Category Archives: Living Well

Father’s Day

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My DresserNote: this is an essay first posted for Fathers Day 2013  

My dear Meg,

I’m not sure if you remember, but a while back there was a day we had a series of conversations, in which the phrase “Because he’s a boy” kept coming up. An example I recall was you wondering why in the world anybody would try to open a banana with a 10 inch butcher knife, and me explaining “because he’s a boy” (luckily, a boy with 10 fingers, for the time being).

Boys do silly, fun and sometimes dangerous things. It is part of being a boy. It is perplexing if you have never been one, but what are you going to do?

However, at some point, being a boy should stop—well, unless you are the one boy who never grows up; Peter Pan can be grand-fathered in, I suppose. Although if he never grows up, is the word grandfather appropriate?

As I was saying, at some point, being a boy should stop—or at the very least, diminish. In the greater life-cycle of the male of the species—we will use the generic term “guy’—there should at some point be a transition from boy to man. Yet, there seems to be a marked trend at the present away from this, and towards a prolonged male adolescence. Guys who are way past the point where they should have become adults are still being boys. It has even spawned a whole movie genre which the New York Times likes to call the “Man Child.” It appears to be making Judd Apatow rich. Of course, the target audience for these movies is guys in their 20s who themselves do not want to grow up. It can even extend to middle aged men with movies like Grown Ups. I’m not entirely sure it is possible to produce a comedy in which the men are not immature.

The whole thing mystifies me.

SupermanDon’t get me wrong: I did enjoy being a boy, and was quite good at it (I have the stories, some of which you have heard, and the scars to prove it). Nevertheless, I remember looking forward to being a man. I wanted to be a man (OK, to be honest, I wanted to be a man, 36, and tenured, but that might just be me). A big part of it, though, was that my heroes were men. My movie heroes—John Wayne, Humphrey Bogart, Gregory Peck, Paul Newman, Robert Redford, etc.—were all men, even, what you might call “real men.”
Movie heroes, however, aren’t as vivid as flesh and blood heroes. My biggest reason for wanting to be a man was that the men in my life made it look so cool. My uncles were (and remain) people I wanted to be like. My grandfathers were both really great to spend time with. Watching Dad engaged in after dinner conversation with other men—Beautiful LivingFred Norris, Scott Bartchy, and the occasional passer through like Bob Wetzel or Bob Fife—was fascinating, and more entertaining than anything we boys did.
My father made being a man look brilliant and incredible.
He still does.
My goal was to be like him.
It still is.

Although being a boy was fun, I didn’t want to be a boy indefinitely.
I wanted to grow up and be a man.

I’m not sure at what point it became more appealing for guys to be boys rather than becoming men. Certainly by the time The Simpsons (which I love) came around, it was clear that it was cooler to be Bart than to be Homer (also more fun to be naughty, but that is another day’s column). But this shift is an alarming trend, and must be stopped before the entire world is populated by Adam Sandler wannabes.
Now, it won’t do for me to just say: Hey! Grow up! I should give some reasons why to be a man.

First (and this is a universal guy reason for doing things): It is attractive.
Although there is something charming about a man who can be a boy, there is nothing at all appealing about a 200 pound little boy.
If they are trying to impress someone, especially if they are hoping for any kind of relationship, maturity is a real draw and immaturity is a real turn-off, don’t you think? And you, Meg, might be the kind of person a guy might want to impress.
Related to this, by the way, a suit and a tie are much sexier than a ratty sweatshirt, baggy shorts, and a backwards baseball cap.
Also more appropriate for church, the theatre, or a date.
Don’t get me started on Man-Child wardrobes, but do let me warm the guys who are reading this to take off your hat in the Bistro; Wode Toad has a really long tongue.

Secondly: Responsibility.
Yes, I know that this is a scary word, and it is probably why these boys are avoiding growing up in the first place, but think about it: responsibility is a part of freedom. It is the price one pays for getting out of footed pajamas and the high chair and joining the adult world. As an analogy, getting a car means having a lot of freedom to go places, but it also means suddenly have a lot of responsibilities which keep it running. Being a grown-up is similar; it gives you new freedoms to go places, but it has its costs.
Being a man means taking responsibility for yourself and for others; it’s what men do. This may seem rather dull at the least and terrifying at the worst, but it has its perks.

