Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 30, 2022

I Cook Because I Eat: Why Can’t Heroines Cook?




 Olivia Benson of Law & Order SVU prepares 

Salade Nicoise for herself and her son. He won't like the olives.  


I don’t understand why liberated heroines can’t cook. We need to eat, therefore, we need to cook. Eating fast food is not the answer. The more time you and your family spend in the kitchen cooking real food, the less time you and your family will spend at the doctor’s office and the hospital.

I'm a 50 year macro, wife and mother who cooks from scratch at least three times a day and has over 80 articles and 7 books to her name, plus I ran my own PR business for 10 years. (I started late in life.) I make it work. Why can't strong women heroines face up to the challenge of feeding themselves and their families?

I’m tired of that old feminist chestnut of “Oh! I can’t cook!” I get it, Simone de Beauvoir! It can be perceived as “endless drudgery and domestic slavery.” Wake up! Every person who told me that they couldn’t cook is - guess what? Dead! One woman, a minister, told me she wouldn’t even butter bread because it was too much like cooking. What do you think happened to her? She dropped dead in her driveway on her way to teach an aerobics class to heart patients.


Wake up! Every person who told me that they "couldn’t cook" is - guess what? Dead! 


Often, I’ll be watching - or trying to watch - a TV show about a female detective when suddenly her kid asks for breakfast or dinner and there’s no food in the house. “What?” she calls from gruesome files of dead victims, “What?” “There’s no food!” the child repeats. “I’ll go shopping after work.” Somehow, we know that’s not going to happen. I lose interest in the show.

Another one asks her son if his girlfriend’s fake breasts can make coffee. I’m thinking, are you seriously telling me you can’t make a cup of coffee for yourself - by yourself? You can solve crimes but you can’t boil water? Again, not going to watch it.

I tried to find one. I Googled TV detectives that cook. Lots of TV detectives. None cooking. I did get The Gourmet Detective. My heart skipped a beat. But, no, she’s the detective, he’s the professional gourmet come to lend a hand in the investigation.

Eliminating those fictional heroines who actually are chefs like Jane Adler (played by Meryl Streep) in It’s Complicated and Kate (played by Catherine Zeta-Jones) in No Reservations, I found two who cook - one, Erica Barry, playwright, (played by Diane Keaton) in, aptly named, Something’s Gotta Give. She’s not intimidated by the kitchen. She can whip up breakfast, dinner, snacks, picnics at will or romantic midnight scrambled eggs for two when the electricity goes out. The other is Olivia Benson (played by Mariska Hartigay) of Law & Order Special Victims Unit. Olivia does not consider herself to be a very proficient cook, but she takes time out of her busy crime-solving, victim-soothing job, to bravely go where most TV detectives don’t dare to go, into the kitchen to make dinner when she and her son, Noah are hungry! Wow, what a concept!

I have found a few in real life.

Thinking back over literary history, I realized Emily Dickinson was the family baker. Her father insisted on only eating her bread because he liked it better than any other. Emily loved baking. She made cakes, cookies, candies and puddings. She often made treats for the local children, and because she was so reclusive, she would lower a basket full of cakes from her window to the children. Emily became quite famous in town for her baked goods. It was only after she died that her sister, Lavinia, found almost 2,000 poems that Emily had written, some of them started on the backs of recipes or random kitchen wrapping papers. Emily once said, “People must have puddings” and “Love’s oven is warm.”



Emily Dickinson

“I am going to learn to make bread to-morrow. So you may imagine me with my sleeves rolled up, mixing flour, milk, salaratus, etc., with a great deal of grace. I advise you if you don’t know how to make the staff of life to learn with dispatch.” 

                                                                    – Emily Dickinson to Abiah Root, September 25, 1845 (L8)



Emily Brontë
writer, poet, baker

Also, the Brontës - Charlotte was challenged by the kitchen, but Emily was something of a kitchen goddess, it seems. The village prized her bread over that of any other baker. She also cooked mutton as a common staple, turnips, potatoes and apple pudding. Oh, and she gave us the incomparable Wuthering Heights among other works, including lots of poetry. 



Jane Austen knew food.

