sweet dreams and flying machines

When I was a child, I used to have this recurring dream that I would awaken in the middle of the night and look out my window. There in the late night sky were many unusual flying machines that were being tested by the air force in a top secret manner.

The flying machines were magical and unconventional and hovered and darted like hummingbirds. Sometimes in my dream, one of the machines would crash. I could always tell when one of these machines would be in trouble, but could not help but look on in horrified amazement. There would be a terrible explosion with flames bursting forth from the crash sight and when that would happen, it would always be nearby, within running distance. I could feel the intense heat emanating from the wreckage as I approached to render assistance. This dream recurred so often, I began to believe the sky was filled at night somewhere with these machines. For me, the flying machines represented the possibilities that existed, that still exist, while the ones that crashed were the cautionary tales of the potential failures or tragedies that can occur in life. The fact that these wondrous machines flew in the darkness of night when the world was asleep, well, I believe this was a manifestation of the secrecy of my own special dream and the magical pleasure that was mine alone at discovery. Interestingly, this dream recently resurfaced; a reminder that perhaps we never outgrow them.

mochi

As a third-generation in America, Japanese-American (Sensei) citizen, I've been a little distanced from my Japanese ancestral roots. Still, I did experience much of the culture mainly through the blessings of my grandparents and the childhood I spent inhabiting the space that was once called Japan town (now defunct due to the Salt Palace complex).

One of the traditions I miss now that my grandparents and parents are gone, was the New Year's celebration. Obviously this was more important than the western-culture oriented Christmas celebration. My grandmother (my mother's mother) would always prepare a large feast for our family. I remember vividly the cooked lobster that always stood as the centerpiece of the table (although I have no memories of ever eating that lobster). We would eat sushi (and yes, since I was introduced to sushi early in my childhood, I could never understand what the big deal was when it gained popularity some years ago), specially prepared vegetables, shrimp, crab, rice cakes and a special soup made from pork stock (the name of which now eludes me sadly) that was always one of my favorite annual treats. Mochi was a key ingredient of that pork stock soup.

Mochi is a sort of patty made of a sweet rice paste; rice that has been cooked then put through a grinder several times. Once it has been molded into the patty it "sets up" slightly and retains that shape. (Mochi is not to be confused with Manju, which is often a sweet rice patty covering a sweet bean paste center.) My grandmother used to display three of these mochi stacked upon one another in varying sizes with the largest on the bottom (much like a snowman, but instead of round snow balls, picture flattened disks) and the smallest on top. Capping off the little pile of mochi was a tangerine. I've seen this same arrangement in other Japanese households, and I have a vague memory of it serving as an offering that is placed in front of the little altars (Buddhist?) many Japanese families had on display in their homes.

Mochi can be served in the soup I described or in a bowl of tea or with a combination of sugar and soy sauce (my personal favorite). The mochi is heated in the microwave (it used to be cooked in a frying pan to get it warm) and dipped in the sugar and soy sauce mixture like fries in fry sauce. And yes, I know, I'm eating starch dipped in sugar and liquid salt. There is absolutely no nutritive value whatsoever in this mix, but to me, it is the sweet taste of my childhood. I've even passed my penchant for this treat onto my daughter, who has embraced her Japanese heritage much to the dismay of my blond-haired, blue-eyed wife. She just looks on with bewilderment as we happily devour our mochi (much as she does when we eat anything with curry in it). This year I have fallen behind in my holiday preparations. I have not gone foraging for my annual supply of mochi. I'm hopeful that there is still some available at one of the local Japanese grocery stores. If some of the other traditions of Christmas lag behind or are suspended this year, well that's fine. But I have to have my mochi. This is one aspect of the holidays that is non-negotiable.

deadly icicles

Reflecting upon on my childhood, I realize now that my mother was overprotective. I can only attribute this to the fact that I was an only child and it was important to her I be aware of all of the potential hazards and danger that lurked out there in the world. Some of her fears bordered upon the ridiculous, some were more sublime. I remember during the winter she would always warn me of icicles that hung dangerously from every building. They had after all, been known to break off without warning or reason, to plunge through the brain matter of the unaware victim beneath it. Needless to say, I winced each time I approached or left a building whose eaves were bordered by icicles. Strangers offering candy was one of the more sublime fears she shared with me.

Milk carton photos still haunt me and I remind myself not to be lured by the promise of sweets even though I am well beyond this prospect. (Although, if you think about it, in a way strangers still offer us sweets with less than good intentions.)