Third: Fun.Dad and Bitsy
Again, these boys probably are avoiding growing up because it doesn’t seem to be fun, but one can be a man and still be as playful as when one was a boy.
My father can be a very dignified gentleman. He also once spent a half an hour on his hands and knees in the kitchen entertaining a 2 year old by making zucchini and summer squash dance and run around.
My uncle Dale is quite manly—even to the point of flying planes and working lumber in the Northwest—but is also sillier than any giggling little boy I know. He is also a world-class imaginary jacks player (personally, imaginary table tennis is more my style, mostly because it is noisier). Certainly he has more fun than most of the knuckle dragging college boys I see mumbling through the streets, slouching towards Numan’s Cafe & Sports Bar. Read Brandon’s articles on playfulness–he is more fun because he is responsible for the girls, not less.
Men still play basketball, still yell at games, still play games, go on road trips (my Dad circumnavigates the globe, your dad flies his own plane), camp, kayak—you name it.

Finally, and most importantly for me: Pride.
grow some miniThis is why I would not be able to abide being a permanent boy. Whenever I see one of these immature guys, I want to yell: where is your pride, man? It’s humiliating! To be a man is to take responsibility for who you are and what you do and to be able to look upon both of those and take pride in them. It is taking responsibility for others that you care about, or for commitments you have made, and taking pride in them. What does the overgrown boy have to take pride in? High Scores on their games? Their Graphic Novel collection? OK, that’s not so bad, but remember: by playing and by reading one is pretending to be somebody one can take pride in; by being a man they could actually be that person.

I don’t accept that boys will be boys; boys are meant to become men.
Take pride in yourself and grow up. Be a Man!

So, that is why one should be a man, but the bigger question, is: How does one go about being a man?
Of course, it goes without saying that mistreating women is cowardly and un-manly, and that being a man of quality also means treating children and animals kindly, but there are so many other practices involved in being a man…

Please greet Richard from me, Meg, and wish him a Happy Father’s Day.
For the rest of you: a home cooked meal is the best thing for Dad (well, second to sailing), but if that doesn’t seem practical, remember that a hand-written note is always appropriate, if not that—would it kill you to call?

If nothing else, feel free to bring the great man to Dr.Bear’’s Philosophy Bistro.315signature

& Love

Image

My life here isn’t limited to our little farm, but it is centered there. I moved here permanently because I thought it was a place and a group of people that were a home for me. Even though that is not always easy, it is always true.

The differences in what we eat don’t seem like they would be that much of a big deal, but these differences can be challenging. I guess it’s easiest for those of us who are omnivores and just eat what we want to eat– what seems “normal” –and what the other’s eat can be mystifying, and even annoying. When planning a potluck, it really would be easiest if we just all ate in the same way, but we don’t. So I try to come up with vegan and gluten-free things to offer the folks I love. One example was today’s recipe.

Although it was a very hard path for me to follow, I do have a deep respect for vegans. I am an ethicist, and it is an ethical choice. It is a higher standard that I admire, but which I am not capable of imitating. I can try, in my way, to lessen the harm I do to my fellow creatures, to care for my chickens even though I take their eggs, and to try to follow practices which reduce the gratuitous pain cause by the industrial meat industry, but I am a sinner. For health reasons, it is difficult for me to live on a reduced diet, but even more than that, because of my own weaknesses I cannot give up meat.

My vegan friends are incredibly open and accepting of me even though I do this. I can still share food around the table with my vegan friends, and wouldn’t ever want to give that up.

Although I don’t understand it, I love lots of people who cannot eat gluten. I love people who are so sensitive that they become very sick when they are around gluten or eat things that have been prepared near gluten. I love people who’s guts become uncomfortable when they eat gluten, and pretty rough if they eat a lot of it. Whatever diet or life style choices they have made before, the fact remains that I can not reasonably expect them to only eat what seems “normal” to me. How could I expect them to be in pain just to conform to what seems most comfortable to me?

Loving mean trying to understand what hurts other people and to try to avoid anything that might hurt them. How could I ever give up sharing food around the table with these friends?