Jane Austen’s household was humble and crowded with sisters, cousins, nephews, neighbors and friends. Many hands pitched in and Jane displays an intimate knowledge of many dishes in her work, often ascribing certain dishes to certain characters to make a point: “a pyramid of fruit which confronted Elizabeth Bennet at Pemberley…Or of the cold beef eaten by Willoughby on his journey of repentance to see Marianne.” (Maggie Lane

Okay, so I found some heroines that cooked and somehow managed at the same time to be superhuman in their work. If artists in real life can feed themselves and their families, why can’t fictional ones?

We all need to cook! Our health and the health of our families and our future as human beings depends on our ability to feed ourselves and keep ourselves well.

Even if you hate to cook, you still need to find a way to make meals successfully. I find that planning meals around brown rice really works for me - brown rice and broiled salmon with broccoli; brown rice and pinto beans with guacamole, tortillas and salad; brown rice and broiled chicken with potatoes and green beans, you get the idea. It’s quick, simple, tasty and nutritious.

Give me heroines who can feed themselves and their families good quality food! Do we have to go all the way back to Nancy Drew? She not only stopped the investigation for meals - she did the dishes too! And, might I add, still got her perp!



P.S. Laura of Garden Answer is a busy, professional gardener, mother and wife who stops work to cook meals for herself and her family; she tries to make a new recipe every week. 



Laura and her son making chicken curry with ingredients from her garden.


Here’s a list of busy professionals who love to cook - stars who cook!

 Also Gwyneth Paltrow and Emily Blunt (stars love her roasted potatoes!)

©Patricia Goodwin, 2022


Patricia Goodwin is the author of When Two Women Die, about Marblehead legends and true crime and its sequel, Dreamwater, about the Salem witch trials and the vicious 11-year-old pirate Ned Low. Holy Days is her third novel, about the sexual, psychological seduction of Gloria Wisher and her subsequent transformation. Her latest novel is Low Flying, about two women suffering psychologically abusive marriages who find and nurture each other. Her newest poetry books are Telling Time By Apples, And Other Poems About Life On The Remnants of Olde Humphrey Farme, illustrated by the author, and Java Love: Poems of a Coffeehouse.


Within this blog, Patricia writes often about non-fiction subjects that inspire or disturb her, hopefully informing and inspiring people to be happy, healthy and free.


***Disclaimer: The information on this blog is not meant to substitute for medical care. Please consult your physician before beginning any new dietary guidelines. 


