Going. Going. Gone.

I have moved the blog to Word Press, and have a new more sophiticated design thanks to Kristina! But, somehow we cannot get Feedburner to act correctly. Please visit www.nickelmoon.com and sign up for automatic updates agian.

You won't be disapointed.

Thanks

Sharon

Falling: Part One of the Art of a Stubborn Life

A few days ago I took a fall. I wished I could say that this was a prelude to a romantic interlude, but no.

It was a literal fall.

It was a simple move: step up one stair, put a bucket on the porch, swivel to the left, take a step down. Nope. I knew I was going to fall before I did. I knew I could do nothing to stop it. But being stubborn, I tried to. Twisted back, and over compensated. Ended up doing nothing but wrenching few more muscles.
I recall, as I hit the cement, ( first on my hand, elbow, then my knee, then on my hip) that my first thought was: This is really gonna piss me off.
It just took a few seconds, and I could see it all happening in slow motion.  Really, that does happen.

I ended up on my left side, curled like a shrimp on myself. Huh. I didn’t hit my head. Good. I flexed my left leg. Not broken, doesn’t seem sprained. Good. Damn! This is gonna hurt so much later, and I am not gonna ever live it down. Jim wanted to teach me how to fall right, and I said later. Dumb.

I rolled onto my back and shaded my eyes with my arm. Huh. I could lay here forever and no one would know. Middle of the day and everyone at work, good thing that I didn’t hit my head. Did I hit my head? Nope. But crap, my neck is gonna be really bad. Good thing I am seeing the chiropractor on Thursday.

I should get up and move inside. Nah. I continued to lay there and stare at the sky filtered by the shiny green of the pittosporum leaves intertwined with the big cedar. I thought: “why don’t’ I lay on the ground more often?” I answered myself “ Because the neighbors already think you are crazy. Laying on the ground in the front yard will just confirm it.”



What I saw.


Before I could really enter into this argument with myself I slowly sat up. Ok. That works. Elbow is scraped, knee, well rather yucky. Hip-really sore already. Hand, a bit scraped. But no blood. Good. I got up. Looked at the steps. Stuck my tongue out and turned around and went to the gym. Because I am stubborn.

My lessonon this type of falling: I don’t need to hurry, and everything, everything can wait a few minutes—

and ice, Aleve and more ice, not the gym, after a fall. Hmmm. Will ice work on a bruised heart?

Daddy Made it: On Baking Bread & other matters of importance

My father came to baking bread late in life.
Born in 1920, he was of that generation of men who did not come into the kitchen unless it was to get more beer. Sure there were exceptions: a particularly good cut of venison, or a BBQ.

Occasionally as we were growing up, he would have intense attacks of wanting to cook something “different”. Particular memories surround his desire to make real Indian food in a neighborhood filled with Italian, Portuguese and Greeks. Oh, yeh, that went over big with all of us. But cook it he did, and found as many of those then hard-to-find spices as he could. And we ate it.

After all, Daddy made it.

Looking back I can see that these adventures into culinary madness usually happened after some life trauma and probably kept him sane in a tough time.

My father was curious too, about everything. He liked to think about things, and how they worked and how he could make them work better. He liked to learn. He once told me that he wanted to learn something new every day, otherwise, why get up?

We talked every Sunday. My mother would go to 8 am mass, and like clock-work he called me at exactly 8, and we would talk. Didn’t matter where I was, if I was in the country, we talked. I could be walking down 5th Ave in Manhattan and my cell phone would ring, and we would talk about “stuff”. Sometimes, all I had to say was “Dad I was thinking about ______”, and he would take off telling me how to do it, do it better or that he would think on it and come up with something for me. And he always did.

I don’t really remember when he started baking bread. Sometime after my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I think.

He baked bread every three days. It was his ritual and such a ritual it was. He would set everything out, and follow his steps and bake a pretty damn good loaf of bread. Sometimes, I would send him different flours to try or we would talk about putting things in the bread that would make it interesting. When I was up there with him and Mom, which was not as often I wanted to be, he would not let me help. This was his thing.

He would fuss over it so, he set timers, and wait in his chair leaning back, waiting for that “ding” so he could go to the next step. Every three days.

Not bad for a man that was blind, crippled from arthritis, and whose left hand didn’t work as well as it could since he cut 4 fingers with a table saw.

He baked in the morning, and would start right after he made the coffee. (My Dad made coffee every morning of their married life and took my mother a cup to the bedroom, so it would be there when she opened her eyes- but that is another story.)

He would measure ingredients, and feel the measurements with his fingers. Everything he used was in a certain place, and when my mother would move it, which was inevitable because of her disease, everything stopped until he could find "his stuff". He managed the oven, he managed the dough, and because he could not see, he made (don’t even ask how) a bread slicing template so the slices could be even like my mother liked them.

Every 3 days he made bread, and every day they had toast for breakfast.

Most of the time the bread was just fine, sometimes really good. He couldn’t see what it looked like so pretty did not enter into it. It tasted good, and really what else matters? At the end, Mom didn’t know good from bad, so it didn’t matter to her. She liked it because Daddy made it.

And Mom-she saved the crumbs.

Dad made them toast from his homemade bread every day, and they had homemade jam and that really cheap margarine because “butter was just too damn expensive”. He put the toast on paper plates—another ploy to keep Mom from rewashing dishes all day.

And every day she saved the crumbs. No, really. She would carefully sweep the crumbs from the table and the plates and the cutting board and put them in a jar. Nothing could deter her from this-she was going to use them, and they were hers, and it was easier to let her do it then to battle her over crumbs.



Bread and breadcrumbs.


Dad got something profound from his bread making ritual. A sense of control, a sense of still learning perhaps. It was something he could do; after having so many things taken away by age and disease, he could still do this. And Mom, well, her frugality was well known before the disease, and Alzheimer’s catapulted it into legend. Saving the toast crumbs was as much a part of her as her pretty smile.


The reasons why people bake bread are as different as the bread bakers themselves.

Years ago I always kept a starter on my counter, and now I wanted to relearn how to make good bread from sour dough wild yeast. No extra commercial yeast, just flour, water, salt. How those few ingredients could be changed into something so delicious that just the aroma brought me to swoon is a wicked good time. Just flour , water and salt: and the variations can be endless. Fascinating.

Today, I bake bread every 3 days. I experiment and occasionally hit pay dirt, and occasionally the fail buzzer just screams. I have gifted my neighbors with fragrant loaves, and tasty slices. Sometimes the birds get a treat of a loaf going stale. I cannot eat all I bake, but I yet I continue this adventure/science experiment/baking. It’s a soothing ritual, and I think I am gaining more understanding of what attracted my father so. My brother got bitten by the sourdough bug when he came for Thanksgiving, and he is baking every few days too. We talk about bread and its various nuances a lot.

