Julie & Julia On My Day Off

I never get tired of this view of Boston.  Even after living in the area off and on for the last twenty years, I still catch my breath every time the Red Line train emerges from the Kendall Square area and is met by this view while crossing the bridge from the Cambridge side of the Charles River.  When I'm going into town for something enjoyable, like lunch with a great fellow-blogger and friend, seeing this skyline fills me with a special kind of excitement.

Lisa, a.k.a. Anali, author of Anali's First Amendment, and I took advantage of "Restaurant Week" and had lunch at Aquitaine, a French bistro on Tremont Street.  I'd been looking forward to this lunch since we firmed up our plans last night while I was between cases on call.  I already knew what I wanted:  moules frites, or a "Bourride of Mussels with Leeks, Fennel, Roasted Tomato, and Parsley," served with toasted bread and basil garlic aioli.  

Bourride, I learned, is another occitan word which, according to Merriam-Webster online, refers to "a fish stew similar to bouillabaise that is usually thickened with egg yolks and strongly flavored with garlic."  I detected no egginess in my mussel broth, which had just enough of a hint of garlic to be tasty without being overpowering.

I was not disappointed:  it was exactly what I wanted in an appetizer dish of mussels. For the main course Lisa and I both had tagliatelle with golden raisins, pine nuts, spinach, capers, and hand-pressed ricotta - delicious and al dente, just as it should have been.  Then she had a lovely pink grapefruit sorbet while I finished with a lemon pound cake.

After lunch we caught a matinee showing of Julie & Julia at the the Loews Theater on Boston Common.  I am a huge admirer of Meryl Streep.  I think she is one of the most talented actors out there, and her portrayal of Julia Child is a delight and a tour de force - for me, the whole reason to see this film, beside my great love of food and cooking.  The memorable cooking scenes - Julia practicing her onion mincing and Julie trying to pull off a lobster thermidor - were captivating.  And I loved the husbands in the movie - they were so supportive and so nice, and they reminded me so much of mine.  

Here's my honest opinion:  while I like Amy Adams' work and enjoyed the film, I found myself wishing it were a film about Julia and Paul rather than Julie and Julia, and perhaps the wonderful Stanley Tucci has something to do with that.  I kept feeling wistful every time the story would cut away from the Childs and go to the Powells, wanting to see more of the love story and events in the lives of the Childs, more of Paris (admittedly a personal bias), more about Julia's culinary journey in France.  The film was very nicely written, and well-acted by all, but Streep and Tucci really had me hooked to Julia and Paul.  

I don't own a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, but now I'm thinking, how have I lived till now?!  I'm going to have to check out some French Chef DVDs too...

I tried to think if there's any person I look up to in the way Julie idolized and was inspired by Julia - that one muse you're dying to meet, or to whose home you'd want to make a pilgrimage if you could, or whose every piece of writing you want to read, or whose life and work you'd want to emulate - but no one person fills that role for me so far in quite the same way, though a few might come close.

I appreciate so much better now what Julia Child has meant to the world of food and cooking.  With the support of those who cared about her, as well as her own pluck and exuberance, Julia Child was able to follow her heart, truly be herself, and make an enormous difference. What a great example of using one's greatest passion in life to transform oneself and change the world!

Clafoutis Comes from Clafir

I'm obsessed with feeding people.

Let me back-track a little: what I'm really obsessed with is food. I love food. I love eating it. I love preparing it. I always feel a little annoyed when I get food that's been carelessly prepared. I believe the act of cooking should be truly a labor of love and attentiveness - love of the material, the work, and the people who'll be receiving the fruits of one's labors.

I feel the same way about writing and about medicine. Every little object or act matters. We're pouring out of ourselves to others; such work requires meticulous attention to detail and the highest of standards.

We have a young guest in our home this month - the fourteen-year-old son of family friends - who's visiting from France. I want all my guests to eat well, but I especially want our borrowed children to be well-fed. But how to do this for someone who comes from the world center of good eating? Where cattle are grass-fed, dairy is rich and creamy even at 2%, and even an "ordinary" loaf of bread is simply incomparable? (Not to mention, where his mom is an amazing cook, to boot?)

I wandered down the grocery aisles here with despair in anticipation of his arrival. How to offer a sample of American life without putting crap on the table? All of a sudden the bread aisle embarrassed me. The dairy section embarrassed me. The boxes and boxes of processed food embarrassed me.

I was concerned, too, about his metabolic needs. He's athletic, taller than my husband, still growing, thin as a rail. You know the type. An active teenager who can eat mountains of food without gaining an ounce and is perfectly capable of eating more an hour later. How I envy these young people their physiology!

