a grit out of water

Grits and polenta are not the same thing. Yes, they both are made from corn, but they use different parts of the kernel and are ground differently.

That having been said, I’m having quite the frustrating adventure trying to find real grits here in Portland, Oregon.

A friend is having a potluck dinner on Thursday night. There’s been a lot of discussion lately about shrimp and grits — a traditional Southern favorite — so I figured I’d make a big pot for my friends. Assuming I can find actual grits in the Pacific Northwest.

It turns out I can use quick grits — not the same as instant grits, mind you — in place of slow-cooked grits, if need be. But last night’s visit to my local Safeway proved that even that might be problematic.

They used to carry at least the quick grits, but those are long gone. Nestled amongst six varieties of cream of wheat and about thirty different kinds of oatmeal sat the lone grits option: instant. I searched the breakfast food aisle and the cooking and baking area, to no avail. I stopped a store employee and asked for help.

She had no idea what I was talking about. I had to spell the word G-R-I-T-S for her (and no, my accent isn’t nearly that strong). She said, “Oh, so like oatmeal?” I tried to explain the difference between oatmeal and grits — yes, you might find both on the breakfast table, and they’re typically shelved together, but they’re not remotely the same thing — but I could see it wasn’t registering. This lady took me over to another employee for help.

The second woman nodded when I said I was looking for grits, then asked me, “Do you me the frozen kind?”

Frozen grits? I don’t even want to know.

I tried explaining that grits are coarsely ground corn, but she cut me off and said the grits would be on aisle 12.

Aisle 12 turned out to be full of popcorn, nuts, potato chips, and snack crackers. Nary a grit in sight.

I finally took a chance on the “natural foods” section, where I found a bag labeled “Corn Grits, also called Polenta.” I growled in my throat and shook my head. Not the same! Not the same! While turning the bag over in my hands, a young man in a Safeway apron stopped to ask if I needed any help.

“I’m looking for real grits, not the instant kind,” I sighed. “But no one has any idea what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, most people just end up using polenta. Grits are hard to find out this way.” Although he had no assistance to render, just the fact that he knew what the heck grits are was enough to lift my spirits.

So I bought the bag of Corn Grits/Polenta. I’ll pick up the shrimp and other ingredients on Thursday and see what happens.

Later last night, I related the day’s disappointing events over the phone to Mike, who spent a number of years in the South. When I got to the part about grits and polenta being packaged as a single entity, he interrupted with, “Oh, come on. They’re not even close to the same thing!”

That validation meant a lot to this Southern Grits Girl. This guy might be a keeper — assuming he doesn’t choke on my Shrimp and Polenta.

happier coincidence

A coincidence is when God performs a miracle, and decides to remain anonymous.

I stopped believing in coincidence a good while ago. In fact, I’m not sure I ever believed in random happenstance. But I had one of these serendipitous encounters a few days ago that has me both smiling and scratching my head.

First, some background…. Five years ago, I was living and working in Richmond, Virginia — my hometown. I’d been making a good living as a technical writer, and was working on my fiction and creative writing on the side. But my personal and spiritual life was suffering. I’d always been a spiritual seeker, and was even a graduate/ordinand of the New Seminary’s interfaith ministry program, but I’d gotten rather caught up in the more mundane details of life. Meditation was happening maybe weekly, not daily. Prayer was present, but unfocused.

I wasn’t so much unhappy as I was quietly tangled.

When I heard about the “Teacher’s Tutorial” program that Neale Donald Walsch (NDW) and his Conversations with God (CWG) Foundation were planning for the summer of 2003 in Portland, Oregon, I registered immediately. I’d read and enjoyed NDW’s books, and my mother had recently moved to Portland and had been asking me to come visit. Plus, I needed a vacation.

The short version is that I had a great time and fell in love with the Pacific Northwest. I moved out this way the following summer. Though I didn’t further pursue becoming a CWG trainer, the two-day workshop was a treasured experience all the same.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. The week had been a real bear. Amongst some other disappointments, Duke had just gotten knocked out of the NCAA Tournament. I was dragging myself over to the climbing gym, so as not to feel like a complete slug, but first stopped by my local Powells to pick up a book I had on order.

The staff was breaking down chairs immediately following an author event — and there, seated at a table with only a couple of people in front of him, was Neale Donald Walsch.

I'd not seen him since the teachers’ training, and hadn't known he'd be in Portland — much less at that particular bookstore.