Imagine my delight when I discovered a recipe for Bread made from flour and added breadcrumbs. ( I could hear my mother whispering, “see, see—I told you they could be used”)

Channeling both Mom & Dad, I knew I had to make this bread. A big thanks to Susan at http://www.wildyeastblog.com/ whose blog in an inspiration to any baker. The original recipe for the bread can be found there, and I urge you to visit her blog if you have a yen to bake with sourdough.

Here is the recipe that works for me.

Bread for Dad, Crumb for Mom

2 cups starter on the up-approximately 2-3 hours after feeding
Add
½ cup coarse bread crumbs
2 ¼ c unbleached white flour
2/3 c water

Mix for a minute, then let rest in the bowl for 20 min. Add 2 teas salt and mix for 3-4 minutes. Put in an oiled container-I use a plastic shoe box, or the proofing bowl, put in the proofing box.

Let rise for 3 hours with folds at 60 min & 2 hours.

Punch down, and roll into ball. Rest for 5 minutes. Shape the dough into a boule, or put into a loaf pan, and let rise again for 2 hours.
Preheat oven to 475, and prepare it for steam.( use a shallow pan on oven floor) When the oven is hot, make quick slices in the top of the bread, and then slide the boule onto a hot stone, or put in the loaf pan.
Put a small amount of cold water in the shallow pan. Watch out for the steam. Quickly close the oven door and turn the oven down to 425. Bake for 25 minutes, or until done. Let cool for at least an hour befroe slicing,  if you can.

Risk: What I did today

Today I saw a man from the back, shuffling. no really--Shuffling across a parking lot. Slightly bent and shuffling. Well, sure, my eyes automatically started to avert. Eww—who wants to be confronted with a) old b) poor c) ugly ???

But I couldn’t avoid him. Our paths were going to bi-sect right at my car, so as my eys slid back to him I noticed more: Old black cloth slippers scraping along, old gray khaki pants, a bent back and hands scrambling to what? Keep his pants up? NO-keep them away from his body: he had soiled himself.

Oh god, what do I do? WHAT DO I DO? I so wish I had lingered just a little longer in the bank or the store. Oh hell, I am gonna run right into him. Oh, damn damn damn double damn. He shuffles like my father. As that thought hits my brain like a speeding train, I know I am lost.

He is lightly ahead of me so I speed up and as we intersect I catch his eye. Are you alright I ask? He is facing me now, and his hands continue to scrabble over his chest and waist and pants, his eyes are watery but bright, and he breaks my heart by giving me a thumbs up, all the while shuffling, shuffling along in his soiled khakis.

He will not stop so I walk beside him asking if he needs help. He says nothing, just gives me thumbs up and points in the direction of the corner, mumbles something and keeps shuffling. I think he knows that he has soiled himself, and he just wants to keep going—somewhere. I know I cannot grab him and hold on. Something doesn't allow me to interefere wiht his journey in that way. I smile at him and say OK. His almost toothless smile lights up his face. He points and shuffles and mumbles and smiles. He is not “here”, but he knows how to give a thumbs up, and somehow he has a destination.

But, I am afraid for him and I get in my car and go to the assisted living home down the street, and pound on their locked back door until someone answers. Perhaps one of their residents has escaped. To their credit, one of the attendants gets in a car to check it out—he finds my shuffling friend and when I pull up, he tells me that he is not one of theirs, BUT he will stay with him until he can find out where he lives or the police come. He is trained to help.

Good. Nice. The old man looks at me and grins and blesses me with another thumbs up. I see him waving at me in the mirror as I pull away.
I pull around the corner and stop the car as I burst into tears. He will be safe. I am not so sure about me.

Rose Petals: smell good, feel good and taste good

WOW! Rosewater really comes from roses.
I love cosmetics. I really do. I have never seen a Lancome deal that couldn’t seduce me, or an Ulta store that didn’t sing a siren’s song for me.

BUT I hate spending the money for things that should be simple and pure. Yes, I am conflicted.

One thing that really irritates me is toner. Really good for your skin, but geez, why so much for what looks like just water, right? I set off to research why, and how I could avoid that expense.

The answers I found were so simple I am embarrassed to say. No I am not telling all, but I will say that anyone can make the following toner at home.

The distilled rose water can also be used in many deserts, marmalades or other such goodies.

Here’s what you will need.

• A BIG stainless steel or enamel pot with lid

• Fresh picked rose petals, or some that have been recently picked and refrigerated.

• A brick

• Stainless steel bowl that fits inside the pot

• Water

• A bag of ice

• A clean glass bottle or jar

Put the brick into the pot, and surround it with rose petals.

Put in cold water to just cover the petals.

Put the bowl in the pot, and then cover with the upside down lid.

Bring up to a slow boil and then reduce heat to a simmer.

When it starts to boil, put a few trays of ice in the upside down lid. Voila! You have created a still, crude but effective. When the steam hits the lid filled with ice it will condense and fall into the bowl.

Every now and then remove the rose water that has condensed into the bowl, and fill a clear glass container. You can keep in the fridge. Depending on what you will use it for, put a few drops of witch hazel or white vinegar to make it last longer. I use witch hazel drops to use as a face toner.

Do you think Lancome will miss me?

Remembering Pork: bbq, old road trips and "the chinese guy".

I have been thinking a lot about food lately.

Real food, fake food and good food. Just food. It’s Memorial Day weekend and most folks consider this to be the start of summer, so lately BBQ food has been coming up a lot.

I am a California girl, where it is summer 350 days a year. The other 14 don’t count. We can fire up the grill whenever we want. I have been known to do it in the rain.

Like most kids growing up in the 50s and 60s California (ouch!) we used our built-in BBQ a lot. Chicken, pork beef—everything could go on the grill and did. Once my Dad brought home a small live goat—well you know the end of that story.

Outdoor cooking was a big part of family dinners. Family beach parties often involved cooking over an open fire using an old refrigerator grate. I have the best picture of my brother and me, and while that is another story, the picture is too good to pass up.

But it was never BBQ. Really. My family is Italian, and open fire cooking did not involved anything as complex dry rubs and slow cooking pork for hours. BBQ’d chicken was brushed with a mixture of olive oil, lemon juice, garlic and salt. The “brush” was made up of rosemary, just picked and tied with string.

