Spring crochets leaves onto branches,
stippling blue sky with green lace.
Pursed tulips await rain until sunshine
encourages petals to invite sun and bees.
Umbrella in hand, I shade my eyes
looking at the sky in speculation.
Birds crisscross skies cloudy to bright and back.
Spring is a both/and time of year.
Automobile insurance from Massachusetts companies is based on the principle of no fault. What this means is that if you are involved with other vehicles in a car accident, regardless who is at fault, each insurance company pays for damages experienced by their insured. There is no need to go to court, no tangle over who is right and who is wrong, or any other difficulties associated with the distribution of funds to those who need them.
What happens if this principle is applied to life? What if instead of spending time assigning blame or fault with all the resentment and anger that that can produce, no fault were placed upon anyone? If that were to be the case it could mean that any resentment or anger I might feel from a perceived injury, whether physical, emotional or psychological could be seen in a different light.
Think about it. If a cat scratches me, is it the cat’s fault, or is it simply the nature of a cat to scratch? If a small child breaks my precious piece of china or even pulls the dog’s tail, whom can I blame? Children are often careless and break things. Especially when they are very young, they may not recognize that dogs don’t like to have their tails pulled. Is the child at fault for how he or she acts, or is the child simply acting the way children do?
In my life there have been many people who metaphorically speaking stepped on my toes because of who they were. They didn’t do it on purpose. They were just being themselves. Can I blame them for being themselves? Do I resent them for their actions, or do I simply recognize that it’s not their fault that they are inclined to be forgetful, careless, ill informed or whatever else caused the problem?
I may do a disservice if I place blame on another instead of recognizing that he or she only acts as she or he is capable of acting at the time. The same is true of myself. I can take responsibility for my action; I can try to do better next time; yet I do not need to fault myself. It is my firm belief that at any given time people do only what they are capable of doing and that there is no need to assign fault. Blaming causes resentment and anger as well as tends to prolong the original difficulty.
I might gently call attention or discuss what was said or done, yet only if it seems important. It’s not my job to judge the actions of another. Perhaps this is why statues and other images of Justice are usually blindfolded. She holds scales symbolizing fairness. Perhaps she sees with the eyes of the heart rather than her physical ones. To be fair I need to take into consideration all the factors in a situation and not only my perceptions. When I can accept that there really is no fault, that it simply is the way it is, then compassion and forgiveness will guide my response.
Fall is apple season, aoday I had some very special apples to process. They came from trees growing in the yard of a house I’ve been helping clear out. Most of what Stephen and I had found was fit only for applesauce. However as I cut up our gleanings,I found to my great joy there were a few that had no worms or rotten spots to speak of and looked easy to peel. We had recently eaten most of the things I usually make from apples–apple crisp, apple compote, and baked apples, so I wanted to find something new and different to make from this remarkable fruit. I looked in my old Fanny Farmer’s Boston School of cooking cookbook and remembered something from my own childhood I had been fond of. Here is the recipe as Miss Farmer suggested making it, together with a note of what I did. I might add I used a hearty gluten free bread. Cream, whipped cream or any kind of sauce would taste good with this, as would ice cream. Prefer less calories? Use soy, rice, almond, oat or other grain non dairy milk..
Apple Brown Betty
This simple tasty recipe from my old Fanny Farmer’s cookbook is well worth making and eating at any meal, breakfast, dessert, or tea. Butter a 1/12 to 2 quart casserole. preheat oven to 350.
Ingredients:
2 cups fresh breadcrumbs, crumbled small
1/4 cup melted butter
4 cups sliced, peeled tart apples
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 tsp nutmeg or 1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 cup hot water
(Optional) grated rind and juice of half a lemon
Method: Peel apples and cut into slices–thinner is better than thicker, but not paper thin. Mix breadcrumbs and melted butter. Mix up brown sugar and cinnamon with optional grated rind and juice of half a lemon or not. Put a layer of breadcrumbs on the bottom, pour half the apples over, sprinkle with half the brown sugar mixture.Put on rest of apples, top with rest of sugar and the crumbs. Pour hot water over all and bake for 45 minutes at 350 degrees. Important: Cover the top for the first 30 minutes.
Cook’s Note: I mixed the sugar with the apples because I read the recipe wrong, and it turned out just fine. I didn’t put in the lemon either. Make it simple if you like. This was delicious made with 3 Bakers white gluten free bread. You need a hearty crumb for best results, so use any hearty whole grain loaf, gluten free for those who prefer.
Photo and article copyright 2013 Tasha Halpert
Lush autumn roadsides
verdant vines and straggling weeds
stretch greedily toward the sun.
Seeking ants
scurry crumbs to the hoard
harvesters store root and grain against the cold.
Hurry, hurry to and fro;
accumulate, be ready for lack
grasp while you can.
Hunger drives
bearing onward open mouths gulping,
hands reaching, seeking more.
Travel the autumn roads slowly
beauty fills the eye
satisfying need and hunger for a while.
.
Photo and poem copyright 2013 Tasha Halpert
I am a garden
with all a garden requires
I am a gardener caring for my garden.
