Dinner last night

Tomato Gruyere Tart with Caramelized Onions

Slice one large yellow onion and put in pot with a bit of oil and butter. Slowly cook over medium-low heat for a very long time. The onions will be a dark brown, extremely soft and give off a sweet smell that fills your house. Roll out your dough into a pie pan and put the onions in the bottom. Top with about 8 oz. of grated Swiss gruyere cheese (grate it yourself, it's better that way). Slice up four or five really good garden tomatoes (mine were from my friend Suzy's garden -- thanks, Suzy!) and lay those on top of the grated cheese. Sprinkle with lots of salt and pepper and throw on a few basil leaves. Bake in a 350 degree oven until the crust is browned and the pie is bubbling.

Enjoy. Unless you're Oliver and you have declared that you'd rather have a cheeseburger with lettuce. 

Redondo Beach

On Friday, the boys and I went down to Redondo Beach to have lunch with Sophie's camp class and to check out the sites. I'll be posting this week a bit more about Communicamp, the fantastic camp that Sophie is attending for two weeks, but today I'll just entertain you with our adventures.

The camp sat on a bluff overlooking the pier

View south from the pier

We dared to enter The Great White Shark Exhibit, paying $1.50 for a tour of a taxidermied sixteen-foot great white caught off the west coast approximately five thousand years ago. Our tour guide was a suspiciously earnest balding woman who also manned the cash registers where strange tourists purchased an assortment of shellacked shells and samurai swords. The boys, naturally, thought the place cool.

The entrance to the exhibit

After the educational tour, we walked to the pier, an old-fashioned, wooden one where the boys and I goofed off.

Then we ate a mediocre lunch at a local tourist trap that looked deceptively attractive as it hung over the water but turned out to be a lot more than shabby. A seagull landed on the ledge right beside our table and proceeded to join us as we ate, a flopping small fish in his beak. I would have taken a picture, but it happened so suddenly and he was so close that it was all I could do to swallow my own bite.

Every Hour is Happy Hour!

All in all, Redondo Beach pier appeared to be a  time capsule. The only difference, I imagined, from what it looked like fifty or more years ago was probably that the blonde California surfers and bikinied chicks had been replaced by hordes of Latino families -- the new face of California.

Reinforcements

Jean Vanier at L'Arche London

When we begin to believe that there is greater joy in working with and for others, rather than just for ourselves, then our society will truly become a place of celebration.

Jean Vanier

Your comments yesterday were so thoughtful and provocative. Thank you for them. In keeping with the spirit of my post and those comments, I was happy to open up my Word For the Day and read the wise words of Jean Vanier, the Canadian Catholic theologian, philosopher and humanitarian who founded L'Arche, an international organization that creates communities where people with developmental disabilities and those who assist them share life together.

Apples, cores, instinct and welfare

from Songs of Innocence and Experience - William Blake

The grateful heart sits at a continuous feast.

Proverbs 15:15

So, every now and then, in the interest of being "open-minded," I click on to a few conservative blog sites. You know -- see what The Other is up to. These aren't sites that are well-known or well-trafficked, nor are they sites that have anything of interest other than conservative politics. There are no pretty photos or funny stories about children. There's almost never an inspirational story or even quote. There's absolutely no poetry. Occasionally, I'll leave a comment but generally what I have to say is not well-received, so I read and then move on. One blog, in particular, written by a Texan female lawyer is pithy and educational, but nearly everything she writes is completely and utterly antithetical to my own point of view. She is a good writer, witty and not a little mean-spirited sometimes, so I only check out her blog every few weeks to see what she's been up to. This morning I paid a visit and read a whole post about the recent riots in London, what they mean as far as the "welfare state" goes and how some of the same stuff is evidently going on in our country without the media exposure. 


What stuck out for me was this notion (and she's not alone in pointing it out, obviously) that it's somehow shameful to accept help from the government. This notion lies at the core of American individualism and work ethic, I think, and I'm not sure what I feel about it. On the one hand, I'm as American as the next person, the grandchild of Italian and Syrian immigrants who worked their asses off to "get ahead." My own parents grew up very poor in New York City and aren't nearly as "educated" as I -- sheer hard work enabled them to give me a privileged life. Because of those privileges, I went to college and had opportunities beyond what they, at my age, had probably only dreamed about. The notion of "hand-outs" was frowned upon, if not vilified by nearly all my relatives, and I think I still carry a bit of that around with me. Lawyer Mom points out and quotes from several sources that claim that those who receive government assistance generally only "bite the hand that feeds them," and that those who accept welfare should "be grateful and embarrassed."


