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In Praise of Rutabagas

Those who know me know that I eat my vegetables. They also know that I can’t abide the word “veggies” or any form of it. The word is “vegetable,” or, if you prefer, gemüse. The Germans have such lovely words for ordinary things.

But I digress. I eat my vegetables. They’re good and good for me. In the spring and summer we often make meals for days at a time out of whatever fresh and plentiful produce is available. It’s almost a game to figure out what is in season and what I can make of it that will be delicious and satisfying.

I’ve only met one vegetable I don’t like, and that is the rutabaga, also know at the swede, yellow turnip, or more precisely, Brassica napobrassica. Growing up somewhat middle-class in a large family, we ate plenty of things that our friends and classmates didn’t. I didn’t mind eating regular white or purple topped turnips (which are crisp and joyful) or the interminable crocks of dried beans, or even the beets, which tasted rather like dirt and stained the plate with a horrific magenta liquid. But I always drew the line at rutabagas. It seemed to be the ultimate in low-class, end of the line, no further humiliation than to have to peel a wax-covered rutabaga and boil it up for dinner. I recently described the taste to a friend as “a turnip, gone horribly wrong, having lain under the front porch for about three months, in the dirt, where the cats go to pee and the bugs can crawl on it with their dirty little feet.”

In the British Isles, prior to pumpkins being readily available (a relatively recent innovation), swedes/rutabagas were hollowed out and carved with faces to make lanterns for Halloween. Often called "jack o'lanterns", or "tumshie lanterns" in Scotland, they were the ancient symbol of a damned soul. This is the reason, I presume, why they taste so awful.

The only way I will really eat rutabagas without setting up a howl is in “Himmel und Erde.” This German dish, translated as “Heaven and Earth” is made up of root vegetables such as turnips, parsnips, potato, carrots and rutabagas. The other vegetables and the butter and seasonings conspire nicely to cover up the taste of the nasty swede. It’s a recipe that can make something nice out of something fairly unpleasant.

Those who know me also know what a stinking mess my life currently is. I’m moving out and on, and it’s scary, difficult and painful, and not always in that order. I worried about Dear Daughter, my family, my house, my financial situation, even the One I’m leaving behind. My stuff is scattered all over the city in various safe places. I’m homeless with a mortgage. I’m tired and scrambling to keep work and life together.

But through it all, the past 36 hours have been filled with grace and light. I’ve received help—monetary, emotional, spiritual and physical – from all sorts of wonderful people who have shown me their love and kindness in abundance and without hesitation. I try not to be surprised when God answers prayers, but when the blessings start pouring in so quickly and in such torrents, it’s astounding. I truly am not worthy of such loving-good friends and family.

One of the dear folks who have thrown her not-inconsiderable influence onto my side lately also sent me a Christmas card. I love Christmas cards—both sending and receiving them. This one is beautiful, but what it contained inside (along with her sweet message) really made my day. She sent this recipe for rutabaga cookies, with the tongue-in-cheek suggestion that I bake a batch. It was a good laugh, but there is a great deal of wisdom in her idea. Despite all of the chaos and sadness in my world right now, I have so much that is good—so many wonderful people who are showing me love and helping me to show love. Even through the darkness, we are surrounded by light. And Pat’s little funny, tucked inside a glittery card, is a nice reminder of how to make something sweet and good out of something that outwardly appears to be homely and sad.

A Long Time Coming

Curiousity killed the cat
and it's not so good for me
and you.
So don't leave me a trail
you don't want me to follow.
Don't leave me clues
that I'm not meant to find.
Don't tell me lies, then
tell me I'm dreaming.
My eyes are wide open now.

As Paralysis Sets In...

They say you can't go back again. I think the proper phrasing is more along the lines of "you SHOULDN'T go back again."

I've spent part of the evening re-reading old messages from the Loved One. Times were that we were happy and good to one another. I can't believe the people who wrote those things then are the people we are now.

What happened? Oh, whatever happened?

I've shoved some more things into some more boxes. My plans are still not completely defined. I keep telling myself and those around me that I'm really fine, but I doubt I'm being truthful. The coin has two sides, and I keep turning it over in my hands.

To justify my existence, I need to pack a couple more boxes.

When You Come to the Edge of Everything You Have Known...

Two years ago when my mother was first diagnosed with cancer, a very wise and caring man, who also happens to be my priest, told me that when I come to the edge of everything I have known, one of two things will happen. I will either step out onto safe and solid ground or I will learn to fly.

Today, folks, I'm absolutely soaring.

I'm in early middle-age. I'm a single parent. My relationship that I thought would be the one I had for life is ending. My mom is still sick (but doing better, thanks). I'm overdrawn (how the hell did this happen? Actually, I know exactly how it happened, I just don't know how I'm going to fix it.) at the bank. Someone I know is about to get a very rude surprise about an unexpected baby (not me, folks). My tenant keeps bouncing checks on me. I'm about to move back into one tiny room at my mother's house for the foreseeable future. My car really needs tires.

Did I leave anything out? Oh yeah, it's Christmas.

Still. I'm soaring. I have so many wonderful things in my world. My Dear Daughter is so very, very dear. She knows what is going on, and she's okay. We're okay. We've redefined home to mean not "that place where your stuff is" but rather the more accurate "that place where your heart is." Our hearts are together--therefore, wherever we are, we are home.

Even if our stuff is living in a mini-storage halfway across town.

My friends are simply amazing--MelBoe, FineOldFamly and Kimby-the-book-fairy are helping me sort, throw away and pack. These are three amazing women, and I would be saying that even if they weren't solidly in my corner in this time of fiery, blazing crisis.

My friends at work are great-- they recognize enough of the challenges going on in my life right now, and have given me the encouragement I need in the right doses. They also have given me a healthy sense of practicality and are definitely keeping me busy enough to not despair. They (pronounced Illy, Meerkat, e, marciamarciamarcia, MCBA, Optimus Wicked and Stanimal) make me laugh, which is keeping my internal organs well massaged and my head on as straight as it can be for now.

My family...well, I never appreciated them enough until now. They're the best.

The rest of the world--well, it's still turning. It's not going to stop for me and my hefty bundle of issues. Eventually my parachute will open (although maybe not until I pull the reserve), but until then, I'm passing through clouds both grey and silver. It's a beautiful view.

It's also about giving up

I can't really expound on this right now. Big changes. Sad times. Gonna be okay.

Public Acknowledgement

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost.
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

Thanks be to the Blessed Mother, ever Virgin Mary and to our patron Blessed St. Joseph, for prayers heard and answered, in so short a time and in such rich abundance.