about the road to Happy Valley. For many years, my husband and I have been going to Penn State games. A friend of ours (now dead) introduced us to Penn State football in the late 1970s. We began attending games before Penn State entered the big 10 (really 11). We have gone to most all the home games (excepting a brief hiatus when our daughter was born in October, 1981) and some important away games, including the thrilling Fiesta Bowl in January, 1987 (which capped the winning 1986 season.


This past Saturday, we headed out in the early morning for the noon game against Purdue (for the record, PSU won, and that's the last mention of wins or losses).


We love to drive the "back way" which takes us along the Susquehanna River, heading north on U.S. 15. Appropriately, the route is also called Old Trail Road. Just above Liverpool, PA, we head off on Route 104 winding along a lovely country road, where Amish farmers are out in their buggies on a Saturday morning.

We go through several small towns, including Middleburg.

The morning sky was laced with dramatic sweeping clouds on this autumn day.

We pass little country churches.

Winter provisions rolled up in plastic, under the morning sky.

Neat farm settings. We can tell that many of these farms are Amish by the lack of telephone or electrical wires heading into the farms. Also, there are frequently sturdy draft horses in the fields.

Our first stop is the Penn Stater Inn for breakfast. Sometimes it's for lunch, depending on the game starting time.

The Legends Pub where we eat is deserted this morning--too early for the food and football crowd.

Our season tickets are for four seats, so we bring along family or friends. The only requirement--just don't wear RED!

Penn State football means Joe Paterno--or in shorthand parlance--JoePa. He is an institution at Penn State. The best attribute about Paterno, in my opinion, is his dedication to education first, and football second.

Of course, there are the tailgaters. The crew below (no one we know) bring along their dog who is appropriately garbed in a football sweater. For several Saturdays, we have watched this dog (across from where we park) as the tailgaters toss a football back and forth over the dog's head. Eventually, the dog grabs the football and proceeds to deflate it.

Finally, we have cooler weather--football should be played in cold weather. This Saturday, our seats were frosted over.

Of course, the festivities begin with the Penn State Blue Band.

Somehow, the tradition began that the drum major would run and do a flip--his success supposedly foretells the game's outcome. Not very scientific, but fun.

Success!

And there is always the Nittany Lion. Once, when we went to a game with our son, who was a little boy at the time, he spied the Nittany Lion and said--look at the guy in the bear suit.

And here we have a well-dressed fan!

We must get into the stadium to see the warm-up drills.

And then the game begins.

Sometimes we have winning seasons--and sometimes not. True fans stick with their team--no booing. No calling for Paterno to resign, etc. etc. etc.

Then it's time to head home, leaving Happy Valley behind.

My favorite site along the road to Happy Valley is this lovely round barn.

I have noticed that the journey home is much sweeter after a victory!

Saturday Soup 5 Fall 2007

We just returned from the last home game of the Penn State season--since I didn't get to post my Saturday soup before we left early this morning, here it is.

This soup was my all time favorite soup at our church Bistro. Several years ago, when we were doing the Best of Bistro--I begged for the committee to choose Mulligatawny soup--to no avail. I was informed that although it is tasty, it is time consuming. So I will just have to taste it in memory.

The editorial note which identifies the soup as an early American standard is a bit confusing--the source of the note is the woman in our church who is a trained chef who vets all the recipes for ingredients, quantity, directions, and such. I believe the origin of this soup was from the British Raj days of bringing foods back to England from India.

Mulligatawny Soup

Makes 12 servings.

This recipe is an early American standard, which boasts a harvest of winter vegetables and the somewhat unusual tastes of curry and almond milk. This version is somewhat time-consuming. You might want to sauté your chicken and make the almond milk ahead of time.

INGREDIENTS
1-1/2 cups chopped onion
12 T. butter
(1-1/2 sticks)
3 pounds chicken pieces
4 medium carrots, diced
2 cloves garlic, chopped fine
4 medium potatoes, peeled and sliced thin
10 cups chicken stock
1/2 pound blanched almonds
1 cup water
1 cup tightly packed spinach leaves
2-1/2 T. curry powder
1 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup finely chopped cilantro leaves

1) Melt 6 T. of butter in a skillet over medium heat. Add carrots, onions, garlic and potatoes. Cook 10 minutes, stirring every few minutes, until onions become translucent. Remove vegetables from the pan and reserve. Wipe out the pan.

