Health, travel and Passover
Apr. 13th, 2006 05:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pecuniumOverheard on the train: “Gay cowboys, as if that’s gonna happen.”
Sigh
I’m riding down to L.A., cruising through the hills of the southern half of San Luis Obispo County. Lots of clouds today (it’s been rain and clouds all week. The world is pastel. The soil is exposed, and water runs down the gullies. It’s amazing to me that they soil is at all stable, since it seems to be nothing more than packed sand and pebbles.
Tomorrow night is Passover, and when I get to L.A. Barry and I will go shopping for the permanent floating seder a friend of ours hosts at Barry’s place. He’s Reform, and the table is ecumenical.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rednikki might be able to join us, but at present it looks as though work is going to make that impossible. C’est la guerre.
It’s always a lively evening. I recall a time (three or four locations ago) at my first seder, when we got into a heated (and I do mean heated) discussion about the definition of wicked, in regards to one of the sons. I think John and I may still be agreeing to disagree.
Seder is an interesting thing. It begs for discussion. Unlike the Mass, which is formal, the Seder seems to be more ritual. As such it is looser, and wants more latitude. There are things to do, orders to eat food at certain times, and things to recall. Wine to drink, and questions to ask. I can see where the questions and answers could become ossified, but it strikes me as odd. If one has ten people at the table, and a year between the asking of questions, how can it be that no one has a difference of opinion on the answer, or the meaning of things? If they are friendly with each other how can debate not take place?
The train is now shifting closer to the shore, as we plough through Vandenberg AFB. Capeweed, fading to dunes and surf. The last time I rode this way I saw whales. Today that might be harder, because the light is flat, and picking them out against the water isn’t going to be as easy.
Friday was the first day I was truly myself. I cooked. Supper was soup. Maia and I walked the dogs to the farm-stand down the way. Because we are leaving in June, subscribing to the Cal-Poly box until October seems a bit wasteful. We found out this place has a box, and all we need to do is call them before Tuesday to be put on that week’s list.
The box had asparagus (which I didn’t get to) and some red kale, and a fennel. I don’t recall what else was gained for our ten dollars (we also bought a box of blackberries, but while the canes are fruiting, there hasn’t been enough sun, and they were sour beyond my being able to eat them). So while she and Karla were studying biochemistry, I cut some potatoes small, and boiled them. When they were done I removed them to a pot of chicken stock (rendered from one of the roasts which was filled with rosemary and onions; it didn’t need any more spicing) I added the root of the fennel and cooked that until it was limp.
The lot was purre&eactue;d and I added some pulverized white pepper, a couple of tablespoons of cream, and butter, and enough whole milk to make it white, to the eye, instead of a pale grey.
Before serving I whisked in a healthy dash of truffle oil. For presentation a leafy green herb is good, as it pricks up the white (parley, curly or flat is nice, watercress is better).
Saturday I was up for Aikido. Whew. Forget the three weeks away, I just didn’t have a whole lot of energy. On the other hand, the work I was able to do in Korea (mostly just footwork and posture) seems to have helped. I felt more grounded than I expected.
(the train is now at Vandenberg Surf. It stops here, and the view, even when the tide is in is stunning. Long waves, breaking in great heaps, and then running up and down the face. Great curves of spindrift being broken off and paralleling the crashing tops. Even with the recent rains the water looks pure, an even blue-green. Pelicans and gulls are riding down the troughs and rising up as the waves break. Because the shelf is so long there can be as many a half-a-dozen lines of breakers at once. Then the train goes up the dunes and one looks down on the surf from above)
Sunday we got up, Maia went to Meeting. I didn’t feel up to sitting in the cold, so I wandered to Uptown Espresso and had a cappuccino. On the way I stopped to shoot some pictures of foxglove and geraniums. Sadly my favorite weedlot, covered in lupine and poppies and some number of daisies, has been mowed and fenced with that nasty orange plastic-net fencing. I am afraid they plan to build something on it, which seems odd, as it’s a small, triangular parcel, with a decidedly steep pitch; running to the center from all three corners, and down to the retaining wall of the creek.
Then we called Karla and arranged to go help her move some stuff. While we were doing that we stopped and delivered some beet pulp to the horses. I saw some turkeys and proceeded to stalk them. For all the talk about wild turkeys being cagey birds, the toms weren’t. I did a lot of shikko walking (on toes and knees, from the waist) to keep myself below the ridgeline as I approached, but I managed to get to within 30 yards of them. The hens were far more aware of me, and much more aggressive in getting out of dodge. But I kept on moving up the hill until they hit the vegetation line and disappeared among the palmettoes.
The ground (clay and serpentine) is very water retentive. As I moved higher up the slope it got semi-mucky. Webb (who owns the place) has a water barn up the slope. It’s a, mostly) buried 8” cube, with a peaked roof. It hold’s about 5,000 gals, and he has a standpipe which spouts the overflow into a large (call it 500 gals.) trough to support the deer, cattle and birds which run about up there. It was good water.