I guess I needn't have worried. I've been cooking what I ordinarily cook every day for my family, and we've eaten well. It helps that this lovely young man is adaptable, easy-going, sweet, well-mannered, helpful, and gracious. We've had an abundance of seasonal fruits, vegetables, and other foods - lots of corn-on-the-cob (I know, I know, corn can be evil, but it was something I missed while I was in France recently, and the local farmers are growing them sweet this summer!); tomatoes (with fresh mozzarella); zucchini (soufflé and sautéed), and some really American stuff, like chicken pot pie, apple pie, homemade cole slaw, and taco salad with bison (this, coincidentally, on the day he sat watching our DVD of Dances with Wolves...).

We've had balsamic chicken, broiled flank steak with lime juice and cumin, seafood pasta with shallots. For dessert we've taken advantage not only of the yummy frozen treats from Trader Joe's but also of the seasonal berries and cherries galore (both fresh and, thanks to my friend KP's recipe, transformed into a delicious blueberry cake similar to this plum torte, and a cherry clafoutis from Julia Child's recipe).

I've also thrown in some Filipino food, something I don't often do even for my own family (not sure why, really). I've learned in the process that our signature dish, "Adobo," derives its name from a medieval French term, adouber: to dress a knight. But of course!

I made an easy variation of Adobo Sa Gata, marinated chicken and/or pork with coconut milk (recipe adapted from the book Kulinarya: A Guidebook to Philippine Cuisine by Barretto et al.):

Adobong Manok at Baboy Sa Gata

Marinate 2 lbs cubed meat (chicken or pork or both) in the following for about 30 minutes:

• 1/2 c white vinegar
  
• 8 crushed garlic cloves (or more - use the whole head if you want)
  
• 1/2 tsp salt
  
• 1/4 tsp white pepper
  
• 2 bay leaves
  
• optional: 1-2 Tb soy sauce (I didn't use this)
  

Remove meat from marinade and brown on all sides in a small amount of hot oil (1 Tb or less).

Add marinade (minus the bay leaves) plus contents of one 13.5-oz can of coconut milk (the Thai kind is best).

Bring to a boil, then simmer 20 minutes.

If sauce is too tart, can cut it with 1 tsp sugar.

Serve over rice. [My favorite way to make rice: In a large pot, mix two cups of rice (Nishiki or Kokuho Rose brand) with 3/4 tsp salt and enough olive oil to coat (about two "glugs" from the bottle); pour in four cups of water and stir; bring to a boil, then cover and simmer on very low heat till all water is absorbed.]

Eating is in many ways such an ordinary part of daily life, but it has such power. It nourishes us and gives us energy. It brings people together. It calls us to be grateful for simple pleasures, for abundant graces. It sustains our lives. The French (actually, occitan) word clafir, to fill up, sums up its blessing: what greater contentment is there than a life filled with peaceful shared moments, good food, great company, loving hands, hearts that care for you, a home in which to rest and have the freedom to be oneself?

A Short Story (untitled)

[Photo credit.]

Flor spotted her mother from the ferry, high above the pier. Almost everyone had black hair, brown skin.  A few men in the crowd had colorful bandanas over their mouths and noses to guard against dust and smog. Her mother’s hair was the color of storm clouds.

The crowd seemed restless.  People were milling around, calling to loved ones on the gangplank, texting; but her mother, she noticed, stood perfectly still.

On the ride to the waterfront she had been silent, too.  What could she say?  She had already asked Flor not to go. She had expressed her dread in countless what-ifs.  What if you get lost.  What if someone steals your money.  What if he’s cruel to you.  What if you don’t come back.  A lifetime of worry packed into weeks of what-ifs.  All that was left now was this panicked silence.

The ferry was colossal beside them as Flor embraced her mother on the pier. 

“Be careful,” her mother said.

“You too.”

She boarded the ferry and found a place at the railing.  She could see the road they had taken, with green fields on both sides, and in the distance, some palm trees and mountains.  There was rain over there, she could tell - a grey curtain of it between the sky and the mountainside, drifting toward the mango orchards.

The waterfront vendors had long poles fitted with little baskets so they could reach passengers on the upper decks. There was an honor system: pesos in the basket in exchange for peanuts, cigarettes, or whatever else they were selling that day.

Flor rummaged through her bag.  Cell phone.  Make-up.  Wallet.  Snacks. Umbrella.  Some e-mails.  A magazine.  Her copy of the photo and profile information she had sent.  His picture.

He had light brown hair under his baseball cap.  He looked like a baseball player, actually – or at least, what Flor imagined a baseball player might look like.  He was smiling.  He wasn’t handsome like a movie star, but he looked nice enough.  His skin was very white.