You see, for me, eating together is the perfect symbol of love. Eating together nourishes and encourages communication. It equalizes. It is shared. My parents taught us love in many ways, but one of these was supper. To prepare food with your hands and share it around the table was an act of love; it was what made a home a home. To share food in your home was about allowing your family and friends and even strangers to become part of your home. To come into somebody else’s house and share their food was to become part of their home.

I don’t understand love completely, except that I know that I have been loved. When I was a young stranger just moved to Nashville, with the scars of my kidney surgery still fresh, I was taken in and fed by friends. Several of them that stand out to me were lesbians who seemed much wiser and older than I was, but who fed me and took care of me even though they had no obvious reason to care about a white cis straight boy. I really did not understand what made them love, but I accepted the love they gave to me. In the years since then, hundreds of doors have opened to me and hundreds of tables have welcomed me, and at the same time I have shared my cooking with hundreds of people, even people I have never met. When I taught philosophy, I shared my food and my home with my students, because so much of what I wanted to teach them could be shown around a table of food. That is how my parents taught me to love and to be loved. I was loved unconditionally by my parents, and in turn love my daughter unconditionally. When she was growing up, I tried to teach her as much as I could about love and food. We often had guests and were guests. I taught her how to cook and how to welcome folks to her table.

I can’t expect them all to love just in the way that seems “normal” to me. I can’t expect to give up what seems right to them, or what is obviously healthy for them, or expect them to love or to give up love in ways that would hurt them. I can’t expect people I love to pretend to be someone or something they aren’t just to make my life less awkward. How could I give up sharing food or tables or homes or work or beds with these friends?

Seitanic Majesty

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This has been a long term experiment that started back sometime in June. Although the Seitan StewSauerbraten in June was good, it wasn’t great, and I went back to the drawing board. Several of the attempts were positively awful, but at last, this week, I had a batch I was fairly happy with and I ran it past my quality control friends (thanks, Meg & Rachel), who also seemed to approve.
The earliest ve3rsions of this recipe were appropriated from the Post-Punk Kitchen (http://www.theppk.com/2009/11/homemade-seitan/), which also has a new cookbook out. It took some tweaking to make it my own.

Ingredients:

  • 1 cup wheat gluten (available in boxes, but try to get it bulk; it’s cheaper)
  • 3 Tbsps. nutritional (brewers) yeast
  • 1/2 cup cold vegetable broth (or fake chicken broth or fake beef broth)
  • 1/4 cup soy sauce
  • 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
  • 1 tablespoon olive oil
  • 2 cloves garlic

For the simmering broth: 
4 cups vegetable broth
4 cups water
1/4 cup soy sauce

Fill a stock pot with the water, broth and soy sauce, cover and bring to a boil.

In the mean time, in a large bowl mix together gluten and yeast.  In a smaller bowl mix together broth, soy sauce, lemon juice, olive oil and garlic. Pour the wet into the dry and combine with a wooden spoon until most of the moisture has absorbed and partially clumped up with the dry ingredients. Use your hands and knead for about 3 minutes, until it’s an elastic dough. Divide into 3 equal pieces with a knife and then knead those pieces in your hand just to stretch them out a bit. Let rest until the broth has come to a full boil.

Once boiling, lower the heat to a simmer. Add the gluten pieces and partially cover pot so that steam can escape. Let simmer for 45 minutes, turning occasionally. Turn the heat off and take the lid off, let sit for 15 minutes.

Remove from broth and place in a strainer until it is cool enough to handle. Wrap it in a clean cloth (it will get stained)  and wring out as much of the excess moisture as you can.

Store in refrigerator until needed.

Slice and use as desired.

 

 

That’s all folks

Sing!

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When was the last time you heard a voice singing–in person, not a reproduction or something amplified, but a human voice? When was the last time you sang?

A few weeks ago, two heroes of mine passed away, Jean Ritchie and Ronnie Gilbert.

Ronnie Gilbert was one of the founding members of The Weavers, a folk group that was influential and then black-listed in the early 50s. Along with Pete Seeger, Lee Hays, and Fred Hellerman, and with the help of Alan Lomax and input from Woodie Guthrie, they sang both American and international folk music, as well as Union and labour songs. They were some of the people who influenced the Folk Revival of the 60s, which influenced me.

