Attacked by A Salamander's Tail

Poking Holes in the Dark

2009-10-28T12:36:00.000-07:00

David said: Unless the Lord had been my help, my soul would soon have settled in silence.

21
At night just before the radiator stops, it makes a sputtering noise that lasts about a minute. I lie in bed anticipating the inevitable: silence. Each night the sounds come and go in cycles. While the radiator runs, it emits a pleasant whir-uniform, comforting, constant, my sole companion in the night. But the final spats and sputters always create in me a sudden loss. When silence comes, I am shocked as if by gunfire. The silence is louder than sound. I feel sick to my stomach. I squirm under the covers and think about turning the radiator back on. I contemplate getting up to flip on the fan.
5
I lie in bed outside my parents' room. My mother keeps their door cracked open, just enough to let a beam of light shine onto my face. I cry when the light goes off or the door shuts. The light reveals the absurdity of my nightmarish fears. I fidget in bed and lift my scrawny legs vertical. I poke my long bony toes through the bottom of my sister's mattress board. She sleeps on the top bunk, and I am jealous until the day she rolls off and knocks her front teeth out. My dad punishes me for what I've done to the mattress board. He explains the meaning of "destructive." I already know what it means. He used the same word when I drew lipstick pictures on our front porch. But I like the feeling of my toes pushing through the felt-like fabric so I don't stop. I poke holes when the lights go out.
19
I am teaching high school English on the island of Babeldaob. I lie in bed wishing the air conditioner would work. At five a.m. I need to get up to grade papers. For the last month the electricity has gone off every morning from one to five because the island is having an energy crisis. So I try to go to sleep at eight o'clock. Then when the silent heat invades in the early morning, I might sleep through it. When one o'clock comes, I am jolted into wakefulness, and I curse the heat. I role over and clutch my stuffed cow. In my mind I recite lines of iambic pentameter to fall asleep. Sweat rolls off my forehead. I look down from the top bunk at the cold tile floor and am tempted to sleep there. I long for five. When it comes, I do not get out of bed to grade papers. I sleep until seven and save them for tomorrow.
6
My mom sings to me when I have nightmares about Waco, Texas and Ruby Ridge. I dream David Koresh kidnaps the wife from Ruby Ridge. He throws her in the passenger side of a black car and drives away. I scream and clutch the pole of my bunk-bed. My mom wakes up and sings, "I come to the garden alone." I also fear green dinosaurs under my bed. But the music helps me sleep. The next day I admit I am plagued with fear over Waco. My mom tells my dad to stop watching the news in front of me. He thinks she should relax. But I know better.
17
At my friend Lisa's house, I go to sleep on the basement waterbed. During the night her giant black Newfoundland dog jumps in bed with me. Its name is Chloe, such a light and dainty name for a five-foot-long monster with bad breath and fur that makes me cough. I shove and pull in a Herculean effort to move her. She pants and snores, and I end up sleeping on the floor. I vow that when I get a dog, the size limit will be two feet long by one foot tall.
0
Two days after I am born. My mother sets me down on her bed for a nap. I sleep. She goes downstairs, hears the phone ring and answers it. It is my aunt Margy, asking how I am doing. My mother talks for two minutes and then looks up. She drops the phone when she sees my two-year-old sister, Caitlin, carrying me down the flight of stairs. Caitlin never misses a step as she takes her newfound doll for a walk. I do not wake up. My mother never forgives herself for what might have been.
19
Another night without air conditioning in Babeldaob. I do not sleep for other reasons. One of my students is a Satanist. A hundred consequences have resulted from her actions, and the school is in an uproar. Yesterday she told me that Satan had ordered her not to speak to me anymore. The principal worries about leaving her alone at night, thinking she will perform another séance or cut her arms to shreds. He asks me to sleep in her room with her. I fear what might find me in the night. But I agree. Later that day he regrets his decision and changes his mind in favor of my safety. I stay in my own apartment. No longer do I seek sleep in pentameter, but in God who was my help in ages past. He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High. Faith is the substance of things hoped for. Perfect love casts out fear. You will not fear the terror by night. But I do. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear evil. I am alone, without faith or love or peace. I long for noise and refuse to open my eyes. I do not fear green dinosaurs or David Koresh but the pestilence that stalks in darkness. I refuse to look upon the demons in my dreams, but they already know I am afraid.
3
Late night escapades. As a child, I am known for these. In the mornings my mom finds sticks of butter in the trash can. My dad gets the milk out of the refrigerator. When he shakes it, the cap flies off and covers him in spilled milk. I am to blame. Between sleep, I sneak out of my bed and eat butter. I like how soft and sticky it is, but I hate the oily taste. Immediately I spit it out into the trash. I drink the milk but forget about the cap.
21
My fiancé reaches down and pushes me. He fell asleep on the couch, and I've been trying to sleep on the floor. I wake him with my recitation of pentameter. Today, it is Robert Frost who helps me sleep. She is as in a field a silken tent…I do not know why I should ‘ere turn back…when I see birches bend to left and right…they will not find me changed from him they knew. I tap out the meter with my fingers and mumble the words. My fiancé thinks I am strange for using poetry to fall asleep. I tell him many people do the same. Madeleine L'Engle did it. He suggests I recite them in my mind.
18
I am in Kumasi, Ghana when I get food poisoning and sleep intermittently for three days. There is no separating the haze between day and night. A doctor visits me every few hours. I sleep and drink Sprite from a glass bottle. It is probably midday when I notice the smell of spicy peanut stew. I do not know whether I am waking or dreaming. In the haze a tall African man stands over my bed. He watches me, but I fall back into sleep. Suddenly I must vomit from the smell of the stew. Stumbling into the bathroom, I bow over the toilet. My roommate rushes in and tells me there was a man in our room. She found him standing in front of my bed, and he ran. "Stay in the bathroom," she says, so I lie on the floor. I do not know why the man was there, and I do not care. I hug the stones of the floor and fall back into confusion. The man's food sits in our room. He never returns for it. Later we learn he had mistaken our hotel room for his own.
10
I lie in bed and curl my toes. I am thirsty but scared of descending the flight of stairs to the kitchen. I fear the faces I might see in the sliding door. I pull my legs out of the warm blankets and into the chill air. A quick hop gets me out of my bed and onto the floor. I am running down the stairs, past the front door. I avoid all windows. When I turn on the faucet, I keep my eyes on the stream of water flowing into my cup, refusing to recognize the sliding door. I know someone scary will be standing there. So I pivot and race up the stairs, fear nipping at my toes, until I am back under the covers, warm.
22
The radiator hums a lullaby. I stretch my legs under the blankets. My feet hang from the end of the bed. But then the sputtering begins again, and again the sinking feeling. I am never prepared for the shock of silence. I always dread the loss.