Pork was rolled with herbs and garlic and cooked quickly. You’re getting the picture. Handmade pasta, big wheels of Parmesan and handmade olive oil from the neighbors were every day food to me

While I was thinking about this just before Memorial Day, I was trying to date when I had REAL BBQ and where was I ? I think it was Austin 1988-I was there to celebrate my friend Joe becoming the President of Houston-Tillotson College. As I thought about all of us sneaking away from these very formal activities to scarf up spicy saucy BBQ, I remembered another, much earlier event where open fire cooking and pork played a big role.

During my childhood, whenever my dad went hunting and he passed thru Sacramento delta area, he always stopped to pick up some pork from “the Chinese guy”. I think maybe I was 13 when I first tasted this pork. Spicy, and well marinated, it melted on to the grill, the outside becoming crusty and the inside moist and tender. This pork was loin, covered with a fine layer of white fat on one side. He kept it in the marinade in a barrel.

A small wooden wine barrel I recall, and he picked it up out of the thick dark sauce, and let it drip, then put it in foil and wrapped it tight. As a teen, it tasted, well, exotic, to me. It would be almost a decade later when I finally learned what the flavorings and spices were. But I never forgot the taste of it, and on and off have worked at recreating that flavor for my own marinades.

Another event that I remembered this weekend about that same pork loin was this: late fall 1969 or 1970, and my then husband and his best friend, just back from Viet Nam, and I were going hunting with my parents up near the Idaho border. We would then meet our friend Tim in Boise for a few days. It was the first time that I had taken any time away from our almost year old daughter, so it was an EVENT.

I am sure that there are other tales to tell of that trip. Losing a favorite quilt in a motel in Alturas CA. Meeting up with Tim in Boise and the hilarity that ensued there. But the thing that sticks out is the pork loin we cooked outside over a pit fire.

The three of us shared sleeping in a modified VW bus (of course) and my folks in their camper a ways away. We ate with my folks the first night in camp, and after a fruitless second day of deer hunting, we built a cook fire and decided to drink some wine and cook the pork loin we had brought. We were going off to Boise the next morning.

We drank a lot of wine, and although I don’t remember what else was on the menu that night, I do recall to this day how good that pork tasted. Threaded on a crude spit, and fire roasted, the marinade forming a wonderful crust, it may have been the best thing I had ever eaten—up to that point. We ate it with our fingers and finished all the wine. Life was good.

Could have been the wine. Could have been the fire and it could have been the pork, but that was the night I really fell in love with BBQ pork. And unlike the marriage, have never fallen out of love.

So it made perfect sense to me that when Jacqueline Church, Twitter handle @LDGOURMET, web site http://jacquelinechurch.com/ said she was looking for guest bloggers to do some BBQ cookbook reviews for her blog, I jumped at the chance. You’ll see my review on her blog later this week, and a riff on that well remember inspiring marinade from long ago. Stay tuned and I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, tell me about your first time with BBQ.

Real Food, Eggplant and Cooking for One

I live alone.

I say this not for sympathy, but to set the stage.

This is not a food blog, but food is a great deal of my life-so this musing is about that. Food.

Discussion recently is loud and long for feeding your family real food, taking the time to cook, growing your own, etc. I take no exception to any of these, and welcome the company in that point of view.

There is no question in my mind that the best way for every family to eat is to eat closer to the ground. Sometimes that hard, and it can’t be done all the time. However, I can tell you from personal experience that just planting one or two vegetable plants can excite any child, and add to the family table. And anyone can do that on a window sill. A whole garden? The neighborhood comes alive.

In my neighborhood, 65 years ago, all the households planted gardens, front and back yards, meridians, everywhere. They shared the harvest. But I digress and that is worthy of a post on its own.

But I live alone, and what I don’t see among all the posts and chats is how damn hard it is to cook for one. I love to cook, and am damn good at it. My favorite meals to cook are what is now known as Sunday Dinner, and that can be any night of the week when I can grab an ever-evolving cast of family and family-friends and cook.

When you cook for one, it’s pretty hard not to get bored. It hard not to just eat cereal every night. It’s hard to think of what you can do differently with ONE chicken breast. Give me dinner for 12 any day. Really. I am a child of the 60’s-we invented real food eating AND dollar stretching!

I cook everyday-well, almost everyday because I like to eat. And what tastes better to me are those meals created from fresh ingredients, and the best are the ones are from ingredients I grow myself. But, you got it now, I live alone and for the past 10 years haven’t been home enough to maintain a garden. So with some herbal exceptions the big vegetable garden is more than likely a thing of the past. Not sure, but think I will live my vegetable garden fantasies though my daughter.

These tomatoes? They are from one day in my garden circa 1997.

Now that I am home again full time I can think about meals and what I can cook with more creativity, and less feed-me-fuel attitude.

This past Sunday when marketing at my favorite independent grocer with my favorite only daughter, I spied the MOST beautiful eggplant. Dark purple, glossy and firm-is there anything prettier?

I was consumed by a craving for eggplant caviar and decided then and there I would make and can a batch. Yes, I can “put up”. It’s a craft that any food lover should learn. You can have your garden right there in January.

Eggplant caviar has as many recipes as there are people that make it. Thomas Keller makes one, and so do I. And you can too.

This is a snack that doubles as an entreeat the drop of a hat. There is no limit –I think, to what you can do with this versatile food. What follows is my recipe for eggplant caviar, and one of my favorite pasta dishes that I make from it.

Eggplant Caviar

5 firm eggplant
1/2 red onion fine dice
½ red pepper fine dice
½ green pepper fine dice
Garlic to taste (I used about a tablespoon minced)
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Squeeze or two of lemon juice

Placed eggplant on a foil covered cookie sheet and poke several time with a fork. Roast at 400 degrees until they collapse. Remove and cool. When cool, take a sharp knife and split the eggplant as you would a baked potato. Scoop the inside into a bowl. Take a sharp knife and run it thru the soft eggplant to “chop” it coarsely. Set aside.

Take the oil and juice that has come from the roasted eggplant and put into skillet with about 2 Tb of olive oil, heat to medium.
Prepare the remainder of the veggies. I use the food processor and just pulse a few times. Put the processed veggies in the heated pan and sauté for about a minute. Throw in the garlic and sauté for another minute.

Combine the eggplant with the sautéd veggies and salt and pepper to taste. Add a squeeze of lemon juice to brighten if need. You can refrigerate for up to a week in a sealed container—if it lasts that long! Or you can process in small jars. Follow normal canning instructions.

Shells and Caviar

1cup cooked small shells

½ cup eggplant caviar

Fresh grated Parmesan

Salt and pepper

Cook the pasta and drain. Add the eggplant caviar and toss, add cheese and season to taste. Eat.

Yum.

If you make some Eggplant Caviar, let me know your favorite way to use it.

