Canned salmon seems to be a food program staple, along with eggs...this week we also got some brioche buns...salad and bread crumbs are from our usual grocery shopping.
SpindleJigs
A blog about Crafts and Kids, with things to see and do.
Sunday, February 11, 2024
This Week in Food Bank Cuisine
Saturday, January 27, 2024
10lbs of Avocados?
Yes. 10 lbs of avocados. So we had avocados cut in half with a bit of salt and pepper with lunch. This is actually my favorite way to eat an avocado. But dinner demands a little bit more effort. Welcome to Chase Cafe where tonight's dinner special is avocado toast with fries eggs.
Eggs, bread, and avocado from the food program, with a bit of red onion finely minced, salt, pepper, lemon juice, and Tajin seasoning from my own pantry.
Tasty and easy, we will probably have something similar tomorrow because I have 10lbs of avocados in the crisper in varying stages of ripeness. I'm going to wash and save the skins to dye some yarn when all is said and done.
Sunday, January 14, 2024
What's for Dinner?
Friday, June 2, 2023
High in Fiber
Fiber art jewelry made from fabric scraps and leftover jewelry findings from my Etsy days.
All are made with 8"-9" long x 1"-2" wide strips of fabric braided, stitched at the ends, with beads and clasps sewn by hand.
Friday, July 1, 2022
He's Okay.
A week ago today Joe went out with a friend. It was the first time he's been out in two years. It was ordinary, it was exciting, it was just a couple of kids hanging out, and it was everything.
They went to Covington Square, you've likely seen pictures I've taken with my family, going for walks there. It's a beautiful place, it's been a filming location in dozens of movies and television shows, most famously the Vampire Diaries and it's related series. It is quintessential America Main Street with a big brick Victorian era city hall, a square bordered by shops and cafes, the sort of place you take out of state friends to visit because it is picture postcard pretty. It also has a reputation for being somewhat queer friendly. It's not uncommon to see groups of Goth kids giddily taking photos at filling locations, drinking slushies packaged like the bags hospitals use for blood transfusions. The weekend crowds tend to be somewhat diverse. It's a busy, bustling, little tourist trap of delight.
Letting Joe go off on his own seemed so perfect, so safe, so ordinary. I was at work and I wasn't even sneaking peaks at Life 360° at work. I wasn't worried.
Around 2:00 the phone in my classroom rang, a call I fully expected to be the office taking roll as part of our multi step system. Another ordinary moment in an ordinary day.
Now imagine my heart dropping fear when instead of hearing Ms Joy's voice on the phone I hear, "Ms Chase, this a paramedic and I'm here with your son". In this space between this sentence and the next I think of all of the times we've been out and have seen people casually walking around with a gun on their hip or even carrying a rifle. I think of the times he was assaulted on the bus and at school both here and in RI. I think, "what was I thinking? Why did I let my son go out, a couple of Black queer kids? Alone. In Georgia. Was he beaten? Has he been shot?
Fortunately neither. He had purchased a snack and was walking around eating it when he had a reaction to what he was eating. Here in my conversation with the paramedic I breathe a sigh of relief. He's in the rescue with paramedics. He's stable. He's safe. He's okay.
He's okay.
He's okay.
I agree to meet them at the rescue, they'll keep him there in case he has a secondary reaction. They'll immediately take him to the hospital in that case, otherwise they'll wait for me to come and sign him out.
He's okay.
I hang up and call the front office, Ms Joy answers and I briefly explain what is happening. While I'm waiting for someone to come to my classroom to relieve me my panic subsides to a more manageable level of normal mommy level worry.
It takes me almost a half an hour to get to Covington. I have to keep reminding myself not to speed, not to let my adrenaline make me reckless. By now I have called my mom and she stays on speaker phone while I'm driving. All the while I'm telling her, and me, he's okay.
He's okay.
I turn into Covington Square and see the rescue parked just off the square. Their lights are flashing but in a relaxed sort of rhythm. I park in the nearest spot and run over, take a breath, and knock. There's my son. He's okay. I talk to the paramedics, sign him out, Joe assures me, he's okay.
He's okay.
On the way home he tells me about his day. About the fun and then about the not fun. If you are thinking, thank goodness for this happy ending, the story doesn't end here. Because my Black queer son who was managing his panic, who was scared, who was feeling his throat close, whose phone battery had died, was turned away from three shops when he went asking for help. Turned away. Was told he needed to buy something if he wanted to use the phone. Yes, even to call 911.
He's not okay.
The fourth shop, a little shop/cafe that specializes in goods made with local honey was different. The women behind the counter sat him down, she called 911 without hesitation. She grabbed him some benedryl from her purse. She got him some water. She sat with him and waited. She reassured him he was going to be okay. He was going to be okay.
She was Black. Why does that make a difference? The other shops were white owned, with white employees, they were hostile. They made him leave. Because he's Black? Because he's gay? Who knows.
He's okay.
He's not okay.
My son has an anxiety disorder and PTSD from the almost innumerable incidents of bullying and beatings and times his life has been threatened. I wasn't go to talk about this incident. Not publicly. But in the least week we have all watched the highest court in the land validate the belief system that is most often the cause of real harm and abuse towards people like my son. Not just my son but to millions of young people.
And we have all watched the gleeful celebration of these "victories" and the promise of more to follow.
He's not okay.
They are not okay.
It's not okay.
Wednesday, November 11, 2020
A Beautiful Pea Green Boat
The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat...
Thursday, September 3, 2020
It's Too Hot So Naturally I'm Dyeing
Saturday, July 25, 2020
Allowed.