She had heard bad stories, of course.  Everyone had.  But she also knew of people who had found new lives with decent men.  She had to hope that this one was as nice as his e-mails.

There was a small commotion on the pier.  Someone was calling one of the vendors, putting something in his basket, pointing up toward the ferry.  Flor looked down and saw her mother gesticulating.

“Over there,” her mother was saying.  Flor could read her lips.  Her mother held her folded hands to her mouth in anticipation as the vendor reached up toward Flor with his pole. Flor reached into the basket expecting yet more food, or a holy medal – St. Christopher, maybe, or her mother’s favorite, St. Jude.  

Her fingertips brushed against soft, tiny things, cool and tremulous.  A garland of small, white flowers, so fragrant that nearby passengers had to turn and look.

She wanted to wave one more time, but she couldn’t find her mother in the crowd.  The ferry blew its horn and pulled away from the pier.  Flor searched through the blur of dark heads.  They were getting smaller, less distinct.  She thought she saw her for a moment:  a tiny cloud on the edge of a black sea – but she couldn’t be sure.

She leaned on the railing and put her chin in her hand. The scent of white flowers broke over her in waves. The garland dropped noiselessly into the water as she watched the people on the shore disappear. 

Letting Off a Little Steam

Create Fake Magazine Covers with your own picture at MagMyPic.com

Create Fake Magazine Covers with your own picture at MagMyPic.com

Just wanted to have a little fun. Hat tip to K. for clueing me in.

Remembering Two Presidents Today

[Photo: Reuters/Romeo Ranoco]

An e-mail from my mother with a first-hand description of events in the Philippines - history from the trenches, as it were:

We spent another day at Cory's wake. She was transferred from LaSalle Greenhills, where she was for two days, to Manila Cathedral. You should have seen the thousands of people who lined the streets all the way from her through EDSA and Makati, to Roxas Blvd and Intramuros. They were wearing yellow shirts, waving yellow flags, carrying yellow balloons, and some holding up huge banners saying, "Maraming Salamat President Cory"* and "Mahal ka namin Cory!"** and "Hindi ka nagiisa, Tita Cory!" The people's spontaneous outpouring of love for Cory gave us goose bumps and was very moving.

The coffin was borne in an open truck and draped with the Philippine flag. The open truck was festooned with yellow flowers and ribbons. There were so many people in the streets that it took the cortege five hours to reach the cathedral from La Salle.

At the cathedral grounds, long lines of people waited to get in to have a glimpse and a chance to say their last goodbye to Cory. I went with C. and B., and this time I took L. too. She had been dying for a chance to pay her respects but was discouraged by the long lines of people standing out and waiting under the bright sun or heavy rains. With us she was able to get in through the entrance reserved for family.

...We stayed for the 8 p.m. mass celebrated by the cardinal, three bishops, and about fifty priests. By the time we got out it was almost 10 p.m. We have one more day today of the wake and 8 p.m. Mass, then tomorrow is the funeral. She will be buried in Manila Memorial beside Ninoy...We don't know how long it will take for the funeral cortege which we will be following to get to Manila Memorial. If the crowds along the way are anything like today it may take us all day. The whole thing is reminiscent of Ninoy's funeral.

Kris came on T.V. and gave a detailed description of her mother's last days. She said before she died Cory was looking upwards with a smile and expressed that she saw Ninoy holding his hand out to her. They urged her to take his hand and go with him.

* "Many thanks, President Cory"

** "We love you, Cory"

***" You're not alone, Aunt Cory"

***

A facebook upload by my daughter on her President's birthday (an application she found called "Obamaize yourself"):

We wish the President of the United States a blessed and peaceful birthday.

***

8/5/09: My daughter and I watched the livestream of the funeral Mass last night and went to bed at around 11:30 p.m., just as the motorcade was getting ready to drive to the cemetery. This morning I checked in on its progress at 6 a.m. and the motorcade had only gotten about 2/3 of the way to the cemetery, because of the crowds of people who had gathered in the streets and around the vehicles to pay their respects. The mood was festive - one of celebration for a meaningful life well-lived. The police have been reporting a crime rate of ZERO. Such is the power of a truly good person to bring people together and make a difference...

***

8/6/09: My parents' vehicle wound up being the lead car in the funeral procession, ahead of the truck bearing Corazon Aquino's remains. For them it was indescribable experience to have tens of thousands of people surrounding, caressing their vehicle and the ones that followed, with cheers and chants in support of Cory. They had never seen so much love expressed for one person on one occasion. People from all walks of life celebrated together in the streets with the unsurpassed joy - joy side by side with the nation's grief - of a people who knew their own dignity, all because of this heroic individual and her martyred husband. Click here and here for on-scene photos and blog posts by Noemi, "A Filipina Mom Blogger" who was there.  These last two pictures are from her blog.