Here are two quotes that stand out:


On the subject of handouts, Instapundit linked to a bold blogger who wrote, "I have no issue with a social safety net. I just think the beneficiaries of this net should be grateful and embarrassed." But hold your fire.
He wrote about his grandfather during the Depression, how he would come home exhausted after working all day for the WPA. He was ashamed he needed help from the government and he wanted to give the taxpayers a fair day's work for his wage. 


But what Whittle most pointedly assails is that no one on public assistance ever thanks the taxpayers who support them. 


This post has given me much to think about, ponder. It both attracts me in a curious way and repels me like a roadside accident. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck -- partly out of indignation and partly out of recognition. I'd say that I'm exquisitely aware of my own mental projections -- does it bother me precisely because I agree with parts of it? Does it bother me because it repels me? Does it repel me because I agree with it? Are my instincts that veer more toward Christian charity than American capitalism under fire?


I'm not sure.


I recently "won" a case -- or Sophie "won" a case -- that gives us a generous amount of money to help care for her, day to day. The program is called In Home Supportive Services, a government "entitlement" that enables the disabled and elderly to stay in their homes with providers rather than in an institution. Like everything else in this country (and world, perhaps), the care of people with disabilities is quantified -- and it was determined that it's cheaper to take care of these people in their homes (it works out nicely, too, that people are generally happier in their homes). In any case, the burden lies on the disabled and their families to defend this "welfare" by pointing out that it's nearly impossible to hold down a job when one is taking care of a child with severe disabilities; therefore, one can't be a productive member of society. As Sophie's provider, I am now paid a small amount per hour (definitely not a living wage) so that I can keep her at home.


I am profoundly thankful for this money -- so thankful that when I opened the envelope with the judge's orders to grant it, I cried. Hard. The help is life-changing for everyone in my family. But I've been embarrassed to write about this -- embarrassed because I know that there are many folks out there far more needy than I am and that I am, perhaps, using what might be theirs. I feel apologetic -- defensive -- and I understand the roots of that defensiveness to be what I imagine are the roots, or the core of what it means to be an American. But then I wonder if this "core" isn't, at worst, rotten -- rotten because it presupposes us all to be individuals, hardly connected to one another and certainly not responsible for one another. 


Having a disabled child and witnessing the problems and heartache of the most vulnerable in our culture has changed me, revealed a different instinct and underlined my own vulnerability and -- dare I say it -- need for help. 


It seems that my "core" and my instinct are at odds.

I'm interested to hear what you think.          

What to do when you're bored

The Limbo with a hose

The State of Affairs - Boys' Bedroom

Summer Junket

Poet Laureate

I realize no one really cares about the Poet Laureate of the United States -- or maybe not no one, but I don't imagine there are that many people out there who give it much more than a passing thought, if at all.

Except for me and my people. I woke this morning to an email from my good friend S who stated her day had begun with the sound of rats scurrying around under her house, an infestation that is driving her and her family nuts. And just as I wrote the other day, that when things in the real world get too crazy and the news one horrific thing after the next, I run to the hills with poetry, S confirmed that she had also woken to learn that Philip Levine had been appointed our Poet Laureate.

Holy Day


--Philip Levine
1973



Los Angeles hums
a little tune --
trucks down
the coast road


click here to read the rest

Vaccination -- or entering the fray, once again

Medieval Plague Doctor

Yesterday's health section of the the Los Angeles Times devoted much of its sparse coverage to the importance of vaccinating one's children and reported on the rising incidences of pertussis and measles. The coverage included a pompous and condescending letter from a Seattle doctor and was, as usual, completely lacking in stories of those people whose children had, in fact, been damaged by vaccines. There was the usual nod to the hysterical voices of those in the autism community but otherwise no mention was made of the risks of vaccines or even the smallest acknowledgement that scientists are constantly working on making vaccines safer (the "er" at the end of the "saf" being the crucial distinction here, if you get my drift).