I got Barry’s and we started getting things ready for the Seder.
Nine people: Main courses, chicken thighs in port, over rice, with a cream sauce (John is reform, the only food laws he keeps are the 1-week fast from leaven, and the fast of Yom Kippur; if you ask me, there’s no reason not to use dairy with chicken anyway, because chickens don’t make milk.) and a filet of salmon.
Side dishes, green beans with sesame seed, carrots steamed with a dijon reduction, fruit salad.
Soup, the potato fennel soup above, absent the truffle oil, made with the base of anise, instead of fennel, and a couple of leeks to make up for the lack of rosemary onion stock. I got some rosemary from a bush down the block.
Desert was a pair of tortes. Linzer, and an apricot, whipped cream was offered.
For the traditional portions we had Streit’s matzot, John haroset (it varies every year, but the staples are apples, figs (mission and calmyrna) nuts, and madeira. I’m taking some of the leftover with me to Tenn, and baked eggs.
The guests were the usual suspects, as well as Fr. Kingsbury (anglo-catholic) and a friend of John’s Mother, who is far more religious, and preachy, than I usually care for. She is some stripe of evangelical, belongs to three churches, and mentioned “our Saviour” more than once in the course of formulating questions about things.
She also used “meaningful phrases”. When asked why she thought we ate green herbs, the answer was, “It’s symbolic.” When asked what it was symbolic of, the answer was, “It has some symbolism.”
It isn’t that she couldn’t think (and she was certainly willing to take part, so the meal ran later than it usually does, and it usually lasts past midnight), but there were a number of places where she retreated to that sort of thinking.
I suppose it also colored my thinking that she feels, as a Christian, that she is persecuted for her faith.
All in all it was a pretty good evening, even if the conversation was often about the New Testament (five of the participants were some flavor of Christian, myself, as a Roman Catholic, Fr. Kingsbury, Barry and Michael as Anglo-catholics) Chrissie as the evangelical/born again,) and the issue raised relevant, but some portions of the evening didn’t feel all that jewish. Part of the question about the wickedness of the son who cannot ask was resolved when I said there must be some difference in the Hebrew word for "able" from the English word.
Jerry, who teaches religious education classes at some synagogue, started to read the Hebrew from the haggadah, and he said I was right. I forget now what the difference is, but it makes more sense than the implications of future wickedness from present inabilty presented to me.
Sigh
I’m riding down to L.A., cruising through the hills of the southern half of San Luis Obispo County. Lots of clouds today (it’s been rain and clouds all week. The world is pastel. The soil is exposed, and water runs down the gullies. It’s amazing to me that they soil is at all stable, since it seems to be nothing more than packed sand and pebbles.
Tomorrow night is Passover, and when I get to L.A. Barry and I will go shopping for the permanent floating seder a friend of ours hosts at Barry’s place. He’s Reform, and the table is ecumenical.
rednikki might be able to join us, but at present it looks as though work is going to make that impossible. C’est la guerre.It’s always a lively evening. I recall a time (three or four locations ago) at my first seder, when we got into a heated (and I do mean heated) discussion about the definition of wicked, in regards to one of the sons. I think John and I may still be agreeing to disagree.
Seder is an interesting thing. It begs for discussion. Unlike the Mass, which is formal, the Seder seems to be more ritual. As such it is looser, and wants more latitude. There are things to do, orders to eat food at certain times, and things to recall. Wine to drink, and questions to ask. I can see where the questions and answers could become ossified, but it strikes me as odd. If one has ten people at the table, and a year between the asking of questions, how can it be that no one has a difference of opinion on the answer, or the meaning of things? If they are friendly with each other how can debate not take place?
The train is now shifting closer to the shore, as we plough through Vandenberg AFB. Capeweed, fading to dunes and surf. The last time I rode this way I saw whales. Today that might be harder, because the light is flat, and picking them out against the water isn’t going to be as easy.
Friday was the first day I was truly myself. I cooked. Supper was soup. Maia and I walked the dogs to the farm-stand down the way. Because we are leaving in June, subscribing to the Cal-Poly box until October seems a bit wasteful. We found out this place has a box, and all we need to do is call them before Tuesday to be put on that week’s list.
The box had asparagus (which I didn’t get to) and some red kale, and a fennel. I don’t recall what else was gained for our ten dollars (we also bought a box of blackberries, but while the canes are fruiting, there hasn’t been enough sun, and they were sour beyond my being able to eat them). So while she and Karla were studying biochemistry, I cut some potatoes small, and boiled them. When they were done I removed them to a pot of chicken stock (rendered from one of the roasts which was filled with rosemary and onions; it didn’t need any more spicing) I added the root of the fennel and cooked that until it was limp.
The lot was purre&eactue;d and I added some pulverized white pepper, a couple of tablespoons of cream, and butter, and enough whole milk to make it white, to the eye, instead of a pale grey.
Before serving I whisked in a healthy dash of truffle oil. For presentation a leafy green herb is good, as it pricks up the white (parley, curly or flat is nice, watercress is better).