8/22/09:  attended a Mass in honor of Ninoy and Cory at St. Ignatius at Boston College, our current parish and the parish closest to the Aquinos' former home on Commonwealth Ave. in Newton, MA.  Beautiful songs in both English (I Am the Bread of Life by Toolan and Blest Are They by Haas) and Tagalog (Bayan Ko and a tribute by a rondalla in native dress).  I got a little homesick.

Detour / The Space Between

[Photo by Brian Stansberry.]

It was supposed to be a routine pre-op visit. An opportunity to make sure he'd be ready for surgery.

There would be the usual round of questions: Do you have any allergies?...Have you had any trouble with anesthesia in the past?...Do you get short of breath when you climb stairs?...I need to examine the inside of your mouth. Could you open wide for me please and stick out your tongue?

He, in turn, would ask me about the anesthetic plan. I would get his signature on a consent form. We might make some small talk about past hospital visits, family, work, local restaurants. I'd make sure all the labs and paperwork were in the chart. Then I'd move on to the next patient I had to see on rounds.

But at the end of the visit, during the small talk part, as we were winding down, dotting our i's, crossing our t's, something happened. Perhaps a wave of dread over the impending procedure came over him. Perhaps the loneliness of being imprisoned there, alone, in an edifice filled with sick people, of whom he was one, finally cracked open his already wounded heart and released a rush of emotions. This patient, whom I had never met before and whom I would probably never see again (because someone else would be providing his anesthesia the next morning), began to cry.

"I lost my partner last spring," he said.

"I'm so sorry," I said.

A tear escaped down the side of his face. I took a tissue out of a small box at the bedside and dabbed at the corner of his eye.

He told me a little about their relationship. How they had been married to others earlier in life, then had found one another and been together for decades. How they had held hands in the end, while the pain medicine was running, and how when death finally arrived, his partner's hand simply went limp in his. Another tear rolled down his cheek. I took his hand in mine, and his grasp was tight, as if he might never let me go.

"Your partner didn't die alone. That's a blessing."

The patient nodded, then began to sob quietly.

We talked a little more about his loved one, and about the day ahead. At the end of our conversation I squeezed his hand and said, "Have no fear."

"No fear," he repeated with a shake of his head, willing negative thoughts away.

"You won't be alone tomorrow."

He thanked me and gave me a compliment, then let go of my hand. I returned to the nurses' station and put his chart back on the shelf. It stood in a row of a dozen others exactly like it, now almost indistinguishable from them, anonymous. A collection of data. History, but no story.

I pulled out the chart for the next patient and resumed the night's work.

Grieving for Corazon Aquino

Corazon Aquino

January 25, 1933 - August 1, 2009

"An unassuming, soft-spoken, self-described housewife, she became a symbol of democratic change and hope for millions around the world." -Frank James

[Photo credit.]


I was between cases on what would be a long night on call when I got the news about Cory's death.


Anything I could possibly write in tribute to her would be inadequate to express my love and admiration for this extraordinary woman. I cannot think of anyone more courageous or more heroic.



Please click here to read a little more about her and here to see the first few minutes of the United States Congress's welcome of her back in 1986.


A commentator can be heard saying of the applause, "This is much more than the usual reaction a leader would get coming into the Chamber...That is a real show of emotion that you can see out there, and that's coming across the board, Democrats and Republicans, liberals and conservatives. You can almost feel it."


Thank you, Tita Cory, for restoring democracy to our country, for being an advocate for peace and nonviolence, and for being an extraordinary role model for both women and men.


***


Prayer by Corazon Aquino


Almight God, most merciful Father
You alone know the time
You alone know the hour
You alone know the moment
When I shall breathe my last.
So, remind me each day,
most loving Father
To be the best that I can be.
To be humble, to be kind,
To be patient, to be true.
To embrace what is good,
To reject what is evil,
To adore only You.
When the final moment does come
Let not my loved ones grieve for long.
Let them comfort each other
And let them know
How much happiness
They brought to my life.
Let them pray for me,
As I will continue to pray for them,
Hoping that they will always pray
for each other.
Let them know that they made possible
Whatever good I offered to our world.
And let them realize that our separation
Is just for a short while
As we prepare for our reunion in eternity.
Our Father in heaven,
You alone are my hope.
You alone are my salvation.
Thank you for your unconditional love.


Amen.


***




Articles and tributes

Cory Aquino's Life in Photos

Time's Woman of the Year Cover Story on Corazon Aquino