Jean Ritchie was an authentic Kentucky-born folk singer. She brought American folk music back to Appalachian roots music with her traditional performances of many of the old ballads that had travelled across from Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and the rest of Britain.

There is a great deal I love about folk music, but today I would like to focus on what is perhaps the most important quality it has: It is the everyday person’s music. It can belong to any of us. I dearly love Yo Yo Ma playing Bach, or Jessye Norman singing Wagner, but these are the tasks of demi-gods few of us can hope to follow. The melody of a folk tune is one which almost anybody can sing, and then can learn a little more challenging harmonies. They are words which anybody can learn, even if the complex lyrics like Finnegan’s Wake can be a little harder.

One of the greatest gifts my parents gave me was a love for music. They are each amazingly talented, but most of all they loved music. Since dad was a preacher, we all learned to sing in church in 4-part harmony. We also sang grace at every meal. But they also sang around the house or around the piano. Most of all, when we would be driving home from a long trip at night–and my dad loved to drive–they would sing together in harmony, and that’s how we kids learned to sing as well. I was the smallest, and usually in the back, or even in the hatch, and some of my fondest and safest memories were listening to them sing in the front of the car.

We learned a lot of folk songs from them. Where have all the Flowers Gone?, Puff the Magic Dragon, Turn, Turn, Turn, as well as show tunes and standards. I continue to hum or whistle of even sing out loud whenever I can. I had a job a while back which involved an early stocking shift before the store opened, and my friend Rachel and I would sing Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash and what-ever else suited our fancy. One of my great prides in parenting is how many songs I taught my daughter, who says that I have a voice that makes anybody feel like they can sing.

And anyone can!!!!!

Sing to say what you cannot say! Singing for joy or to express our sadness, or just to pass the time away is a rare gift. The blues, the agony, the ecstasy, the longing, the loneliness, the peace—all of these are bubbling down deep within you and waiting to be expressed.

Sing to remember who you are and what you love! Singing opens up something inside of us that makes us more like who we really are than anything else. No other human being, no nightingale or lark, no violin or glockenspiel has your unique voice. It might not be the prettiest, but it is yours, and it can be your fun.

Sing because it’s beautiful! The world is full of beauty, but singing–even if you do it really poorly–allows you to touch and to be part of that beauty, that joy, that infinite and immediate wonder which is music. It is so rooted in the earth, so material, such a matter of vibrations and modulations, but it is also so sublime. Music immerses us in our senses and sensations, but moves us out of subjective feeling. It is the world and it is transcendence.

So when was the last time you sang?

You’re alone now, wasting time reading a blog, just you and your electronic device….why don’t you sing now?

WoodyGuthriePoster

 

 

GIRAFFES!!!!!!!

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I SAW GIRAFFES!!!

MackawsRachel, a friend of mine and one of the mostbok wonderful people I know, took me to a zoo–Brights Zoo in Limestone Tennessee, in fact. We walked around and saw all sorts of animals–mostly animals from Savannahs, since the climates are similar  in summer, as is the grazing. It is still a bit chilly in the mornings here, so it wasn’t until the second time around the park, when the sun came out, that many of the animals came outside.

Going around the corner, I couldn’t speak; there, standing in a paddock, were 3 giraffes!

Everybody has that special thing–a blanket or stuffed animal–that wasStuffed Giraffe (4) their special little security thing when they are little. Mine was Giraffe. He was a medium sized stuffed giraffe (that’s how he got the name). When I was 7, we moved 3979 miles, across the Atlantic. I had my pillow and Giraffe. He was a good listener and a reassuring friend, and he could be flipped over and used as a machine gun when flying over France trying to shoot down Eddie Rickenbacker. I don’t think I have ever lived anywhere without him.