Florence Above the Arno: Mother's Day & Irises

Florence May 09, 2010
On a hill high above the Arno River is a garden. Its gate is almost hidden protecting it from all but the most resourceful.

Terraces that fall for a thousand or so feet are joined together by twisty flagstone paths. The terraces are peppered by ancient olive trees draped by old rugosos. This garden has a single purpose: to be the ode to the bearded iris. Open only 19 days each year during May, it houses over 2000 varieties and colors of this majestic flower.

The air is heady with their scent.

The paths are lined with sage and rosemary plants and friendly benches. Poppies spring up everywhere vying for attention. They don’t stand a chance against the riotous colors and elegant shape of the irises.

My mother loved irises. She would throw them in the ground and they would magically spring up every year, responsive to her cavalier gardening habits. But she wasn’t really, cavalier, that is. She tended them lovingly as she did all of her garden, preening them constantly, and they responded to her, with enthusiastic and lon blooming periods.

Today is mother’s day and it is fitting that I am here, in Italy, looking at irises and thinking of her.

She would have loved this so. But as much as she would hav eloved this garden and hearing all the Italian being spoken around her, she would have been anxious to get back to her real, one and only love. My Dad.

My father would have been 90 years old tomorrow, May 10.  Together they were a pair not to be reckoned with. Seldom apart, they hated any separations from each other, and their last parting only separted them by 90 days. Mother's day and Dad's birthday, like them inseparably joined together.

In Memoriam: Celebrations of adventures completed and those yet to come.

It’s been 18 years. Guess on some levels it doesn’t matter how many days that is, or how many months have gone by, or even if I think about it every day. I don’t – think about it every day, that is.
But today—and a few others, I cannot not think about him. It’s an appropriate piece for today, his birthday and since it's a birth-day of sorts for me, I guess it was inevitable that I think of  him now, as I step off another cliff into the unknown.

So honey, tonight I will drink a shot of gin, and celebrate the unknown adventures that are in store for me, and celebrate you, the most interesting adventure of my life.

4/21/93

I cleaned up another mess today.

It may be the last one. I don't know. He always could hide them so
well, that it may take some time to be really sure.

The pattern was always the same:
"No-it's nothing. Don't look. It will go away. Really. It's nothing.
Sweetheart."
And then, later, sometimes much later, the inevitable:
"Can I come home? Is it ok for me to come home? Do you still love me?"

I hear him now, even as I put this check in the mail to clean up what I
hope is the final mess...just barely a whisper "Do you still love me?"
Yes.

I am so angry I feel like I'm choking. Damn, he still can make me mad.

When he was here, all the messes seemed to be diminished by
his presents [sic]. He could make me feel, oh I don't know, just feel,
something.

For all that he was not, there were all the things he was.

He was the only one to write me poetry.
Today is his birthday, and all I feel is anger
that the only way I can celebrate is to write this check,
and clean up another mess.

It's hard to party with the dead.

Leaving Home

You ever notice how many people say "I am done with _______"?
I wonder if they know the next step is "I'm finished?" It is only when THAT unshakeable realization hits that you can leave the cube, or office or virtual desk or even a relationship. It is a really a great beginning, that “I’m finished”, and always proceeded by the feeling of “I have no control/I need control”.

I have often thought that leaving a job you loved is like leaving a man (or woman) that you loved--and there is an inherent grieving process involved, no matter what the final reason for leaving is.

Both situations are similar, too, in the fact that most of the time is no one single reason for leaving—it is just time. There is, however, for everyone (and don’t let them fool you) one final moment of realization of “finished”.

Finished is the last and final -30- on any relationship, be it work or personal. More likely than not, it is that one bit of realization that hits you with more of a whisper than of a bang.

For work, it might be the one that is seductively whispering in your ear as you sit thru another endlessly fruitless conference call. For that dead end relationship, it is the one that makes you say across the breakfast table without putting the paper down, “I having an affair with_______”. (____) being the one person your husband/partner/lover,  would never think you would have an affair with, and the one they cannot possibly forgive. This method works—I know—and works especially well if you are lying.

You say it. And you are committed. Work or Love-same same. In fact, saying “I’m finished” is a lot like saying I love you. YOU CANNOT TAKE BACK THOSE WORDS. They are irrevocable, and once said ping-pong around the universe with consequences that cannot even be imagined at the time they leave your mouth.  Extreme caution must be used. They should carry a warning label. "Use only in an emergency, or if you want to continue to breathe. "

Once said, you feel relief. At first. Don’t get cocky—other feelings are on the fast train right behind relief. Exhilaration. Euphoria. Power. Unlimited potential. Sorrow. Regret. Then, FEAR. Yes, make no mistake: The feeling of “oh shit, what have I done?” is part of this transitory space you have put yourself in. This transitory space can part of the adventure of what is ahead. Don’t dwell in any one of those feelings – you do not have the luxury of that self-indulgence. Speedy acceptance is essential. YOU made the decision, and whatever happens next, YOU have taken back control of your life. So get on with it.

Control of the ending of things. Interesting, we are back at the beginning.

Left anything or anyone lately?

Recycling Heart

It’s interesting on how my mind will take flight—a word or phrase, and ZOOM! Off and running at a million miles an hour—usually off the current topic but so amusing to myself.
Case in point: Today a tweet about recycling Valentines’ cards set me off, and I mean really off. Why recycle a Valentine, and then EEEWWWWW—who would wanna?

Dear Mary, Darlene,
          Be mine forever, Love Doug

I mean REALLY? Really how many of us would get enjoyment out of someone else valentine? Ok, it’s been so long MAYBE I would.

Just kidding.

But the whole thing made me think of things we really shouldn’t recycle…and if you don’t already have a list of them in your head, well I cannot help you without payment in advance.

This is not about those things, those things we all know about and don’t need to discuss OR write about, as fun or nasty as it might be—and it could be nasty, and so much fun.

This is about recycling of the heart because that is where those thoughts led me.

Recycled Heart. We do it all the time. I mean, should I have stamped my first boyfriend with a big DO NOT RECYCLE! and then toss him trussed like a stack of old SF Chronicles to the curb? Nah—no fun unless I could watch others get some of that heartache too.

Recycling of the heart comes in all sorts of forms I think—someone is nice to me on the phone, and I am nicer to the next person I talk to—someone steps back in store line and lets me go first and I am bound to do it the next time that ridiculous banger with one candy bar and the pants to his knees is behind me. I HAVE to—it’s a rule. Recycling that Karma sometimes happens without thinking, but not all of the time. It’s the spirit of pay it forward, or whatever cliché comes to mind.

Look at husband #3—he recycled his heart a lot. Ok, we won’t go there. Let it suffice to say that I learned that self interest can be a virtue, and that "recycling" the heart isn’t all bad.