In the silence of night
owl calls,
firefly flashes,
frog croaks.
The garden rests.
In the silence of the night
gardener sleeps, dreams,
wakes and returns to sleep.
The gardener rests.
Under the sun
garden and gardener
toil at their tasks.
Beneath the earth
worms squirm,
grubs grow,
ants tunnel.
Nature alternates between rest and growth.
Garden and gardener I am
rich with doing, redolent with rest,
dutiful my days, tranquil my nights.
Words and Photo by Tasha Halpert
How wonderful the carrot, sturdy, sweet!
What would a cole slaw be without the bright
sweet orange gratings of this tasty root?
For salads carrot curls, and what beef stew
would be complete without it’s carrot chunks?
I cherish carrot soup on a winter’s day,
warming and nourishing to flesh and bone
and carrot juice for hunger and for thirst.
Descended from the lace of good Queen Ann,
the feathery fronds belie the sturdy root.
Who was it first discovered under ground
the part that nourishes juiced, cooked, or raw?
How glad I am that someone long ago
saw the potential in that pale white root
and turned a lovely flower growing wild
into a vegetable for daily fare.
From that pale slender small yet meaty pith
a patient gardener crafted over time
what we call carrots–orange, long and firm.
In summer Daucus Carrotis’ slender stalks
topped with a white umbrella-like bouquet,
nodding beside New England streets and roads,
delight the eye of many a passer by
whose gaze is for the flower, unaware
that they are seeing carrots true forbears.
Image and poem by Tasha Halpert
“Could that be so-and-so?” I ask, then I recall
when last I saw that face; it could not look the same.
Who was I then? Who am I now?
have the interleafing passages of time
made changes? My mirror
reflects both now and then.
As leaves fall branches reveal their truth.
As years pass, faces describe ours.
Our DNA resembles that of trees:
rooted in cell memory, skin bark encloses our flesh.
No birds nest in our hair,
only random thoughts
and an occasional prayer.
Photo and poem by Tasha Halpert
There is beauty to be found where least expected:
in dried blossoms clinging to bare bushes,
in the twisted intricacy of a naked tree
against an autumn sky slowly dimming.
Beauty smiles from wrinkled faces remembering
as old eyes gaze at small children and listen to their laughter.
I applaud the homely for its quiet elegance
its small soft voice bespeaking a unique and special loveliness
like a cracked pitcher that belonged to a great-aunt
or a rusted iron fence gleaming in the sunset glow.
These warm my heart and draw my eye.
I cherish beauty that goes unnoticed
amidst the flash and filigree that draws the crowd.
I want to embrace and caress the tattered and torn
that form patterns of valor against the starkness of harsh reality,
precious beauty, quiet, shy, and velvet rich to the stroking hand.
Photo and Poem Copyright Tasha Halpert 2013
I used to smoke cigarettes. Most of my contemporaries did, and while that’s no excuse it does make it more understandable. To be sure, this was long before they were even five dollars a pack. Having quit more than twenty five years ago I marvel at what they cost today. I remember a trip to Canada while I still smoked. With Canada’s higher taxes, cigarettes cost five dollars a pack there.
I remember asking if the price made a difference to the number of people who bought them. I was told that the taxes on cigarettes and liquor paid for important things. Apparently the price to be paid was no deterrent. It might have been for me, but then I quit several times and still fell back into the habit. It took a lot more than cost to get me to quit. I reached a point when I really wanted to because I didn’t feel good when I smoked.
When I was growing up my mother and father smoked cigarettes. Most people did, even if only occasionally. Although she didn’t smoke, my great aunt kept a box with lots of cigarettes in it for smoking during cocktails or after dinner. It was the sophisticated thing to do. All the movie stars did it. If you watch a movie from the thirties or forties almost everyone is lighting up.
My mother did quit. She lived to be 98. Despite the fact that his smoke affected her, my father never did. He died at 76. I know smoking contributed to the illness that took his life. However in those days who knew? The romance of sharing a cigarette with one’s date or a boyfriend lighting two cigarettes before passing one over prevailed in the public’s consciousness.
I had my first cigarette at fifteen. I was in high school and out with two classmates at lunch. When they lit up I asked for one too. “I didn’t know you smoked,” one said as she offered her pack. I nodded, lit up nonchalantly and then coughed and coughed. They laughed at me. However I persisted. I wanted to be one of the cool girls. By the time I quit I was glad to do so.
I feel sad when I see people smoking cigarettes. They are paying money to deplete their immune systems and make their bodies vulnerable to a host of diseases. They are inhaling carbon dioxide as well as exhaling a substance that can make others ill. And I used to do it myself. I have no real excuse for my behavior. However, one thing that helped me was a realization that came to me some years before I quit for good.
I was on the telephone with a friend when I lit up. As I chatted I ignored my cigarette burned merrily away in the ashtray. After I hung up I looked at it. The cigarette was smoking itself. It didn’t even need me to smoke it. On occasion this thought would return to remind me I really didn’t need to smoke. One day I was able to confirm this truth and quit for good. I wish all smokers well and hope that one day they will be able to do that too.
Photo and Blog by Tasha Halpert
Pujakins 