2) Add 2 more T. of butter to the skillet and melt. Sauté chicken pieces until they are nicely browned, then place them into a soup kettle.

3) Add chicken broth and bring soup to a simmer. After 30 minutes of simmering, check one of the larger dark meat pieces of chicken for doneness. The chicken should be almost ready to fall off of the bone when it is done. Remove chicken pieces from the kettle and allow them to cool slightly. Discard skin and bones and chop the chicken into small bite-size pieces. Return chicken to the pot. Return the soup to a simmer.

4) While soup is simmering, make almond milk. Toast almonds in the oven at 300 degrees for 10-15 minutes until they just turn light brown. Grind them in a blender or food processor for 2 minutes with 1 cup water. Strain mixture through fine mesh strainer (or double layer of cheesecloth). Reserve all almond milk and discard residual almonds.

5) Add spinach leaves and reserved sautéed vegetables to the kettle. Simmer for 1 minute.

6) Melt remaining 4 T. of butter in a small skillet and stir in curry powder. Add curry mixture and almond milk to the soup kettle. Add cream and cilantro and bring just to a simmer.

If you try it and like it, let me know.

The Copper Garden

Every fall, a myriad of tasks demands attention. There is the closing of the pool--an event that comes sometime in September and almost guarantees warm weather will follow. There is the stacking of the outdoor furniture, and the uncoupling of garden hoses. There are all the annual flowers so lovingly planted in the spring, now overgrown and just waiting to collapse on the first frost. These flowers need to be pulled out of pots, and dumped into recycle bins.


And then there is the copper garden.


The copper garden began innocently enough. My husband and I were shopping several summers ago at one of the local garden shops. There on display were several lovely copper hanging ornaments. We picked out one, brought it home, and hung it off our green ash tree, right next to our house. Then we saw another one and bought it. It too was hung off the green ash tree.


Over the last several years, we have bought almost 20 copper ornaments, all of which hang from the same tree. Since they are either wind chimes, or wind twirlers, they give the patio area a touch of enchantment.


One of the items has its own special history. My husband bought this canteen of hammered brass with copper accents in Morocco. As we walked through the alleys of Tangier, we were pursued, even hounded, by street vendors. One kept thrusting this canteen in front of my husband, who kept refusing to buy it. Finally, as we neared our destination, my husband named his price. When the vendor began to protest, my husband started to walk away. (Perhaps it may help you to know that my husband works for the state teachers' union, and has participated in many negotiation sessions. One of the keys to successful negotiating is the ability to walk away.) As soon as he walked away, the vendor relented and accepted his price.


Deal done! Well, not quite. We sailed back to Spain, and when we went to leave the airport at Madrid, we went through the usual security, with the canteen in my husband's carry-on luggage. Into the x-ray machine went the carry-on bag. And then it stopped. The security personnel inspected it carefully, then moved it through, then backed it up. The security staff called someone else over, who peered at the image. Then they called a superior. He looked at it, pulled it out as it came out of the machine, and proceeded to examine it. We could see the image on the screen--and there in the middle of the canteen was a square object. The security officer proceeded to question us--where did we get this, what was it, what was inside it. Well, my husband told him we bought it in Morocco, and had no idea what was inside, but he offered to open it. Once the canteen was opened, the officer turned it upside down. Finally, my husband said--it doesn't matter that much to us; we can leave it here. That did the trick and the officer let it go through.


Yesterday, I took down the copper garden. All the items are now boxed, and in storage for winter. Next spring, we will get them out, hang them up again and watch them sway in the wind, and listen to the gentle chimes.

The Last Rose of Summer

We have a student intern in our church right now, and she preached recently. One of the comments she made was—how many times do we look back in sorrow at the things we have left undone.

This thought has been kicking around in my head for some time—but not exactly with the emphasis she stated. We all celebrate and recognize the beginnings of important things in our lives—but we don’t always know when we see or do something for the last time.

A couple of years ago, my husband and I needed to get a new washer and dryer. Since we could afford it, we picked out quite good models—and the salesman said: This may be the last washer and dryer you need to buy. I think I was a little startled—was the world of weekly washing coming to an end? Did the salesman know something I did not about my projected life span? I think he was actually touting the longevity of his product, nothing more dire than that.

That expression—the last rose of summer—comes from a poem by Thomas Moore, an Irish poet. Sir John Stevenson set it to music, which you can hear here. The phrase speaks to the bittersweet quality of approaching autumn.