Giraffe 2I have seen giraffes at zoos before, but generally from a distance. I was able to stand up on a platform eye to eye. They are graceful and very tall. They are a little mischievous, and have a purple tongue that is almost 2 feet long. They are quiet, mostly because breathing all that way can be rough, but can make moaning orGiraffe tounge bleating noises. I have a friend who once followed a herd (a tower? who comes up with these things?!?) on a motorcycle to see what noise they made, but apparently they have non-verbal ways of saying “what’s with the creeper on the motorcycle?” because they stayed quiet. And they have huge beautiful eyes with long eyelashes.Giraffe me - Copy

I think I just stood there with my mouth open for 5 minutes, unable to speak (really unusual for me). Honestly, I felt like dancing around and squealing, but at my age that is difficult to pull off. Rachel bought a carrot for me to feed to him. All the rest of the day I was saying “I saw a giraffe!!!” to flamingoanyone who would listen.

Life has had its ups and downs lately, but for just one moment, I couldn’t ask for more. The sun was shining, and I was hanging out with a good friend and with giraffes. What more could you want?

912signature marvel

 

Wheaten Bread (Irish Brown Bread)

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Irish Wheaten Bread 007On our first day in Ireland, for our very first meal in Europe, we had breakfast at the Railway Hotel. Besides some marvelous tea and incredible service, we also had some toast, which included a brown bread. My foodie daughter was in love. “Wouldn’t it be ironic,” she asked, “if after going through Germany and France, my favorite bread ended up being Irish Brown Bread, and my favorite cheese really was a sharp Irish Cheddar?”

Ne Gustibus Disputatem Est.

Ingredients:

  • 3 cups extra-course whole wheat flour
  • ½ cup bread flour
  • 1 tsp baking powder
  • 1 tsp baking soda
  • 1 tsp salt
  • 1 cup oat bran
  • 1 cup wheat germ
  • ¼ cup brewer’s yeast (optional)
  • ¼ cup melted butter (I might consider more)
  • 2 cups buttermilk or milk
  • 1 Tbsp dark corn syrup or honey
  • 1 egg

Step 1, Prepare Ye the way: Preheat the oven to 400°, assemble all the ingredients, run to the store because you are out of butter, and grease & flour a baking sheet or cake pan.

Step 2, sifting the dry ingredients: In one bowl sift (mix if you don’t have a sifter) the flours, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Add in the oat bran, wheat germ, and brewer’s yeast.  Mix thoroughly.

Step 3, pastry cutting: Mix in the butter, much as you would cut in cold butter or shortening.

Step 4, mixing the wet ingredients: In another bowl, beat the egg, then mix in the buttermilk and the corn syrup.

Step 4, combining the big mess: Add the wet ingredients to the dry ones and mix well. The results might be a bit gloppy. No, I take that back: they result will be very gloppy. Flour your hands and try to fashion this into a ball, and if you cannot, add a bit more flour until this is manageable. Irish Wheaten Bread 001

Step 5, baking: Set the round loaf (or round loaves, if you are making little ones) onto the pan. Score the top with a cross. Bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes. Rotate them to make sure they brown evenly, reduce the oven temperature to 375, and bake for 30 minutes more. The result should be a crumbly brown loaf.

Final Step, share and enjoy Irish Wheaten Bread 009They break along the score, so you can each munch a quarter. You can have them with a mug of strong Irish tea, and some cold butter, and some current jam. They are perfect as a toast for breakfast, or to accompany a hearty plowman’s lunch.

As always, they are perfect for giving to somebody you love, either in person, or by post.

The Second Person

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Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, the English language had 3 ways of saying you: “þū” (pronounced like ‘thoo’) for one of you, “ġit” (pronounced like ‘jit’) for two of you, and ġē” (pronounced like ‘jee’) for several of you. That is Old English. Thou6In Middle English, the second person pronoun was simplified to “thou” and “ye.” Today, in modern English, we only have “you.” Of course, there are regional exceptions, such as the “y’all” of the South, the northern “you guys,” “you-uns,” which is spread across the Ohio River Valley and parts of old Appalachia, its derivative “yinz,” which is a defining characteristic of Pittsburghese, and “yous,” Digression226 which persists in English speaking pockets from New Jersey, Boston, and Philly, all the way to Ireland, South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand.