I got in line. NDW kept glancing at me. There was a flicker of recognition, but I could tell he couldn't quite place me. When it was my turn to approach the table, I told him briefly who I was and where we'd met before, and then thanked him for bringing me to Oregon. He had one last copy of his new book — "Happier Than God" — in front of him, which he signed for me. I stepped out of the way to let the next folks approach, but NDW reached out to touch my elbow and said, "Good to see you again!"

That was a fun little coincidence.

Now I’ve got this book in my hands and am thinking again about how my (true) spiritual life had been slipping away from me in recent months. That might sound like a surprising statement, given my committed efforts to convert to Judaism. With the “Jewish thing,” it’s been pretty easy for me to focus on the mechanics of the conversion process and lose sight of my own core — something you’d think would be impossible to do, but it happens.

I did start coming back to myself recently, however, in a quiet but seminal moment when out dog walking with Mike. We were talking about my family’s reaction to my conversion. Without even thinking about it, I said, “My beliefs are still the same; I’m just finally choosing an affiliation.”

Huh. If I could have smacked myself upside the head — without too much discomfort — I would have. I’d just summed up for myself precisely what I’d needed to be reminded of. It’s time to come back to the core of intention and the underlying meaning within ritual and action, rather than getting so caught up in the relatively mundane external details.

So I’m grateful for these entertaining coincidences that act as guiding lines back to my own anchor. Now, it’s time to meditate, to read, to explore…. To keep breathing, but from a more conscious center. And that small, quiet miracle is often the best and clearest of all.

kid policy

I was downtown at Kenny & Zuke’s yesterday, having lunch with my friend, Hector, and we got to talking about the very personal choice of whether or not to have children. I’d been in an e-mail discussion about this last week with another friend, because I have a reputation for not wanting to be a parent. For the most part, this is true.

I will not be making any babies. At least, if this were to happen, it would be a flat-out miracle.

Doctors first started talking to me about my specific reproductive challenges when I was 21. I’d just had surgery for a ruptured ovarian cyst — which hurts like a son of a monkey, in case anyone was wondering — and the surgeon came to talk with me when I was in recovery. After telling me how the procedure had gone, she lowered her head and voice, and clasped her hands in front of her.

“If you decide you ever want to have children, please talk to a doctor about it first.” She apologized and stepped away from the bed. It was after the anaesthesia had fully worn off that I’d realized she’d said if, not when.

If I ever want to have children.

Without getting into details, getting pregnant — and keeping a pregnancy — would be a real challenge.

When I made a statement once that I'd likely not be making any babies, I had someone call me "vain" and "pathetic." I'm still not sure how those adjectives apply.

There were a few other similar episodes of being warned against reproducing, the last one a few years ago during my first GYN appointment with a new doctor. I’d just moved to Oregon and had found a physician I really like. She knew my history — and what other doctors had said — and she added another complication to the growing pile. On top of everything else, I’ve got a tipped uterus.

Over time, I got used to the idea of not having children. From a reproductive standpoint, I’m now an old lady. At 38, my prime reproductive period is 10-20 years behind me.

Anyone who has read the wussy report knows how I’ve struggled with my health. I’m still active and fit, but I have to be careful and pay attention. Needless to say, I wouldn’t want to pass along this kind of existence to the next generation. There’s a lot of good in my genes, but with the rest of it, I figure it’s a real crap shoot. Another very real concern is simply having no idea what a full-term pregnancy would do to this already sensitive and temperamental body. There’s a good chance it could wreak a great deal of havoc from which I’d never really recover.

So, reproducing is out. Next step: adoption.

I LOVE the idea of adoption, as a philosophy. Even before I knew about my own reproductive challenges, I was interested in adopting, and I am continually surprised to find that I’m in the minority in this viewpoint. People can be strangely territorial about their genetic material, and this was a major issue in a serious relationship I was in about ten years ago. My boyfriend refused to even consider adoption, because he was convinced that all adopted children were the offspring of criminally insane rapists and serial killers, and so they themselves would grow up to be criminally insane rapists and serial killers. No exceptions.

Fertility problems are on the rise — likely tied to diet, environmental factors, natural population controls, etc. — and I’ve found that a lot of people take this personally. I do understand this, but at some point you have to get beyond the misapprehension that being infertile means that you’re a bad person or are somehow less worthy as a human being.

I often get upset when I see people spending tens and hundreds of thousands of dollars on fertility treatments, and making huge emotional and physical investments as well, when there are so many children who are already here, who don’t have homes, and who want nothing more than a family they can call their own. I don’t even want to think about what it must be like growing up feeling that no one wanted you.

