A Very Bali Christmas!

Excitement pulses in the air.  Merry Christmas! I hear the greeting through my open walls. Will I get used to it…Christmas in the jungle? There are none of the familiar markers, snow, cold, carols playing non-stop in the stores for months. It’s Tess, hanging over her balcony next door, heralding Christmas morning. I step outside into hot sunlight. Nina appears, too. Merry Christmas! Nina will be hosting the party tonight. It’s a potluck white elephant gift exchange. The white elephant concept has been the topic of conversation for weeks. Nina and I, the only Americans in the bunch, understand. Nobody else does. It should be interesting.

It’s a planned potluck as we say in the Midwest, so we all know who is bringing what. I found a recipe for Vegetarian Tofu Green Curry. My task this morning is to cook it so the flavors can blend and intensify prior to serving later on. I initiate step one, grate fresh coconut and toast it. Fortunately, I still have most of the coconut Ketut harvested for me the other day.

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The nut scared the daylights out of me when it came crashing into the garden. There is one stately palm beside my house. Every now and then, a mature coconut releases and thunders through the thick foliage surrounding the tree like a stampeding elephant. This one came to rest right by the terrace.

P1050298I retrieve a chunk of it from the freezer that keeps things mildly cooler than the refrigerator but far from frozen, and grate it. The instructions say to toast in a dry wok pan over a medium flame. It works! In no time I have a cup or so of fresh coconut delicately browned. So far, so good.

P1050300I assemble the next ingredients, garlic, shallots, green and red bell pepper, ginger root, lime leaves, and Thai chilis. For extra flavor, I’m using coconut oil to sauté the first ingredients. Fragrant steam fills the kitchen. In the next moment chili essence hits my tender throat tissue.
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After a fit of coughing, wheezing, and tears, cooking continues. Vegetable broth with a few tablespoons of fish sauce, green curry paste, coconut milk, and a mixture of spices, cools the heat of the peppers.

I dice an enormous sweet potato, a jumbo carrot, and firm tofu, toss in most of the toasted coconut, then simmer until the root vegetables are crispy tender.

While it bubbles I have a few minutes to escape for another sunshine fix. There’s commotion next door. To ensure that the party goes on rain or shine, Tess and Paul have loaned a tent for the affair, but the tent stakes are missing. Ketut, the master of improvisation, disappears and returns with a handful of silverware. Knife, fork, and spoon handles inserted into the earth become tent pegs.

The smells from Nina’s kitchen make my stomach rumble. I leave the tent-raising and hurry back to my own fragrant stew. Mmmm! It looks amazing! I chop tomatoes and cilantro, squeeze fresh limes, and add these last minute details to the mix.

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Wallah! A little garnish with a red pepper plopped on top and my dish is party ready!

Tess, Paul, and I are the first to arrive. It’s apparent that the women got the memo…wear black!

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The tent is in Nina’s yard (Nina’s the one in the middle), Tess and Paul are staying upstairs in the house to the left, and my house is behind the tent to the right. We live in close proximity. It’s a good thing we like each other…a lot! And there’s the elegant teepee! So far the weather is ideal. We may not need the tent but it adds an element of security against sudden climate change.

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Sudi and Paul chill with a couple of Bintangs as the other guests trickle in. It’s decided that gifts and games come first. Darkness descends so the group moves inside and the fun continues!

P1050312Julie, the neighbor just a little farther down the path, is prepared. She brought games. In animated detail she explains the first one. She calls it Pass the Parcel. It’s like musical chairs but with a wrapped package. As the music plays, the gift is passed from one to the next around the circle. When the music stops, the one holding the gift unwraps a layer only to find another wrapped parcel inside. But a note also comes with each layer bearing instructions that must be followed. This part reminds me of spin the bottle!

To ensure that Dewi, the youngest member of our diverse group, remains engaged and entertained, she is charged with the task of performing every instruction along with the person who was lucky enough to be left holding the box.

P1050326Here Dewi and her Dad dance with a chair. Later, Dewi and Tess lay on their backs and ride bicycles. Dewi is in her element. All agree that she’s a born entertainer. Her antics are rib tickling funny.

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Finally it’s the moment everyone has been waiting for…the white elephant! Gifts are taken from their place under the tree and stacked on the table in the middle.

P1050316Everyone has a turn selecting a wrapped package and opening it.

P1050328Stealing is encouraged but I’m the only one who acts on it. Yaniq (in the hat) has unwrapped a jar of peanut butter. There are few things I enjoy more than peanut butter. I really like the photo frame that came in my package, but…gotta have the peanut butter. Yaniq yields his loot without a fight.