Monday, December 19, 2016

"A Child's Christmas in Revere" or How to Keep Christmas in Spite of it All


Excerpted from the novel Holy Days





A thousand Christmas mornings, grey and chill, we hustled out of our warm, cooking house for the adventure of visiting a million friends and relatives Daddy took us on a drunken path to see. Every Sunday, the many neighbors and relatives came to our house, one by one, or sometimes, in droves, for ours was a cooking house, a bustling house with both doors open, but today was Christmas Day, the day we went out to visit. Mama stayed home in a holiday ruffly apron to cook Christmas dinner. At the door she waved good-bye and mournfully instructed Daddy, “Don’t drink too much! Say Merry Christmas to my mother, mmm,” she moaned, releasing as she did a glorious deluge of scents into the freezing Christmas Day led by Bell’s seasonings that had seeped round and through the turkey’s stuffed with savories breast.
     My turkey has a name,” Mama liked to tease the hundreds of little kids who came each year to witness Mama’s frozen, naked turkey coming out of the Stop & Shop bag and going into the alternate freezer down cellar. “See!” Mama pointed a fat finger to the turkey’s label, “Jenny O’Young Tom! That’s its name! Jenny O’Young Tom!” Hundreds of kids nodded sagely, though none could decide, and there was much argument over, whether it was a “Jenny” or a “Tom.”
     I did not want to leave her. But, the adventure of visiting called out to me.
     I left the roasting of meat, a primitive and gratifying aroma like no other, deep and juicy, stuffed and fat. Mysterious, unlike a summer barbeque which is an open, communal smell on the warm breeze, the Christmas roast is privately accomplished, secreted away in the ovens, communally secret, delightfully wafting out as jingling, shouting doors open in welcome. I left behind the simmering of richest, holiday tomato sauce, using pork and beef, peppers and onion, garlic and oregano and basil all at once; the deep dish lasagna or manicotti; hidden also, beside the bulging turkey, hidden, the potatoes in silvery wrap, roasting, the yams beside them; roasting, the squash, melting into buttery warmth; cranberry jelly cut out of a can; celery to dip in olive oil and black pepper; green and crispy salada and afterwards, vanilla cookies, spread with frosting that Mama spent a whole day making; anise wheels like stained glass windows; walnut snowballs frosted with snowy soft sugar; pies: pumpkin, apple, squash and Daddy’s favorite, mince (Yuck! Too sharp!): honey balls like tiny donuts you had to fish for in golden lakes of honey; chocolate bulbs wrapped in Christmassy colored foil and a hugest bowl of nuts to crack and raisins to squish in your mouth melted with chocolate and red wine, all at once, wine and chocolate, raisin and nut meat melted and mingled in your Christmassy mouth. All these, following me out the door in a wave of sweet and spicy, warm and roasted, all these I left behind to go out into the grey Christmas Day. Grey and damp, holding Daddy’s hand, studying my new, white plastic boots. Marie was skipping and wandering on his other hand, while he jerked us straight in order to cross the cold street, blackened with drizzle, pocked with black pocky snow, and yellow snow even Annette wouldn’t eat, a piece of stray tinsel caught in a black pock, shivering wildly in the wind.
     Jakey walked by himself.
     The Likus’ was the first stop. Annie opened the door for us, “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” She said to each of our heads passing her as she held the storm door.
     “Ho, ho, ho!” Daddy responded, “An’ a Hap, Hap, Happy New Year!”
     We entered the dark house, along the dark hallway; so dark I couldn’t find the floor. My feet stepped down and down into nothingness, stepping and stepping as on numbed feet. I followed Daddy blindly down the dark walls in utter trust and horror, to the kitchen, only slightly less dim than the hall. I was met there by a damp kitcheny smell, warm and clammy, like watery meat. It was not a cooking house.
     “Can I get you something to warm your bones, Billy?”
     “Don’t mind if I do!” was Daddy’s reply at every house, “Don’t mind if I do!”
     What amazed me was how happy they all were; everywhere we went, to see Daddy! How happy they were to set his whiskey down in a simple kitchen glass in front of him!
     “Over the teeth and through the gums, look out stomach, here it comes!” he sang happily.
     He made me cringe. But, when I saw the beaming faces around him, Annie, in her new Christmas robe of bright red polyester quilting and Richard, in his flappy socks and workpants, beaming like Christmas stars upon him, I thought they were fools, and, instantly, I felt proud to be with him, foolishly proud to be of the same name, from the same house, the Wisher house, labeled with him, wrapped up, cooked like the turkey, smelling of him, through the wet, stifling wool of my mittens, through my skin, spices, tobacco, whiskey: I was with him.

     “You should never sit next to a man,” he whispered in my ear, his scratchy stubble burning my ear, while he lay next to me in the dark..., “You shouldn’t be allowed in the same room with a man.”
     