Think about it: when was the last time you gave some heart away, and why. And really, didn’t it come back to you in a different form? Just like plastic water bottles end up as lawn furniture, when we give a little heart, we get some back. It’s a rule. “The love you take is equal to the love you make”.

And one last thought about heart breakage, ‘cuz that IS part of the recycling circle - you have to break it to remake it. When someone breaks my heart, it only allows me to see inside myself more. It is up to me to see if I can make new heart from all the pieces.

The ultimate recycling machine, the human heart.

A note about the Valentine's artist that set this whole thing in motion, go here and read her story--a very clever idea really, http://bit.ly/azKoog and finally thanks Mike for the suggestion.

What's wrong with this picture?

I mean really. What could I have possibly been doing that I have not updated this? And worse, not even finished the trip?

Things are moving just too fast....2 Christmases, another Thanksgiving, babies being born and weddings celebrated, deaths to mark the real passage of time; and trips: Germany, then France to celebrate a 40th Bday, --(unfortunately not mine--that ship has long sailed!) and a 20th anniversary ... been a busy 16 months. Several of those months spent in other zip codes....

So the answer to the question is: that picture is way too old.

I won't play catch-up--but just continue on.

Sgt Kai & The Excellent Adventure

Wednesday Dec 12

Remember that dotted road on the map----I feel like the cartoon character where there is a big flashing sign saying DON'T GO IN THERE but I can't see it....

I had gotten so many good recommendations for Sgt Kai that I couldn't resist using him, and the bottom line here is that he is sooooooooooo worth it. BUT....there is that dotted road...He and I traded pages and pages of emails trying to hammer something out for me that would satisfy my real curiosity about northern Thailand and the tribes that live there. I didn't want to see "THE HILL TRIBE VILLAGE: Go here for trinkets."

I know now that my instincts were solid in that regard.

Sgt Kai picked me up at 8:30 on Wednesday in his cute Isuzu SUV and then we picked up his associate Nooy, the lovely women who picked me up at the airport. I am not quite sure why, but I have a hunch he did not feel conformable being the guide and driver on an overnight with a women...or maybe not.

As soon as we started talking I knew this was gonna be fun---he's very relaxed and loves to talk about Thailand , his time in the army ---we started driving out of Chiang Mai and I asked what our plan was---" no plan" just see some villages not on the beaten track, visit the caves at Chian Dao, and end up in Tha Ton for the night---sounded good to me.

Nooy was designated the navigated because she knows the roads much better---we avoided the hiway and were on a two lane blacktop that was wandering north...until we took a right onto a dirt road.

I am sure that if we had a map it would have been a dotted line. I cannot even describe how beautiful this area was---and I so wish I knew where we were!

Climbing ever up, the road narrowed. We saw no one until we passed a moto standing by the road---didn't see the owner but there had to be someone....We came to a slight rise, and ooops. Stuck. We all got out to look. I think he was a bit embarrassed untiI I started to laugh...we were well and good stuck there and we could not get the car out of the mud. But what can you do? I asked for adventure.
Nooy finally went back to where we saw the moto, and found two workers who came to help. I kept saying that we had to push it out, but the "guys" insisted on trying to put rocks and boards under the wheels...that would have been ok had be not be hung up on the running boards too....

Well, we finally had to push. And we did. Having had plenty of time to scope this out, I chose the side where it wasn't muddy and avoided the mud shower that Nooy got.

But we got out...and continued along the road that didn't seem to get anywhere...we were headed to a village of Palong that was NOT supported by the government, then on to a school for the very poor that Sgt Kai wanted me to see. After another 20 minutes on the dirt road, we came upon this very beautiful house in the middle of no where, and were told that we had to go back the way we came.

I don't think so.

Well, we kept going on thru some of the most beautiful country you can imagine---the type of thing seen only in beauty shots from Conde Nast Traveler. Rice paddies with one ox in the middle, purple mountains in the distance, and everything is GREEN. Much was made of Nooy not knowing her right from left, but all of us I think were enjoying the adventure.

And we ended up exactly where we started!! Only this time we turned right instead of left.

We found the first of several villages that morning---and if you are not of the strong of stomach and heart, this kind of adventure is not for you. They were definitely not the “human in a zoo” Hill Tribe village that the Thai government has set aside for tourists. These were the ones that got left behind.

(And before anyone has a moment's thought of OH that’s horrible, let me just remind you of what we did to the American Indian. I had made up my mind that I would not bring my Americanized judgment muscle with me and I do believe that for the most part I was successful. I did not judge the poverty or the life of the villages that we saw—in Thailand or Cambodia. I cannot judge their government lest they turn that mirror on me.

These villages are poor beyond what we can imagine. Or what I would like to describe here.
Whether they were Karen, Palong Lisu, Yao or any of the other hill tribes that have settle in Northern Thailand, Cambodia and Laos, they have a specific culture and a somewhat nomadic lifestyle. It can be said that they have a slash and burn attitude toward farming and when they are done, they move on. So they have been restricted where they can live in Thailand, and with those restrictions come the inevitable lack of education and information. This is passed down like an inheritance from generation to generation.

But I did not come away with a sense of pity for them, but that of resigned resilience. )

We handed out some cookies and such and looked at some weaving—I got my first look close-up of what chewing beetle nuts really does! Not a pretty picture.

From here we moved on to a school for the hill village people—we helped with lunch. A few of the more enterprising older kids had filled balloons with Kool-Aid and frozen it to sell—I bought all they had we had a great time treating everyone.

From there we headed to Chiang Dao---caves used for centuries by meditating monks. This is one instance, of many, that I was glad for doing something touristy---they were magnificent!

The Peak of Doi Chiang Dao Mountain is 2225 meters above sea level making it one of Thailand’s highest mountains. The caves extend around twelve kilometers into the mountain and but only 5 areas are designated for visits (Tham Maa, Tham Kaew, Tham Phra Nawn, Tham Seua Dao, and Tham Naam). And only two of these have lights—the rest are lit by lanterns that are carried by guides. I opted out of this part of the adventure as some of those “dark” caves are VERY tight and you have to crawl.

The caves contain crystals that have formed through dripping water – these are extremely impressive formations and make the visit well worth it. The two I visited the two main caves (Tham Phra Nawn and Tham Seua Dao) that have electric lighting and can be visited without a guide. But I had Nooy to tell me all about it. (Sgt Kai---well he “meditated for this part”.) The caves contain a number of sacred Buddha images, as well as resting monk images, but as they are lit only by sporadic florescent lighting it was hard to shoot pictures.
The caves are mainly visited by Thai, as they are difficult to get to, so they were virtually empty. Outside there are vendors selling herbs and such. Sgt Kai and I discussed the efficacy of herbal healing and we both agreed that there are things that herbs do that we cannot explain. I bought beautiful saffron here for pennies.