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The last gift to be opened is a lovely surprise. Ketut made a special trip to Kintamani yesterday to pick up his white elephant. We were all touched and thrilled to get these bracelets, hand-made by his wife Komang, with our names stitched in red letters.

P1050343I’m Serry. It’s an upgrade from Zelly. That was Ketut’s first stab at my foreign sounding name!

With all the fun, we’ve worked up an appetite. Christmas smorgasbord in Bali is an exotic feast. The countertop groans with bounty. There is smoked chicken, mei goreng, pumpkin soup, salad rolls, garlic toast, sayur urab, smoked duck, and my green curry. Wine flows freely, as does laughter and conversation. For dessert, Nina breaks out her tins of Christmas cookies, all red and green frosting with sprinkles. We’re stuffed but still manage to put a sizeable dent in the cookie inventory!

Games and gifts finished, Nina disappears with Dewi. The party princess is finally tired and it’s time for bed. I sneak a peak at the clock. Half past midnight! Christmas 2013 has passed. The guests file out, droopy-eyed but smiling. Then Tess and I do what we have probably done after Christmas feasting countless times before…I wash, she wipes, and pretty soon the kitchen sparkles.

P1050334Thanks, Nina, Sudi, and Dewi. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a happy good night!

How to Repair Food

“Hallooo…halloo?” a happy pink apron appears in my doorway. “I’m baking Christmas cookies, do you want to come and chat?” It’s Nina from the Sudi, Dewi, and Nina show next door. They have a real kitchen with an oven. Very few Bali homes have an oven. Mine doesn’t, and as a result I’m spared the task of ever baking anything which makes me very happy. But Nina loves to bake and she explains that her Nana sent a recipe for the traditional, Italian sugar cookies (with anise! Yum!). The dough is ready and she’s about to roll, cut out, and bake.

“Yes! I’ll be right over!”

I grab my sandals and scamper across the yard to the open kitchen door.

P1050288Nana is Nina’s paternal grandmother from Poland. Her grandpa is Sicilian. The recipe is Italian. Grandma Nana wrote the directions longhand, Nina’s dad scanned them, e-mailed them, and here they are on the computer, on Nina’s countertop in Bali.  Technology!

P1050289My friend is already up to her elbows in flour and the big, pink apron has a dusting as well. She mixes and bakes and we chatter about the peculiarities of Capricorns and other zodiac signs. Nina and I are both of Capricornian persuasion and we seem to understand each other quite adequately, even though I was born a generation earlier.

During the lulls (the oven will only accommodate one cookie sheet at a time) she pulls out a little book. How to Repair Food…What to do when you discover that just about any kind of food or drink is…overcooked, stale, burned, lumpy, salty, bland, frozen, too dry, too wet, tough, too thick, too thin, wilted, curdled, stuck together, or fatty. Uh huh. I should have one of these!

I ask if maybe she should set the timer. I seem to be a disturbing element and I don’t want those tantalizing smells to become charcoal. She waves the silly thought away, says she has her eyes on the clock and it’s fine. Okay, Nina.P1050292

But back to the little volume. Just to demonstrate its value, do you know what to do when you burn rice? I so could have used this wisdom yesterday!

From How to Repair Food, and I quote: As soon as you discover you’ve burned the rice again (note the ‘again!’) turn off the flame, place the heel of a loaf of bread on top of the rice, cover the pot and wait 5 minutes. Virtually all the scorched taste should disappear into the bread. Serve the rice to friends and the bread to enemies. The authors, Marina and John Bear, have a sense of humor, right?!

But I digress. Back to cookie-baking.

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Nina’s kitchen has a low plastic stool. I think it’s for five-year-old Dewi when she participates. There are no upper cabinets and both Nina and Sudi can reach the countertop, even the icebox, just fine. The stool’s definitely for Dewi. Anyway, that’s where I park whenever I’m ‘helping.’ Sometimes I BYOP, bring my own pillow. Saves wear and tear on the bony buttocks.

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Today I assisted by providing the Bintang (Bali beer). Many of the world’s problems get solved in this kitchen with the help of Bintang, or homemade limoncello, or coffee flavored vodka. It’s really best that I keep my fingers out of the dough.

I come from a long line of extraordinary bakers. My grandmother’s lefse recipe is treasured by all those in the family who still haul out the griddle and rolling pins for a marathon lefse bake around this time each year. My mother’s homemade, honey whole wheat bread is heavenly beyond belief. My sister…okay. My sister is the cookie queen. Sorry Nina, but nothing I’ve ever seen short of a professional pastry shop, has pumped out Christmas cookies like Gwen’s.