     “Hey! Gloria! Come and see what we got!” called a far off voice from the living room, Annette’s taunting voice.
     “Go play,” Daddy told me, over his shoulder.
     Marie followed me. Jakey was gone already, upstairs with Rick. They had a way of disappearing before anyone even knew they were around.
     At the threshold of the living room, I stumbled over gifts falling out of their opened boxes. Gifts filled the living room as if a gift dump truck had backed up to the house and dropped its load through the living room windows.
     I couldn’t see a thing beyond the sea of tissue paper. The vague shape of a Christmas tree blotted the dark window. Gradually, I could distinguish the shapes of boxes overflowing with scarves and hats and mittens that matched; sweaters with angora puffs, sweaters with turtle necks; sweaters of varied colors: gossamer pink, deep purple, dark red, green, neon yellow with pants and skirts to match; and toys and toys and toys; dolls advertised on TV (I never got any of the dolls I saw on TV, though I begged for them.); games in boxes rattling with promise, Scrabble, Monopoly, Miss Popularity; Mr. Potatohead thrust in my face; Barbie furniture, pink and smelling delightfully of brand new plastic. A doll wobbled toward me, ZZ-ZZ-ZZ, she went, till Rick, out of nowhere threw a new basketball at her and she fell over on to her back, smack into tissue and wrapping paper, still ZZ-ZZ-ZZ waving her legs.
     “Aw!” cried Coreen, Richard’s mother, so fat she couldn’t move, out of the depths of a stuffed chair buried in the corner, nearly scaring me to death.
     “What did you get?” Annette asked me.
     “Boots,” I said, holding up one white plastic foot.
     “That all?” she laughed.
     What could I say? No, that’s not all. I got new soft flannel pajamas we always wear on Christmas Eve to have new ones for Santa to see. I got a new pink eraser and a box of Number 2 pencils, like in school. And paper books, some with lines for writing, some with no lines for drawing. And a thing of Scotch tape, all my own; actually, Ma never bought Scotch tape, she couldn’t afford it, she bought some other kind, but she called it Scotch anyway.
     “What did she get?” Annette nodded over to Marie.
     “A doll.”
     “What kind?”
     “Show her,” I said. Marie lifted the nondescript doll she was holding and Annette blew spit through her teeth.
     Coreen laughed from her shadowy chair.
     Daddy was standing behind us.
     “You kids ready? Look at all the presents! Are these for me?”
     He reached down and put a girl’s pink and white knit cap on his head. It sat way up on top, suddenly looking like a doll’s cap.
      Annette and Linda, Coreen, Rick and Jakey all laughed real loud.
    
    “Give me your tongue,” he whispered, hot, in my ear.
     “What?” I whispered back.
     “Put your tongue in my mouth.”
      
     “What’s the matter? Don’t I look pretty?” More laughter.
     “Well, were shovin’ off!” Daddy called out. “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!”
     As we filed out, down the dim hallway, I wondered how long before I would have to use that bright new eraser, how long before I’d have to use those perfect new pencils, how much longer could I keep them fresh and untouched?

©Patricia Goodwin, 2016

Patricia Goodwin is the author of When Two Women Die, about Marblehead legends and true crime and its sequel, Dreamwater, about the Salem witch trials and the vicious 11-year-old pirate Ned Low. Holy Days is her third novel, about the sexual, psychological seduction of Gloria Wisher and her subsequent transformation.





Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Crime & Diet






          I have seen the power of diet. I can almost tell you that I have witnessed the lame walk and the blind see.

            I was a young woman, waitressing in a natural food restaurant in the early 1970’s. I opened the door many nights for a very crippled young man in a wheelchair who came there to enjoy the absolutely marvelous food we served in the elegant Seventh Inn Restaurant in Boston. The Seventh Inn was indeed like seventh heaven to us with its cornucopia of fresh whole grains, vegetables, soups, fish, desserts, teas, wine, and beer.  The atmosphere of light bamboo wood, rice paper screens and beautiful music and art was truly an oasis in bustling, dirty old Boston. The young man in the wheelchair had a twisted body, even in the wheelchair. His appearance was weak with a slightly greyish complexion. Over and over again, I opened the door, until one afternoon, he walked. He used two canes, and his body was still somewhat twisted to one side, but he walked.

            I cannot tell you if this young man was having successive operations on his spine or if he ate macrobiotically at home. I was too immature to follow his progress as I wish I had now. I wish I had a  documented case history to tell you, but even then it would only be considered what Western medicine calls an “anecdote.” To the young man who got up out of his wheelchair, his story would be far more than an anecdote.

Another time, I was serving Michio Kushi and another young man who was trying to change his condition through the macrobiotic diet. He had been blind, but was starting to improve. He said he was doing everything according to what he had been told by his advisor, but his progress had plateaued and he wanted to do better.

Michio nodded as he listened, the he asked, “What kind of cooking oil do you use?”

I don’t recall the exact kind of oil, but I do remember that it was a more yin oil like peanut or olive oil, not bad oils, but just not good for what this man was trying to achieve. (Yin force would spiral outward, releasing energy. Yang force spirals inward, tightening energy. Yin and yang represent the way all energy moves in the universe. Western medicine does not recognize the forces of yin and yang, but macrobiotics is based on balancing these forces.)

As I cleared the table, I learned something I have never forgotten.

