Standing the line

Officer Santis was new. You could tell by how he held his baton.  He looked like a baby despite the riot helmet.  I wished him the dignity of long sleeves to conceal his thin arms.

He was more tense than the Angelino with the welcome mat tied around his shoulders behind me as the protest neared the moment when things could go bad if one side doesn’t back down.

An old bus requisitioned as a blocker had just arrived and the march was stalled out where it had begun.

The impromptu march had made its way through concourses on the arrival level from Southwest all the way around the horn to United.

Even traffic cops mouthed the words of our chants and gave smiles as we transitioned from the inner lanes to the outer ones.

I heard one protester offer, “I’ve  never gotten around the airport so quickly.”

Upstairs, it was a different picture altogether. As the departures lanes were log jammed and spilling red all the way onto Sepulveda, Lincoln and Century boulevards…

The police attempted to keep the lower level open by first limiting our free assembly to the Tom Bradley international terminal, but like most things ruled by motion, they tend to take a path all their own.

First, protesters packed the inside of the terminal where a sit-in rung Muslims in afternoon prayer- facing outward as strangers kneeled on sheets of paper towel commandeered by organizers.

But the sit-in spilled out into the street where by 2:00 pm, it packed all levels including the pedestrian overpass and neighboring Parking garage.

And still…

It just kept growing, fed by a steady stream of people walking into the airport armed with signs and giant orange pinatas.

I remarked to one such owner of an orange headed piñata, “how perfect, he’s got a stick up his ass.”

Eventually, enough people started moving for the stationary rally to transform into a march.

First, we were limited to the inside lanes of the concourse but it didn’t take long till the whole level was occupied.

For a while, the police tried to form a line but movements like to move and the police were wise to  let it happen.  I couldn’t help thinking how well the police handled it and should be applauded for their discipline and way they yielded.

As I walked back to my car,  I myself yielded to travelers racing on foot to their airplanes.

Theirs was an entirely different day.

Along the way, I found the reinforcement quick reaction force tucked aside a parking garage out of sight.

These officers were joking and eating some snacks. I stopped to thank them for allowing us to practice our first amendment rights.

The senior Sargent wasted no time in correcting me.

“Allow you? It’s your right!”

He then began to explain to one of the younger officers why we were there in the first place.

The young Latino officer didn’t know. As amazing as that seems, I can’t help but think his lack of knowledge is all too common.

I thanked them one more time and warned them “they’re probably going to be banking a lot of overtime,” then rejoined the protest, walking down the center lane in an otherwise empty airport.

I passed a young Muslim couple with their children, pausing to bow slightly and say alsalam-alakum. We met eyes and honored the spark of divine in each of us then carried on our way.

 

Advertisement

Alternative Metrics

Let’s cut to the truth of why some people say we should respect Trump supporters- because they have guns.  Lots of guns. And can fix our car. And unclog our drain. They know how to tie a trucker’s hitch and have a Pick-up to borrow when we need to move our chest of drawers.  And did I say they have guns?

Trust me, I know these people because they are my people. If they aren’t your people, then let me help you. Think of this as a Progressive’s guide for recognizing the opposition.

There are many distinguishing factors in case you want to know- I look for tattoos of defunct Hanna Barbara characters posing with equally defunct firearms- (note that also works for recognizing the women Trumpettes.)

If you can’t see their ink, then go to the check out stand at Cabela’s and look for people shopping for hunting-themed outer wear.

 If there is no Cabela’s near you, then drive through the hood and look for open garage doors and people in said Hunter-themed attire standing around an old Nova up on blocks with the engine in a hoist where it is common to play Hackey-sack with a dead bird.

 If you’re blind, then listen for anyone debate the merits of bow hunting and mixed martial arts.  Independently, it doesn’t confirm political ideology but if someone has distinct talking points on both subjects you can assume you’re talking to a guy / gal who has a gun or wants a gun or used to have a gun.  From there, do the math.

Whatever classifying method of identification you use – you can also have them read this and see if they turn red in confusion and anger- we can all rally behind this non alternative fact: these people are inflicted with systemic ignorance. They are often poor and make up for these handicaps by arming themselves to the teeth and stock piling canned goods.

Sadly, they have been used to push forward a policy that will, at best, do nothing for them by appealing to their sense of betrayal .  In short, these fine people have been marginalized and stripped of agency by the very people they turn to for marching orders to direct their hate.

We know this.  Everybody knows this.  Everybody except them.

The conservative scientists who created them are now looking for ways to reverse engineer what they exploited. Because they have guns. Lots of guns and simply do not understand the real battle they are merely cannon fodder for.

Take away their guns and they are nothing more than another sublimated mass of people caught up in pursuit of demagoguery.  Forgive them, don’t get behind them at the buffet line, and for god’s sake stay out of rifle range

In Praise of Mushroom Risotto

Risotto is a demanding mistress.   Leave her unguarded and she will burn.  Maybe it’s easier to prepare her in a washing machine …Set it on spin cycle and take all the credit….