We ate a late lunch in a Chiang Dao village local eatery, where I ate noodle soup (what else?) and watched as a papaya salad was being prepared. We headed a long to Tha Ton where we were to spend the night. The drive to ThaTon was uneventful—we made a few more village stops, and around 6pm arrived at ThaTon.

ThaTon, and the ThaTon River View Hotel (sic) sits so close to the Burma border that Sgt Kai jokes that the border guards can look into your room any time.

The immediate area has attracted many of the displaced hill tribe groups to inhabit its verdant hills and lush valleys. Yao, Lisu, Lahu, Karen and Akha peoples have all made their homes here spreading out among the foothills and along the river. They were closely followed by Chinese Haw and the remnants of a Nationalist Chinese (Kuomingtang) army that fled China in 1949 to Burma, and arrived in the area in 1960, having been expelled from Burma following political changes there.

The ThaTon River View Hotel sits right on the Mae Kok River and is set amongst some of the most beautiful scenery imaginable. But we are in the north, and the weather started to chill as soon as the sun went down…and I mean CHILL.

Nooy and Kai checked me and went to another guest house where they were staying. I was there alone. ALONE means VERY VERY freaking alone as everyone at the “hotel” was Thai and NO ONE spoke any English. It gave me a moment’s pause. (Does anyone else remember the very forgettable Debra Winger movie, The Sheltering Sky?)

The rooms are Spartan in the extreme but would have been OK during a warmer time. They have no heat. The room are much like the auto courts that sprang up in the 50’s across the US—2 room connected, then a space, then two more. All spread out so every single one had a view of the river. It was really lovely, but cold. I had nothing but a thin sweater since we had been in 80 degree weather for almost 2 weeks, I was good, So I thought. WRONG.

I tried asking for a small heater but they showed me how to turn on the air conditioning. Nope that won’t do. I gave up and decided to have some food---dinner was passable but not memorable. I ate, went back to the room, put on all the clothes I had with me, got down all the extra blankets, and looked at all the pictures I shot that day. I had twelve hours to last.
I could do this.

I was so cold I took a scarf and wrapped my head Khmer style, and NO YOU DO NOT GET TO SEE IT.

Eventually the Thai version of American Idol put me to sleep ---the morning could not come soon enuf.

If it's Tuesday it must be Yui.

Yui and her husband Kwan picked me up for my cooking lesson in a 1972 Volkswagen bus. BOY! Did that bring back memories.

As soon as I go in the car I found that no one else was going to be in their class today because of some scheduling error…I immediately volunteered to come another day, but after some discussion we decided to continue as scheduled, and am I glad we did.

Those of you who have been to Thailand have probably seen the schedules for this fantastic cooking school, but for those of you who would like to drool, go to http://www.alotofthai.com/ I went on a Tuesday so I was going to see and learn the Popular Dishes menu: Pad Thai, Hot & Sour Soup. Spring Rolls, Green Curry, Sir Fried Chicken and Sweet Sticky Rice with Mango. YUMMY!!

Note to self: REALLY, when they say don’t eat they mean it.

After 5 minutes in the car, I knew I had made the right decision. Yui is absolutely passionate about food, and loves to share her thoughts and visions about cooking. She asked me what interested me and I told her that although I had taught myself some Thai cooking skills, I wanted to learn some specific dishes and techniques—because it was just us and I said I was interested in the Stuffed cucumber soup and the Panang Curry—she made those changes for the day.
Usually she stops at the market during a break in the menu, but we stopped on the way. A very local market where she is well known and obviously loved. We went thru the separate stalls and vendors with her buying certain small things. We talked a lot about the sameness of good cooks and about the differences of produce, the fun of experimenting, and the inevitable oops that result and the occasional Ahhs!!!

One vendor was cooking a very translucent discs over a small charcoal grate ( see picture) ---this is a delicacy that will forever elude me: cowhide. And yes, it tastes like warm glue---Yui could not give it away to other vendors who replied to her offer with a sure “Are you nuts? “ No one wanted to avail themselves of her generosity!
She told me that the real organic and home farmers are the ones on the skirts of the markets—try them for unusual things you might want--the others buy from wholesalers.

Marketing done, we go to her house where she lives with her husband, two children and in laws. It was lovely and cool. She employs a helper to keep things moving along, and keep things moving we did.

Pad Thai has never been one of my favorite dishes, but after tasting this one and seeing how she cooks it, I might try this at home---a very light touch is required here.

Next we tacked the stuffed cucumber soup—amazing, light and extremely flavorful, any one with a deft hand at cleaning out cucumbers can make this. We had some fun her with Yui trying to teach me to carve vegetables—not gonna happen. I can dig out a cuke with the best of the but making a carrot flower. NOT.

After the soup it becomes abundantly clear to me that there is a lot of food that will be wasted because I can only eat so much…I ask her to teach me about the dishes—show me the proper way to cook them and talk to me about Thai cooking in general and how she does it in particular---this she did.

We talked a lot—about food, her mother (a chef that has traveled from Thailand), her desire to learn about the food of other cultures. We did some impromptu recipe exchanges, and remarked how even thought let’s say the dance of Italian cooking was vastly different in ingredients from Thai cooking, certain steps remain the same. And I was still STUFFED when I left …

We did finish early, but it didn’t matter to me because I felt that I had a great experience with a genuine cook who loves food as much as I do. I highly recommend this school and will go back again.

They dropped me off at Baan Orapin and I dropped like a stone onto the cool bed and slept for 3 hours---

Another dotted road:

I swear that I never learn… after my long nap I needed to stretch my legs. I was running out of SD card room, having shot close to 1000 photos so I was on the hunt for an SD card. Remember that “PhotoBug” store that as next to the spa that got me lost the first night? Well not to be cowed I went on the hunt for that store, and retraced my path of Sunday night. Walking Walking and more walking---but I did not get lost at all. Found the store, bought the card, and felt very proud –so proud I decided I deserved a good dinner and a massage. I went back to the Gallery and order some HUMONGUS prawns that are sold by the gram, a glass of wine and some French fries. Yum Yum---perfect.

Later I tried an foot and leg massage at Chiang Mai Massage, right on Tha Pae Rd, (23/1 Thaepae Plaza, Tha Pae Rd) about a mile from the bridge but a great after dinner walk. I loved this place—doesn’t look like too much from the outside but great massage and fair prices. Also, it is registered with the city which is one of the things I started looking for when looking at massage places.