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Gwen’s Christmas Cookies

See what I mean? With a legacy like this you’d think I’d have some culinary talent. But why bother? When you have masters among you, just bow, smile, and feast!  Besides, I’m a Capricorn. I don’t like to compete unless I’m quite sure that I’ll win. Not a chance in this crowd!

The Last Supper

My last Sunday Night BBQ in California is a hedonistic, humanistic extravaganza. But you’d never know it to look at the civilized table.

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I’m hanging with a heady crowd. These people have multiple degrees, speak too many languages, and love to party. Hanna’s from Taiwan. She owns a tech company and solves computer glitches.

She arrives an hour early, laden with vegetables and protein.  Her chicken, pork, and salmon have marinated in exciting sauces overnight. The prawns bask in a mixture heavy with orange zest. Exquisite! She preps the grill, issues orders to her sous chefs, (we know our place), and Sunday Night BBQ is underway!

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Hanna’s a wizard with vegetables. Corn husks are peeled back and the ears smeared with a pesto garlic butter. Husks replaced, they’re secured in foil, and, excuse me while I wipe the drool off my chin! Then she slices tomatoes in half, scores the tops, and presses a wicked mixture into them that, once grilled, turns an ordinary tomato into a sophisticated to-maah-to, daaahling!

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I’ve had her grilled artichokes, parsnips, potatoes, onions, sweet potatoes, and pineapple, I think!

The fact that I don’t know for sure about the pineapple is Melody’s fault. Alcohol is Mel’s domain. If I never have another drink it’s okay. I’ve exceeded my lifetime quota in just two months here. Tonight it’s an exotic frozen daiquiri, with lethal amounts of rum, served with the appetizers.

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While waiting for the food to cook, the back porch conversation sizzles hot and steamy. Topics range from Syria, Fukushima, and the mysterious herbs used in Ethiopian cooking, to ethnic sensitivities, among other things, which makes total sense in a gathering where none of us are of the same people group.

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Later in the evening, Annette, Melody, and Devon break into a tirade of French. Then it’s Spanish…Annette may have Ecuadorian roots, but we were well into the wine by then so maybe it was Peruvian, or Brazilian…anyway, she speaks Spanish really, really well.

And remember Aaron?

P1040631He’s the musician who lives in the little house in the back yard. His band plays all over the world, including Bali. After the babbling in French and Spanish, during which Aaron, Hanna and I, make inappropriate comments whenever it seems appropriate, Aaron disappears. In moments he’s back with an assortment of percussive instruments. He takes the lead, establishes a rhythm, and we rock the house.

Music is the universal language. Shaking my maracas in syncopated bliss, I scan the faces around me, radiant, smiling. Our bodies move to the beat. Then we’re singing, Don’t worry…about a thing…’cause every little thing…gonna be alright… we veer off, adlibbing new words, whatever comes to mind. We rap, reggae, and revel in the camaraderie.

How did I get so lucky? Melody and her house was a Craigslist find, a place to touch down for two months while I tend to the minutia of wedding preparations. I expected nothing more. What I got was a home with a heart, a place in a vibrant community, help with wedding projects, and a steady stream of amazing characters, many of whom will be friends for life. What is this magic bubble I’m traveling in where everything I touch turns to love?

15 Steps Can Change Anything

I like structure, or maybe not really. But I know that I get the most accomplished when I have a list or an outline guiding me through the steps of ‘what’s next?’ So after I’d made some sweeping changes in my life, I sat down and figured out exactly what it took to get from point A (undesirable place) to point B (Utopia…or at least close). This is my formula in 15 steps. And for the sake of all things saintly, don’t skip number 15! In fact, it’s a good idea to celebrate all the little successes along the way. It’s called positive reinforcement!

A STRUCTURED APPROACH TO CHANGE 

Begin with a desire for something different

MOTIVATION 

Decide what you want

DREAM/GOAL 

Devise a plan of action

STRATEGY 

Develop a timeline for your plan

SCHEDULE

Determine what you will need to achieve your goal

RESOURCES 

Identify things that stand in your way

OBSTACLES

Decide how to overcome those barriers

SOLUTIONS

Create conditions that support the desired changes

ENVIRONMENT

Identify the friends who believe in you

SUPPORT 

Make a promise to follow through until you succeed

COMMITMENT

Make a start

ACTION 

Monitor your progress

EVALUATION

Modify when necessary

ADJUSTMENT

Don’t quit when things get difficult

PERSEVERENCE 

Acknowledge your successes

CELEBRATION!

 
 
Remember the old saying:
“How do you eat an elephant?”
Answer: “One bite at a time.”
 