But I don’t think so.

The taste will soon be lost cause the taste is born in the effort you put in.

Elisa and I were talking about the relationship between work and flavor as we roasted our toes over the camp fire new year’s eve.   I mean, we were eating tortillas we charred on a sliver of tinfoil over the flame and a can of Amy’s Lentil soup warmed on a camp stove – but, we both made those vocal yum sounds over and over again.

For canned soup and store bought tortillas….

That same meal defrosted and slammed in a microwave is just not the same.

It’s the heat.

Fire is one of the things that makes us human.  The simple task of cooking without modern convenience allows us to touch this ancestral cord through the access point of work.

So, if you want to remember what this feels like and you can’t slip away to the nearest camp site- just cook a risotto.

And don’t take it personally if the parmesan cheese you plop on in the end takes all the credit.  Cheese is like a clown in Shakespeare – it’s on stage for ten minutes and steals the show.

But it needs all the spinning and turning, the attention, and care.  The singleness of mind.. To shine…

That’s what I think is one of the dividends cooking this way creates–A singleness of mind.  Which we need more and more of these days.

There are many ways to get at it, but all require some concentrated effort.

That’s what the Zen arts are.

The end result is that singleness of mind brings us home to ourselves.

For me the portal to this experience can be found in and around a kitchen.  It doesn’t have to be on a mountaintop with a swami but dug out of a sink where there are dishes to be washed.

For me the darma road starts there.

What makes cooking risotto so special is the chemistry lesson contained within the break down of its composition.  It is a metamorphosis worthy of Ovid.

An interaction of heat and time cranked along by determined effort.  Motion.

Circular motion with a wooden spoon.

You don’t even need to look at it to be with it.  You can hear the wheel and feel it.  It will tell you when to add more broth.  Especially when you begin to listen to it.

So yeah, I love Risotto.  I don’t even have to eat it.

I’m not going to tell you how to cook it or step by step a recipe, what to add to it – that’s far too personal a thing – like our understanding of God – but I will share a few impressions.

First of all, since Risotto is all about blends, I find that a blend of wild rice and traditional Arborio is best.  The end result is a diversity of texture that makes for some seat wiggling excitement when enjoyed.

It’s worth noting here that Risotto is also synergy incarnate.  Because it produces a mysterious nuttiness.  And no nuts were involved.  They are secondary tastes created by the integration of primary tastes.

Did I say how much I love Risotto?

Maybe it’s because  cooking it  slows life down.  Reminds me of what truth and beauty can come from a little hard work and singleness of purpose.  And here’s the kicker-  The first thing all that effort creates is the natural desire to serve it to others.

Voila.

Do it.  Do it now.   With what you got.  It doesn’t need complication – in fact it will reject it – but does welcome a little parsley on top.

It doesn’t require anything too exotic, but what it does require is timing.  Real timing.  Not timing based on clocks. But true time- time that can only be measured by a side pot of simmering broth that gradually empties.  A risotto is not done till the all the broth has been added – one half cup at a time.

But here’s the thing about risotto – like love and art and life itself – it can be lost in the measuring cup.

There was a friend I knew in rural Sweden who was descendent of Shakers who liked to say that no recipe worth anything can be quantified.  When asked how much salt, sugar, flour, etc, it’s always “enough for the pot.”

So, yeah.  There is no short cut around that either.  Risotto asks us to interact with it.

Sometimes it wants us to carmelize onions in a skillet while we stir…

And set aside mushrooms sautéed in oil and butter (to raise the flash point).  It may suggest we sprinkle a little herbs on those mushrooms and set aside…

I love that phrase in cooking-  set aside, or reserve.   Almost as much as I like “serve immediately.” Knowing which is which makes all the difference.

Maybe you use some garlic maybe you don’t.  Maybe you use a good – and I mean real good balsamic and maybe you use wine.  But we can all agree – no matter what part of the political spectrum we are on – that there is one quintessential ingredient- mushrooms.

Their natural habitat is burrowed in a pot of risotto.

Just don’t add them to the end.  In fact don’t add any of the fun stuff till the end.

That’s the big finale- don’t sabotage the whole thing by combining everything too early.

I think that’s the final tannin in the risotto experience that I would like to leave you with.  The fact that you get to luxuriate yourself.  Fine dine.  In your PJS if you like. And all that big-ticket extravagance comes from you carving maximum flavor our of simple things through your own effort alone.  Trust me you will be the richer for it.

Like spirituality and all things good – we have these obstacles blockading the path  that call out in complaint and fear, “who am I to do this, to be that… well, who are you NOT to?”

Take the plunge, get creative.  Risk burning a pot.  And work hard.  Find a recipe online.  Read it a few times – like you want to commit to memory and understand the logic within it, then play.  And get a good bottle of balsamic.  It took me nearly twenty years of cooking to realize that no matter how poor you may think you are, you can always afford a good bottle of balsamic.

A little goes a long way.

So does truffle oil.

Your mushrooms will thank you.