'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming all alone,
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred,
No rose bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them;
'Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

I thought about titling this blog “The Last Robin of Summer” as that conveys the sweet melancholy that accompanies this time of year. The first robin of spring is much heralded, because you know when you see the first one. But the last robin goes unnoticed, as you don’t know it will be the last one you see.

Of course, it’s not really birds I am thinking about, or even roses. It is the last time we do something, or see someone. Maybe it’s my age, but I do find myself thinking, when an acquaintance dies, when was the last time I saw her?

Hmmm—this post is turning far too melancholic. So, let’s go back to the last rose of summer, and savors it beauty and fragrance, however brief.

Saturday Soup 4 Fall 2007

Having promised an orange soup for this week’s Saturday Soup, I decided to choose one that is a little different. Most of the orange soup recipes that I have (by orange I mean have an ingredient such as pumpkin, sweet potato, squash that gives the soup a distinct orange color) call for chicken stock. If you are a total vegan, no doubt you can substitute vegetable stock. This one is different in that the orange ingredient is carrots.

This soup has a lovely zing to it, thanks to the fresh ginger and nutmeg that the recipe calls for. And using carrots and pears gives it a fresh taste.

Carrot Ginger Pear Soup
Makes 12
servings

INGREDIENTS
1/2 cup butter (1 stick)
1-1/2 cups chopped onions
1/2 cup grated fresh ginger
20 large carrots–peeled and coarsely grated (about 8 cups)
2 quarts chicken stock
2-1/2 cups apple juice
3 large ripe Bartlett pears, peeled, cored and chopped (about 4 cups)
1 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg

METHOD
1) In a large stock pot, heat the butter over low heat. When melted, add onions and ginger and cook slowly until soft (about 10 minutes). Add grated carrots, chicken stock, apple juice and chopped pears. Simmer for about 30 minutes. Stir in nutmeg. Let cool slightly.

2) Puree soup in a food processor or blender until perfectly smooth. Store in an airtight container overnight in the refrigerator or up to one month in the freezer. To serve, reheat slowly and garnish with thinly sliced pear or fried grated ginger. Most supermarkets–and all Asian groceries–carry whole fresh ginger root pieces. Choose a piece of root that is very firm with no visible wrinkles. To use ginger root for this recipe, peel all of the brown skin off of the ginger root and put it into a food processor or grater.

Enjoy!

The New Orleans Saints

No, this is not going to be about the football team—this post is going to be about the REAL New Orleans Saints—all the people who suffered through the devastation of Katrina, and stayed around to rebuild, and all the people who have gone to New Orleans to help the city recover.


There is a palpable difference between the Katrina recovery efforts in Mississippi and in New Orleans. Many factors contribute to that difference, and it is obvious that politics has played a significant role in that recovery. Immediately after Katrina had blown through the area, the governor of Mississippi was in contact with Washington DC. Perhaps you recall that the governor is Haley Barbour, formerly chair of the Republican National Committee. He received promises of aid from the White House that seemingly set a benchmark for federal aid.

You have no doubt heard of how dysfunctional New Orleans’ and Louisiana’s politicians were immediately before and after the storm. When they finally got around to requesting federal aid, they expected, reasonably, a level of response equal to what Mississippi got. Of course, the extent of damage was so much greater in New Orleans, and the White House balked. So the actual dollars, on a per capita basis, tracking to Louisiana for recovery is far lower than the funds that went to Mississippi.

Understandably, residents of New Orleans are deeply suspicious of the various government forces. This week’s election of a new governor in Louisiana bears testament to that. A young woman who drove me to the airport also bore testament to it—she said she can’t help but think that the government ALLOWED the levees to fail!

That’s enough said about the impact of politics on the recovery efforts. Money is the engine that drives the recovery machine.

After our visit to Mississippi, we drove around parts of New Orleans to see the damage. There is a seeming air of normalcy as you drive through neighborhoods, until you begin to look carefully and closely up and down streets. Apartment complexes stand empty—row after row of buildings that have been mucked out and the resulting pile of debris sits at the edge of a sidewalk. No rebuilding has gone on partly due to lack of finances for large scale reconstruction. So apartment complexes are devoid of life—no cars, no bikes, no kids.


Our next stop was a home dedication in New Orleans East. If you look at the map (see end of this post) of the section that we visited, and increase the resolution, you see a lot of blue—those are NOT swimming pools. Those are blue tarps slung over roofs that were damaged when Katrina winds ripped away the tiles.

