No one can tell me
Where the wind comes from
Where the wind goes
A. A. Milne
A new but persistent pain in my hip woke me with a start. I believe the sensation to be rheumatiz a word we used as children when we ambled around like old people. It is a situation that I am learning to live with as my grandmother did.
The clock said sometime after midnight. Mothers Day I thought with that all too familiar welling. I turned over and settled myself back into sleep.
I am in an abandoned house. Though superior in craftsmanship, the paint has worn down from most surfaces and each dusty room is pristinely empty. But the vibe is not a sad one, there are many large windows throughout and the outdoors beckons with lush springtime greens, singing birds, and flowering scrubs.
Suddenly out of the corner of my eye, there is a man at the window-paned front door. I’m aware that there is nothing to be afraid of but, I don’t want to answer his presence.
I am protective of my solitude. I move room to room and try to stay in the shadows so he won’t see me.
As I peek out of a corner that I wriggled into, I detect that he has red dread locks. The lines of a confident profile are easy to trace. He is tall and dressed in a long green coat. I am aware of his power, but still I move to the back of the house and hide against a wall.
After ample time, I move with caution towards the front of the house. Holding my breath, I peer around a door to check the entry hall. A deep peace from within settles on me.
Without surprise I see that he is silently waiting, seated in a chair, his mound of red hair like a halo. And as I approach, he rises fulfilling a rangy posture. He raises a fiddle to chin level and smiles in rapture.
As ecstatic notes spin out, I begin to cry, as I do anytime I share this dream with someone because as I get closer, I see that next to him is an old fashioned wooden easel, rickety and bearing a small sign.
Composed in my mother’s small handwriting, it reads – JOY.
A tip from my mother was that if you were going to do something, then put an extra measure of yourself into the thing. Just like making homemade mayonnaise. She learned that happy enhancement from her mother and mother-in-law and they learned from theirs. The modern version involves electricity so during the season of tomato, my food processor is in service.
Lovely to think about the emanating exuberance of all things woman-made.
So many things to celebrate, so little time.
1 large egg (room temperature, if possible)
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice or second place white wine vinegar
1 tablespoon dijon mustard
1 1/4 cup canola oil and olive oil – the 1/4 can be the olive oil
Place the egg, lemon juice, mustard and one tablespoon of the oil into the bowl of the food processor with the blade and the food pusher.
Process for one minute.
The food pusher has a small hole in its bottom and it will receive the 1/4 cup of oil. While the machine runs, the oil will drip through.
Turn the machine off and remove the food pusher.
Turn the machine back on and slowly, slowly pour the remaining cup of oil in.
When finished, add salt and pepper to taste or use 1/4 cup of herbs at the beginning with the lemon juice mixture. Parsley and basil are family favorites.
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