It is not uncommon for languages to slur and simplify. However, in English, there are important social factors and meanings to this change. How I speak to a second person is also a strong indication of how we interact. As Middle English developed a court Thoulanguage for the gentry, it adopted what is called the T/V distinction. In several European languages, the plural 2nd person becomes an honorific, a formal address of respect to superiors. examples include the tu/vous in French, the du/sie in German, and tú/usted in Spanish. By contrast the singular denoted either a lower class, or a sense of intimacy. The farmer would address his lord as “you” and his child as “thou.” The Lord would address other nobility as “you,” but address both the farmer and his child as “thou.”

However, at the same time, the rising middle class began to blur the rigid class Thou2distinctions, and adopted using “you” in all interactions. In part, to show they were not from the lower classes and provincials and in part because the formal was the language of business. One says: “How are you today, sir?” as a courtesy and a sign of respect to any customer walking in the door, but one also expects that courtesy to be returned. Similarly, everybody became “Master” or “Mister,” and “Mistress” or “Mrs.” Digression227

Thou8What was gained by this change to you was an equality of address, but a formal equality. What was lost was the familiarity and intimacy of thou-ing someone. It has its few remnants, but for the most part it sounds archaic. Emily Dickinson’s:
Wild nights – Wild nights! Were I with thee Wild nights should be Our luxury!
          …sounds sweetly archaic, like an ancient ode. It doesn’t sound like wild nights.

The Quakers became known for always using the familial “thou” to demonstrate their belief in universal brotherhood, as well as their unwillingness to Thou4participate in inequality. In a way, it seems odd that the leveling of English chose the genteel formal, instead of the Quaker’s familiarity. Then again, maybe it says something about us that we don’t miss the familiar pronoun. The informal formality of the second person might be an accurate indication of who we are and how we interact. We can be friendly while keeping a distance, casual without being intimate; that is who we have become.

We have acquired the easy manners of the sales person, showing respect and being friendly, but at the same time easily disposing of the conversation and forgetting about it as it passes. We laugh at the second person’s joke in an open, friendly way, all the while thinking of something else. We can get personal without recognizing persons, as well as “nice” and “sweet” without bothering to be genuine.

Of course, we are not slaves to the laws of language, even if we are grounded by them. Like the laws of gravity and inertia, we can defy language occasionally by acts of will and imagination.

We must remember to ask ourselves: Who is this you? Each second person—singular or plural—is their own first person. When we ask “How are you?” we must remember that the you is an I with his or her own concerns. When we say “thank you,” whom are we thanking? When we say “I’ll be with you in a moment,” who is the person thinking “Great. Now I have to wait again?” When we yell “FUCK YOU!!” who is the vulnerable me we are yelling at?

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Second Person

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Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, the English language had 3 ways of saying you: “þū” (pronounced like ‘thoo’) for one of you, “ġit” (pronounced like ‘jit’) for two of you, and ġē” (pronounced like ‘jee’) for several of you. That is Old English. Thou6In Middle English, the second person pronoun was simplified to “thou” and “ye.” Today, in modern English, we only have “you.” Of course, there are regional exceptions, such as the “y’all” of the South, the northern “you guys,” “you-uns,” which is spread across the Ohio River Valley and parts of old Appalachia, its derivative “yinz,” which is a defining characteristic of Pittsburghese, and “yous,” Digression226 which persists in English speaking pockets from New Jersey, Boston, and Philly, all the way to Ireland, South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand.

It is not uncommon for languages to slur and simplify. However, in English, there are important social factors and meanings to this change. How I speak to a second person is also a strong indication of how we interact. As Middle English developed a court Thoulanguage for the gentry, it adopted what is called the T/V distinction. In several European languages, the plural 2nd person becomes an honorific, a formal address of respect to superiors. examples include the tu/vous in French, the du/sie in German, and tú/usted in Spanish. By contrast the singular denoted either a lower class, or a sense of intimacy. The farmer would address his lord as “you” and his child as “thou.” The Lord would address other nobility as “you,” but address both the farmer and his child as “thou.”

