Spaghetti Squash is Amazing Like This!

Update: My awesome sister-in-law Susie pointed out that a juicy tomato, such as San Marzano, are much better with spaghetti squash as it soaks up the juice. Here is an updated recipe.
One spaghetti squash (follow instructions below)
One 28 oz can San Marzano tomatoes
2 cloves of garlic
1 Tbl olive oil (two if you want to saute mushrooms, but Jayne is here so no mushrooms;(

Saute garlic in olive oil. Add tomatoes (add to mushroom is using them). Scoop squash out when cooked and pour the tomatoes over the squash. Serve with chunks of buffalo mozzarella and fresh parmesan. Yummy!!


It's my tradition to clean out the fridge before the holidays, which is always a culinary adventure. I pulled out a spaghetti squash tonight, never Pete's favorite, and cooked up a topping with other scavenged food items. Super easy, super low-fat, and super delicious....even Pete thought so!

Ingredients

One spaghetti squash

1/2 jar of your favorite spaghetti sauce

1 chicken breast, boneless, skinless

1/2 cup chopped bell pepper

2 Tbl olive oil

Parmesan cheese

Red pepper flakes (for those who like to spice it up!)

Cut the squash in half and scoop out the seeds. Place open side down in a baking pan and fill bottom with of pan with a shallow layer of water. Cook at 350 for an hour or so. Poke the top with fork, it's done when soft to the touch. Remove from oven and scoop out filling into a bowl.

Saute chicken in olive oil, adding the bell pepper (or whatever veggies you've got in the fridge) and cook until chicken is done. Cube the chicken and then return to pan adding the spaghetti sauce. Cook until warmed through. 

Serve the sauce over the squash and top with some good parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes if you like. It really was surprisingly good and filling too. Bon Appetite! 

Cautionary Tale to the Knowledgable Yoga Teacher

I'm new to New Mexico, but I'm not new to yoga. I've been practicing yoga since 1997 and teaching it since 1999. For the last thirteen years I've lived a short drive from LA and gloriously had access tomany accomplished yogis: Judith Hanson Lasater, Annie Carpenter, Max Strom, Pandit Rajmani, Shiva Rea, Amy Wheeler. I have taught yoga and Eastern Religion at the college level for the last twelve years, which required eight hours of training in my area of focus each semester. If asked, I would say I'm quite familiar with the mat, the poses, and the philosophy of yoga. Do I still have things to learn about yoga? Absolutely. I just don't see myself as a novice at this point in my practice, but a novice is exactly what I felt like last weekend.

I've been trying to find a place to practice yoga in my new hometown and it's not going quite as I had expected...once more my expectations are creating suffering. On Saturday I went to a class at a local studio to try out a teacher I had heard was “good”. I'm not an early riser so I was jazzed that I got myself up and out for a morning class.

It was a small group consisting of three of his regular students and myself. We started with a meditation, I was primed. I was ready to focus on my body, my breath, and to quiet the fluctuations of my mind. He instructed us (almost solely in sanskrit) onto our hands and knees for bitilasana to warm up with a series of cow/cat back. I was feeling the pose: fingers spread wide, fingertips pressing down into the mat, arms and calves lengthening, spine rounding methodically with each inhale and exhale. Then we were guided back to neutral position and led into extended table. As I stretched out my right arm, fingers lengthening to the front wall, my left leg reaching back, foot flexed, toes spread. I brought my awareness to my left hip and I consciously turned it down ever so gently, pulling the left side of my waist upward as I lowered the hip to level out my back and that's when it started. He approached me and suggested I turn my hip more toward the floor...what the fuck, I just made that adjustment myself...well ok, let me see if I can follow his prodding finger and move the hip even more. Moving away from me he leaned on the wall between myself and another student. Next up: ardha muhka shvanasana. I extended my hands ever so slightly from table, curled my toes under, and as I exhaled I lifted my bent knees off the floor and began to stretch out into my version of downward facing dog.We stayed for five breaths; my last breath was a sigh of relief as he moved to the other side of the room.

We were then guided through Surya Namaskar A...so far so good. I was starting to find some ease in my practice once more. As we took our first Anjaneyasana I was approached again and the teacher moved my arms to a bent elbow position putting me in a cactus arm position. He told me if I couldn't straighten my arms upward without lifting my shoulders I needed to stay in a bent elbow position. I noticed the rest of the class was already in cactus arms so I aligned myself with the rest of the class out of respect for the teacher’s instruction. He then moved his attention to my left hip asking me to rotate it forward more by prodding my left buttocks (nothing untoward). I could feel that his prodding was not good for my body and I said no, that I could not rotate it anymore and he moved on.

His critique of my poses continued throughout the class. My Marichyasana was wrong, in Bakasana I was instructed to pull my knees in tighter against my arms, in Dolasana I was quizzed on the levers in the body. He was relentless and I felt terrible about my asana, my breath, my total lack of knowledge.

For obvious reasons I had a difficult time quieting my mind in shavasana at the end of class.

The words “bad yogi” drifted by like clouds overhead. Then I realized 

there was very little critiquing of his regular students, only me.

As I discussed my discomfort with the class, it's my nature to assume there must be an issue with me, Pete gave me his opinion. He may be a knowledgeable yoga teacher, but he's not a good yoga teacher. There was only criticism of me, no praise; only arrogance toward me, no humility, and these qualities do not make a good yoga teacher. It was a reminder that just because a teacher knows their Sanskrit, that does not make them a good yoga teacher. Ultimately I think a good yoga teacher is humble and feels a connection to the needs of the students in front of them. A good yoga teacher should definitely realize when they are making corrections to the detriment of the students quiet mind. 