 
 
 
 
 
Image Credit: goodreads.com

Facelift

Korean Woman

fashdloops.com

“Have you had a face lift?” the beautiful Korean woman sitting across from me, asked. I had just met her. More than a little surprised at the personal nature of the question, I stuttered a quick, “No.” Then peering at her perfect skin and guessing her to be about thirty, I asked, “have you?”

“Oh yes,” her nod added emphasis to her words, “and I would strongly suggest you should too.” It was all I could do to keep from spewing my mouthful of tea in her flawless face.

My website, however, was in need of a little nip and tucking. After all, it has matured and now knows who it is and what it’s about. But my face? Not a chance. I like what Victor Hugo said: Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. And isn’t that the truth? No matter how wizened, toothless, and gnarly, a smiling face is always beautiful.

101 Breaths

Nine eleven.

Those numbers, in that order, will forever mean something more than just two numbers spoken together.

It was early morning. I was driving my youngest daughter to school. We had the car radio on and the program was interrupted. A plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. I remember thinking that something in the traffic control tower must have gone terribly wrong. Within moments, another plane hit.

I had been in New York two weeks earlier with middle daughter, Joy, helping her move into the dorm at FIT in Manhattan. Now I dialed and redialed her number. Nothing.

By the time I got to work a third plane had careened into the Pentagon. My cousin worked there. My daughter still didn’t answer.

Twelve years later, can it be? It’s over a decade, but still fresh, still a terror of the heart. Both my daughter and my cousin were unharmed. Many others were less fortunate.

This morning I sat in meditation. I couldn’t still the thoughts until one idea caught my attention. It said, “Take 101 breaths to cleanse the heart.” I gulped a lungful of air and expelled it slowly, tightening the stomach muscles until the last wisp of it left my nostrils. Then slowly, methodically, I counted each deep inhale and elongated exhale, one hundred and one times, remembering and letting go.

Justin Lane/Pool/Getty Image

Justin Lane/Pool/Getty Image

Breathwork, or pranayama in yoga circles, brings harmony to the body, mind, and spirit. My body knew what was needed and sent the subtle message to me in the form of a thought.

The breaths completed, I sat in gratitude, the heaviness of those memories lifted. I honored the losses in a way that didn’t consume me.

Once again the body has taught me a valuable lesson. When dealing with too much emotion…101 breaths.

Are You a Dream Catcher?

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If you lose your dream, you lose the force that propels the universe forward
on your behalf. Don’t doubt it for a minute. It’s 100% true.
Dreamcatcher by xxluulixx.deviantart.com

Dreamcatcher by xxluulixx.deviantart.com

*Some people have forgotten how to dream.

*
Some have a dream but cannot imagine achieving it.
*
Dream Catchers have both imagined and achieved what they want in this life.
*
They have one quality that others lack.
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My daughter, Joy, says they’re fearless, but that’s not true. They’re just as terrified as the rest. The difference is the fact that they don’t allow fear to stop them from doing that thing that calls them. They know that not pursuing their dream is a compromise, a decision to live someone else’s life instead of their own.
That was in my heart today as I thought of you.
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*

Rockin’ to a Zydeco Beat

Aaron stuck his gorgeous head through the kitchen window. “It’s my birthday Sunday,” he smiled. “I’m having a bbq in the back yard if you wanna come.” A bigger smile. “There’ll be music and food, poetry…”

Okay. I’m in. Not only is Aaron the cutest thing since the Ken doll, but he’s a brilliant musician.  And he lives in the mother-in-law house in the back yard. “What can I bring?” I asked in typical Minnesota potluck fashion.

“Do you have an instrument? Or a poem?”

Do I have a poem? Is the Pope still Catholic?

This is North Oakland. A block away is Berkeley. The neighborhood rocks with color and vibe. Aaron rocks with color and vibe! So Sunday morning I scanned my provisions and put together a chicken avocado salad to share with other guests. Around 3:30 I could hear happy sounds wafting through my open windows. What was that…an accordion? Definitely drums… I grabbed my salad and strolled into the back yard.

Suddenly I was back in Bali. It was a hodge-podge of people from toddlers to older folk, and nationalities that spanned the globe. It was community. Angelique and her little angel were crafting graffiti on the fence.

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So were Dubonwi and Larry.

P1040609P1040613Summer stenciled blue paint around a giant leaf from Aaron’s garden while also manning the bbq.

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P1040614Jimmy sat next to his wife who had dressed in pink bunny ears for the occasion. He swore that he didn’t know her but the twinkle in his eye said otherwise.

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Their son, Mali, remembered me. He had passed me on the sidewalk while I was walking. He was skateboarding. I remembered him because he said, “Hi!” as he went past. I said “Hi!” back, both surprised and impressed. But after meeting his mom and dad…not surprised but still impressed! They are the friendliest folk!