However, at the same time, the rising middle class began to blur the rigid class Thou2distinctions, and adopted using “you” in all interactions. In part, to show they were not from the lower classes and provincials and in part because the formal was the language of business. One says: “How are you today, sir?” as a courtesy and a sign of respect to any customer walking in the door, but one also expects that courtesy to be returned. Similarly, everybody became “Master” or “Mister,” and “Mistress” or “Mrs.” Digression227

Thou8What was gained by this change to you was an equality of address, but a formal equality. What was lost was the familiarity and intimacy of thou-ing someone. It has its few remnants, but for the most part it sounds archaic. Emily Dickinson’s:
Wild nights – Wild nights! Were I with thee Wild nights should be Our luxury!
          …sounds sweetly archaic, like an ancient ode. It doesn’t sound like wild nights.

The Quakers became known for always using the familial “thou” to demonstrate their belief in universal brotherhood, as well as their unwillingness to Thou4participate in inequality. In a way, it seems odd that the leveling of English chose the genteel formal, instead of the Quaker’s familiarity. Then again, maybe it says something about us that we don’t miss the familiar pronoun. The informal formality of the second person might be an accurate indication of who we are and how we interact. We can be friendly while keeping a distance, casual without being intimate; that is who we have become.

We have acquired the easy manners of the sales person, showing respect and being friendly, but at the same time easily disposing of the conversation and forgetting about it as it passes. We laugh at the second person’s joke in an open, friendly way, all the while thinking of something else. We can get personal without recognizing persons, as well as “nice” and “sweet” without bothering to be genuine.

Of course, we are not slaves to the laws of language, even if we are grounded by them. Like the laws of gravity and inertia, we can defy language occasionally by acts of will and imagination.

We must remember to ask ourselves: Who is this you? Each second person—singular or plural—is their own first person. When we ask “How are you?” we must remember that the you is an I with his or her own concerns. When we say “thank you,” whom are we thanking? When we say “I’ll be with you in a moment,” who is the person thinking “Great. Now I have to wait again?” When we yell “FUCK YOU!!” who is the vulnerable me we are yelling at?

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Shepherd’s Pie without the Yang

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Stout Vegetable Pie

This would have originally been Shepherd’s Pie, but the shepherds have grown more clever and figured out the thing with the box of donuts and the net, so this is vegetarian.
It is quite cold, and this is a warm, simple recipe.
Speaking of which, Happy Chinese New Year!
Since this recipe contains neither sheep nor goats, we will avoid the whole semantic argument.
I didn’t actually measure anything, so it will be approximate.

Ingredients:

  • 1 pastry pie crust
  • some olive oil
  • 1/2 lb sliced mushrooms
  • 1 small onion, chopped
  • 2 chopped carrots
  • chopped root vegetable: turk (neeps, turnips), beets, parsnips, what have you
  • some (to taste, maybe one small) diced potatoes
  • 3/4 cups TVP (texturized vegetable protein)
  • 1 packet Colman’s Shepherd Pie seasonings (available at Krogers, and at other fine retailers.
  • 2 bottles of Stout, red wine, water, or broth
  • 1/2 cup red lentils
  • 1/2 cup frozen or fresh peas
  • 1/2 cup cheddar cheese (I prefer Dubliner or Cabots, both of which are rennet free)
  • 3 cups or so of mashed potatoes

Step 1, It’s called pie for a reason: Bake a pie shell or acquire one by other means.

Step 2, frying: in a pot, heat a little oil and add the sliced mushrooms and onion. After they are browned, add the protein mixture and stir fry it a bit. Add the chopped carrots and potatoes.
In an iron pan (my iron pot is roughly the diameter of the pie tin, so I went with it), sauté sliced mushrooms until browning, then onions until browning, then add carrots, then slices of turk (turnip) and beet, then finally a little red onion.

Step 3, stewing: add a pack of Colman’s Shepherd Pie seasonings, 3/4 of a cup or so of TVP, a quarter cup or so of red lentils, and two bottles of Porter or Stout. You could use any liquid: wine, broth, whatever’s handy. If really using a Stout or Porter, make sure it isn’t too bitter. Stir and bring to a bubble, then cover and allow this to simmer for 30 minutes or so, while you prepare the mashed potatoes.

Step 4 mashing potatoes: my great, great grandmother made mashed potatoes for folks starting the Oregon Trail in Western Pennsylvania. It’s what made this country great.

Step 5,, putting it all together: fill the pie tin with the stew, sprinkle with some sharp cheddar, Top with mashed potatoes, broil the top of the potatoes a bit, and there you go.