This city has many MANY massage parlors---put out a chair and a stool and you are in business—in fact many people do that…but I although I have had massages all of the world, I am kinda funny about the “hey soldier, wanna have a good time “ attitude of some of the places I saw. Cheap does not mean good—in all senses of the word.

Anyway, I digress...massage over I walk back to the gas station—OH, I never mentioned that is where I would get my Cornettos? Hmm, must have been an oversight.

The BBC lulls me to sleep and its Sgt Kai in the am.

Don't forget to check out www.wired2theworld.com. My dd is still working on finsihing her side of the trip. And more to come form me later.

Chiang Mai:Temples & Markets

Got picked up this am by Kampun, part of Sgt Kai's team. He is the one that is going to shepherd me around today.

We head out early for the State owned Elephant Conservation center in Lamphun ( this is the one that you can go to for the 3 day training). Before we hit the hi-way, he takes me to his favorite laundress to get some laundry done. Unlike Cambodia it is by the piece, and we are told that it will be about 1 BHT each piece. I leave some about 5 pieces and some underwear, we are promised that it will be done by 5pm.

TECC is a huge complex and set up very nicely in the mountains southeast of Chiang Mai. Of course, there is an elephant show---this is where all the foreign mahouts get to show what they have learned. I must say that although this is a "show" there is no sense of drudgery from the animals---they are just having some fun and they know at the end that they will get lots of treats. Today is a holiday so we are joined by many school children, and two bus loads of guys from the army. The show is short and Kampun tells me that we can go to see the baby elephants---I don't want to take the tram ( got to keep walking) and so we walk up the road--what a score, we come across a mother and her baby getting their bath---

5 months old!! So cute--they trainer tells us to follow him and we see another 9 month old with his "step" mother as his real mom is in the show. This is special and not part of the show with the crowds.

After leaving the TECC, we are to visit a local market along the way but it is over run with Thai tourist buses headed back to Bangkok after the holiday...I opt out and we head for the old road, where we do make a quick stop at another market. I cannot get enuf of them---each one different with different types of food stuffs.

We fortify ourselves with coffee and head out to Wat Umong and Doi Suthep. I was disappointed in Doi Suthep---it was a zoo. Too many people---in many ways like any holy shrine--avoid on a holiday. But I get my "luck" from this lovely monk and his helper.

After this we head back for the laundry---when we get there the laundress tell us it's 120BHT because of the color of the shirts and BTW, she normally doesn't do underwear...who knew???
This could turn out to be the "who knew" tour.

Along the way I learn about the local customs from him and why he doesn't like to drive in Bangkok ( crazy people) ...my sense is that he is a quiet, religious man. He bows at each shrine we pass and tells me their history. He gave me quite a bit of back ground on the Japanese and Chinese during WW2. He also tells me what it is like to be a farmer, which he does, rice and some vegetables--during the off season. I very much enjoy our time together and would recommend him to anyone.

I rest for a few minutes after we return---the room is cool and dark.

Later I find a massage place that interests me and have my first massage here. Just OK and I cannot even remember the name---a walk thru the night bazaar and a bit of food from the vendors. I am done for the evening. CNN keeps me connected to my other world, and soon the bed calls.

Do Not Take The Dotted Road

Version 221a, Asia

NEVER EVER turn right when your instincts say turn left...the dotted road syndrome does not live in Sicily alone. ( See http://www.wired2theworld.com/sicily2003part3.html).

This is foreshadowing for the next 8 days.

I left the hotel put securely in a taxi at the Sheraton by Kristina (who is thinking that I will not survive without her) and the hotel taxi guy who personally picks this taxi. Before we go 20 feet he turns and says, you pay me 500 BHT? I laugh and tell him to take me back to the hotel as I am experienced (right!). I know that this trip should be around 200 plus tolls, and I tell him so. She shrugs sheepishly as if to say “can’t blame a guy for trying.”

As usual BKK was a zoo, and there si a reason for the “get there two hours early”. Although I do not have to go thru passport control, it still takes time to clear and once there, Kristina is right: Do not go thru security until you are ready to board---there is nothing there except a bathroom. I talked to 3 Scots who have been traveling for 2 years, going for a last 3 days in Chiang Mai and then home for Christmas…nice guys. A quick email ( using a machine that I swear is gonna eat my cc) and I am off on my own.

The flight is uneventful, except for the Italian kid who spends his time kicking the Brit in front of him and as we land, vomits into his mothers lap. Cute.

Baggage is quick and I am picked up by one of Sgt. Kai’s team: Nooy and a driver. They zip me to Baan Orapin. It’s lovely and I am impressed by the grounds at my very first glance.

But we have a slight glitch when they show me my room. I had specifically asked for a room in the back, second floor, and this first room was NOT it. There are actually three parts to Baan Orapin now. The front, where they say there is more noise, but the rooms are bigger, The middle ( next to the pool and very small and darkish rooms) and the back, which has bigger rooms and much brighter. After some discussion with Anne, they switch me with a bottom floor room in the back that is quite lovely and I am happy to call home for the next seven days.

It’s mid afternoon and I take off for the Walking Market. The distance from the Tae Plae Bridge to the gate is very misleading. (more foreshadowing) It’s about a ½ mile, and I spend some time trying to figure out where the damn gate to the old city is.

Behind the wall, silly---set up to celebrate the King’s bday, there is a new brick wall in front of the gate. I finally see people walking around it and the light bulb goes off.

The Walking Market lives up to it’s name---surely a mile long, with booths set up randomly along the sides and in the middle, and food in courtyards off to the side---this is some real fun. I walk and walk, and eat and eat. Pennies for yummy food: fresh roasted corn cut from the cob and dressed with butter and sugar (I for-go the sugar but go back for seconds) I look at everything---food that I cannot hope to figure out what it is intrigues me but I settle on some chicken and a nice chat with a lovely Dutch girl who is traveling alone… Ice cream Ancient Style is next and I am full. In between these gastronomic delights I am eye shopping, and walking. I don’t think I ever made it to the end of the market, when I decide to turn around and head back.

I noticed right outside the gate, a book store and a dot on the map that said Oasis Spa and I decide to check it out. There is an alley way just behind the Starbucks at the gate that holds a great book store—a girl there says that the spa is just down the alley a bit. I walk. Hmm. No spa. Hmm I walk some more, and consult the map. Looks like I am headed toward the moat that boarders the old city and it seems that when I get to that I can turn right and find my way back tot the foot bridge and the hotel.

Wrong assumption, and an hour later I am asking a police man I see in front of a hospital where is the footbridge. He is from Bangkok and doesn’t know the city…just passing time in Chiang Mai.