As I grew older, I suspected her behavior would abate. I had at some point become “aware” and capable of logical thought that one would think, would arm me to steer away from the array of mine fields that awaited me. But no, this was not the case. If anything, my mother’s fear and consequently, her warnings, only intensified. I would often find newspaper clippings (on my desk when I lived at home, and later, in the mail when I moved out) validating her worst fears. Debris from trucks in front of you on the freeway could come flying out of their beds, only to impale you. Furnaces could affixiate you in your sleep or even worse, water heaters were capable of exploding like bombs, doing double damage as they fell back to earth from their initial explosion launch. I did my best to embrace these fears and do whatever was necessary to avoid the calamities that obviously faced the uninformed (which amounted to the rest of the entire world).

But at some point, I realized this fear had overwhelmed my mother to the point that it crippled her. She had stopped living and experiencing things because of the potential danger they presented. She truly believed that death or injury awaited her at every corner. It was a startling revelation. I chose to abandon a trove of fears that had been ingrained in me (well, it’s all relative isn’t it?). I began to tease her mercilessly each time she brought up a cataclysmic scenario. “Yes, Mom, carbon monoxide poisoning in your sleep would be a senseless way to die, but hey, it doesn’t sound like a bad way to go . . .” We can choose to board the plane at the risk of it going down or instead, choose not to visit a place we’ve never been before. We can choose to attend the opening ceremonies of the Winter Olympics and be killed by sniper fire or a carefully placed bomb, or miss a once-in-a-life opportunity to be there when it takes place in our very own city. Yes, danger is out there, but so is opportunity and discovery and wonder and exhilaration. I personally choose to go with the promise of those good things rather than impending doom. Call me foolish. I don’t mind. Truth be told, I’m still probably more cautious than most.

Ironically, if anything “gets” me, it will probably be some affliction that stems from the years and years of second-hand smoke my mother and father exposed me to during my life with them. If this were to happen, my mother would have most likely preferred my death be by falling icicle.

early onset dementia

When I was about 5 or 6 years-old, I was something of a hypochondriac. I think it stemmed from the fact that I had newly entered the world and to my dismay, had discovered it to be a potentially hostile place, full of germs, bacteria and diseases that could cut my already short life even shorter. It didn’t help that my mother’s favorite television shows were Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey, an abundant resource for new diseases or physical afflictions that I could adopt as my disease du jour. Eventually, I grew out of it. Somehow I realized that you could attribute the slightest sensation to any potentially disastrous symptom. Yes, I felt fevered, but the body temperature runs at 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. And yes, we all get headaches once in a while for whatever reason, but that does not necessarily mean I have a tumor. And so, like many childhood traits, my hypochondria dissipated in the greater fog of adulthood, until recently.

A few weeks ago, I had lunch with my best friend from Junior High through college. He announced that he had recently been diagnosed with early onset Dementia forcing him into an early retirement. As proof of his condition, he was now drawing from the coffers of Social Security, a process that usually takes several application attempts for even the most legitimate of reasons. He bragged that he was approved upon the first attempt, external validation that his was indeed a serious condition. He detailed the worst moments of realization for him – the time he forgot something in his hotel room and as he turned, he knew that there was no possible way he would be able to retrace his steps to his room. Or the time he was being tested for his condition, and he began to sweat at the simple algebra problems, especially frightening since he taught math at a private school. He has good days and bad ones and laughed at the fact that he had always prided himself on his intelligence. He was remarkably calm and accepting as he relayed all of this to me, but I sat quietly horrified. Hadn’t I been forgetting things lately? I’ve been having problems identifying actors and actresses and their filmography at recent screenings of movies. This used to be something I could do with remarkable speed and accuracy. Now I had to Google them. And I HAVE left my cell phone at home on more than one occasion, my one essential device that keeps me accessible to the world. Perhaps I, too, have early onset Dementia!

Now, I observe myself carefully, scrutinizing every mistake I make. I’m slowly convincing myself that I’m just getting older and that these little incidents are a reflection of this and not a symptom of a greater malady. I suppose if I were really concerned, I could get tested but that however, seems to only validate how ridiculous I’m being about the whole thing. So, I’ll continue to monitor myself carefully, looking for any telltale signs. I’m still capable of algebra and every morning I’m successful at the word scrambles in the newspaper. There are larger issues to worry about anyway.