New Orleans East was long outside the city of New Orleans’ limits, but in the early 20th century people began to build permanent homes there, as suburbs spread out. Initially, it was planned to be an area for wealthier whites, but they moved elsewhere, so middle class African-Americans, escaping poor areas in the downtown, moved there.

A combination of the effect of Hurricane Katrina itself, and the resulting breeching of the levees, caused much of the area to flood and with it the homes. The rebuilt home that we went to help dedicate was one such place. This place is now the home of Carol and Rudy. When Katrina hit, they were living elsewhere, and their home at that time was a single story home that was flooded with 11 feet of water in it. It was damaged beyond repair. So they were moved into a FEMA trailer. They tried to rebuild a semblance of their former lives, but the situation simply overwhelmed them. By his own words, Rudy suffered a near break-down. He would go to his sister-in-law’s house, and say—I just can’t stay in that trailer anymore.



The sister-in-law lived in New Orleans East, and nearby her place was a storm damaged house for sale. This house had 18 inches of water inside it, so it could be rehabbed. Here is where PDA stepped in. Because Carol and Rudy met the financial criteria, they qualified for rebuilding assistance. After they bought the house, and it was gutted, Rudy, still unable to stand staying in the trailer, would go into his new but damaged house and just sit on the floor.


In a city that had 80 % of its land mass flooded, that had 90 % of its resident evacuated, that had most of its protective levees breached which caused the majority of the flooding—in this city, it was a moment of sweet grace to stand in Carol and Rudy’s home. We gathered there, volunteers, visitors, Carol and Rudy and some of their family members—joining hands and singing “Amazing Grace.”


Thank goodness I have this image to replace the negative ones that haunt me: people stranded on roof tops, pleading to be rescued; people hacking their way out of their attics using axes they had placed there in a prior hurricane; pets wandering totally abandoned because their owners were forbidden to take them along; thousands gathered at the Superdome begging for someone, anyone to rescue them; police standing on the Gretna Bridge firing shots over the heads of people fleeing New Orleans; Michael Chertoff blithely responding on the evening news that he was unaware of a problem at the Superdome; President Bush standing in front of St. Louis Cathedral bathed in white light with no one around.

Amazing grace?—you bet. The deliverers of that grace are the true New Orleans’ saints—the people who survived and are rebuilding, and the volunteers from church organizations and from other organizations who come to help.

This statue of the Virgin Mary stands outside Rudy & Carol's new home

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This is the last post on my visit to New Orleans and Mississippi. As I write this, I am listening to Fresh Air with Terri Gross interviewing Terence Blanchard who wrote music called "A Requiem for Katrina" to accompany Spike Lee's film A Tale of God's Will. And, of course, currently in the news are the fires in California, where 1 million people have fled their homes. Perhaps the lessons of Katrina will help others in disasters.
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Map of New Orleans East--click on + to increase resolution and see blue tarp roofs

View Larger Map

Village People

Let me describe the conditions at Pearlington Volunteer Village.

Every volunteer who comes to work at this village for a week is given critical information to make sure no one is surprised. People sleep in pods—these are plastic huts that are set up on wooden floors. The village managers are working on getting air conditioning and heating into each pod, since the outdoor heat can be excessive, and the pods have no insulation or means of keeping cool. The pods have no electricity, though that is being worked on.

Meals are eaten communally. Everyone shares breakfast, and then gets set to head of to work sites. If they are not within easy access to the Baptist church doing the lunch feedings, the volunteers pack a lunch to take along. Then they head out for the day’s work.

People are advised to bring their own tools, and supplies if possible. The work that is being done varies depending upon the condition of the house being worked on. Most of the mucking out, of clearing debris, and tearing out ruined interiors, has been done. Now comes the rebuilding, or even the total building. Once framing is in place, dry wall is installed, electrical wiring put in place, plumbing done. Obviously, the difference between the mucking out stage and the rebuilding stage has changed the demand for work level skill. Now the great need is for people who know what they are doing with the electrical and plumbing stage. Of course, once the interior work is done, painting needs to be done.

After the long day of work, volunteers return to the village, and shower. The sinks for washing up, shaving or brushing teeth are outdoors. Toilets are porta-potties. I refrained from taking a photo of those!

Some of the volunteers come along to cook. The kitchen is probably the most civilized looking portion of the village.
Each evening, the group holds devotions. Many people who have made the trip reflect on the need to process what they have seen and what they are doing. The evening devotions helps to lend a time of quieting, of settling their minds.