I want to clarify first of all that I'm not against vaccinations. I'm not sure that the DPT vaccine that Sophie got, along with two other vaccines (for a total of five), at two months of age, were the cause of her seizures or the catalyst for some underlying disorder. I know that my own vaccination record from 1963 shows some negative reactions, and this was not discovered until about three years after Sophie's seizures began, so I chose NOT to vaccinate my sons. Was this decision an emotional one? I'm not a big one for curse words, but I'll say here that you'd better fucking believe it was a decision partly based on emotion. It was a difficult decision and one that I felt much anxiety over off and on for years, but I don't regret it. When I read articles like the ones in the newspaper today, I feel sick to my stomach. I feel sick to my stomach because I have never, not once, seen anything remotely resembling recognition of or coverage of stories like ours, written respectfully and in a balanced way. I replied to the doctor by writing this:

I'm so tired of the same sorts of letters and arguments published over and over and over, simplifying this extremely complex issue. I am the mother of a sixteen year old girl who has suffered from refractory epilepsy every single day of her life since she received her initial vaccinations at two months of age. Is her life the requisite sacrifice to ensure herd immunity? Why are voices like mine and countless others like mine not heard in this vaccination coverage? Letters like the esteemed doctors, and the rest of the coverage in this paper only serve to fan the flames of the hysterics and further de-spirit those of us who might not necessarily be anti-vaccine but who have serious, viable questions and blame for the healthcare our children have received. I have two sons who I have chosen NOT to vaccinate, the kind of children who I imagine you feel are putting others at risk every single day that they are not vaccinated. I ask you whether you might sign a paper attesting that should I vaccinate them, they will NOT begin seizing like their sister did so many years ago and NOT need to be cared for, fed, bathed, diapered and comforted for the rest of their lives. I would ask you, too, to care for them financially should they follow in the steps of their sister and perhaps figure out how to deal with their heartbroken mother.


I wonder if he'll answer me.

Voting Ends in Three Days!

And I'm poised to achieve world peace if I win, and economic sanity if I place in the Top 25.

But only if you vote for me, and you can do so every day for the next three.

Click here:

Heading for the Hills

Giancarlo Giannini in Lina Wertmuller's Seven Beauties

When things get too crazy, negative and out of control, when I get too crazy, negative and out of control, consumed by anxiety and the S&P credit downgrade, the back and forth of Krugman et all, the impending disaster, the relentlessness of bad news, the baggage, the Tea Baggers, Tea Partiers, the greed, the comparisons to Jonathan Swift's time, the weird windfalls that plug up holes and then slowly leak and drain, I think of Candide and his silly little garden (Il faut cultiver notre jardin) or Pasqualino in Seven Beauties, who survives to live -- and then I head for the hills with poetry.

A Brief for the Defense

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only 
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront 
is three shuttered cafes and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

from Refusing Heaven by Jack Gilbert

No,

I did not actually get a tattoo and only snapped the picture I posted yesterday because I loved the name of the parlor. But those of you who thought I had done so have inspired me to at least think about it.

Renegade Saturday

Venice Beach, July 2011

The Pacific

I grew up on the sandy beaches of the east coast and admit that the dunes, the sea oats, the balmy water and clean, soft sand are beautiful.

But I prefer the Pacific now.

I took Sophie to see The Homeopath in Santa Monica this afternoon and then drove west a couple of miles, parked at our favorite beach in Ocean Park and walked down to the ocean. The sky was a brilliant blue and the surf was loud, the waves high and the water cold.

I like it that way.

A man walked into the ocean in a tiny bikini bottom that was printed with the American flag. Only in LA, a woman I knew that I had run into remarked. Yeah, I was just in South Carolina at the beach and you wouldn't have seen that, I added.


Or maybe you would but it would have been the Confederate flag.

Afterward, we sat at a little cafe on the beach and watched the people roll and skate and run and walk by. We ate a vegetable quesadilla until it got too cold.

Yes, you heard me right. Too cold for bare shoulders and legs -- about 65 degrees or so as the sun set and the water sparkled.