Michio advised using sesame oil, a more yang oil, instead of a more yin oil, which, he said, would inform his eyes to create a more yang condition which he needed to improve his eyesight. “Cooking oil, very important, because we use every day, many times a day.” Michio said with his broken English. “Cooking oil can create yin condition or can create yang condition.”



I cannot tell you if the young man succeeded to improve his eyesight further. I don’t have any documented experimental data, but I do know from my own experience and my faith in what I have achieved on a personal level, that I believe his eyesight could have improved further by making that simple alteration in his cooking - changing his cooking oil. For another person, a different alteration might have been necessary. Every person is unique, and every person is in a constant state of change as our bodies respond to changes in life. In macrobiotics, we pay attention to the conditions of our health, and make alterations in diet and lifestyle as needed.

Macrobiotic people recognize many truths about diet in the Bible and in literature.

One example is the advice given to the mother of Samson in the Old Testament, Judges 13:

"There was a certain man of Zorah, of the tribe of the Danites, whose name was Manoah. And his wife was barren and had no children. And the angel of the Lord appeared to the woman and said to her, “Behold, you are barren and have not borne children, but you shall conceive and bear a son…Therefore be careful and drink no wine or strong drink, and eat nothing unclean…She may not eat of anything that comes from the vine, neither let her drink wine or strong drink, or eat any unclean thing.”

In the Bible “unclean” refers to meat and animal fats, including dairy, which, according to macrobiotics, can clog the fallopian tubes and interfere with the natural process of egg production. Another cause of what we consider infertility now is miscarriage, which according to macrobiotics, can be caused by the consumption of too yin foods, such as grapes and tropical fruits which cause the energy spiral to literally un-wind.

I can tell you the story of my friend Tanya who had been sent home by fertility doctors as hopeless for childbirth. After eating the macrobiotic diet, she had four children when I knew her in Boston in the 70’s.

In her book Louder Than Words: A Mother's Journey in Healing Autism, Jenny McCarthy talks about diet and its effects on autism: “A lot of people, including me, will tell you that it’s important to look into the foods you feed your kids and how they react to them. I know many other parents and doctors will agree that with autistic kids, you should go for an organic and clean diet. It worked for me to feed Evan food that is without additives, preservatives or dyes.” She also talks about the elimination of dairy, and the addition of cod liver oil, and vitamin B 12 supplements which brought back eye contact and speech in her son.

Jenny McCarthy’s success reinforces the idea of the power of diet, but it also tells me how the human race is starving for real food. Perhaps illnesses like autism would not exist if we ate real, natural food rich in vitamins and minerals as our ancestors did.

Why am I talking now of the power of diet? Because I want to tell you about Crime & Diet.

Crime & Diet: The Macrobiotic Approach (Japan Publications, 1987) is a little known book by Michio Kushi & Associates.

Like everyone else, I was horrified by the killings in Sandy Hook, CT. I was horrified before that by Columbine. Just a few days ago, on Christmas Day, I was horrified that a disturbed man, who had served 17 years previously for killing his own grandmother with a hammer, had actually shot and killed two firefighters after killing his sister and setting fire to his house. Seven houses burned from this crime on Christmas Eve.

What can we do about violence? What can we do about mental illness? Can the solution be as simple as changing diet?

One of the most direct and amazing results discussed in the book Crime & Diet came from the study done at the Tidewater Virginia Detention Home for Boys, which under the direction of Frank Kern and Stephen J. Schoenthaler, in 1981, took sugar out of the diet of the boys in the home for three months. The boys, ages 12-18, were in detention for crimes including alcohol and narcotic violations, disorderly conduct, larceny and burglary. During the time sugar was not in their diets, the boys’ incidents of violence decreased by 45%.

The results of the Tidewater experiment exploded on the media and medical scene. Criticism abounded about non-scientific results. However, we now realize the connection between sugar and violent behavior.

One of the simplest truths about diet we find in the Dickens’ novel, Oliver Twist. In the scene when Oliver gets into a fight at the undertakers where he is apprenticed, he gets trapped in the coffin, but he is not afraid of the officer who comes to arrest him. In fact, he shouts at the officer from inside the coffin. The undertaker’s wife says he must be mad to speak to an official that way, and the officer says, “It’s not madness, mum, it’s meat! If you had kept him on a diet of gruel, this never would have happened.”