I must look desolate ( I AM DESOLATE) because a young girl takes pity on me and takes me to 7-11 where she is sure they can help me…they can’t, and now I am starting to get concerned because no one seems to know where we are on the map. I refuse to panic, and stand very quietly for few minutes trying to get my bearings. Understand that no one I have met so far speaks any English, but hand signals an smiles are working so I figure I will make it all right. But I will give a BIG THANKS for the flashlight that K left with me. Some of those streets were dark!!

I break down and start looking for a tuk tuk---I know I paid too much but at that point I would have paid more! I find out later that I have walked about 5 miles NORTH of where I should have been, and ended up near the soccer stadium. It will take 4 more days before I finally figure out that the maps I have are worth LESS, and none of the street names remain the dame for more than 2 blocks. Oh well.

After this adventure, I decide that I will just walk down the street for dinner at The Gallery.

(25-29 Charoenrat RoadChiang Mai 50000 Thailand mailto:gallery@chmai.loxinfo.co.th)%20Oh

Oh, goody: wine, and actually drinkable, one glass please, very cold with some Khao Soi ( what a freaking faux pax: who knew you only eat it at lunch?) …a great meal for 190 BHT.

THEN I discover Cornetto. Don’t ask, just know that it’s a damn good thing I walked almost 10 miles today.

Cambodia: Rice and Salt

Tuesday Dec 4th thru Sat Dec 8 2007

In my mind now the 5 days spent in Cambodia are compressed into picture bites: the first glimpse of Siam Reap airport ( What’s that beautiful building doing here?) to the last as we pull up and over the short airstrip to go back to Bangkok…

We came to do good stuff, and we did. We came to see the famous temples of Angkor Wat, and indeed we did.

Built in the 9th century the temple complex at Angkor is made of scores of sites---filled at this time for year with tourists from the entire world, they chatter and shuffle along pathways walked by kings ---there are few actual Buddhas left in any of the temples. They have been looted by countries too many to count, including their own

The devastation wrought by the Khmer Rouge is apparent everywhere you look. 65% of the population is under 15 years old, 80% under 25. There is a great irony in the juxtaposition of the age of the population and that of the great temples.

Outside of the Angkor complex, there are hundreds of other sites, some of which have been cleared by CMAC and some not…some like Bang Malea have been cleared but not ‘tricked out” for tourists. Here, we feel like Indiana Jones climbing over stones and through collapse portals. Few foreigners and few Cambodians come here.

I would be lying if I said I could remember them all---I cannot. But I remember the feeling that I got when walking thru them. Majestic—the scale is on par with the Coliseum in Rome…and soft: that’s weird because they are made of stone—and volcanic rock. But carved, intensely and richly carved, and that softens them. And green…the color of the stone ranges form black to mottled greens and white…some rich reds—not form paining I am told, although some temples were painted. The colors are from aging and weather….

I take pictures of doors and windows—there are thousands and like Kristina they intrigue me: where are they going? Who walked thru them?

Ponhery points out the bullet divots from the war at Angkor Tom. And she isn’t referring to WW2…her war: the one that began with the Khmer Rouge and has not ended yet. Land mines still dot the country side and you dare not walk anywhere that has not been cleared. As we climb over the stones of Bang Malea someone points out the groups of people walking by all dressed in powder blue: these are the new troops of Cambodia—CMAC workers whose job it is to clear the thousands of land minds that still pockmark the countryside. Put there by there own people solely to further kill and maim.

Our second, or maybe our first reason for coming is to bring money for the Ponhery Ly Foundation. (I won’t go into it here, but see Kristina’s site http://www.wired2theworld.com/Cam2007schoolvisits.html for why).

We have brought a significant amount with us and it is to be directed a one school: Kol Keh. Built in the middle of a cleared area, it is so far off the beaten track that there is no track. There is no road, there is an ox cart track. We have discussed with Lori Carlson at length what this money can do, and I am fully convinced that she will use it to it’s best advantage and squeeze every possible penny out of it.

Lori’s story is the stuff of romance novels and adventure tales---a successful business woman in Austin, Lori recently made the decision to come to Cambodia and devote herself to the foundation. She is driven and incredibly focused on this and I have no doubt that she will be as successful in this as she was in her past life.

No one can describe the poverty in Cambodia. It is devastating, but if possible, what I see in Kol Keh leaves me without words: these children eat “rice and salt”. There is some canned fish, but a can is supposed to feed 8 and they have to make it stretch to feed 25…

They are listless--malaise. They are hungry. Food, and then education, basic skills, respect and hope. It’s hard to learn when you need to eat. We bring soymilk, lychee drinks, and ramen noodles. Five packages each and they fold their hand and bow their thanks. Some open the packs and eat the noodles dry.

Their eyes make me numb.

Ponhery hands out uniforms and flip flops for each child. The uniform is a badge of honor and success. They have made it this far. For some it will be their best moment, but for others, it will be the beginning of many best moments… and that’s a very good thing.

For better pictures (and more of them) see http://www.wired2theworld.com/, and click on Thailand and Cambodia. Krsitina has several more pages up by today ...

To learn more about the Ponhery Ly Foundation go to http://www.theplf.org/. Should you choose to donate, please mention Kristina Johnson or Sharon Miro.

Early to Market, Early to Rise, makes you….

Er, not on vacation but up we go to the early morning local market of the type that we like to visit.

DO not imagine your Friday evening Farmers market in Encino or Beverly Hills. Local wet markets have not only produce but meat and fish and whatever else is being eaten for the people that live here.

Local markets are not for the weak of stomach. But they are interesting. This one seems to be for wholesalers and perhaps restaurant owners.

But I digress: we are always these first few days, in search of the perfect noodle soup.I four last trip was the Strudel tour, then this is the Noodle tour.
Or it can be the cat and dog tour--not sure yet. At any rate the perfect noodle soup, well, it’s not here, so we push on to another very small market near the Oriental Hotel. There we find a man and woman cooking in the middle of the fish market: Noodle soup that looks good…we make the appropriate signs and they ‘seat us “ 20 seconds later YUM YUM…noodle soup, fresh &`fragrant and I don’t even ask what kind of “pork” it is…after a few minutes the elderly woman brings us a taste of something else---duck we agree, and smack our collective lips…hard to relate to this kind of eating unless you have done it…yes, a risk but why not? For less than 60 cents our tummies are full ( for now) and we have made a new friends from the smiles of the two cooks.

The rest of this day goes by in a blur ( more to come of that!) We see an exhibit, eat lunch and shop for scarves…Hmmm, is this really the scarf tour? Tomorrow Cambodia.

For better pictures (and more of them) see http://www.wired2theworld.com/, and click on Thailand and Cambodia.