Even with these most primitive of conditions, we met people at lunch who were returning for their second, or even third trip. Many faith groups and other groups continue to respond to the incredible need of this area. Frankly, without these volunteers, it is difficult to imagine that governmental agencies would have known what to do, much less muster the will and resources to do it.

The items hanging from the support beams of the dining tent are the name tags of volunteer workers who have come and gone--leaving their tags behind is a kind of symbolic way of leaving a bit of their hearts behind.

Down in the Bayou

On the first day of our multi-day advisory committee meeting, we went touring. At 7:30 in the morning, we left New Orleans and drove east along I-10. Just as we crossed the Mississippi state line, we exited on to U.S. Route 190, connecting to Route 90. Within 10 miles, we were entering the small “town” of Pearlington.

Pearlington is really a “census-designated place.” I am not sure, but I suspect that is government-ese for “this town isn’t big enough to be called a town, but people are living here. . . so we’ll DESIGNATE it as a place.” About 1,600 people live there, of whom 77% are white and 20% black.

So, why all this information on Pearlington? Well, this little place was effectively ground zero when Katrina hit. The eye wall of the hurricane passed right over Pearlington. Here’s how someone who is keeping a blog about the recovery described it:

It is impossible to comprehend, in the comfort of our own homes, what it must be like to lose everything in a single day.
On Monday, August 29th, just after 10:00 a.m. local time, Hurricane Katrina made landfall, with the eastern eye wall directly over Pearlington, MS - sparing New Orleans the direct hit. Every home, building and vehicle in this town of 1600 was destroyed. If that wasn’t enough, a storm surge travelled 4.5 miles inland and drowned what little was left under 12-20 feet of the most toxic stew imaginable.
Since that day, a hardy coalition of volunteers - representing almost every faith, state, Canadian province, two European nations and an eastern Asian country - have travelled regularly to Pearlington to rebuild this forgotten bayou town.

Source:

http://pearlington.blogspot.com/

While there are several churches in Pearlington, many of them some type of Baptist, there is no Presbyterian church there. Yet, I am told, the Presbyterians were among the first disaster recovery people there. One of the lessons we learned (mentioned in the previous blog) is that for volunteers to come and help rebuild, they need a place to stay. So Presbyterian Disaster Assistance (PDA) has set up a series of Volunteer Villages. One of these is in Pearlington.

We first met with some of the volunteer leaders, then headed off to lunch. The place for lunch was the fellowship hall of the First Missionary Baptist Church. Its sanctuary (pictured above in a photo gleaned from another website) had been rendered unusable by the storm, but the Fellowship Hall, once scrubbed out, stood strong. So the pastor and his congregation decided their ministry would be feeding whoever came to town to work, and anyone else, for that matter. They have continued this ministry now for more than 2 years.

Lunch was freshly caught fish, Southern fried, rice, green beans and ham, corn, cole slaw, salad, fruit salad, and corn bread. I was really struck by the simple but sumptuous meal. During our meeting, I had led devotions for our group, using the account of the miracle of loaves and fishes where Jesus fed the 5,000. And now at lunch, here we all sat, side by side, white and black, town people, volunteers from every place, even a crew of county inmates who were doing yard clean-up, eating "loaves" and fish.

Everywhere we walked in this little town, we could see newly built houses. We also saw trailers scattered here and there. We saw dogs that just wandered into the volunteer village and stayed. The scene was chaotic, and very like a developing nation. It did not look much like the United States that most of us are accustomed to seeing.

But the place moved me. Pearlington will come back. People have stayed there. The one by-product of the storm that the workers there told us of is the new founded cooperation. They said—before the storm, black and white people tended not to interact much—but now they do. Storms bring adversity, but they also unite us.

This small child played in the muddy driveway leading to his family's trailer, right next to the Fellowship Hall of the First Missionary Baptist Church.

The First Missionary Baptist Church, as it is being rebuilt.

Following on the heels of Katrina

Perhaps many other folks making a trip to New Orleans would have a different tale to tell. Some might have made the trip for the food. In fact, my office mate said “bring me back some beignets.” Some might make the trip for the music—the jazz. Certainly most would come for the tourist attractions—the French Quarter, the Superdome.