We Must Not Look Away

One of the most difficult things for me in our new hometown is the number of homeless people.

You'll find someone at most of the stop lights here with a sign pleading for help.

I have always felt deeply. When I was younger I employed

an avoidance tactic and I would look away when

I felt the pain of another being.

These days I never look away.

I make eye contact.

I smile.

I wave.

Anything to acknowledge that the person standing next to me exist,

that I see them.

As I drove home from Trader Joe's today there was a man at the light on Tramway. I was starving (the irony of that expression is not lost on me) and had opened a bag of chocolate covered pretzels. I was slowly popping one into my mouth as he walked by.

I waved and read the sign he was carrying “Any food would be appreciated. God Bless you”. I popped another pretzel in my mouth-this one wasn't quite so sweet-and I glanced into my bag to see if there was anything I could give to him. As the light changed he was walking back toward his shopping cart.

He stopped next to the cart filled with his life's belongings,

wrapped his arms around his body, and cried.

I drove home feeling like shit.

How could I pass by another human being in such pain?

I unloaded my groceries and then I made a sandwich. Piling turkey and swiss on fresh grainy bread then I pulled out some lettuce from our veggie keeper and slathered it all with olive oil mayo. I put it into a ziplock and got out a container of fresh pineapple from the fridge. I opened the pantry and found a power bar and added that to the bag of food. Armed with fresh, healthy food I drove back to the light but he was gone. I turned right onto Central Ave and there he was walking with his cart. I pulled into the McDonald's parking lot and jogged up the sidewalk to him. I said that I had seen him earlier and that I was sorry he was suffering.
I handed him the bag of food and said eat.

We must not look away from the suffering in the world.

In order to be the change we want to see in the world we must acknowledge that all beings are worthy of our love and attention and act accordingly.   

Galveston-Fiction

It's early enough that the Texas air isn't yet straining my lungs. Walking along the beach my gaze is forced down by the wide brim of my straw hat. Occasionally I lift my hand to the back of my head, 

holding the hat down in the wind I glance up to survey the flat stretch of sand that unfolds in front of me. 

Cars dot the beach as Garth Brooks drifts over the top of the breaking waves. 

I reach a place where pylons push back the cars and the beach opens up.

Kicking through the surf I glance to the right and notice carnations, red, green, white, it crosses my mind to pick through the debris field, plucking up the intact flowers to create a ragged bouquet, but I pass without stopping and continue to make my way toward the designated marker in the distance.

On this morning my companions have chosen to stay back in the condo that we're sharing and lounge over steaming cups of coffee rather than join me. At first I was disappointed; conversation speeds up a long walk exponentially for this extrovert, but this morning I find peace in my solitude.

My feet glide through the foamy water when I notice, just out of reach of the lapping waves, what appears to be a brain. My head cocks to the right as I near the object and I see that it's actually a head of green cauliflower. Pulling my gaze away from the cruciferous veggie too late I step down hard on a jagged shell, pain radiates through my foot. Instinctually I lift the foot, grab it with my hands and turn it over to assess the damage. Blood trickles out from the wound. I lower the injured foot into the water. Balancing, I rinse the cut and once more raise my foot to examine it. It's not too deep, but I decide I better turn around and make my way back to the condo to clean it up. The salt water stings the open wound and I think about how quickly things can change. What started as a peaceful walk has turned into a minor moment for a triage nurse.

Nearing the dead fish that acts as the marker for where I left my shoes I begin to favor the uninjured foot. I pick my way across the jetty rocks that stand between me and the condo gate, sweat trickles down into my eyes, the world blurs. At the gate I strain against the rusted hinges. I hobble to the elevator that will take me to the fourth floor. I can feel the sand grinding into the wound and I relax into the discomfort. Waiting for my lift a thought arises: it's always possible to find the positive, it's just a matter of perspective.        

New Mexico So Far...

Pete leaves each morning for work and in this tiny box of a house I wait. Letting the dogs out I'm greeted by dead cockroaches on the back porch. I fritter away hours on the patio surrounded by an assortment of mismatched aluminum and plastic furniture. In my mind's eye, I picture an ashtray filled with butts smoked to nubs sitting on the table beside me, lending a nice touch to the

rundown atmosphere in which I am existing for now.

The dogs are happy for my company though, and the exploration of new territory excites them. Gobi trollops over and plops his pudgy front paws onto my thigh for a quick check in; as I lean down to scratch his ears the smell of sage hits my nostrils. Ginger, our old girl, mostly rests in her bed at my side, looking up periodically to reassure herself that I'm still there. This trip has taken its toll on her and I try not to question our decision to bring her.

Like my mother's arms, fear and doubt wrap themselves around me at every turn; questions burble up from the dark. Was moving a good idea? Will I teach yoga again? Will our house sale in CA finally go through? Will we have a place to live next week? So much unknown leaves me feeling unmoored.

With all of this time on my hands I force myself to write. Sometimes the words crash together in poetic perfectness, yet other times the words form misshapen piles of shit feeding the

insidious doubt that follows me like a shadow.

I remind myself that I chose this path with eyes wide open.

I had become too attached to my students and the accolades I was receiving. Too attached to all the comfort and love surrounding me. In Vedantic philosophy, freedom is defined by one’s happiness not being connected to any external agencies, i.e., people, places, jobs, money, etc. I consciously chose this path in order to find freedom/happiness without attachment, not that I have high hopes of actually achieving that, but I want to try.

I'm approaching this as another opportunity to become a little bit more comfortable in my own skin. A lifelong battle, and with fifty just around the corner, what better gift could I give myself?