Saturday I was up for Aikido. Whew. Forget the three weeks away, I just didn’t have a whole lot of energy. On the other hand, the work I was able to do in Korea (mostly just footwork and posture) seems to have helped. I felt more grounded than I expected.
(the train is now at Vandenberg Surf. It stops here, and the view, even when the tide is in is stunning. Long waves, breaking in great heaps, and then running up and down the face. Great curves of spindrift being broken off and paralleling the crashing tops. Even with the recent rains the water looks pure, an even blue-green. Pelicans and gulls are riding down the troughs and rising up as the waves break. Because the shelf is so long there can be as many a half-a-dozen lines of breakers at once. Then the train goes up the dunes and one looks down on the surf from above)
Sunday we got up, Maia went to Meeting. I didn’t feel up to sitting in the cold, so I wandered to Uptown Espresso and had a cappuccino. On the way I stopped to shoot some pictures of foxglove and geraniums. Sadly my favorite weedlot, covered in lupine and poppies and some number of daisies, has been mowed and fenced with that nasty orange plastic-net fencing. I am afraid they plan to build something on it, which seems odd, as it’s a small, triangular parcel, with a decidedly steep pitch; running to the center from all three corners, and down to the retaining wall of the creek.
Then we called Karla and arranged to go help her move some stuff. While we were doing that we stopped and delivered some beet pulp to the horses. I saw some turkeys and proceeded to stalk them. For all the talk about wild turkeys being cagey birds, the toms weren’t. I did a lot of shikko walking (on toes and knees, from the waist) to keep myself below the ridgeline as I approached, but I managed to get to within 30 yards of them. The hens were far more aware of me, and much more aggressive in getting out of dodge. But I kept on moving up the hill until they hit the vegetation line and disappeared among the palmettoes.
The ground (clay and serpentine) is very water retentive. As I moved higher up the slope it got semi-mucky. Webb (who owns the place) has a water barn up the slope. It’s a, mostly) buried 8” cube, with a peaked roof. It hold’s about 5,000 gals, and he has a standpipe which spouts the overflow into a large (call it 500 gals.) trough to support the deer, cattle and birds which run about up there. It was good water.
I got Barry’s and we started getting things ready for the Seder.
Nine people: Main courses, chicken thighs in port, over rice, with a cream sauce (John is reform, the only food laws he keeps are the 1-week fast from leaven, and the fast of Yom Kippur; if you ask me, there’s no reason not to use dairy with chicken anyway, because chickens don’t make milk.) and a filet of salmon.
Side dishes, green beans with sesame seed, carrots steamed with a dijon reduction, fruit salad.
Soup, the potato fennel soup above, absent the truffle oil, made with the base of anise, instead of fennel, and a couple of leeks to make up for the lack of rosemary onion stock. I got some rosemary from a bush down the block.
Desert was a pair of tortes. Linzer, and an apricot, whipped cream was offered.
For the traditional portions we had Streit’s matzot, John haroset (it varies every year, but the staples are apples, figs (mission and calmyrna) nuts, and madeira. I’m taking some of the leftover with me to Tenn, and baked eggs.
The guests were the usual suspects, as well as Fr. Kingsbury (anglo-catholic) and a friend of John’s Mother, who is far more religious, and preachy, than I usually care for. She is some stripe of evangelical, belongs to three churches, and mentioned “our Saviour” more than once in the course of formulating questions about things.
She also used “meaningful phrases”. When asked why she thought we ate green herbs, the answer was, “It’s symbolic.” When asked what it was symbolic of, the answer was, “It has some symbolism.”
It isn’t that she couldn’t think (and she was certainly willing to take part, so the meal ran later than it usually does, and it usually lasts past midnight), but there were a number of places where she retreated to that sort of thinking.
I suppose it also colored my thinking that she feels, as a Christian, that she is persecuted for her faith.
All in all it was a pretty good evening, even if the conversation was often about the New Testament (five of the participants were some flavor of Christian, myself, as a Roman Catholic, Fr. Kingsbury, Barry and Michael as Anglo-catholics) Chrissie as the evangelical/born again,) and the issue raised relevant, but some portions of the evening didn’t feel all that jewish. Part of the question about the wickedness of the son who cannot ask was resolved when I said there must be some difference in the Hebrew word for "able" from the English word.
Jerry, who teaches religious education classes at some synagogue, started to read the Hebrew from the haggadah, and he said I was right. I forget now what the difference is, but it makes more sense than the implications of future wickedness from present inabilty presented to me.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-04-14 05:20 pm (UTC)But the use of able (and not knowing how to do something can be seen as unable. I am unable to fly helicopters, this doesn't mean I can't learn [that is, at least unproven]) leads to certain assumptions.
The other issue has more to do with the attachments which can be present in the thinking that the one who does not know how to ask is prone to becoming wicked.
Philosophically one might argue there is no assumption of intrinsic wickedness to the last son, but the imputation can lead to differential treatment, and self-fulfilling prophecy, but I am leaving the realm of language, and getting into ontology.
TK