Hector made a good point about fertility treatments — something he’d learned from his ex-wife, a geneticist. These reproductively-challenged individuals and couples are making a huge investment not only in terms of their own expectations and bottom lines, but in the future survival of humanity. As stated previously, fertility problems are on the rise, and these people are stepping up to essentially offer themselves as research test subjects to pioneer new reproductive sciences that may ultimately save us from extinction.

“We absolutely need these people to keep doing this,” Hector said. “And they’re paying for it themselves. In the end, we’re going to be grateful to them.”

Okay, that does make sense. But I’d still like to see more people choosing adoption. I also believe that the planet already has PLENTY of people on it, thank you.

(Obviously, I’m leaving the emotional and psychological concerns about parenting out of this blog discussion.)

Given that I’ve been single more often than not, the only parenting option consistently available to me — whether through giving birth or adopting a child — would be to become a single parent.

Umm, no. That wouldn’t be fair to the child, nor to me. And if I were to get sick, what would happen to my child?

At the end of this conversation — over a monstrous pastrami burger at this packed psuedo-Jewish delicatessen — I outlined for Hector the (ideal) circumstances under which I’d consider becoming a parent. I’d want to be in a stable, healthy, committed relationship with a man truly capable of being a father. I would want to adopt an older child; I’m not naturally drawn to infants, and consider the fact that I’m the gal who adopts problem dogs — I’d want to offer an opportunity for a loving home life to a child who might not otherwise get that chance. And I’d raise my child Jewish — with Friday night Shabbat dinners, being at least partially active in the synagogue, bar/bat mitzvah, the works.

I realize that’s a tall order, and that life is rarely “perfect” when rated on a list of qualifications or expectations. Maybe I’ll remain childless, but will revel in my siblings’ children and grandchildren. Maybe at some future date I’ll find that I’m an extraordinary foster parent. Maybe I’ll open up a ranch as a haven for rescued dogs. And maybe I’ll have my own family, and will teach my child how to dance, how to make matzoh balls, how to face the world without fear — and maybe I’ll learn so much more in return.

dangerous dog and the smiling facade

Yesterday, Lakshmi finally succeeded in tripping me up on the stairs.

I was on the phone with This Guy I’m Seeing (TGIS?). I was on the stairs, complaining to him about this “game” Lakshmi likes to play, of cutting me off on the staircase, getting in the way, trying to nip at my feet and the like. I’ve been trying to break her of this habit, but obviously with little success. TGIS started talking about something else, and that’s when it happened.

I went down hard, landing squarely on my bum and one elbow. I also spilled hot tea on myself in the process. Lakshmi thought it was hilarious. But I didn’t make a sound. I’m fairly certain TGIS didn’t hear a thing, and I didn’t mention it. Just got up and walked it off.

Of course, now I’ve got a beautiful — and rather tender — shiner on my right cheek, and a rug burn (the stairs are carpeted) on my left elbow.

This has been an interesting reminder of this talent instilled in me by my family of origin, of pretending everything’s fine. It’s not a matter of picking yourself up, dusting yourself up, and starting over again — that speaks more to resilience and perseverance, and helps build personal courage.

This has more to do with denying that anything ever went wrong in the first place.

I was raised not to draw any potentially negative attention to myself. Don’t make a scene. Put on a happy face and act as if everything is blissfully fine. All the time. I got really good at this, and grew up terrified that anyone might witness my vulnerability. Like Lakshmi on the stairs, this is a dangerous game.

My friend, Heather Strang, has written — in her new Should-Free Life column for Amaze Magazine — about how we need to remove the word “fail” from our vocabulary, that there are no failures but just new experiences.

The cranky side of me — still smarting from that blow to my backside — wants to point out that “experience is what you get when you don’t get want you want.” But she makes a good point. We place way too much judgment on ourselves, and that’s what colors an experience as being “good” or bad.”

I put a lot less pressure on myself these days than I did when I was younger, but the default is still there.

My expectations of myself have always been way too high. This has pushed me to wild success in many areas of my life, but I’ve also paid a price for it. For years, I was rarely satisfied with my performance or accomplishments. I always thought I could have — should have — done better. And when facing hardships, there has been a strong tendency to view difficulty and disappointment as reflections of my personal short-comings. Which is bloody ridiculous.

Falling on the stairs yesterday was not an indication of my worth as a human being, and neither are the other challenges I’m struggling with now. Being perfect is not the same as being happy. If I’m hurting, it’s okay for me to say so.