My Own Quinoa Soup Adventures

2009-10-27T15:49:00.000-07:00

Inspired by my own reminiscing, I decided to make my own version of quinoa soup tonight for my husband and me. This soup is quite a bit different than the Peruvian version, but I thought it was quite delicious. I had some leeks in the refrigerator that needed to be used, so I concocted a leek/quinoa soup.

Here is a loose recipe if you'd like to try it. My husband and I loved it.

Leek Quinoa Soup

2 T Butter
1 T Olive Oil
2-3 Large Leeks (cleaned and chopped)
Salt and Pepper to taste
About 1-1 1/2 quarts of good Chicken or Vegetable Stock
1/2-3/4 cup of dried quinoa (depending on how thick you want the soup to be)
1 T Heavy Cream
1-2 T Greek Yogurt as a Garnish if desired

*Because leeks make a thinner soup, you may choose to thicken it up. You can make a simple Beurre manié from equal parts butter and flower (about 1 T of each) to thicken the soup at the end if you choose. Just whisk the mixture into the hot soup.

In a large pot, heat butter and olive oil under medium heat. When the butter has melted, toss in the chopped leeks. Season with salt and pepper and then saute until the leeks are translucent, about 10 minutes, on low heat. Add the stock, and simmer for about 20 minutes. At this point, you will need to blend the soup. I use a hand blender because it is much easier, but you can also transfer the soup to a blender and then return it to the pot on the stove. The leeks should not be thoroughly blended. Small pieces should remain. At this point, bring the soup back to a boil and add the quinoa. Once the soup is boiling, bring back to medium heat and cook until quinoa is done. The quinoa should enlarge a little and the outer edges should start to come away, forming a circle around the grain. Return the heat to a simmer and add the cream and Beurre manié, if using. Serve warm with a good crusty bread. I like to put a dollop of Greek yogurt in the center of my soup. However, some will prefer the soup plain.

Enjoy! While it was not the same soup I enjoyed in Peru, it brought back great memories.

2009-10-27T12:27:00.000-07:00

This is a picture of the food spoken of in the previous posting.

To Begin: A Favorite Meal

2009-10-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

From my perch on the red stone wall, I saw the bite and the spitting that followed. We had traveled all morning through the south of Peru. Our journey began in Cusco at about four in the morning, and ended in Puno later that day, but we had stopped in the meantime at a roadside ranch. The bus ride had been a pleasant one, and though I was exhausted, I had remained awake much of the time. There was something about the way the earth took shape that drew me in. On each side of the road, large grassy hills rose to peaks. The road moved in an almost straight line, and farmers with their herds of Alpacas sprinkled the countryside. I felt the pull I rarely have in other countries of being somewhere other than home.

Around noon, the bus full of college students had pulled over at this small ranch. Apparently our guides had arranged for our having lunch there because, when we all piled out, we found Peruvian women, young and old, sitting over large black cauldrons of boiling soup. Platters of dark red olives, salads, papaya, white cheeses, and individual triangular shaped breads were spread around on wooden tables. We were given various red clay pottery to eat from and silverware. Choosing the simpler fare, I took some bread and olives and a woman served me a portion of the bubbling soup. It was then I sat on the red stone wall to enjoy one of the finest culinary dishes of my experience. The bread was crusty on the outside and the olives were fresh. The dish was a golden quinoa soup. I did not at the time know what else was in it, and to this day I have no idea what the soup was made from. I have many times searched the web looking for Peruvian soups with quinoa, but none have looked or sounded anything like this golden creation. I felt akin to Goldilocks finally settling on that perfectly cooked porridge.

As I ate, I watched the alpacas saunter across the lawn. They were amiable to a point, but not so far as to let us pet them. However, we had with us a rather brazen professor of religion who must have thought himself superior to the alpaca. He of course would not take no for an answer and walked directly up to a brown and white one, determined to pet it. The animal lashed back in rage, biting the professor's hand. Rather than run like many of us might have, he looked straight at the alpaca and spit back. All this I saw from my perch and smiled with amusement. Having experienced the professor's antics for some time I felt he had it coming. He of course responded in character, determined still to get the better of the creature.

From then it was on to Puno and Lake Titicaca. But for me, the entire day revolved around that simple country fare. If any Peruvians or others out there in cyberspace know of such a soup, please do share. Until then.