I’m not suggesting that people eat gruel to keep from being violent. In fact, gruel, or oatmeal, in the Oliver Twist story was watered down and not very life-sustaining.  A vivid example of the power of diet as the idea was to keep the children weak and docile. However, cereal made from whole grain is extremely powerful and life sustaining, traditionally a peasant food. The peasants, of course, were a lot stronger and healthier than the noblemen who ate as much meat and sugar and drank as much wine and brandy as they pleased.

In macrobiotics, we learn about the affects of diet on physical health, but also on mental health, behavior and violence. Crime & Diet tells many stories of people who found relief from the violent thoughts that tormented them by discovering macrobiotics.

I can only tell a few details here, but you can read all their stories, told in their own words, in Crime & Diet.

Peter, a 28-year-old artist was institutionalized with symptoms of schizophrenia. “Mental illness,” he said in Crime & Diet, "is like cancer; it’s a life growing inside your head that is alien to your own life.” Peter started taking drugs after high school, LSD, mescaline, marijuana to stop his feelings of alienation. The drugs didn’t work; they only made his feelings more intense and chaotic. He had the chance to begin macrobiotics while in the hospital. Slowly, he began to feel stronger physically and mentally. At the time of publication, he had been well for many years, while continuing macrobiotics, and in his words, “taking on bigger challenges in life.”

David was a lazy college student who recalled, “hating life” the day his friend left a pile of cookbooks for him outside his door. He was intrigued by one of them, called "Zen Macrobiotic Cooking." David describes walking the streets at night in a Thorazine haze. One day he wandered into a health food store. He tried cooking brown rice and failed miserably. He went back to his old diet but became more depressed and bored with life. By chance, he saw an ad for macrobiotic cooking classes and began cooking again. Gradually, he was able to stop Thorazine completely. David said, “After showing me the need for good food, macrobiotics has brought me to an understanding of the spirit of life. I have been shown how to express my thanks and the importance of this expression every day. I have learned to pray. And for those who suffer from frustrating and confused states of mind, I pray every day.”

I don’t wonder at the depression, confusion, rage and violence that accompany the Western diet of junk food and processed foods devoid of true nutritional value. Artificial vitamins added back into processed foods cannot sustain human life. Wheat, for instance, loses its nutritional value one hour after it is ground from the whole grain into flour. That makes bread, breakfast cereal, crackers, bagels, muffins, pizza dough, etc. empty of anything but added salt, added sugar, artificial vitamins, preservatives, artificial coloring and flavor enhancers. Dehydration is another insidious condition that arises from reliance on meat, designer coffees and flour products plus the intake of excessive, hidden salt in processed foods. Because of heavy salt content in our food and other factors, such as air conditioning in buildings and cars, we have actually started to carry water bottles with us wherever we go. Dehydration causes many symptoms, including depression and quickness to anger. Add alcohol and inhibitions disappear while dehydration increases. Add drugs, and behavior goes off the charts.

In Crime & Diet, in the chapter titled "A Crime-Free World", Michio and Aveline talk about visiting Linhó Prison in Portugal. There they met many prisoners who had begun macrobiotics. Michio and Aveline were stunned by their enthusiasm and by their questions, which were about spirituality and philosophy rather than questions about their personal conditions. Aveline said, “Before I went to Linhó, I was a little scared, as I had never been in a prison…But once there, everyone was so eager to study, asking questions with shining eyes…”

People who begin macrobiotics tell us that one of the most important lessons they learn is to appreciate the simple, most wonderful things in life. If you can’t appreciate simplicity, you will never be happy. When I was little, my mother and I used to watch the sparrows play in the sand lighted by the twilight sun. We were mesmerized by their joy. I still love to watch the birds play. I also enjoy washing dishes, seeing the water sparkle and the dishes come clean. If you can’t enjoy the simple moments of life, if you want an expensive car or a huge TV or diamonds or gold and the latest designer clothes, you will never be satisfied. You will always want more and you will resent people who have those things. It’s a dead end. The only freedom is in simplicity.

As I pray for the souls of the murdered children from Sandy Hook, I find that I also want to pray for the hearts and minds of those who are violent now, that they may find peace. It may be difficult to feel compassion for criminals, but they, and the world, need our prayers.