Again, I’m much better at this — breathing, getting back on my feet, and getting back to it — than I used to be. When I find myself sliding into that old smiling facade, that’s a good sign that I need to let go and just get over myself.

So maybe I'll give TGIS a call today. Tell him I fell on my butt, that it hurts to sit, that I really do hate mushrooms, and that my life isn't perfect. All part of the new, improved, imperfect Jen.

hotspot honey

Up until yesterday, I’d been — rather happily — using the same wireless phone and service plan for more than four years. But last week, I noticed that I'd gotten dangerously close to running over my monthly allotment of minutes, something that had never happened before. I knew my increased phone usage was likely to continue, so I started looking around at upgrading.

Now I’ve got a “bigger” plan, a brand new phone and am making free calls over WiFi.

I've messed around a bit with T-Mobile's HotSpot @ Home — a $10/month non-contractual add-on. My new handset, a Nokia 6086, connected to my home wireless network very easily. No need for a new router; my Airport Express from Apple does the job just fine. All I had to do was enter my network password, and I was good to go. My home network is now saved in my phone, so it connects automatically whenever I'm here; no need to keep logging on.

Calls do sound clearer on my end, and I'm not having to walk around to make sure I'm close to a window to get the best reception. Reception inside the house had become a real issue in the past couple of weeks, and it’s no fun trying to conduct an interview with someone when you’re having trouble hearing each other. Using the new phone on WiFi, I tested the phone last night with a friend of mine, and even she commented on how clear and crisp my voice sounded.

So far, so good.

Of course, I wasn't thrilled about having to manually enter my contact list from the old phone to the new one. There was some screw up with data transfer from the really old SIM card to the new one, and by the time I figured out I needed to go back to the store to have them fix it, they'd closed for the evening.

So I came home and messed around some more.... I think it might be an issue between how Sony Ericsson and Nokia manage contact information, as it's pretty different from one model to the next. (Personally, I like my old SE's presentation and organization a good bit better.)

But contact entering only took about 30 minutes or so, as I discovered there were plenty of outdated contacts that I no longer needed. Not that big a deal, but still a pain. And, I'll have to get all new accessories and adapters, since SE and Nokia use entirely different connection ports. Of course.

... Later night update ...
I've made and received a few more calls now on this WiFi/network hybrid. I'm still mostly liking it, though I'm not crazy about the split-second drop-out on the call as it's making its switch from network to hotspot, or vice versa. This has happened a few times as I've moved around the house while talking, though neither my sister nor my friend, Terri, appeared to notice.

My wireless network has been blinking out a bit, which the cause of the problem. I'm not sure if it's an issue with Airport Express, as it looks like the cable modem is the more likely culprit.

change in status

For a while now, I’ve had profiles up on OK Cupid and JDate. I’ve met a couple of interesting people through both sites, and in the past month or so there’s been somewhat of a deluge of private messages that other users are sending me — starting just about the same time that I began seeing my current beau. This is also, incidentally, the same timeframe for old and new friends alike — out of the clear blue sky — to start offering to set me up.

When it rains, it pours, eh?

In the past week, OK Cupid has been sending me several-times-daily e-mails to let me know that I’ve gotten messages from other users. Same goes for JDate. I was ignoring these e-mails, putting off what I knew I had to do.

Friday morning, I surfed over to OK Cupid, pulled up my profile, and changed my status from “Single” to “Seeing Someone.” It felt really strange to do that, as though I might jinx the very new…. umm, thing …. I’ve got going on with this guy.*

(* Who apparently does read this weblog from time to time, and who asks me each time we see each other, “So, is this going on the blog?”)

There are adjustments to be made, now that I find myself “no longer available.” It’s not like I have a checklist or anything, as it’s been quite a while since I’ve been remotely interested in anyone, and it’s very early still. This topic of “mutual exclusivity” has been hinted at but not yet broached — and I’m not sure I’m ready for that conversation anyway, even though I am actively turning down dates with other men. Part of it is just getting used to being around someone else, learning about his tastes and preferences, and finding out just why exactly his dog is morally opposed to window coverings.

I suppose I should also buy new underwear — something a bit more interesting that my standard Jockey bikinis and Victoria’s Secret camisoles with shelf-bras. And maybe I’ll muse on possible menus should I start thinking about inviting the Gentile Vegetarian for dinner chez Jen et Les Singes. (Even in the midst of the “carpet problem,” which is another discussion.)

But first, I guess I’ll visit JDate and disable my profile.