Let me preface by saying I loved my grandparents unreservedly, still do. I cherish the memories of them for the people they were to me. The Grandma who taught me that a Saturday afternoon spent with my nose in a book was time well spent. My Pop who taught me the names of flowers and how to nurture and grow things. My Pop who always kept some paper handy for sketching, the accomplished artist and RISD graduate who became an engineer because of the depression. He was accomplished at that as well. Gardens, green grass, yard sales, books, antiques, curling up on a rainy day staring out the window my hands wrapped around a cup of hot tea, long drives, these are their legacy to me.
They also held some incredibly racist points of view without ever realizing or recognizing themselves as racist.
First are the stories about the one Black family in my grandmother's neighborhood growing up and how the neighbors and my great grandparents "let" the father sell his eggs and produce in their neighborhood. There was a sense of heroism attached to my great grandfather for being among his first customers. The egg man, as he was known, brought his young son along with him on his rounds, a little boy my grandmother's age, they never played together or even spoke, just looked at each other, peering around their daddy's legs. That little boy knew to never say hello, to never do more than keep his eyes down but for the occasional glance at my grandmother and her siblings, but never a smile. To my grandmother her daddy seemed magnanimous and good because there wasn't physical violence against that family, that little boy. They were Allowed. They were not included I'm sure most white people can share some similar story from their family's history. This same story from that little boys perspective was relayed with caution and advice of how to get along and get by. This was the way this story was told through his family's narrative.
Decades later in that same town when I was in third grade, Timothy Bowden proposed to me, he was the only Black child at St James at that time. My parents thought this was adorable, many of their friends were horrified. Like the egg man he was "Allowed". Allowed is not welcomed, it is not included, it is not a friend. Allowed knows not to cross the line. We were two little children who were friends with first crushes. Within weeks our desks were moved apart. The next year my family changed schools and churches and I never saw Timothy Bowden again.
My grandfather, my Pop, we were peas in a pod, I spent most weekends with my grandparents, helping him in the garden, watching birds out the kitchen window with our Peterson's Field Guide at the ready as they swarmed the feeders, watering the lawn on hot afternoons, I can still see his face in profile as he used his handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his brow, I can still smell his pipe, and see him in his favorite spot watching out the window and playing solitaire. More good memories than I can count all wrapped in love.
I didn't know until years later that he was one of the strongest objectors when my parents adopted my brothers, fostering was okay and even Godly, giving your name to Black children was a step over.
Again that word, Allowed.
I wasn't aware of his casual use of racist language and deeply held racist ideas until I was an adult. Or that he undoubtedly didn't recognize himself as racist because he Allowed his Black grandchildren into his life, he Allowed Black workers on his team when he worked building highways, the Greene Airport runway, the Scituate Reservoir. He Allowed. And in his world that was enough and better than most.
It is heart breaking to me as an adult to realize how Allowed must have felt to my brothers. It's horrifying to know he used racial slurs when no one else was looking. But my brothers were Allowed. I am deeply saddened to think how it must have felt when my grandparents moved in with us. I was in college, like most young adults I was living life outside of my family even during the times I was under the same roof. My gaze was focused outward. But my brothers became Allowed under their own roof.
I spent most of my childhood thinking that loving my brothers offered them sort of talismanic protection against racism. That when they came home at the end of the day all of the hurt they felt and danger they faced receded in a warm embrace of love.
Love does not erase Allowed.
So here is the difficult lesson, I still love my grandparents deeply, I still miss them and grieve their loss, but never will I try to soften my brothers' memories by imposing my own like some filmy gauze over old wounds. This is the same process that we need to acknowledge when removing monuments, when we decide how we honor historical figures and how we approach teaching our children history. These are the honest reckonings we need to face. It doesn't mean we no longer love our parents or grandparents, it doesn't mean we are erasing history. It means we are reckoning with it in all of its messy humanity. It means that we recognize and amplify the histories of Black and Indigenous people, both in the larger context of who we are as a nation and in the more intimate context of who we are as a friend.
It means we stand behind those voices when they speak, and we stand in front of them when police point teargas and less lethal rounds in their direction.
It means we no longer hold our tongues over Thanksgiving dinner when our racist uncle, brother, dad, sister, mother, grandmother, interject racist ideas into the conversation, no matter how passive those ideas are.
You can still love them. You can still remember your history. But that language, that miseducation, that casual racist hate..it is not Allowed.
And it can never be Allowed again.
Thursday, May 14, 2020
The Onion Grower
One day he brings them to market
And from his stall he cries
Some to fry, some for tarts,
When the last shallot has been bought
And the leeks are all gone
He packs up his little cart
To start his journey home.
The days grow short and cold and bleak
The snow begins to fly
He dreams of soil and growing things
To help the time go by
The sun grows warm, days grow long
Spring at last arrives
The birds sing, the flowers bloom,
The bees buzz in their hives.
The Onion Grower does not stir
Or from his bed arise.
Winter has consumed him leaving his
Onions, scallions, allium,
Leeks, shallots, and chives.
They lay fallow in his grove
The dappled sunlight has grown dim.
It's now the turn of growing things
To cry out for him,
"Seeds, soil, water, tended with love,
Our Onion Grower has flown
To the heavens far above
No one will mind us or to the market bring,
Our Grower has gone beyond
The care of any living thing"
So when you go to market
And you see an empty stall
When you eat an onion tart
On the first cool day of Fall
Remember the Onion Grower
On his little patch of land
Love for humble growing things
Springing from his hand.
When you find chives or ramps
Growing in the wood
Know that he has been there
And that his food is good.
Gather what you find
Prepare it at your hearth
The Onion Growers bounty
Is love made from earth.