Well, I made the trip for disaster assistance. I am a member of an advisory committee for the program of my church that responds to disasters. New Orleans and a stretch along the Gulf Coast from Florida to Texas were most certainly disasters after Hurricane Katrina cut an incredibly wide swath through the area. (And then in the same year Hurricane Rita hit an almost identical area).

To get a refresher on the scope of the disaster, you can read this overview. Picture it another way—the land mass affected, 90,000 square miles, is equivalent to the land mass of all of the United Kingdom—England, Scotland and N. Ireland! Over a half million people were evacuated. The number of homes damaged, destroyed or made unreachable by the hurricane was over 850,000.

What my church does in response is considered a second responder. The first responders are Red Cross and FEMA—even though the response was far too slow, these agencies are the first on the scene and do immediate provision of care. They rescue people, get them out of hazardous homes, house them temporarily and feed them. Church groups are among the second responders who come in and do the long term recovery work.

While my church has long had a strong disaster recovery presence around the world, response to Katrina has taught us many lessons. Before Katrina, we might have focused more on seeing if money alone could solve part of the problem. People are generous, and they do give in response to disasters. But, some problems are beyond the means of mere money to fix.

Before Katrina, we would have thought that recovery might be accomplished in a few short years. We had begun to learn some lessons from Hurricane Andrew, where the rebuilding took at least 10 years. We also learned some lessons responding to the Boxing Day earthquake and subsequent tsunami in December, 2004. There, people lost not only their lives, their homes, but also their means of livelihood. So, for example, we helped replace fishing boats that had been washed out to sea.

Once Katrina hit, and the magnitude of the damage became clear, we decided that we would need to keep responding for at least ten years. So we began to set up volunteer villages. More about these villages later.

For now, let me just say—I ate no beignets in New Orleans, I heard no jazz, and I didn’t even see the sights. But I saw and heard many things about which I will write a future blog or two.

This is as close as I got to the Superdome, or anywhere downtown--in the distance on the left, you can see the city skyline. I took this photo from my hotel room!

Saturday Soup 3 Fall 2007

Greetings from New Orleans. This is not a post about my visit here which is still in process, but it is my Saturday soup entry for the week.

I know I promised an "orange" soup this week, but there is no way I could pick any other recipe while in New Orleans than one for a gumbo! Next week it will be an orange soup, just in time for Hallowe'en. Herewith a fish gumbo.

Fish Gumbo with Shrimp

Makes 12 servings

Ingredients

1 1/2 cups chopped onion (1 large)
2 T. butter
2 carrots, shredded on medium grater
1 1/2 cups Clamato juice
6 cups chicken stock
10 oz. frozen sliced okra
20 oz. canned
whole plum tomatoes, chopped
1/2 cup white rice
2 tsp. dried basil
1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley
black pepper, to taste
few drops Tabasco or other hot sauce
1 1/2 pounds haddock, roughy or other firm fish, cut into 1" cubes
1 pound medium or large peeled shrimp

1) Saute onions and carrots in butter until they just begin to soften. Do not let them brown. Put sauteed vegetables into a large pot and add Clamato juice and 4 cups of chicken stock. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer.

2) Add chopped plum tomatoes, okra, rice and basil. Simmer for 15 minutes.

3) Add chopped parsley, Tabasco and fish. Stir and remove from heat. If soup is too thick, add more chicken broth. Season lightly with pepper, if necessary.

4) Serve garnished with shrimp cut in half lengthwise to preserve their shape.

A brief personal word--I indicated the reason I am in New Orleans is to attend the meeting of a national advisory board I sit on--it is a disaster response group. While I am here, I learned this morning that the town where my sister and her husband live, Nappanee, Indiana, was hit and severely damaged by a tornado that touched down late Thursday night. My sister and her husband are fine, but many people lost their homes, and a good portion of the town's business was wiped out.

It’s Just Talk

In a couple of hours, I will be on my way to New Orleans for a meeting of the national advisory committee on which I serve.

I have never been to New Orleans, so I am anticipating a bit of a different cultural experience than. . .shall we say, central Pennsylvania?

The last several classes I have been teaching at my community college have been emphasizing language and how language matters. We have discussed the implications of language shaping reality. We have also looked at how language is power and authority. I can’t say that all the students “get it” but we have had good conversations.

One of the essays we discussed today was Barbara Mellix’s piece called “From Outside, In.” She writes about growing up as an African-American where the language spoken at home in an informal context was filled with expressions from what she calls “black English.” Her essay chronicles her discovery that how she learned to speak at home was not standard English. She eventually went to college, and earned both undergraduate and graduate degrees and now teaches English at the University of Pittsburgh.