In the meantime, I worry about my friend and wish him well. His mother was supposed to be dead months ago from a severe incurable blood malady that has doctors looking at her in the way they would look at a zombie from the Walking Dead. Yet she thrives, pain-free, in what seems to be perfect health with no symptoms whatsoever. I’m hoping my friend will fare as well from his diagnosis. If attitude were any indication, I’d have to bet for the most part he will be fine. I’ve come to realize through all of this that it is essential that we all enjoy every moment and give thanks for the blessings we have. Life is a transitory thing and who knows when it will be taken from us?

the salton sea

I first became aware of the Salton Sea from a movie of the same name. Although I barely recall the details of the movie, the image of the Salton Sea remained with me. The images from the movie depicted an almost desolate landscape of sand, water and low-lying mountains in what seemed to be a remote and isolated location. Briefly, the Salton Sea is a saline, rift lake located directly on the San Andreas Fault. The lake currently rests at about 226 feet below sea level. It covers about 376 square miles, making it the largest in California, with a maximum depth of 52 feet. The lake's salinity, about 44 grams per liter, is greater than the waters of of the Pacific Ocean at about 35 grams per liter, but less than that of the Great Salt Lake (which varies greatly). The concentration is increasing by about 1 percent annually. Fertilizer runoff combined with the increasing salinity have resulted in large algal blooms and elevated bacteria levels, creating an environment in which many species of fish are no longer able to survive. Evidence of this is everywhere as skeletal remains of dead fish line the shore. Interestingly, the sea is a major bird sanctuary. Evidently, there is enough life there to attract over 400 species of birds who utilize it as a major resting stop of the Pacific Flyway. It supports 30% of the remaining population of the American White Pelican. I wonder how they are jeopardized by the conditions that do not show any promise of abating.

I had the privilege of visiting the Salton Sea a few days ago while we vacationed briefly in Palm Springs. The Salton Sea is located approximately 50 miles away, but our itinerary put us in the area and we couldn't resist the opportunity to see it for ourselves despite the advice of a park ranger to skip it. As we followed the sign that read "Salton Sea Beach," we entered the small town that surrounds it. It consisted largely of trailer homes set up in the desert sand, a sort of ghost town in the making. We turned down a dirt road that led to the sea and parked at a chain link fence that prevented us from driving any farther. At this point, the sea shore was fully visible. We were about 50 years away from the water's edge. The sun was beginning to set. We left the car and walked around the fence and suddenly became aware of the complete absence of insects. It was eerily quiet as a result and if not for the presence of flocks of birds along the shoreline, it would be unsettling.

-

As mentioned, skeletal remains of fish were everywhere, a testimony to the rising salinity and pollutants of the water. The sand beneath our feet had transitioned into what was now layers of broken tiny sea shells. We could see the polluted water as we approached, navigating around all of those dead fish. I was reminded of scenes from the old 1950 science fiction movies that warned of the dangers of tampering with radioactive materials and sinister chemicals. It was amusing (in the context of those old movies that seemed so paranoid and extreme at the time) and sobering to witness this all first hand. I was moved though by the glaring contrast of pollution and death that was present there and the violet-red light of sunset that was reflected in the still waters of the isolated sea in the desert. Even in the slow progression of the death of the Salton Sea there is beauty.

tupelo gold

Occasionally I like to share interesting little tidbits of information that I stumble upon. It's my earnest attempt to diverge from my otherwise self-indulgent entries; the ones that seem to center upon food, my ongoing weight obsession or objects of desire (but now that I think about it, this is about both food and an object of desire AND it could be about weight obsession too . . . so perhaps I've once again failed here . . . ). Last week I had lunch with a friend who shared his new hobby as a bee-keeper with me. It reminded me of a movie I saw many years ago starring Peter Fonda, entitled "Ulee's Gold." Ulee's Gold referred to the Tupelo Honey he harvested as a bee-keeper in the south. Tupelo honey is yet another of those culinary delights that is produced in limited quantities due to geographical constraints (like Chuao Chocolate). If you're not familiar with Tupelo Honey, I've taken the liberty of reprinting some of the information taken directly from the product page of L.L. Lanier and Son's Tupelo Honey website (http://www.lltupelohoney.com/). Perhaps they will forgive me for quoting from their site if this results in purchases from you. I can attest that Tupelo honey is a special product that merits tasting.

Their information follows:
"Tupelo Honey is produced from the tupelo gum tree which grows profusely along the Chipola and Apalachicola rivers of northwest Florida. Here in the river swamps, this honey is produced in a unique fashion. Bees are placed on elevated platforms along the river's edge, and they fan out through the surrounding Tupelo-blossom-laden swamps during April and May and return with their precious treasure. This river valley is the only place in the world where Tupelo Honey is produced commercially.