The table groaned with food from all ethnicities.

Aaron passed out instruments that he had harvested from who knows where! Anything that could make a sound had been commandeered for the occasion. I saw an egg beater, a very large cowbell, a metal dish drainer, and a can filled with something noisy, like rocks. That was my instrument of choice.

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I-dream-of-Jeannie, a vision in polka-dots and a sassy red hat, played masterfully on the accordion. The music swelled into the air and suffused the neighborhood with syncopation. We rocked. The poetry was rap, spontaneous, bawdy, and sometimes sweet, paying tribute to Aaron on his special day.

P1040617Here’s the man himself, Aaron, on the box drum, world-class musician beating his little 33 year old heart out.

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Aaron has played in Bali. He’s seen the traditional performances. I was aware that a group of guys had gathered behind me but, deep in conversation, I paid no attention. Then it was kecak, a wild, Californianized version of male voices simulating the background chorus for the Ramayana saga. The force of that familiar sound stopped my heart.

What are the chances? Really, what are the chances that I would find kecak in my back yard in Oakland, California? It seems, like everything in my life, the chances are very good. The flow of energy, the aligning of experiences that bring joy, the magic of synchronistic happenings no matter where I am, has become the norm. I blinked away tears and allowed gratitude to once again flood my being.

Happy Birthday, Aaron. You are a gift.

A Violent Spirituality

Map_indonesia_volcanoes
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The 17,000 islands that form Indonesia are located in the Pacific Ring of Fire. They’re peppered with volcanic mountains and shudder under frequent earth tremors.
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pulaweh

 

This week, Paluweh on the very small island of Palu’e, east of Bali, erupted. Its incessant rumbling over past days alerted officials who evacuated most inhabitants to the nearby island of Flores. Six lives were lost.

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Even though the map lists only two volcanic mountains on Bali, there are at least six. Mt. Agung last erupted in 1963-1964. Mt. Batur in 1968. The others have been dormant for hundreds of years. Hot springs dot the calderas of these sleeping giants, and a geo-thermal plant harvests the power from fiery regions below Mt. Bratan’s crust.
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Earth’s dynamic unrest in this part of the world drives the energetic spirituality of Bali. The regions beneath the island paradise hold tremendous power. The Balinese understand, and daily tend to the balancing of energy through their rituals and offerings. They open their arms to spiritual practices from around the globe, and while the earth seethes, the air above vibrates with the hum of prayers, the movement of dance, and the ecstatic clang of gamelan.
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I’ve noticed that mindfulness is easier in Bali. Being present is a way of life. Gratitude soaks into the pores and becomes perpetual. I’m struck by the differences now that I’ve been in the States for a few weeks. Now that jet-lag has passed, and culture shock has subsided to a degree, and my emotions have stabilized, I can think logically about what it is that feels so absent, what gets in the way of connection.
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It’s the veneer. There’s a glossy coating on people in America that separates us. Maybe it’s competition, or power. Maybe it’s privilege, or sophistication, or make-up! But we’re isolated. Even walking down the sidewalk with hoards of others, we’re so alone. We are the casualties of progress, of technology, of narcissistic self-absorption.
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In Bali I don’t go 10 steps without an interaction. Maybe it’s nothing more than a taxi driver on the street offering his services, but someone has spoken to me and I have the option to respond and thank him and inquire about his day. I have the option to connect. I find I like that. I need that. And I take advantage of those opportunities. It has opened the door to a different kind of life. The taxi drivers remember. They stop offering “Taksi!” and instead say “Good afternoon, how are you today?” and we visit for awhile.
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The fragile brevity of life calls for more than just going through the motions. In the shadow of Mt. Agung, regal, serene, but deadly when aroused, there is a creative force that supports authenticity. It beckons, like these words by Rumi: “Come, come, whoever you are, wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn’t matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come.”

Shedding…Flick!

Strip away
Strip away
Strip away…
Shed memories like dirty socks.
Flick old photos
into the trash
one after another…
birthdays
holidays
vacations…
Oh! I remember…
pause…
Flick!
Gone.
 
There is a NOW
that screams for attention.
It wants no hooks
in the past.
It is lusty,
full of spark and fire,
juicy with life.
It has no room
for regrets
or dismal might-have-been’s.
 
I pack one bag
with new clothes
and shut the door behind me.
Goodbye isn’t necessary today.
I’ve already said them all,
one for each photograph…
Flick!
 
Sherry Bronson
August 2, 2013
 
Moving on
photo: vikrampyati.blogspot.com

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