Her essay prompted my students to begin thinking of some of the informal ways they spoke at home—take, for example, the word “you.” If you are from Pittsburgh, the word becomes “yunze” or “yinze” (you uns), or if from Philadelphia the word becomes “youse”.

Of course, as I am heading to a southern location, I am flexing my “y’alls.” So, back to my New Orleans’ meeting. Previously, this committee has met in Louisville. I find myself inexorably drawn into the languorous drawl of this near Southern city. One step off the plane, and I find myself battling to retain my uninflected (to my ears) mid-Atlantic accent. I expect the same may happen in New Orleans.

The English language is fascinating. There are so many variations to how we speak, as evidenced by the number of pages linked on this website.

When I return from New Orleans, I will let you know whether my way of talking has been affected or not.

Games People Play

You TOOK my archer

“You took my archer!” That sentence burst from my lips in a wail.

How did I get to the place where my archer was in danger, much less subject to capture? Well, there’s always a story, isn’t there?

I grew up in a family that loved to play games. My mother was the leader in this regard. She loved playing games. One time, my brother and I were discussing our mother and her personality. I had recently gone through a Myers-Briggs personality assessment, and learned that I am a strong J (Myers-Briggs’ term for those of us who like to plan—whatever needs planning). I thought Mother was a J, a planner, a decision maker. My brother was convinced she was a P (again, Myer-Briggs’ talk for those who like to keep options open, and be spontaneous). Long after this conversation, I thought about the different ways my brother and I perceived our mother. I was thinking about our mother in a business context, and my brother was thinking of her in a playful context. In a family gathering setting, it was quite likely we would hear Mother say—let’s play a game.

Of all the traits I have inherited from my mother, I know I got the game playing bug from her. Predictably, some of the games I love to play most are those that involve words, strategy, and displays of eclectic intelligence (hmmmm—might those games be called trivia games?). As our children were growing up, I spent hours playing games such as Othello, or Battleship with them. When we would go on family vacations, I made sure we took along Trivial Pursuit.

In fact, playing Classic Trivial Pursuit is still one of my favorites. For some time now, the test has been to see whether or not our college educated children and their partners could beat Mom and Dad—that was the test of whether these expensive educations had paid off! Thankfully, our tuition money has been well-invested and my husband and I are now regular losers at Trivial Pursuit.

But we have had some wonderful moments where we have flabbergasted our children playing games. One of my favorite such moments was when we were playing Taboo. This game must be played in teams—you are to give clues to help your partner guess the word on a card. Among the clues you may not say are the taboo words. Next to you sits your opposite team member who sees the taboo words and buzzes if you inadvertently say one. In one game, I got the word BAYOU that I needed to get my husband to say. So, I said—it’s OK by me, if it’s OK ____? And my husband burst out BAYOU! Our kids sat there looking totally perplexed. My husband and I still cackle about that.

The little Taboo example demonstrates how well my husband and I can work together as a team, if we so choose. But it wasn’t always so. Yes—back to the YOU TOOK MY ARCHER wail.

Soon after we were married, I suggested we play a game or two. I should have been prepared for the demise of my archer, based on an earlier game experience I had with my husband. We were playing Chinese checkers, a game I had played as a child. I always built a “bridge” across the board, and then would march my marbles across. My husband watched and waited, and as soon as I had the bridge built, he marched his marbles across, blocking the way for me! I sat there with my mouth open in absolute disbelief!

So, I must have thought to change strategy by changing the game. Aha—Feudal. We settled down to play Feudal.

This game may no longer be made, and even when it was being sold, it was not well known. It combined elements of chess, but was played on a flat board. The object was to take your opponent’s castle, or capture all the royalty pieces in the game. Like chess, different pieces have different ranges of movement. The archer could shoot several spaces, so I would frequently position my archer on top of my castle. One evening, soon after we had begun to play, my husband skillfully (I can’t remember how) managed to maneuver around so that he captured my archer.

“You took my archer!”—the wail was coming from my lips. I was so upset, that we stopped playing the game. In fact, we shelved it, and there . . .it. . .sits. . .on. . .the. . .shelf. We have NEVER played it since. Oh, there have been one or two times when I have suggested—let’s play Feudal. But my husband remained strong and firm—no, you get too upset when I take your archer.

It’s true—not only do I love to play games, BUT I also love to WIN!