Real Tupelo Honey is a light golden amber color with a greenish cast. The flavor is delicious, delicate and distinctive; a choice table grade honey. Good white tupelo, unmixed with other honeys, will not granulate, and due to this high fructose low glucose ration, some diabetic patients have been permitted by their physicians to eat Tupelo Honey.

Black tupelo, ti-ti, black gum, willow and severl other honey plants bloom in advance of white tupelo and are used to build up colony strength and stores. Since these sources produce a less desirable, darker honey, which will granulate, the product is sold as bakery honey. Possibly it is just that or a blend which is a cheaper honey for which the buyer may be paying a premium price.

The important point which we wish to make here is that all honey that is being labeled Tupelo is not top quality Tupelo Honey as the bees make it and as skilled beekeepers produce it. Some honey may be very light in color and could very well have a high percentage of gall berry. Gall berry blooms right after Tupelo. It is attractive, as it is a light white honey, but it is not Tupelo and will soon granulate. Some honey is labeled Tupelo and wildflower. In this case the buyer has no guarantee of just how much real Tupelo he may be getting.

Fine Tupelo is more expensive because it costs more to produce this excellent specialty honey. To gain access to the river locations where the honey is produced requires expensive labor and equipment. In order to get fine, unmixed Tupelo Honey, colonies must be stripped of all stores just as the white Tupelo bloom begins. The bees must have clean combs in which to place the Tupelo Honey. Then the new crop must be removed before it can be mixed with additional honey sources. The timing of these operations are critical and years of experience are needed to produce a fine product that will certify as Tupelo Honey.

Nutrition Facts

The black particles on the top of the honey jar are beeswax and pollen. This occurs because the honey is not heated or processed; it's in its natural state the way honey should be. When honey is heated and processed it takes all the living enzymes, nutrients and pollen out of the honey; therefore, creating just another sugar not a nutritious product. Honey in its natural state is a health food. Tupelo Honey is made primarily of fructose sugar which has been called the queen of sugars. The reason being is that it's the easiest sugar for the body to use and absorb. It does not tax the body or its digestive system like white cane or granulated sugar. Honey should be kept at room temperature with a tightly closed lid. The only thing that will make the honey go bad is moisture, so keep the lid on tight. In addition to its sugars, honey contains as its minor components a consdierable number of mineral constituents, seven members of the B-vitamin complex, ascorbic acid (vitamin C), dextirn's, plant pigments, amino acids and other organic acids, traces of protein, esters and other aromatic compounds, and several enzymes."

Also (and this is me again), most store bought honeys are laced with corn syrup. In fact, some "honeys" are primarily corn syrup, so buyer beware.

comfort food

I'm a nervous eater. Give me something to worry about, anything, and BAM! something's immediately in my mouth. AND 99% of the time, I can guarantee you it's not going to be a carrot stick. No sir, carrot sticks do not a pacifier make. I need real comfort and real relief. Bugs Bunny food does not cut it. Give me something that soothes me like a mother's caress. Chocolate cake for instance. Or chocolate chip cookies (newly baked in the oven and still hot) or an entire Amano Chuao Chocolate bar (yes, I've become a snob). As I write this, I see a common theme emerging. Chocolate does reign, but I am not so close-minded as to exclude other flavors as I seek instant solace. Pizza is equally effective at vanquishing the discomfort of anxiety as is a good hamburger or hot dog (with fries please). I cannot imagine how others cope with their anxieties, but if it does not entail food, well, I just feel sorry for them. These lesser strategies will undoubtedly leave vestiges of PTSD.

As we approach Thanksgiving, it occurs to me this annual ritual is the ultimate close-looped system of anxiety and anxiety relief. The stress induced from cooking for relatives (don't get me started about the in-laws!) and hoping it passes muster is way up there on the Richter Scale of anxiety. But how poetic and beautiful that at that moment, when everybody sits down at the table (the silent scream moment), there is all of that food laid out in front of you to gently appease you with its fattening grace. Ah, turkey, ah, mashed potatoes, ah, gravy . . . where have you been all year?

So (as you probably surmise from this small rant), I am once again gaining weight. Chalk that up to the bathroom remodel. No matter. Give me comfort any day over a trim build. It is a good thing I'm writing this. If I were speaking to you at this very moment, you would find it difficult to understand me with all of the food that is in my mouth. Oh, and could you pass the gravy please?