**UPDATE: Obviously, I don't need to list the additional school shootings we've suffered since Sandy Hook, nor the acts of terrorism, nor the other horrors of crime. My hope is that this article, never more relevant, will help people. To clear their minds and hearts from the despair and the rage that comes with despair. You may say that victims and criminals eat the same foods, but I can assure you, they don't. Neither do they start at the same level playing field. Everyone must decide if they are going to be a giver or a taker in life. Good or evil. Macrobiotics can help people be stronger and happier. I know this to be true.




***Note: If you wish to begin the macrobiotic diet, please consult with a physician. I recommend starting slowly, by adding brown rice to your diet and taking away all land salt (substitute sea salt). Take away sugars, chemicals, preservatives, dyes and processed foods. You may even take them away gradually, which will be easy, for you will find that after eating brown rice, all unhealthy foods will become unappetizing to you. Also I highly recommend beginning the diet and lifestyle under the supervision of an experienced macrobiotic cook and advisor who can guide you through any questions or problems. 

Here is a list of macrobiotic sources:

or https://dennywaxman.com

Susan Krieger - http://www.susankriegerhealth.com




©Patricia Goodwin, 2013

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

My Prayer is Organic

Patricia Goodwin is the author of When Two Women Die, a novella about two women who died and became legends in the historic seacoast town of Marblehead, MA, available now on Amazon. She is also the author of Atlantis, political poems about the United States being another Atlantis.



This new blog post will be like coming out of the closet - most people would rather tell people they are gay than tell people they believe in the Virgin Birth and aliens. I'm not gay. I'm not a Catholic, more of a Magdalena, not a fallen woman, but a devotee of the ancient tradition that Jesus and Mary Magdalene were married, had a daughter, Sarah, and that Jesus's message to us, that we should live simply and well in small agrarian societies, was corrupted by the church, which also smashed the fresh water system as pagan. Hence, the Dark Ages. 

And, now, science and GMOs. Why bring religion into it? Can you really believe that changing the DNA of all plants, copyrighting each "new" seed as your own, not God's, then putting these deformed seeds out into nature, has nothing to do with God?






My Prayer is Organic


I believe in the Virgin Mary

She is fierce

Do not cross her!
She can burst the sun or twist the poles

And gentle

Love her!

My prayer is organic
I pray every day

I believe in the Virgin Birth
I see nothing around me that is less or more fantastic

Mother, Mary, La Mer, Mother to us all

She is on my windowsill above my kitchen sink
Where I pray every day

Every thought, every action is a prayer

Once, this same small statue of the Madonna stood in the arugula garden
At the foot of a telephone pole
Around which my great-grandmother and grandmother
Two generations of Italian Americans
Had carved a small vegetable garden
Out of the concrete of East Boston

I followed my great-grandmother down three stories of wooden stairs
Two flights for each story
While she carried the water in a large, heavy pan
Three or four or five trips
In her eighties
I can still see her blue velvet slippers shuffling
Ahead of my small feet

What do they know of such devotion?
Oh, yes, the farmers who go out before dawn every day
They are devoted
To their belief in Monsanto, a false god

There is only one organic.

The seed is sacred
As sacred as the Mother Corn and her son, The Corn God
Sacrificed, his blood poured into the earth
His prayer to heaven
The corn grows
I am as religious as the seed
As devoted as the grass
The aliens, who do not want us to destroy our earth
Write mad signals to us in circles in the grass
While they harvest her energy
These circles we cannot read: we are illiterate.

What do we know of earth’s energy?
Nothing
We are going the wrong way

God made the seed
The petals fall gently and mathematically aligned in the right place
And now, we are unmaking
The petals fall deformed and ugly
As all those who will eat the fruit

We are still in The Garden of Eden

Unmaking is the nuclear bomb
Unmaking is against God

The aliens watch us unmake! They cannot harvest unmaking! They are afraid for earth’s energy, for their harvest and ours.

Against the Mother
Against God

My prayer is organic

I cannot grasp the Mother’s energy!
How I wish like Her, I could bounce and burst the sun upon them!
To stop them

But you cannot pray for unmaking

I can only pray

write and cook and care

every day

My prayer is organic
small and organic

a seed



©Patricia Goodwin, 2012